Concrete by Thomas Bernhard Page A

one offered today at these concerts in the Musikverein or the concert hall? The marvellous conductors of the past have turned into crude, sensation-seeking animal tamers, and the orchestras have become feebleminded under these tamers. I’ve seen all the museums, and the Viennese theatre is the shabbiest in the whole of Europe. The Burgtheater today is nothing but a witless, though unwitting parody of the theatre in general, in which anything to do with the intellect is totally lacking — nothing but provincialism and farce. To say nothing of the other theatres, whose daily diet of dilettantism is perfectly in tune with the utterly tedious society of today. And naturally I should find it intolerable to live under the same roof as my sister: that became clear to me when she was in Peiskam just now. She’d make life hell for me and I’d make life hell for her, and before very long one of us would kill the other. We’ve never been able to live together under one roof. However, it’s quite possible that my sister was genuinely concerned about me and my future when she invited me to stay with her in her Vienna apartment — though ultimately I find myself unable to believe this, since I know her. On the other hand, I told myself, I’m not sufficiently curious to go to Vienna just to inspect her new apartment, which probably contains any number of precious objects — and by no means tastelessly arranged either. Quite the contrary — that’s just what would make me white-hot with rage. Look, my little brother, this vase is from Upper Egypt. I can just hear her saying it and then waiting to see what I have to say about it, although she knows what I’m going to say. We’re an intelligent pair, and in four and a half decades we’ve been able to develop our intelligence to a high degree in our different ways, our different directions — I in mine and she in hers — up to today. If I were to go to Vienna, I should only need to take my travelling bag with me, since there would be no question of working in Vienna. Not at my sister’s anyway. And not if I stayed in a hotel either, for Vienna has always been inimical to my work: I’ve never succeeded with any work in Vienna — I’ve started a number of projects there, but I’ve never completed a single one, and this has always resulted in a terrible feeling of shame. Once, twenty-five years ago, I managed to complete something on Webern in Vienna, but as soon as I’d completed it I burned it, because it hadn’t turned out properly. Vienna has always had a paralysing effect on me, even though I would never admit it. It paralysed me in every way. The people I met in Vienna paralysed me too, with one or two exceptions. But my dear friend Paul Wittgenstein died — of his madness, I must emphasize — and my painter friend Joanna hanged herself. Anyone who goes to Vienna to stay and fails to recognize the moment when it is time to clear out becomes a senseless victim of a city which takes everything away from everybody and gives absolutely nothing in return. There are cities, for instance London or Madrid, which admittedly take something, though not much, but give almost everything. Vienna takes everything and gives nothing. That’s the difference. The city has a way of sucking dry all who get caught in its trap, and it goes on sucking until they fall down dead. I recognized this at an early stage and kept away from Vienna as far as possible. After the years when I lived almost continuously in Vienna I’ve only ever been back occasionally to visit a few people I was deeply fond of. Only a few people have the strength’to turn their backs on Vienna soon enough, before it is too late; they remain stuck to this dangerous and poisonous city until, finally, they become tired and let themselves be crushed to death by it, as by a glistening snake. And how many geniuses have been crushed to death in this city? They simply can’t be counted. But those who did manage to turn their