Moment of True Feeling by Peter Handke Page B

… Someone came to see me. He wanted to tell me his troubles, but I said I’d rather watch the football game on TV. I met a beautiful woman—another one of those, I thought. When I nevertheless catch myself observing somebody out of old habit, I suddenly think: But what about myself? I have a horror of looking to right or left; there’s always something waiting to be looked at: somebody else with a sweater tied around his neck, charcoal smoke pouring out of somebody else’s front garden. Once I had an appointment with somebody and decided to give him my full attention—but then when I had him in front of me, I thought: What for? And I stood there looking disgustedly at his tiresome face … I keep wondering how people can see images in the stars. I am incapable of grouping stars into constellations. The same with phenomena. I have no idea how to CONSTELLATE them, how to group them and find meaning in them. Have you ever noticed how often certain philosophers use the word ‘reconcile,’ ‘secure,’ ‘rescue’? CONCEPTS are RECONCILED, PHENOMENA are RESCUED. And what are they rescued by? By CONCEPTS. And ultimately the phenomena that have been rescued by concepts are secured in IDEAS. I admit that I have some acquaintance with ideas, but I don’t feel secure in them. I don’t despise ideas, but I do despise the
people who feel secure in them—mostly because they are safe from me. Do you feel the same way, Gregor? Do you ever wake up and find you’ve lost the connection?” “No,” said Keuschnig instantly. “Every single day I’m happy to be alive, and more curious than ever. I’d have been glad to say ‘Yes, I feel the same way,’ because I know you depend on it. But I cannot afford to look on what I am doing as absurd.” “It’s a funny thing,” said the writer, pouring his glass so full that the red wine ran down over the tablecloth. “My feelings are really hurt when someone doesn’t feel exactly the same as I do. I feel kinship only with people who see no real meaning in what they are doing. I’ve met a good many people like that recently and supported them in their attitude. I had hopes for you when I included you in my survey. Isn’t there any way I can get at you?” “I almost fell for your game,” said Keuschnig, “but then I noticed that while you were complaining so exhaustively you were watching me closely, I might even say slyly. I know all about that from the child: she can be crying for all she’s worth and at the same time observe every detail of my face without batting an eyelash. Besides, how can you expect me to believe you’re not curious when you take notes as you were doing just now?” “I didn’t put down anything about you,” said the writer. “It just happened to cross my mind that my only experience today was the con-sommé madrilène I had for lunch. For the moment you can feel safe from me.” “Maybe I’ll change places with you sometime,” said Keuschnig. “It must give you a sense of triumph to be able to complain the way you do in the presence of others.” “Mostly it makes the others feel better,” said the writer.—At that moment Stefanie asked
him: “What sign are you?” and everyone burst out laughing except Françoise, the woman who had come with the writer. .—The writer laughed so hard the snot popped out of his nose.
    While they were still laughing, Françoise said seriously: “I would like to tell the story of my life, and do you know why? Because I keep discovering more and more how much I have in common with other people of my age, especially women. To tell the truth, all my experience has been very impersonal, yet there has always been something very personal about it. When I think back, my personal experiences always seem to have been brought about by the