Why E-Book

Klaus Ebner

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 39

Beschreibung

Austrian writer Klaus Ebner asks a question he has been asked by numerous readers and journalists: why does he write literature? By examining his own artistic development, including early indications in childhood and at school, he tries to give an answer with this autobiographic essay, which was written originally in German and translated by the author himself to English, French and Catalan.

Leseprobe

Table of Content

The Question

The Beginning

The Books (I)

The Pioneers

The School

The Teacher

The Books (II)

The Club

The Interruption

The Books (III)

The Catalans

The Why

I wish to express my thanks to my American friend Anne Armstrong Holcomb who read the book from cover to cover, improving the language.

The Question

At least once in a lifetime, every writer asks why he or she writes. I came across such an assertion several times; in articles and commentaries, and certainly also in philological textbooks. But is that really so?

I believe the truth is slightly different: It isn’t the writers themselves who come up with such a question, maybe based on some inner necessity; no, not at all—this question is brought up by others, by the social environment, by readers, friends and family, by journalists and the scholars of literature departments at universities who are keen on finding out the trigger or the source of inspiration which can suddenly turn otherwise respectable citizens into authors.

The question of the why seems to require a justification. But a justification for what? It almost seems that writers should be seen as aberrations within society, as outlaws, as irresponsible daydreamers and madmen. Well, maybe we are a little bit crazy, because pursuing a vocation, which in most cases requires a lot of work but does not bring in much money (and guarantees a living to only a choice few), has in fact very little to do with economic thinking or even with reason.

To be honest, I never asked myself the question of why I write. Writing is part of my self-worth. It is the expression of my personality and I can hardly imagine living without it, as I cannot imagine living without one of my limbs. On the other hand, I’ve often been asked the question, and in most cases I looked up with an open mouth (ergo stupidly) and didn’t know what to answer. I probably didn’t even understand what was actually being asked, but eventually the question maneuvered me into a long process of reflection.

The question of why is not a simple one. In order to get closer to it and ultimately find something like a viable answer, it seems to me advisable to explore the how and why of key developments in my childhood that gradually shaped me into who I am today.

The Beginning

Of course, everything starts with childhood. The question of why in this context doesn’t really apply, because much of what happens during childhood is not subject to willful control, and therefore several things will remain a mystery forever.

My strong affinity for language revealed itself early on. My mother has repeatedly said that at the age of one I spoke fluently and in full sentences. I find it difficult to take this statement at face value, probably because I don’t know a single child (including my own) who had such a striking language competence at only one year of age.

What I remember clearly is that anything like dialect or slang was completely absent during the first years of my life. We lived in the city of Vienna, and it was important to my parents that their son speak beautifully, which meant: according to written German, often and incorrectly called High German. (My family was not aware that the entirety of all Upper and Central German language varieties, registers and dialects belong to High German, and only Low German in the far north of the Federal Republic of Germany strays off course.) In my family, I seldom heard anyone using the Viennese slang (which is no longer a real dialect from a linguistic point of view); most of my exposure to dialect came about during our family vacations in Carinthia (especially at Lake Klopein); my kindergarten attendance was limited to a few barely significant weeks.

One day when I was four or five, my mother hurtled towards me in the stairwell (I forgot why we stood there) and accused me of having uttered a really bad word. I had no idea what she was talking about. We blundered into a discussion full of reproach, objection, and curiosity. Since I didn’t know the reason for her anger, I urged her to tell me what the word was, because only then would I be able to tell her whether it had actually come out of my mouth or not. This discussion felt like half an hour (it probably lasted only ten minutes or so) before she finally came out with the bad word