A traveller walks into an inn. The night is cold and damp. He is weary from the journey. Without uttering a word to anyone there, he takes a seat at a table. The silence is maddening. But at least it’s warm inside, and he can finally get some rest. All of a sudden, one of the men there hands him a tarot deck. The traveller flinches but is unable to speak. He feels a question lodged in the back of his throat; an exclamation stopped dead in its tracks. It’s as if he has fallen through a crack in a glacier, like in that one short story by Sebald, or the film 45 Years. What he feels is not a full stop, nor a comma, but the slippery margins of two parentheses smothering him. 

The traveller is Arno Schmidt. The place in which he finds himself seems off. He looks around; it all strangely reminds him of that film, Zamok. What a fArse, he mutters to himself, or at least wants to. But his train of thought is derailed again by the other man, who again points at the tarot deck on the table. A small crowd has formed around him. This only heightens his general anxiety. Without shuffling them, Arno reluctantly grabs a card and places it, face down, on the table. 

The Hermit. Of course, it’s him, and his reluctance to partake in the game, it’s his general disdain for crowds and socialising, and radical individualism, it’s also the manner in which he approaches fiction: almost esoteric, his prose is hermetic, the fabulas occulted, his use of idioglossia famous. But now none of that matters. For once, he is not in charge, his fate not his own, but contrary to what one might think, this does not mean he is indeed powerleß. Parentheses, he thinks (exactly like in Buddy Glaß’ account of his brother Seymour’s life). He’ll just borrow a handful of parentheses and escape in=w(a/o)rds. ((((((((((And just like that, he’s gone. He’s safe. No need to talk to anyone (not that he could anyhow). But does this work?)))))))))) Does it really matter? Sallinger uses them to poke fun at his critics who say his narrators always ramble on. Buddy offers up a way in which to clear up the narrative, if one so wishes. But Arno is no narrator here; he knows this much. And for a writer who always preferred first-person singular, this is indeed terrifying. Like in Poe’s The Man of the Crowd, he’s the one being stalked. Not a lector in fabula, just a mouse in a trap, a cat in a hat, a dog, not a god. Let-Me-Out!!!! [(The tip of the tongue takes a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth.) Why so many English-language quotes, he asks himself? Mein Gott! Wie schade! Aber ich bin ein Ausländer!] But before he can continue his monologue, a man, as yet unseen, hands him a perspiring glaß of beer. As he refuses it, another one points at the deck again. He begrudgingly agrees to pick up another card.

The Hanged Man. Parentheses again. Adorno states that “history has left its residue in punctuation marks, and it is history, far more than meaning or grammatical function, that looks out at us, rigidified and trembling slightly, from every mark of punctuation”. [Uh, a signalled quotation this time. (Arno is taken aback. All the previous ones were unmarked.)] It would appear that this textual trap he finds himself caught up in is not at all certain what it wants to be. This realisation briefly calms him. Things only appear topsy-turvy. The predicament is not dire, the narrator daft, and the author aloof. {Again with this sickening Anglophilia, he grunts! [What’s next: Tinker Tailor? (Soldier, Sailor, Rich Man, Poor Man, Beggar Man, Thief! Cook and Lover, Clown and Miser, Hangman, Swagman, Dutchman, King!) Oh, Mein Gott!]} Does The Hanged Man signify anything other than a temporary predicament? But, more concerning is his halo. Parentheses mark an inter=media(ry/l) state in=between wor(l)ds? He brushes this thought off. Quickly, and without intent, as if controlled by a higher force, he grabs the deck and takes out another card. (So much for character agency…)

The High Priestess. Yes… Something is hidden. Parentheses reveal, but also obscure. They trick the reader by offering up meaningful information when, in fact, their presence merely marks an absence. And this absence gives rise to signification. {How serious is this text supposed to be, he asks himself. [I’m not asking myself, I’m asking you (he states to himself, and futilely awaits an answer that will not come.)!]} She is deceitful and powerful. She perhaps represents communication itself, or maybe only the medium {[Oh, I could sure use a massage, (my back is killing me!)] This is clearly a kind of joke that I wouldn’t be caught dead making! No fineße! Why are you misrepresenting me in this manner?} Another card.

The Two of Swords. A blindfolded woman holding two swords. An indecision. [Between what and what exactly? (Or whom?)] A moment of reflection. It’s no wonder that Husserl’s notion of ‘epoché’, which could have easily been translated as ‘suspension’, was instead dubbed ‘bracketing’. To perceive the act of perception itself, one must temporarily forget all one knows. Parentheses are not enclaves, as Adorno puts it, but tools by which one can make the entire world disappear in order to see/hear/feel it better (and maybe even decide on or against it). (Is it just me, or do the paragraphs appear to be getting smaller? Does this mean the end is neigh?) He hastily picks up another card.

The World. Arno suddenly awakens in his bed in his house in Bargfeld. The year is 1979. His ordeal was all a dream. Es war ein Traum(a). This realisation infuriates him greatly. Such an overused, easy, good-for-nothing trope, he thinks! Cannot believe such a thing! And that whole setting, and the tarot game (that cheap Calvino rip-off)! I have never seen such lazy and unimaginative writing! Such a futile exercise! Of course, after breakfast with Alice, his fury gradually diminishes. And the day drags on as per usual. The index cards of Julia and Lilienthal await, but he feels unable to work; tired for no apparent reason.

In an attempt to soothe his nerves, he decides to go out for a short walk, but is quickly forced to return because of an impending ele=c(tri/riti)cal storm. Curiously enough, he can’t seem to find his way back home. Nothing seems familiar. So he trudges on unknowingly – from Lower Saxony to Ultima Thule, through the Catskill Mountains, and beyond – again to Carcosa.

(O waste of lost, in the hot mazes, lost, among bright stars on this weary, unbright cinder, lost! Remembering speechleßly, you seek the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When? With whom?

Schwendimann. O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again.)

Cristian Drăgan

Editor