Der Zuschauer

A Journal of Essays and Reportage on Drama, History, and Literature

Archive for May 2010

The Young Hegelian

leave a comment »

He was a tall, ageing Young Hegelian who held that 1968 wasn’t all that hot or exciting. His revolutionary socialism had devolved into a misty-eyed wish that all food and wine in public resturants should be free to the educated on Saturdays and Sundays. He believed in free love, cleavage, fellatio and cunnilingus, no tax on books or periodicals, and short plaid-pleated skirts. He disliked Nabokov because of the insufferable Lolita, thought Che Guevara was greasy and hairy. Adored Robert Burton’s Melancholy. He could recite the entire Urn Burial aloud. Loathed Chinatowns, loved Latvian women, despised the whole of South America, found himself uncomfortable in Berlin, delirious in Paris, raw and pub-crawling in London, rueful in London. Absolutely hated New York, adored Cambridge/Boston. He was a man after all. He had a palette of distinction for wine high and low. His knowledge of cheese was such that only Monty Python could make fun of it. He wore good conservative clothers in an eccentric manner. Please do not call me a Soixante-huitard. He painted his nails dark plumy red, wore women’s underpants, and walked with a cane. He did not read the Bible but had read the Blake. He thought women were stupid and men were worse. Of new spring mornings he liked a lobster roll for breakfast with cold, dry fino sherry. There was never a book of his poems remaindered; no play of his had ever been taken off for lack of ticket sales. Once he gave a lecture at Humboldt University. He could never remember her name, nor the name of the village, but the wine was plonk and he hadn’t paid for it. He flew Lufthansa but preferred trains. Born in the American South he lived his life in the Northeast Corrider. His editors and publishers worked out of Guam Island in the South Pacific. He had Zeus-Red beard from the age 19. He came to foreign languages late, read them, but barely spoke them. It seems he was Scots, but definitely born, adopted, hence abandoned, in Oklahoma City in 1953. He was a tall, ageing Young Hegelian, you could try and stick a fork in him but he wasn’t having any of that. He once read all of Euripides plays, aloud in single sittings over a 19 day period. He remarked afterwards, “You can all go fuck yourselves.” He was a man for all of that, and if this is a man, he was a man, an ageing Young Hegelian with an embonpoint. His freckles, once a spray across his nose and cheeks were less notable in later years.

Christian Grabbe

Max Klinger on Guam Island, May 2010

leave a comment »

Debate has arisen on this gooney bird habitat about what should be done when the rising waters of the Pacific Ocean begin to threaten the strips of the great boombers and airships of the island, and the Quonset huts and hair-hangers of the journal, Der Zuschauer. W are after all very near the Marianas Trench. Still the constant landing and taking off of the planes of peace and destruction give me cause for delay. I think of Templehof and the Berlin Airlift. I think of that last helicopter but one in Saigon. Ithink of the writer, Mikhail Bulgakov, going under in a fever in a city of White Russians as a doctor, and coming to as the city lay under control of the Red Army. He became writer Bulgakov Bulgakov instead of Dr. Bulgakov, subject to further service in the Civil War, and made his way to Moscow. I prefer to ride by the seat of my pants. I prefer to live in history. Now, beside my labors as an editor, constantly reading books I never get arount to reviewing I must keep alid on a talented if demented staff. There aare factions who want the journal to migrate to the Falklands, as that earlier bunch of long-knived lesbians did a number of years ago. However, doing literary and dramaturgicial work in a contested war zone area where oil has just been discovered (Up the Malvinas!) has as much smack for me as working amid volcanoes in Iceland (another suggestion, I swear). Of course that brilliant iconclast, Ekaterina Degot, ahs booked us stanging tikets for Ulan Blator in Mogolia, “now a frre-market republic democracy, and home of that metaphysical structure, the Yurt.” At least it’s up wind of a North Korean firestorm. People constantly suggest we just go urban; New York City say, but exploding SUVs in Times Square aren’t really the problem. It’s just that accrued World-Historical City power-shit that gets on my tits and Ekaterina’s tits, which as Christian Grabbe can tell you, are really a sight for sore eyes. The venue I’m most intrigued by, for the journal and myself personally, are the Aleutian Islands in the Bering Strait. There may well be a water problem ther too, and volcanoes, and a Polar Bear problem, but I do like the of leaving this material life being chased by a bear.

Max Klinger, Der Zuschauer
2010 c. All rights reserved.
Guam Battalions

Written by herrdramaturg

May 6, 2010 at 9:55 am