Marc+Hansmann

To Rebecca - " [...] This league with you I shall not break! / The aim and goal of all my energy / Is to fulfil the promise I now make."

//I guess everyone once in a while fancies being a novelist. This is my rough estimate of what an author might be like inside://

[As I can hardly think of anything that seems to me as interesting, appropriate or meaningful to share about my character (which is pretty much the common bulk of self-illusion and overestimated, yet undervalued, abilities I guess I share with a lot of people) or my hobbies (the usual “reading and meeting friends”-stuff everyone puts in his or her CV) I thought of the following for this blog:

A short story. Simple, isn’t it? And predictable: “A” meaning one (more or less), “short” meaning I don’t have time for a full-blown novel and “story”… well, something I made up. So there you go. Did I hear “boring!”? If so, I may have a serious problem – there is nobody around and talking to oneself (especially picking on oneself) occurs to me as not being the healthiest of habits. To silence whoever might be bored with simply a short story, I’ll follow at least in one respect the example of Bertolt Brecht (I mentioned self-delusion, already I think) and I’ll assume the perspective of a narrator that knows everything about the story being told. A “behind the scenes” view if you will. Anyone on the edge of their seats? Fine! So, here it goes…]

<<The old man stroke the remains of a once full head of hair just as the sun’s last efforts lit the crowded meadow. It was a warm, a pleasant summer evening with no cloud in the sky and that familiar feeling of the fading day in the air. Impossible to describe, it may be different to everybody who perceives it – but it surely triggers the same, sweet sentiment in every soul. The old man took a deep breath. The orange light around him made him think of times past. Sentimental as it may be, he gave way to a soft sigh. He never lived life in the fast lane, as they say. Looking back, it seemed more like a beautiful winding road. Some sights along the way may have been more pleasant than others, some stops may have been accidents, yet others took place on purpose. And some passengers may evoke better memories than others. But it was his own road. It had passages that resembled speedways, fast and passing by way to quick – his youth and later his working life –, yet others were more like little trails, the kind on which you stop to admire a beautiful flower in the grass or are stunned by the sight of snow-capped mountain peaks.

In order not to drift off into endless reminiscing, the old man turned his eyes to the people enjoying the carnival taking place in the field.>>

[It just seems appropriate to start with a nameless “old man”. So many “old man” have been protagonists of so many great stories. Think of “The Old Man and the Sea”. Or think of… uhm… well, I’m certain there are more…]

<<A couple of young children were running around trying to catch one another. It was impossible to say who was running after whom. They laughed and screamed, they shouted each others names and tumbled over their own feet. He couldn’t help but smile. The joy of the young. Perhaps the most honest, most enduring joy – ironically also the kind of joy one perceives as such only in hindsight. In the later years, solitary souls see this rare feeling of joy as an incredible gift, a reward. But looking at the children playing he realized that joy is no such thing. A gift comes from somebody else, a reward is given for an achievement of some kind. Joy, on the other hand, comes from within every human being. And after those graciously generous first years it appears to hide behind doubts, fears, anger and frustration. The old man had is share of those as well. Now, however, he mostly remembered the joyful times. A young couple passed him by. Holding hands, looking more at each other than at the way ahead. How much like the first time together always starts! Nobody is afraid of upcoming obstacles. None of the partners can imagine differences – neither in character, nor in opinion or even humour. Yet those differences are an inevitable part of relationships. The old man went through many relationships and even more differences. Sometimes the minor ones (both relationships and differences) were more intense than their major counterparts. As he preceded strolling around the carnival he came across a family. The parents were constantly having an eye on their heirs. Those – a boy and a girl – were more interested in a small kitten playing in the grass than the parental advise not to get hurt. How absurd it seemed to them. Getting hurt by something as fascinating as the infant cat licking its paws.>>

[Great! I’m stuck in observations. Why did I choose an ‘old man’ again? Those may be good to get a story started in a literature-like style. But they are rubbish as active protagonists. If the old man does not get into action soon, I might have to let him suffer… whatever makes him leave the pages for a young, active, intense hero. So ‘old man’: do something!]

<<All of a sudden the old man’s eyes came to pause on the sight of a young guy who sat next to a group of joking people. Their laughter made him seem even more miserable. What kind of misfortune could have possibly wrecked an obviously decent man to a degree that he behaved himself like this: Sitting on a beautiful summer afternoon in the midst of the jolliest carnival – and yet depicting a fairly good performance of Caspar David Friedrich’s famous work ‘Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog’. Except he seemed to wander in the foggy clouds and not above them. The old man felt empathy for his younger fellow so he approached him: “Do you mind if I join you?” “Joining me – in what?” he replied with some surprise. The old man took a seat next to him. “Well, first of all in sitting here.” They gazed at the people passing them by for a while. Then, without any need for the old man to begin the conversation, the young man started explaining his case. It became obvious that he had no apparent reason to be sad. He had a good job that he liked going to in the morning and a nice little place he all the more enjoyed coming back to in the evening. Plenty of good friends surrounded him and in the absence of any financial worries he bought a new car just a week ago. None of his loved ones had died so far nor had a friendship fallen apart over an argument. “…thus everybody expects me to be happy. Hell, even I expect me to be happy! But for some stupid reason I don’t get, I’m not.” “Do you think it’s the other’s fault?” The answer came without intermission and had an almost angry tone attached to it: “Of course not! It’s me! I am not happy and I don’t have a damn clue as to why that is!”>>

[Yes, yes, I know! ‘All of a sudden’ is not the smartest move to introduce a turn in the story. It just screams ‘I had no idea how to connect a next-to-dead storyline with some action’, doesn’t it? Anyway, it worked… at least until now. I wish I myself had a damn clue why the young man is miserable. It sure is fascinating: a three-dimensional character might be about to explain the mysteries of his complex being. The reader can’t await the revelations. Scary though, that the author does not know about the mysteries either.]

<<The old man hesitated to inquire any further. This burst of revelations came far to sudden to not being the product of intense and ongoing self-questioning. What brought a seemingly intelligent and caring man to this close to the edge? “Do you like your job?” “Yes, I do. Really! I’m a psychiatrist you know. And I love being one. Almost every day I get to meet new people. They come me, tell me their worries – and in most cases I can help them. Obviously I am good at it. I’ve got a full schedule, employ a secretary and two other psychiatrists, none of my patients committed suicide…” “What about your family? And your friends?” “Great people. Each and every one of them. I married a smart, beautiful woman, we have a little daughter. There may be an argument once in a while, but never anything serious. I am still in contact with lots of people from my time at university, one or two of my friends I even know since I was my daughter’s age.” The most obvious sources of trouble off the table, the young man still looked miserable. Most certainly he had gone over this many times before. There had to be something deeper beneath the surface. But before the old man had a chance to dig for it, it was the young man’s turn to pose questions: “Have you ever come to a point where… where you wished for something else? Not out of anger or frustration, not out of poverty or illness – just that something else would happen to you?” Of course he had. And hundred times as manifold as the reasons had the answers been. Choosing one seemed to him the greatest art of all. May it be a threat or an opportunity, a big disaster or a small decision to make: as soon as he had thought of consequences and weighted different options he too had fallen down the dark staircase of doubt and landed in a narrow cellar of questions.>>

[Hold on! Metaphors and similes are like ‘surgical’ military operations: They are to be used with care, never too extensive – and don’t let the reader notice them! The reader is a very conscious beast that can smell the author’s fear. Fear that the story has lost (or never had in the first place) its depth and ambitions. The reader will know that hasty comparisons are just a thin disguise for missing virtuosity. Plus, I am telling a short story. Short! Quick, small sentences that shoot out of the pages like a submachine gun of truth desperate to dispense the bullets of… … … okay, I can’t help it.]

<<But whenever he had fallen, he also encountered something or somebody (mostly the latter) to pick him up again. He now hoped that after a lifetime of experiences he could be of any help to the stumbled spirit next to him. Thus he answered: “Yes. So many times I grew tired of counting them.” As this did most obviously not meet the level of support and understanding needed to lighten the sad face, he fell back on a very basic piece of conventional wisdom: People like to talk. Communication seemed to the old to be a very primal need of every human being. He now needed to trigger that need once again – like he had done by silently expressed companionship a few moments ago. This time around, silence did not occur to him as a suitable tool. “Whenever I experienced this feeling, all I had to do was looking a bit closer at the parts of my life. There is always a detail, something that had gone unnoticed before, which cheered me up, lifted my mood or encouraged me to go on. It turns out, life is never stuck – its much rather the perception of it that looks like a dead end.” For the first time since they met, the young man smiled. An idea of sarcasm mingled in the expression on his face: “You know, that kind of crap is what I tell my patients over and over again. Perhaps I should start to listen to myself?!” “Why do your patients come to see you?” “Oh, lots of reasons. Depressions, mostly. Some seek marital advise, others only want to talk… endlessly. I’m just glad I can charge fees on a per-hour-basis.” Again, a smile. “What interests you about those people?” “In the beginning it was everything. All the different facets of character, all the stories… I was fascinating to see whole lives unfold in front of me. But then… well, it became routine work. I knew the right answers almost by heart, became aware of the few buttons I needed to push over and over again in order to get them to speak – or stop them from speaking, for that matter. What remains are a few cases. The tough ones. The ones that do not follow the stereotypes of the books.”>>

[Just so you know: A few lines ago – ‘lines’ on the paper, not what you think! – I finally got a clue as to how the story will develop. Or maybe I should say ‘hopefully develop’; after all it may the writer who creates the characters, but from that moment on it is up the character to act. Any intervention by the author to force a character in a direction that is not rooted in the character himself will be perceived as superficial.]

<<Not following stereotypes – that emerged as the dying wish of the young man. The patients he described broke free of rules and conventions. Not necessarily engaging in any unlawful activity, more in the sense of behaving unexpectedly. Midlife crisis? The young psychiatrist would have immediately dismissed that accusation. For he had become far too excelling in his profession to allow himself to get trapped in such an inferior and common failing. The old man on the other hand knew all too well what routine does to a man: it breaks his spirits. The adventurer, that he feels he is, sees himself deprived of his freedom. The excitement of uncertain outcomes and nightly adventures has given way to mortgages and dinner invitations. The very things he longs for – love and a nice place to call his own – are cuffing him to a life empty of surprises. He knew all this – yet he did not know a satisfying solution. Age may bring wisdom and enlightenment to so many of life’s questions. But whether the choices made were the correct ones could never be said. So he asked: “Would you change with one of them?” That made the young man think for a while. Then he responded slowly: “If only I knew… Whenever that thought comes to my mind I hesitate to pursue it. For what I have now is… perfect. My being unhappy does not give me any right to disturb others’ happiness, does it? Then again… it’s like that Springsteen song: ‘Got a wife and kids in Baltimore Jack, I went out for a ride… and I never went back’.” A sense of urgency rose in the old man’s stomach. He did not want to cause this young fellow to fall in such a negative mood that he would leave his family. He wanted to give an answer so badly. But nothing sensible came to his mind.>>

[Okay, now it’s about time to reach a conclusion. Take the final turn, fasten the seatbelts and ‘land’ the story. There are many ways to do so: It could be a smooth landing – or an instant crash. Something completely puzzling – or a turn that leaves the reader in an uplifted mood.]

<<”I know, I’m supposed to know better than this. I’m a professional, for heaven’s sake!” the young man exclaimed. And then, just as sudden as it cracked open at the beginning of their conversation, the shell was closed again. The young man rose to his feet, nodded friendly and asked the old man to excuse his outburst of selfishness, as he called it: “I didn’t mean to bother you. Anyway, it was nice talking to you!” The old man stood up as well. Finally, he had come up with something satisfactory to respond: “I beg your pardon as well, my friend. But I refuse to accept your apologies. Not, because I felt disturbed by your revelations, but because I do not accept the notion, that you should not have told me! You feel unhappy. What you have just said – every word, every sentence – is valid and true and right. And I am sure you have thought it over as many times as possible. You certainly are a brilliant psychiatrist. You have been looking at your life like a painting by Monet. A collection of little dots. And you spotted some that seemed out of colour. Others seemed wrong where they are. And you have taken a few steps back to see the whole work. You have acknowledged that all in all the pieces fit together nicely. And still you feel unhappy. However, you have missed one part of the picture: the frame – of reference. You compared your life – a unique one in any case – to those of others. That one-way-road leads to misery! You have started to measure happiness by the degree of novelty, of excitement and change. Others think its best evaluated by peace, civility, trust, comfort, closeness or simple joy. Here’s the inside-scoop: All of them are unhappy! As soon as you start to measure, you look at a single aspect in which somebody else beats you, just as you always take a lineal longer than the piece of paper you measure with it. Then you consider the next unit of happiness – and again somebody else serves you as a benchmark. And again, somebody else seems superior. So you have started to paint another picture with many dots – and each of them is more beautiful, more shining than the ones on your canvas. But this other painting does not actually exist. It’s a mere collection of unconnected dots. But yours – your life – is true art. You composed it, you are muse and artist at the same time. And it is wonderful!”

First, the young man hesitated to show any sign of acknowledgement.

Then he smiled.>>

[The end]

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