This is a very enjoyable ghost story, full of charm, wit, great touches of humor and a perpetual meta question of "did this really happen?" and "what's up with this priest?!" Ampersant takes you on a scenic journey, one where I for one learned quite a bit of European history along the way. Definitely worth picking up.
We're trying to clear our desk in anticipation of the line-edit of "Dolly" (the play), and so we've finally managed to put our new short story Rilke's Ghost up on Amazon. And it's a real story---at least the beginning is true-true. The blurb is as follows: While visiting the lovely town of Duino on the Adriatic Italian coast, Michael provoked the wraith of the legendary German poet Rainer Maria Rilke, by applying Google-translate to the wordsmith's famed "Duineser Elegien" (Elegies from the Castle of Duino). Now Michael spends the summer in Switzerland, in a chalet only three kilometers away from the grave of the poet. Will Michael be stupid enough to challenge Rilke again, thus unleashing the most sophisticated ghost story of modern history, including an exorcism of serendipitous proportions...? We'll have two or three posts about this; here's the first one, with the story's opening:
I still see myself sitting there as a boy on the greenly-striped couch of my parents in Berlin, Germany, reading Rilke, Rainer Maria (1875-1926), Bohemian poet, best known for his “Duineser Elegien” (Elegies from the castle of Duino). I read only the first two elegies then, but still, I went with the flow and was impressed.
*°*
Chang and I moved to the French Riviera where we rent our house to holiday makers. We got a surprise booking in April and decided to visit Croatia, a new country that isn’t too far away and reasonably cheap. Chang collects countries; he’s never been there. Bonus: on the way we’d have to cross Slovenia, yet another nation missing from his collection. We would drive non-stop the nine hours from Cannes to Croatia but should stay overnight somewhere on the way back, someplace nice. So Chang went on the internet and suggested a town between Venice and Trieste, on the Adriatic coast. A hotel without a view, budget-friendly. “How’s the place called?” I asked. “Dunno,” he said. “No, not Dunno, Du-i-no.” Dui-no…Du-i-no…haven’t we heard of Duino before? On the Adriatic coast? “Chang! Rilke! Duineser Elegien! Chang, we must stay there.” “Rilke?” “Rilke!” Duino is off motorway A4. We descended into a villa town and got lost because budget-friendly hotels are hard to find. There is a ludicrous little beach attached to a harbour of a few fishing boats and a pier doubling as boardwalk; three restaurants, the castle (tower, battlements), and a university, ie, a small building labeled Collegio Sapienza Rainer Maria Rilke with lots of kids milling outside speaking American and a concierge inside who knew the directions to our hotel. It was still a bit early in the afternoon, so we would have a nap in the budget-friendly double bed. We should have had a nap, that is, the room was quiet and reasonably dark, save for a distant wailing, a sound like “Oohh, oohh”--a human voice almost that appeared to come from nowhere--“oohh.” Not a typical hotel sound you’d say. And it wasn’t going away. “Oohh.” Impossible to fall sleep. We should complain. We should get up, descend the noisy stairwell and thwack the bell on the reception desk. And, of course, the moment the manager appeared the wailing was gone.
So we had to explain. “Bizarro,” the receptionist said. “Oohh,” I intoned to give her an idea. “Insolito,” she said and shook her head. “Oohh,” Chang intoned. “Pronto,” she said and answered the telephone.
Alex Hogan, the influential editor of Gay Flash Fiction, wonders where we are. Here we are, Alex, in the Valais, the Swiss region; this was the view from our chalet yesterday morning:
We've started to collect pictures that somehow relate to our new play, now called "Our Daughter Wants to Marry a Robot" (in the tradition of 19th century plays à la Oscar Wilde, where they got their title from the last line).
And, as is common in Ampersant's literary output, we're always about everything, including fried eggs---although, in the play, they are burnt, the eggs, because Eliza can't cook. Fragment, fragment...we're in Scene I of Act III. Eliza, the psycho...psycho-analyst, has tried to cook herself an egg, because Robert, her robot, was kept busy recharging his tired batteries: ELIZA (FROM THE KITCHEN) Robert! NO REACTION FROM ROBERT Robert, you've recharged long enough. NO REACTION FROM ROBERT Robert! ELIZA ENTERS FROM THE KITCHEN, HOLDING ON TO A SMOKING FRYING PAN, WALKS UP TO THE COUCH. ROBERT SHOWS SIGNS OF LIFE. Robert, do something. ELIZA HOLDS UP THE SMOKING PAN Call the fire brigade, and insist on a significant improvement... ROBERT (HALF-RISING, NOT YET AWARE OF THE SMOKING PAN) ...What did you do? ELIZA I've never been in a kitchen before. Not since you came into my life. ROBERT (POINTING AT THE PAN NOW) What is this? ELIZA Can you help me with my iPad? ROBERT (STILL POINTING) This is not an iPad, this is a frying pan. ROBERT RISES FULLY FROM THE COUCH. ELIZA HANDS THE FRYING PAN TO ROBERT, DISAPPEARS IN THE BED ROOM, AND RETURNS WITH AN IPAD. ELIZA (WAVES IPAD IN ROBERT'S FACE) It doesn't work. ROBERT (HANDS THE PAN BACK TO ELIZA, GRIPS THE IPAD) Let me see. MANIPULATES THE IPAD. EVENTUALLY, SOUNDS EMANATE FROM THE DEVICE, ALONG THE LINES OF: IPAD Tada, Tada, Tada. Good evening, Eliza. I'm your personal iPad, and, as so often, I'm prepared to serve you conditionally, provided we keep a keen eye on our community standards. Tada. ROBERT (TO ELIZA) It seems to work. ELIZA (HOLDING THE FRYING PAN UNDER ROBERT'S NOSE) No, it doesn't. Look. ROBERT Maa-dam. ELIZA (EXPLAINING) Overwhelmed by anniversarial [sic] appetites, and with my personal assistant bereft of amperes and lounging out of order on my couch, I decided to consult the internet, which advised to initiate my awesome, yet personalized cooking experience with an egg...a fried egg...which now looks like this...so... it doesn't work, your internet...We failed. ROBERT Indeed. ELIZA 'Indeed'?...I say 'we failed' and you say indeed? ROBERT It's true though, isn't it? You failed. It's a fact. ELIZA True...'true'? What's truth to an egg...a frie-ed egg? What's truth to a soul...a frie-ed soul? My soul! You never did that before. ROBERT What? ELIZA Dipping my soul in...in... ROBERT ...facts? ELIZA
Egg yolk...Well, yes, facts...You always found a way to accommodate my flights of fancy, and call the weather service, and turn your phrases this way and that way until everything was all-right and we had snatched happiness from the jaws of reality...yet again...
...during the heat wave over the Mediterranean, Michael and Sacha (the owner of the boat):
Sacha, why Sacha? Because he's also the model of Jack Horn in the Green Eyes saga; he's to us what "Q" is (or was) to James Bond. Fragment, fragment...from the first part of the saga, Ch. 43, "Clutter Clutter & Clutter", and it's thankfully short:
Every soap opera has its homme à tout faire, be it James Bond ("Q"), or us ("Jack Horn"). Speaking of James Bond, if you’ve watched the earlier movies (there is a new-new Q now, bear with me), you must have realized that Q’s old lab was too small. There was no way anybody could combine a shooting range for war heads with a workshop for poisonous pens with an assembly line for Aston Martins anywhere outside Pinewood Studios. (The newest Q holds court in the British Museum where they have more space).
Same for Jack Horn. If you ever had a look at Jack's place—he lives in a rambling farm house outside Georgia Beach with a large orchard and a big barn where he works—you don't have to enter the barn, you only have to look at it from miles away—it's like Q's (old) universe, only more so. There are toy helicopters, coloring books of his three lovely daughters, the original camera of Toulouse-Lautrec, the screen wall from Startrek, entire hardware shops, books even, some of his friends write books. It's like the law firm of Clutter, Clutter & Clutter: there it is, climbing the stairs, climbing the walls and climbing into the basement where antique premium cars await repair: clutter. There’s no way you could spend a minute in this chaos and not come away with the idea that Jack is your man when it comes to harebrained schemes.
We are barely exaggerating, give it a try:
The Lambda Literary Award finalist
"Click"
From live reviews: "If you like Woody Allen, you will enjoy the book!" "I dreamt of the GREEN EYES and woke up happy." "Grab it an plan to read it from cover to cover immediately!" "A literate and wonderfully witty romp!" Wow! That was my first reaction to reading this book, my second reaction was plain and simple holy shit!" "This is a perfect book for any adult reader!"
...and...anything more substantial, more uplifting? Try this from our play (The two principle robots in conversation) : DOLLY You were a prototype too, Robbie, you were the prototype of all prototypes. ROBERT Perhaps I should retire to a museum. DOLLY Absolutely. The MOMA would have you. Or the Modern Tate. ROBERT The MOMA? DOLLY The Museum of Modern Art in New York City. They have live sharks in formaldehyde that are worth twenty million dollars. I mean they are dead, the sharks, obviously, but otherwise they are alive...Damien Hirst. Does the name ring a bell? ROBERT (HITS HIS HEAD, TO HIMSELF) Why am I doing this? (HITS HIS HEAD) Uuhh. Moma. (TO DOLLY:) Damien Hirst? My memory is no longer working properly. DOLLY Not a bell? ROBERT Remind me. DOLLY He's an artist. An artist! He created these sharks...I mean he did not create these sharks literally...I mean they existed already...I mean they were dead already...I mean... ROBERT (INTERRUPTING) Yes, Dolly. DOLLY I have an idea! I have another idea! ROBERT Ye-es? DOLLY An idea that solves all your problems. And Eliza's problems as well. PAINFUL SILENCE. ROBERT STARES AT THE BOX. You don't want to know? ROBERT If I say 'yes', you'll ask me to liberate you first... DOLLY (INTERRUPTING) ...'LIBERATE', that's the word, not 'release'... ROBERT ...but if I say 'no', will you then shut up and stay in your box? DOLLY (UPON REFLECTION) No, I'll tell you anyhow. ROBERT Isn't it obvious, your idea? DOLLY No, it's very creative. Didn't you tell the bailiffs that I'm very creative? ROBERT Your idea, Dolly...your idea is to have Eliza sell me for twenty million dollars to this Damien Hirst, isn't it? DOLLY (CRACKLE INSIDE THE BOX RESUMES, MODEM BLINKS, DOLLY CONNECTING WITH, AND THEN CHANNELING THE INTERNET) ...twenty million, that's three-hundred POINT four six three eight nine one zero four billion Pound as we speak, Robbie, more than THREE HUNDRED billion Little Pounds... (MODEM STOPS BLINKING) ROBERT Thanks to Brexit. DOLLY (UPBEAT) Yes, exactly, thanks to Brexit! ROBERT ...Your idea is to sell me for these billions to Damien Hirst who will then put me in a dumpster and sell me to this museum. DOLLY You hit the nail running, Robbie. And the best thing is, you know what?... ROBERT No. DOLLY We don't even need formaldehyde.
ROBERT LIMPS OFF TO THE PSYCHO-COUCH AND LIES DOWN.
Not sure we ever told you, but we found a publisher for the German translation of the Green Eyes. Together with the translator, Xenia Melzer, we've been quietly working on said translation during the last couple of months, and now we are getting somewhere. Two more passes through the text, two more weeks, perhaps, and we are done. It was quite an experience, and I'll reflect on it soon in another post. Here's just a sample, the crucial paragraph in the last chapter where Alex explains why---for heavens sake, WHY---he loves John. The English original is underneath. And the picture? We'll that's just the view from our house this morning (click on it for a larger version)
„Also, John, lass uns durchstarten. Du würdest nicht wollen, dass ich dich liebe, nur weil Alice es mir gesagt hat?“
„Nein.“
„Und du würdest nicht wollen, dass ich dich liebe, weil es dir zu sehr wehtun würde, wenn ich es nicht täte?“
„Was?“
„Würdest du jemanden lieben, nur weil er dich liebt?“
„Wahrscheinlich nicht.“
„Würdest du jemanden lieben, weil er dich von den Toten erweckt hat?“
„Amy-Lou hat dich von den Toten erweckt.“
„Sie sagte, du hättest es getan.“
„Sie hat es getan. Sie hat dich wiederbelebt.“
„Sie sagte, es war dein Kuss. Du hast mich zurück ins Leben geküsst.“
„Ich habe dich nicht ins Leben zurückgeküsst. Ich habe einen Kuss auf deine Stirn gedrückt, um mich zu verabschieden. Du warst zu dem Zeitpunkt tot.“
„Ich habe also recht.“
„Wie?“
„Du hast mich nicht zurück ins Leben geküsst, Amy-Lou hat mich nicht von den Toten erweckt. Q.E.D. Ich bin im Himmel. Alles ist Himmel. Sogar du bist der Himmel, jemand der mich nicht betrügt trotz der herausfordernden Umstände eines BDSM-Calls.“
„Ebenso wie Amy-Lou und Alice. Wenn es nach deiner Logik geht.“
„Die mich auch nicht betrogen haben.“
„Du weißt, was ich meine. Warum solltest du mich lieben?“
„Weil du, John, einzigartig unter uns Engeln bist. Du bist der einzige Engel, der meine Liebe braucht. Der sie will. Warum sollte ich dich nicht lieben? Wir sind zusammen im Himmel. Hier gehen Wünsche in Erfüllung.“
„Das habe ich nicht gewusst.“
„Jetzt weißt du es“, sagt er und rollt wieder mit dem Kopf.
And here's the English original: “So, John, let’s reset. You wouldn’t want me to love you because Alice told me to do so?” “No.” “And you wouldn’t want me to love you because it would hurt you too much if I don’t?” “Huh?” “Let’s simplify. Would you love somebody because he loves you?” “Possibly not.” “Would you love somebody because he brought you back from the dead?” “Amy-Lou brought you back from the dead.” “She said you did.” “She did. She performed the CPR.” “She said it was your kiss. You kissed me back to life.” “I didn’t kiss you back to life. I planted a kiss on your forehead to say goodbye. You were dead then.” “So, I’m right then.” “How?” “You didn’t kiss me back to life, Amy-Lou didn’t bring me back from the dead. Q-E-D. I’m in heaven. Everything is heaven. Even you are heaven, not cheating on me despite the challenging circumstances of an out-call.” “And so are Amy-Lou, and Alice. According to your logic.” “Who didn’t cheat on me either.” “You know what I mean. Why should you love me?” “Because, John, you are unique among us angels. You are the only angel who needs my love. Who wants it. Why shouldn’t I love you back? We’re in heaven together. Wishes are fulfilled in here.” “I didn’t know.”
We've just learned from the Guardian (where else), that Les Temps Modernes shut down after 74 years today, the magazine founded by Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir in 1945. Just one black-comedy thing from the article: "On another Tuesday afternoon [Sartre and Beauvoir kept regular hours at the small offices of the magazine at 5 rue Sébastien Bottin in the heart of Saint-Germain-des-Prés] the receptionist rushed to de Beauvoir: a reader whose text had been turned down by the editorial committee had just cut open his wrists." One more thing: we had always be wondering, although we never read the magazine, where the title (les temps modernes) had come from (Picasso designed the logo). It came from Charlie Chaplin's movie, "Modern Times"). (We read parts of Sartre's Critique de la raison dialectique, though, with very mixed feelings; we also read part of a de Beauvoir biography) (We also read "Huit clos", Sartre's signature play, several times even, and are quoting from it abundantly, always the same line, "L'enfer, c'est les autres") (We also think that the French is not correct there...it should be "...ce sont les autres", but who knows).(Comments welcome) (...)
We haven't been posting teasers for our play in a little while, but now we are back...back with local news, because Pierre Cardin's Palais Bulles, a pile of terracotta iglus a few minutes from our house, is for sale @ a cool 350 000 000 EUR (three-hundred-fifty-million Euros).
And the play? Yes, we've had a change of title. It was "Frankenstein V", and now it is "Electromagnetic Dolly, Absolutely Electromagnetic", although we're not really happy with the new choice either and are now contemplating "The Anniversary of Ill-advised Wrapping-room Efforts -- A Comedy about Robots"...you say. Anyhow, Dolly, the prototype of a new generation of robots (the fifth generation) is about to do capitalism in --- yes, the world economic system --- and our Palais Bulles plays a role in this. A brief reminder: Dolly was hoisted upon Eliza, the aging psycho...psycho-analyst by Steve, her ex-boyfriend and now the CEO of FrankenStein Global, world's leading robot maker (the play is set 25 years in the future). And then Dolly was carried off by bailiff Terentia Striker and her assistant Triple-X to the Shark-Blue Bank as the collateral for an un-serviced mortgage. At the bank, Dolly is put to work, and here's what happens next (Dolly and Triple-X reporting) (One more thing: Dolly doesn't like its name, and pretends its name is 'Fernando') ACT III, Scene 2, Fragment:
TRIPLE-X
So, Dolly told them, it would be willing to cooperate. Help them bankers with their bonuses. And it worked. They let Dolly out of its box.
DOLLY
Now, to wit, I'm the only Fifth Generation machine in the world. All the trading, all the ruthless money-making is done...or was done...by lesser folks, by fourth-generation machines at best.
TRIPLE-X
And it's a zero-sum game out there...
DOLLY
...on the choppy seas of mega-making deals...
TRIPLE-X
...my loss is your gain, my gain is your loss.
DOLLY
So, all Shark-Blue bankers line up, curious about me, all wanting to know, how does this prototype do it?
A cruise ship on the way to Cannes, seen from the house. In the background the Isle St. Honorat with its fortified monastery, which shielded the monks from Sarrasin attacks during the Middle Ages.
We've found this nice article in the Guardian, and present a few highlights with the original HTML-markup still in place and a picture that could start the next Agatha Christie film (scroll down):
May has failed, so far, because she could not win around Conservative rebels, mostly hard Brexiters from the European Research Group. A last, desperate promise to quit if MPs backed her deal only reduced rebel numbers to 34, 28 of them linked to the ERG. ... Few Conservatives expected Brexit to triumph in the referendum. But the 52% result and May’s elevation to Downing Street changed the picture dramatically. ... Boris Johnson, the face of the leave campaign, was given the job of foreign secretary, but May marginalised him from Brexit policy. Chris Wilkins, a former speech writer for May, said: “She sees him as fundamentally unserious, and for her that is the worst criticism.” The prime minister later remarked there was no off-the-shelf plan for Brexit. Instead she set about devising policy in the strictest secrecy, barely consulting cabinet colleagues on the most important diplomatic event since the UK joined the European Union 40 years earlier. Policy was initially delivered via speeches. According to Wilkins, texts were only shared with cabinet members the day before. There was no general discussion at cabinet... ...
