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The Ingeborg Bachmann Prize
Ijoma Mangold, a literary editor at the Süddeutsche Zeitung, pays a backhanded compliment to the Ingeborg Bachmann Competition – an event that revels in provocation, encourages heated passions and welcomes bristling rejoinders. Since 1978 the Ingeborg Bachmann Competition has taken place in the Austrian town of Klagenfurt, the regional capital of Carinthia. It was conjured into life by that grand old man of literary criticism Marcel Reich-Ranicki. For nigh on thirty years, between fifteen and eighteen authors have braved the stage annually with their as yet unpublished texts. They do so in front of an audience and a jury that sometimes mercilessly, sometimes euphorically, but always theatrically voices its opinion. In the process – to quote Walter Benjamin, ‘only he with the power to destroy has the power to criticise’ – blood may and often does flow. Authors already established tend to steer clear of the competition as a rule – they have a reputation to lose and prefer not to submit themselves to the humiliating experience of being torn to shreds in public, with no real means of defence. Undiscovered authors, wet behind the ears, more readily embark on the risky road that can lead to total disgrace, live on television, for a successful appearance in Klagenfurt is a surefire ticket to an entrée into the world of publishing – in Germany, Austria and Switzerland a heavily subsidised concern. Even the lacklustre but courageous midfield writers seldom leave Klagenfurt without a handsome contract with a publishing house of repute. It is all too easy to joke about Klagenfurt and the Bachmann Competition. You could reproach this major event in the Germanlanguage literary calendar for its monotonous routine, you could shake your head at its unadventurous choice of authors, or bemoan the lack of contemporary urgency in the texts; you could chastise the jury for gross miscarriages of justice and mock their blind spots. And you could yearn for that absolute surprise, that perfect outsider, that eureka cry of a striking discovery of real genius. In other words, it’s possible to grumble about the unspectacular nature of the everyday book business. Klagenfurt invites criticism and some people enjoy knocking it. But let’s look beyond its putdowns. By its very definition anything that has become an institution is bound to lose at least some of its spontaneity. Of course everyone would love to be bowled over, once an hour preferably – knocked this way and that, spun round, caught off guard. But life’s not like that and nor is literature. The most famous – or infamous – moment in Klagenfurt’s short history occurred undoubtedly in 1983 and involved the excellent Rainald Goetz: he shot to fame through this performance. Towards the end of his reading he waved a razor blade aloft. Then, stepping beyond the cultural boundary that separates text and body, he took a well-aimed swipe at his own forehead: authentic author’s blood flowed down his face and dripped onto his manuscript. There was turmoil in the audience, shouts for a doctor. It was a highly dramatic act, and its immediate result – both logical and predictable – was to shake up the categories of bourgeois art criticism. To maintain their cool, the jury had no choice but to ignore Goetz’s remarkable text when it came to allotting prizes. ‘Blood,’ proclaimed jury member Marcel Reich-Ranicki, ‘cannot influence the outcome.’ It would be good to see another moment like this – to experience it as though for the first time. A little blood every year in Klagenfurt, a sprinkling of shock, and from the tumult a most significant German-language writer would rise – yes, that would be something. That would take your mind off the pins and needles in your thighs on those wooden benches (another part of the Klagenfurt ritual). Who would wield the razor this time? But back to the real world. There are of course some yawningly empty texts, and an even worse category that may have a cachet on television but simply doesn’t wash with literature: the embarrassingly bad. Still, poor texts are part and parcel of literature. The fact that they are not automatically weeded out by a professional selection process reflects the capriciousness of the genre. That broad stretch of barren soil is a prerequisite for the blossoming of those rare exotic breeds which appear in the most unexpected places. Every Bachmann Competition still has the power to find at least three worthy candidates for its top prizes. The readings and discussions at the Bachmann Competition are transmitted live on television and the cameras often capture the faces and poses of members of the studio audience. I’ve learned that when a text is annoying me and I stare at the pages disconsolately and with particular moroseness, tensing my body into that of a tortured martyr, I’m guaranteed feedback from viewers watching at home. What this means is that the Bachmann prize ritual is vital in confirming the reading world’s suspicion that today’s literature is a poor affair in comparison with the great works of the past and viewers are invited to indulge their notion that they themselves have particularly exacting standards. ‘With writing like that I’d never have become a reader’, they think with a self-satisfied toss of the head. And indeed when, wearied from all that listening, you stand in the Carinthian sunshine, about to push off on your bike to the shores of beautiful Lake Wörther and let its water soothe you, there comes over you a niggling suspicion that the competition exists purely for the pleasure of the publishing world. Its members will not forgo this summer excursion to one of the most idyllic landscapes of Central Europe. Such a captivating way of life may come at a price, but the odd yawn-engendering text is more than worth it.
Yet is it so terrible that the good life and belles
lettres can sometimes merge into one and rub
shoulders so harmoniously? As Rainhald Goetz
himself has written: “Klagenfurt may be full of
sh**, but you’re going to go there, straight to
it, and how! For nowhere is the sh** as
beautiful as in Klagenfurt.” I rest my case.
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