托馬斯·伯恩哈德（德語：[ˈtoːmas ˈbɛʁnhaʁt]; 原名 尼可拉斯·托馬斯·伯恩哈德；1931年2月9日 – 1989年2月12日）是奧地利小說家，劇作家，詩人。伯恩哈德的作品被譽為「二戰以來最重要的文學成就」[1]。他被認為是戰後最重要的德語作者之一。
生平[編輯]
托馬斯·伯恩哈德於1931年出生在荷蘭的海爾倫， 是一個女傭的兒子。從1931年秋天起，他和祖父母居住在維也納，直到他的母親再婚，在1937年和他一起遷居巴伐利亞州的特勞恩施泰因。 伯恩哈德的生身父親由於煤氣中毒死於柏林；伯恩哈德從未見過他。
伯恩哈德的外公Johannes Freumbichler也是作家， 對小伯恩哈德施行藝術為主的教育，包括音樂學習，並帶伯恩哈德閱讀了叔本華、莎士比亞、黑格爾、康德等人的著作，對伯恩哈德後來的創作產生了重大影響[2]。伯恩哈德在塞基興上小學，後來在薩爾茨堡的幾家學校求學，1947年他離開Johanneum學校，到一家雜貨店當學徒。在薩爾茨堡，外公指導他發現了社會邊緣人的「另一個世界」，奠定了他未來多年的寫作基調。[2]
伯恩哈德的Lebensmensch（伯恩哈德自造的[3]奧地利語表述，指生命中最重要的人[4]）是Hedwig Stavianicek（1894–1984），一位比他年長37歲多的女性，他遇到她時是1950年，那年伯恩哈德的母親去世，外公去世已有一年；Stavianicek臨終前由他獨自看護。Stavianicek是伯恩哈德生活的主要支柱，並極大地促進了他的文學事業。他與這位女性到底是何種關係，到什麼程度，並不為人所知。托馬斯·伯恩哈德對外並未表示性向。[5]
由於在年輕時患呼吸系統疾病（結核）且不見好轉, 伯恩哈德在1949到1951年間居住在蓬高地區聖法伊特的Grafenhof療養院。1955到1957年，他在薩爾茨堡的莫扎特大學學習表演，並繼續表現出對音樂的深厚興趣。但他的肺病使他不能從事演唱事業。後來，他短暫地從事記者工作，主要報導罪案，之後成為全職寫作者。
伯恩哈德於1989年在上奧地利州的格蒙登去世。他從1965年起在Ohlsdorf-Obernathal街2號的雅致住所現在是研究他的著作的博物館和展演中心。根據他公布後引起大量爭議的遺願，伯恩哈德禁止將他的劇作搬上舞台，或在奧地利刊行他未發表的作品；但這一遺願被他的繼承人在1999年撤銷。他的死亡在葬禮之後才公布於眾。
作品[編輯]
伯恩哈德因他批評性的觀點在奧地利經常被批評為Nestbeschmutzer （弄髒自己地盤的人），但在國外聲譽甚隆。不過，雖然他在國內因政治原因受到一些批評，在他在世時，也在國內受到很多讚揚，獲得眾多獎項，被許多人視為這個時代的傑出作家。
他的作品多受（童年和青年時代）被遺棄的感覺和他的不治之症的影響，使他將死亡視為存在的終極本質。他的作品的典型段落是用角色孤身一人的獨白向一個沉默的傾聽者解釋他對世界狀況的看法，並常與一個具體的情況相聯繫。他的話劇和文章都是如此，並常常讓傾聽者轉述這些獨白。
英文：
他的主要角色往往是學者，或者如他所稱的，Geistesmenschen（有靈之人）。這些角色用對「愚民」的充滿拒斥的牢騷來表達他們對奧地利人看重的種種事物的否定。他也攻擊政府（常稱之為「天主教-民族-社會主義者」），通常受到尊重的機構如維也納的城堡劇院，以及受喜愛的藝術家。他的作品還不斷關注那些追求不可能的完美的人們，如何陷於孤獨和自我毀滅，因為這樣的完美意味著停滯和死亡。反天主教論調也多見於他的作品。
"Es ist alles lächerlich, wenn man an den Tod denkt"（一切皆荒謬，當人想起死亡）是他在1968年獲得一項奧地利國家獎項時的感言，這番話引起的爭議，只是他多年中不斷引起，並構成他名聲一部分的眾多公共熱議中的一次。例如他的小說《伐木工》（1984年），就因為一位前友人的誹謗指控而多年不能出版。他的許多劇本，特別是《英雄廣場》（1988年），遭到眾多奧地利人的批評，指責它們損害了奧地利的形象。較受爭議的台詞中，有一句稱奧地利為「一個野蠻愚蠢的國度，……一個將不可遮擋的臭氣散布到全歐洲的沒有意識，沒有文化的臭水溝。」《英雄廣場》，還有伯恩哈德寫於同年代的其他劇作，都由有爭議的導演Claus Peymann執導，在維也納城堡劇院上演。
即使在死後，伯恩哈德也通過他稱為身後文學外流[1]的做法，即禁止在奧地利境內出版和演出他的作品，引起了震動。他的遺囑執行人和同母異父兄弟彼得·費邊博士建立的托馬斯·伯恩哈德國際基金會，後來撤銷了這項遺囑，而德國出版社Suhrkamp仍是伯恩哈德著作的主要出版商。
伯恩哈德和他的出版人Siegfried Unseld從1961年到 1989年的通信共約500多封，於2009年由Suhrkamp出版社出版。[6]
翻譯成英文的著作[編輯]
長篇小說[編輯]
- Frost (1963), translated by Michael Hofmann (2006)
- Gargoyles (Verstörung, 1967), translated by Richard and Clara Winston (1970)
- The Lime Works (Das Kalkwerk, 1970), translated by Sophie Wilkins (1973)
- Correction (Korrektur, 1975), translated by Sophie Wilkins (1979)
- Yes (Ja, 1978), translated by Ewald Osers (1991)
- The Cheap-Eaters (Die Billigesser, 1980), translated by Ewald Osers (1990)
- Concrete (Beton, 1982), translated by David McLintock (1984)
- Wittgenstein's Nephew (Wittgensteins Neffe, 1982), translated by David McLintock (1988)
藝術三部曲：英文介紹
- The Loser (Der Untergeher, 1983), translated by Jack Dawson (1991)
- Woodcutters (Holzfällen: Eine Erregung, 1984), translated by Ewald Osers (1985) and as Woodcutters, by David McLintock (1988)
- Old Masters: A Comedy (Alte Meister. Komödie, 1985), translated by Ewald Osers (1989)
- Extinction (Auslöschung, 1986), translated by David McLintock (1995)
- On the Mountain (In der Höhe, written 1959, published 1989), translated by Russell Stockman (1991)
中篇小說[編輯]
- Amras (1964)
- Playing Watten (Watten, 1964)
- Walking (Gehen, 1971)
- Collected as Three Novellas (2003), translated by Peter Jansen and Kenneth J. Northcott
No moving parts
The portable genius of Thomas Bernhard
Thomas Bernhard, c.1957
January 18, 2019
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Long reads
Thomas Bernhard first beheld the darkness of the world in 1931 as Nicolaas Thomas Bernhard in a place called Heerlen in Holland. His pregnant, unmarried mother, Herta Bernhard, a domestic from the Salzburg area, had run away there out of fear of disgrace, and fear of her father. (Social control and concomitant hypocrisies were – I believe, still are – exceptionally strong in Austria. Herta’s parents were themselves unmarried.) She found a school for midwifery where she could be delivered for free. It was the 1930s and she was poor; they were all terribly poor, the Depression having hit provincial Austria no less hard than it hit anywhere else. (Only one child is wearing shoes in an early class photograph of Bernhard, and it’s not Bernhard.) Almost immediately, she went back to work locally, and her infant son spent his first few months being looked after offshore, by a woman on a fishing vessel. He liked the mythic, extraterritorial, quarantined sound of that later: the bleak bard of the landlocked Alpine republic whose early months were spent rocked on the ocean wave by a stranger. The name “Bernhard” was no less fantastic than the birth: it belonged to his grandmother’s first husband, long divorced (itself a scandal) and with no role in Herta’s parentage, much less that of young Nicolaas. All, or almost all, was compound irrelation. The world wobbled and was not what it said on the packet. It wanted righting – or should that be writing. To that end, it first needed to be destroyed, for which Bernhard, with a bad word for everything, anti-church, anti-state, anti-literature, anti-everything, happily volunteered. What he really wanted to do was slam the door so hard that it would never open again. He was never recognized by (and indeed never saw) his father, the carpenter Alois Zuckerstätter, who married another woman, became a Nazi and an alcoholic and, according to some sources, killed himself in 1940.
The major figure in Bernhard’s early life was his maternal grandfather, Johannes Freumbichler – the one Herta had been so afraid of – regional writer, epic failure, curmudgeon and adored domestic tyrant. (In Concrete, Bernhard’s novel of 1982, Freumbichler contributes the rear view of himself, writing, and the horse blanket and leather belt to the protagonist, Rudolf’s, efforts.) He took to the boy, once the boy was returned to Austria, and went around with him. “The grandfathers are our teachers”, wrote Bernhard, generalizing, as he so often did, from a particular case: his own. Freumbichler is the original behind both Bernhard’s own subsequent character – independent, outspoken, rhetorical, aggressive, mocking – and the head- and room- and evening-filling confrontational figures in so many of his books and plays. It has been said that Bernhard made his own successful career to assuage and compensate for Freumbichler’s failure. To appease his grandfather’s tatterdemalion memory and come up to the requisite grandeur, Bernhard styled himself as a squirearchical character, rarely out of the papers with trenchant quotes and headline-catching confrontations, an almost predictably unpredictable terror. He offered contempt for new money, for contemporary politics, for modern life (all of which may be found in Concrete). While professing to hate most aspects of Austria, he fell hard for its nattiness. Affecting soigné country clothes and a pleasant smirk across his remarkably clownlike features, he was the most photographed unphotographed writer, the most interviewed recluse, the most courted and best-paid enfant terrible. He bought up and restored old properties and stuffed them with old furniture and old paintings and old ways. He kept a portrait of Joseph II in his pseudo ancestors’ gallery. “The Habsburg past”, he wrote, “marks us all. It may be more evident with me than with others. It’s there in my love-hate of Austria, which in the end is the key to everything I write.” To stretch a point, Freumbichler may be seen as a sort of analogue to the last Habsburg emperor, Franz Joseph, and Bernhard as a sort of secret royalist. A revanchist nihilist, could one imagine such a thing.
Just as foundational, though, as Bernhard’s grandfather was the question of his own ill health. I looked up the “sarcoidosis” with which Concrete begins. (In the original, it is “morbus boeck” and anything called morbus commands one’s respect.) In Pschyrembel’s German medical dictionary it has, for the layman, a difficult and terrifying column-length entry. It seems to be an irreversible and incurable autoimmune condition affecting the lungs but also other organs, including the skin, the glands, the bronchia and the heart. Thomas Bernhard was indeed a sufferer from it. (He wasn’t a writer much given to making things up.) His half-brother and personal physician Peter Fabjan confirms it was what finally killed him a few days after his fifty-eighth birthday. During his last dozen years, it was unusual for him to be without pain for a day. Such things as personal appearances and – as is suggested in Concrete – whereabouts had to be rationed and carefully, nay strategically, considered. The typically ambivalent hymn in Concrete to chemistry and the miracle workers on the shores of Lake Geneva is full of feeling: the feeling of gratitude where one would rather have got by without gratitude. “I myself”, writes Rudolf, the Viennese musicologist at the heart of Concrete, veering in the direction of absurd overstatement as he so often does, and standing quivering on the brink, “owe everything to chemicals – to put it briefly – and have done for the last thirty years.”
The wonder of it is that Bernhard lasted long enough even to have such a chronic disease, and such a virulently productive career. At the age of seventeen, he followed his grandfather into hospital. He had pleurisy, and was expected to die. Freumbichler did die; his daughter, Bernhard’s mother, followed him with cancer, the following year. Bernhard himself was given the last rites and pushed out into the unheated death ward. He had other plans. He contracted tuberculosis and recovered, though the later sarcoidosis seems to have been a legacy of the TB. He was left thinking – pardonably – that, having no father and apparently none of the standard-issue internal organs, he was both deathless and doomed. (When he did eventually die, it was on the anniversary of his grandfather’s death.) Those two years of teenage illness, incapacity and introversion changed his life. With a sort of Bernhardesque logic, they were the making of him. (They are described in the part called “Breath” in the autobiographical Gathering Evidence.) “I don’t know which came first”, he writes in Concrete, “my illness or my sudden distaste for society. I don’t know whether the distaste was there first and gave rise to the illness, or whether the illness was there first and gave rise to the distaste for this particular society, for social gatherings of this kind and for society in general”. Like the painter Frida Kahlo, he lived the intense and prolific life of the semi-invalid. For a time Bernhard didn’t know what he would do. Music drew him – he had, apparently, an attractive bass voice – and acting drew him. Three thousand pages of poetry still lie in his archive. “There”, a later editor, Raimund Fellinger, wrote, “Bernhard reveals himself on every one of them as a pathos-drunken dilettante.” Once he found his way into prose and, later, drama (respectively with Frost, in 1963, and A Celebration for Boris in 1970), there was no turning back. The torrential, unparagraphed speech bespeaks the difficulty of breathing. A paragraph or pause for breath would be a waste of what little time he had. He brought out books at the rate of two or three or more a year. Latterly, drama suited his needs and limitations best – the focus provided by a time and a space, the potential for éclat, the platform for him to attack and unsettle an audience and a press, not the diffuseness and, relatively speaking, the low kilotonnage of book publication. To the fury of his German publishers, Suhrkamp, he also retained an Austrian publisher, Residenz – it was part of his self-assertion and primacy, his unwillingness to be owned – who recently brought out his “collected works” in twenty-two volumes. All this in less than three decades, eaten out of by illness, numerous – largely contrived, but still distracting – publicity scandals, openings, closings, confrontations, arguments and, perhaps most surprisingly of all, foreign travel. He was often in Spain, often in Yugoslavia, but ranged as far abroad as Iran and New York.
Beton (Concrete) is accounted Bernhard’s fifth novel. It was published in 1982, fully seven years after its predecessor, Correction; years, however, that saw the publication of the autobiography in five parts referred to earlier and the composition of other important short prose, and no fewer than seven plays; years, moreover, that made him acquainted with the conditions of his illness. Known to readers as “the Spanish one” or “the Majorcan one”, Concrete shows Bernhard at his most syntactically untrammelled – once the first sentence is gone, it is actually pretty uncomplicated – and perhaps true to life. Other novels are more tightly wound or more diligently attack-minded – “sculptures of opinion”, as I termed them. In form, with Rudolf’s sudden decision to leave (surely not one that many readers will have anticipated) and the shocking, seemingly improvised entry into the book three-quarters of the way through of Anna Härdtl’s story – again, true – it is like an oyster that finds its grit unexpectedly and late on. There, too, it finds the eponymous “concrete”, the hate object that gives the book its poetic focus – with ten references in the last ten pages. For the most part, though, it is content to shadow the daily and seasonal rhythms and conditions of Bernhard’s home life. The early rising, the paucity of contacts, the illness, the obsessive desire to work, the swings of mind and morale. Rudolf (a name in the family, borne by an actual uncle and great-uncle) is here given a shadowy, conventional family (with a pesky business-minded sister playing the major role of antagonist-cum-ally). The string of Rudolf’s failed writings on composers and philosophers is of course a sort of caricature of Bernhard’s own oeuvre, where music and philosophy are often on offer as a field of endeavour, but overall it is a book that takes one deeply into a persiflage of the author’s life with many features transcribed directly.
Having myself grown up with Bernhard – my father, the German novelist Gert Hofmann, had all his books and read them till half of them had been dropped in the bath, and the rest were falling out of their bindings – it’s difficult for me to put myself in the position of someone reading him for the first time. From the 1980s, I remember meeting an English publisher set on paragraphing him; at that point, in an optimistic industry, it must still have been thought possible to grind him up small. Above all, to an English reader, he probably seems weirdly un-accoutred, almost empty. Whatever it is, it’s not about exposition. “An Alpine Beckett” is a recurring description. None of your character-and-plot malarkey. Probably nothing exists that would prepare one for Bernhard’s machined vehemence, though once you’ve read one, you perhaps start to crave the bitter taste and the savage not-quite humour. I reviewed one – it was Old Masters – and described it as having “no moving parts”. Ingeborg Bachmann evokes a not dissimilar-sounding piece in which two men walk up and down, talking about a play they have no intention of seeing. That’s all. There’s not much more than that here: the man, the would-be writer, the vexatious sister gone, intending to embark on his piece on Mendelssohn, and then – spoiler alert – not managing to. That’s because the life of the book is somewhere else, in the numerous quirks and tics that make Bernhard so imitable (the italics, the repetitions with variations, the suddenly extrapolated though indefensible and basically outrageous plurals, the little slicks of Roget’s words [“the black, hideous, revolting, stinking bog of loneliness”, “expelled, expunged and extinguished”], the sudden leaps into excess or specificity [“Peru”!]), the mannered musicality of the prose, the brittle back-and-forth of argument, the unexpected ferocity-paired-with-woodenness of some of the verbs and adjectives (a world that is “choking on its billions”, “porters have become extinct”, “in the course of time I have liquidated myself”; “leprous”, “diabolical”, “your murderous impetuosity”), the way that a word or object – “natural” and “naturally” or the “I shall be leaving a country” sequence, or dogs or universities or newspapers – is riffed on for a page or two and then quietly, inconclusively dropped. The pedantic association between a place – even as much or as little as the “iron chair in the hall” or “one of those ancient white-painted wicker chairs” – and the thought engendered in the place seems also to be a typical feature of Bernhard. The speaker betrays a little tendency, which becomes inflamed into an opinion, then a judgement, which immediately becomes torrential and overwhelming, and ultimately – here anyway, in Concrete – has to be walked back. It goes: force, dither, reverse; force, dither, reverse. The zigzags of thought are reminiscent of Kafka, only without Kafka’s propensity to endlessness, his gentleness, his humour. In Bernhard, where they are driven with more energy, they tend instead to form whorls (“We need someone for our work, and we also need no one. Sometimes we need someone, sometimes no one, and sometimes we need someone and no one”). At their most worried at and stuck, these moments of stalling are like crusts or scabs, furiously clawed at, and unappeasable. Kafka is the writer of the continuing possible, Bernhard of the continuing-impossible.
Peiskam, the setting for most of the book, corresponds closely to the great late-medieval Vierkanthof or quadrangular farmhouse that Bernhard owned in Nathal in Upper Austria. This was not passed down through his family but rather bought with a loan from his publisher taken out in 1965, and restored to neo-medieval glory in the years after. Bernhard’s houses were his other great relict after his books; there were three of them, and something in him was drawn to the idea of having them pulled down when he died, much as he sometimes thought one copy of each book, for himself, was enough, and he would like to take that to the grave. In the end it happened differently, and the twenty-two-volume collected works stand not least as a tribute to the generosity of the much put-upon Austrian state that, ironically, in spite of all, helped to fund the enterprise just as Nathal and the other houses stand as monuments to Bernhard’s taste: plain, functional, austere, solidly rustic, timelessly old, and breathtakingly beautiful, a cross between a castle and a cloister. Someone described the kitchen that no one cooked in, the living room that no one lived in, the bedroom where Bernhard did occasionally sleep, and the smallest room in the house, the book room that contained very few books (and not even those were read by Bernhard). But that gives a good sense of the ambience of Concrete: the different rooms, each containing one piece of perfect furniture. (Bernhard even designed some of his own chairs, bookshelves and lamps.) In the end, the place is a retreat, a perfectly adapted and indestructible and deeply inward sanctuary. Isn’t it striking how much Rudolf (literally, repeatedly) communes with his walls in the early pages (“I pressed both palms against the cold wall of the hall, a well-tried method for overcoming this kind of agitation, and I actually did calm down”), how difficult he finds it to leave: “At such times I feel a specially keen affection for all the rooms, all the furniture, and I walk all round the house, putting my hand lovingly on the individual pieces of furniture. Then I sit in my armchair in the bedroom and wonder whether it’s worthwhile going away”. This to me is Kafka again, the unspecified creature at the centre – in every sense – of the late and unfinished tale called “The Burrow”, a thing locked up in its structure, which is its defence and consolation and field of endeavour, but also its vulnerability, and in the end perhaps also its illness. (Kafka wrote it in 1923, as he was dying of TB.)
Concrete is an account of breaking out, a kind of anti-Antaeus. It doesn’t happen in either of the ways one might expect – Rudolf’s book about Mendelssohn isn’t written, and health doesn’t seem to impinge, although the open ending leaves Rudolf poised to begin or die – but in the blandest way: physically, geographically. He manages, improbably, to leave the shelter of his four walls. The thinking about the sister seems to lead Rudolf to pay a call on the neighbour (“the old man at Niederkreut”), and ultimately to his own impetuous, half- bungled flight south (in a fur coat!) to Palma. It seems to be the story of a reabsorption into human society, the bitter adversarial solitude gradually making way not for the proposed intellectual work, but for some human participation and fellowship. Anna Härdtl’s story of her husband’s death – again, it recalls Kafka to me, Theresa’s story of her mother’s death on the building site as told, also late on, to Karl in Amerika – restores Rudolf to some sense of compassion, for which, ironically, he pays with his long, deathlike sleep and ambiguous awakening. Härdtl, in turn, seems to have been foreshadowed by the neighbour’s wilful decision to leave his fortune to a stranger whose name is chosen out of a phone book: Sarah Slother, of Knightsbridge. They are sisters in a winged and unexpected fate.
The German critic Marcel Reich-Ranicki wrote that if Bernhard hadn’t been taken back to Austria in infancy, he might have grown up and written his screeds against the Netherlands, and in Dutch, which is a lovely thought: instead of Mozart and Bruno Kreisky, we could have had tirades against Queen Juliana and Frans Hals. There is something uncannily portable or adaptable about Bernhard’s genius. A sort of internal combustion engine based on repetition, rhetoric, unremittingness, fuelled on scandal and outrage, at a pitch where you don’t know if it’s wildness or control or somehow both; he’s got everywhere. “All those years we asked ourselves what the new might look like when it appeared”, wrote Ingeborg Bachmann of her contemporary. “Well, here it is.” Translated into forty-five languages. Novels and plays both. Huge in France. Big in Spain and in Latin America. Not much of the international writing worth reading in the last twenty years has been done outside Bernhard’s shadow. Jelinek, Houellebecq, Castellanos Moya, Krasznahorkai, Kertész. Sebald. Knausgaard. Reviewing Bernhard’s last scandalizing play, Heldenplatz, the (East) German playwright and poet Heiner Müller wrote: “Austria without Thomas Bernhard would appear in no West German paper. He’s practically an advertisement for it. There is no better promotion for Austria than Thomas Bernhard. Austria would not exist without Thomas Bernhard”. So where, I want to know, is England’s Bernhard? The bard for its unmanaged or mismanaged decline. The child at its nude parade. The excoriator of its moral-aesthetic sloppiness. I crave an English Bernhard. In Concrete one may read: “Now, about fifteen minutes after my attack of breathlessness, I was suddenly walking light-footedly along the Molo and indulging in my old habit of counting the masts of the sailing boats and yachts that were anchored there in their thousands. Most of them belonged to English people wanting to sell. On almost every other boat there was a For Sale notice. England has abdicated at last, I said to myself”. England is crying out for its Bernhard. To count it, if nothing else.
Thomas Bernhard’s Concrete has been re-issued by Faber, with an afterword by Michael Hofmann.
劇本[編輯]
- The Force of Habit (1974)
- Immanuel Kant (1978); a comedy, no known translation to English, first performed on 15 April 1978, directed by Claus Peymann at the Staatstheater Stuttgart.
- The President and Eve of Retirement (1982): Originally published as Der Präsident (1975) and Vor dem Ruhestand. Eine Komödie von deutscher Seele (1979), translated by Gitta Honegger.
- Destination (1981), originally titled Am Ziel.
- Histrionics: Three Plays (1990): Collects A Party for Boris (Ein Fest für Boris, 1968), Ritter, Dene, Voss (1984) and Histrionics (Der Theatermacher, 1984), translated by Peter Jansen and Kenneth Northcott.[7]
- Heldenplatz (1988)
- Over All the Mountain Tops (2004): Originally published as Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh (1981), translated by Michael Mitchell.
- The World-fixer (2005)
其他作品[編輯]
- Gathering Evidence (1985, memoir): Collects Die Ursache (1975), Der Keller (1976), Der Atem (1978), Die Kälte (1981) and Ein Kind (1982), translated by David McLintock.
- The Voice Imitator (1997, stories): Originally published as Der Stimmenimitator (1978), translated by Kenneth J. Northcott.[8]
- In Hora Mortis / Under the Iron of the Moon (2006, poetry): Collects In Hora Mortis (1958) and Unter dem Eisen des Mondes (1958), translated by James Reidel.
- My Prizes (2010, stories): Originally published as Meine Preise (2009), translated by Carol Brown Janeway.
- Prose (Seagull Books London Ltd, United Kingdom, 2010, short stories); originally published in Germany, 1967.
- Victor Halfwit: A Winter's Tale (2011, illustrated story)
- On Earth and in Hell: Early Poems (2015) translated by Peter Waugh[9]
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