He had not become a writer by passion, and Robert did not like the actual act of writing, moreover, he loathed him. Observing, self-reflection, dealing with this so profoundly ugly German language, no, it was against him, and not a day went by without wishing to have learned another profession. His father, an emeritus professor of Romance languages, was the main culprit. Growing up in a reputable Jewish family, Robert was fond of love for the dusty, heavy books of his father’s library, and so he lounged in the gloomy study on sunny afternoons, reading while his schoolmates were building tree huts and playing hide and seek.
By the age of twelve he had already read Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, knew Kafka and Zweig, Tolstoy and Musil, and some of Proust. However, he was never allowed to choose the books to read, no, his father put a fresh book on the table for him every Sunday that he had to study. Every week his father ordered Robert to the study. There he stood, each small, with bent stance and fearful look in front of the massive work table and waited for the paternal Inquisition.
“Well, then,” the father directed against his son, “tell me, in which book does Nietzsche draw the most striking break between his philological youth and his philosophical maturity?” He would ask, raising his eyebrows, causing him the sharp wrinkles the forehead put something aggressive in the face.
Robert thought as he drilled his left foot into the thick carpet. Slowly shaking his head, his father turned around, admonishing him with a short comment that he would read it again.
When he passed the Matura with outstanding grades, the father sent the young Robert to Heidelberg, where he was to study German and Romance studies. He did not resist, he knew and could not do anything else. Robert spent six years there, and when he graduated summa cum laude and doctorate, he became a writer.
Robert wrote pointedly, accurately and soberly, sometimes elegantly and with a technical sophistication, which sought in the German area of its kind. His arguments were surprising, the conclusions crystal clear, the structure controlled. And he hated to write. The whip of his father had driven him in one and only one direction; he knew nothing but literature, the play with thoughts and words. Deep inside he felt something dull, frustrated, but found no words for it. Although he had learned to interpret and rewrite every complex fact, to himself, he failed. And so it came about that Robert published a new book.
What it was about is not relevant, but all critics immediately put it on the Olympus of timeless books. “A legacy of an exemplary thinker,” “a masterpiece of contemporary prose,” even “a literary event of astonishing precision,” was dubbed the book, the press outdid each other with eulogies of all sorts, and logically, Robert became for a reading in his hometown, namely Zurich, invited. Robert himself had no great opinion of his work. For him it was nothing more than a skilful exposition of already known facts, with two interweaving new perspectives.
In the evening before he went to Zurich, he received a call from his mother. Father died. Robert was confused, he did not know how to feel. Rarely had he visited his father, and if he could overcome it, then only with discomfort. Nonetheless, after a sleepless night the next morning, he began his journey to Zurich. His thoughts were with his father, his childhood, throughout the journey; he felt as though he had been torn away between sensibility and rationality, between his head and stomach, and his so-efficient reason flooded with a gigantic wave of unprecedented emotions.
In the afternoon he reached the hall prepared for the reading in the Schauspielhaus in Zurich, where the audience was already waiting. They talked about Robert’s new book. A murmur went through the crowd as Robert entered the hall and climbed to the podium.
The previous speaker rose; He described Robert’s career, praising his previous works, underscoring his achievements, raving about the overwhelming response of his latest book. And handed Robert the word. Robert looked up, feeling the tensely listening crowd. He put on his reading glasses, opened the book cover and saw … nothing. He could not read anything. Robert was startled. He tried to grasp the individual letters, to recognize them, he flipped through the whole book, even exchanged his copy with that of the previous speaker, but in vain. Robert could not read his book.
An excited whisper reminded him of the tensely waiting crowd of people in front of him, but rested his eyes searching, questioning, on the book he had written.
And suddenly he understood. An overwhelming feeling of newfound freedom flowed through him, he quietly looked into the crowd, which already, partially cursing, partly shaking his head, left the room. The previous speaker shook his shoulders, but Robert was happy. He stood up, and with a childlike smile he left the limelight.
The newspapers tried the next day to process the performance with words like “nervous breakdown” and “artist-allure”. But nobody understood. You never heard of Robert again.