Mark Tribe on Mon, 9 Oct 95 12:21 MDT |
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the neurosis of being earnest |
For those of you who are new to this e-mail list, a word of explanation: the message that follows is something that I'm sending to around more than a few friends and aquaintances. You are getting this because I think you may be interested. If not, please let me know and I'll take you off the list. For those of you who are new to this list and German, a note of caution: the tone of what follows is sometimes ironic. It is not intended to offend, but rather as an attempt to understand our differences. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- The other day I got an article my Dad sent me from *The New Yorker.* It was called "The Politics of Memory," and it was about the controversy surrounding a proposed Holocaust memorial in Berlin. But the part I liked best was the following comment: "she thinks that Jews her age are drawn to Berlin because... it is the only place where you can live out fully hour Holocaust neurosis." I think that would make a good slogan for the city, the kind of thing they use on television spots and travel brochures. Can't you just see it? "Berlin: the only place where you can live out fully your Holocaust neurosis." I especially like the quasi-Germanic diction ("live out fully..." as opposed to the more Californian sounding "fully live out..."). Like, fully live out your neurosis, dude! But perhaps this diction is particularly appropriate, because the way one lives out fully one's neurosis here in Berlin is indeed very different from the way one might fully "deal with" or "work through" one's neurosis in California. In California, the idea is to "get over it," so that one might get on with more important things, like Stair Master and multiplexing. In Berlin, on the contrary, the idea is to take one's time and really get inside it. That's why people take so long in school here. They even have a special category for those who will probably never finish (get over) their studies: *Langzeitstudenten.* Here in Germany, ideas are taken seriously. There's this notion that in order to understand something, you have to mull it over for a while and go for lots of long walks. They don't favor snap decisons or off-the-cuff remarks. Spontaneity is not highly valued. Deliberation is where it's at. Berlin is in the throes of a delightful spate of summer-like weather. Taking advantage of the unusually balmy clime, I went across the canal to this place that's kind of like an outdoor multicultural festival in an industrial fringe next to an old bus depot. There was a dance floor, and the DJ was spinning really great music, but nobody was dancing. Except this one woman with Down's syndrome and her buddy. They were really getting down. Seriously, they could move like a couple of old school homeys. But everybody else was sitting around at various tables, drinking beer and talking. Not just chatting, you could tell at a glance that these people were all either absorbed in serious conversation or absorbed in their own silence, an external silence that in fact represents internal dialogue. Rumination. Pondering. What is it with these Germans? Can't they lighten up a little? Of course they can't. And well they shouldn't. For they are burdened with History, and the result is also rather complexly caught up in the cause: earnestness. The Germans are terribly, frighteningly, gruesomely earnest. Can you imagine a society that didn't take itself seriously dreaming up and executing the "final solution?" What would happen if instead of the National Service, Germans were required to spend a year surfing and doing Yoga in California. Eating light, healthy foods and hanging out at the mall. While we're at it, we might send the Serbs and the Croatians. Give them a good healthy dose of American materialism, hyperreality, and false-consciousness. Put them in a pair of long baggy shorts and let them basque in the warm sun of blithe hypocricy until they get over their penchant for organized slaughter. In exchange for random acts of violence. Mark