Last night in the pub was like the night before; a double toastie for dinner, tuna and peppers and cheese in white bread and then Speckled Hen. A double toastie for dinner, the Speckled Hen and the music on the free jukebox: The Art Ensemble of Chicago, Joni Mitchell, The Scissor Sisters -. But we are restrained; the night before had been a long one, with blind tastings of different whiskeys – we had lined them up, and only I knew the identities of each one, lined them up, and then drunk from each, ranking our favourites. Why did Lagavulin do so badly, and Talisker so well? Tonight we are restrained and leave before closing time. Tonight, enthusiasm. Books and directors. Bela Tarr – have you heard of him? My companion had heard of him – he has two DVDs. Would he lend them to me? Yes, yes.
Up to the office to lend him my reissues by The Fall from the great period, 80-83. There we were, in my office, our bikes downstairs, listening to Slates, Slags, etc., and I was showing him books. Appelfeld! Josipovici! Bernhard! I tell him he must read Roubaud: you’ll love this. And I tell him of the Bela Tarr interviews W. sent me to earlier on. Incredible! W. had said. Bela Tarr is our leader. How long we’ve been waiting for a leader! But Bela Tarr is our leader. Earlier in the day, W. and I sent one another excerpts from Bela Tarr interviews. Extraordinary! We have a leader! We should have become film directors, said W. That’s where it all went wrong, trying to become philosophers rather than film directors.
What’s your latest escape plan? asked W., earlier. What’s your latest line of flight? he said. What’s your new plan? I tell him, the plans are entirely for his benefit, that he is the spectator of my plans to escape. – I remember your Hindu turn, said W. And your musical one. What is it now? No more philosophy, I tell him. Oh yes, and when did you start doing philosophy?, says W. I think it would be nice to write a comic novel, I say. Like Tom Sharpe?
There are two problems, said W., the word ‘comic’ and the word ‘novel’. You’re not funny and you can’t write. Then he says: a comic novel – why because people laugh at you? Here he comes, the buffoon, bells on his cap. Here he comes, jingle jangle, let’s all laugh at him. Meanwhile, there’s Bela Tarr. He’s a genius, says W. He says he only makes films about ugly, poor people. The ugly and the poor are always with us, that’s what he says, says W. You’re a bit poor and I’m a bit ugly, says W. You’re poor and I’m ugly.
He’s like Tarkovsky without God, said W., only slower. He says Tarkovsky made bad films when he left Russia, said W. But what about Nostalghia? I say. No, that’s your failing, said W. Nostalghia‘s no good, said W. It’s great, I said. Bela Tarr’s great, says W. Then W. goes online and buys some DVDs by Bela Tarr. I’ll send them to you, W. said. Maybe we should make films, said W., oh but you’re writing a comic novel, he said. I like that idea, a comic novel, I said. There’s two problems: you’re not funny and you can’t write. And you never finish anything. When did you last finish anything?
W.’s book has come out. The editor went down to dine with W. He sent W. 20 copies of his own book. The editor proofread the manuscript several times and sent it out for proofreading. It looks great, said W., and it’s in paperback. I don’t want to be in paperback, I tell him. God, that’s the last thing I want. My book looks great, said W., except for the ancient Greek, that looks terrible. The Hebrew is okay, but the ancient Greek looks like a child drew it. It’s hilarious. But the cover’s terrible, I say. He agrees.
Have you seen the cover of my new one?, I say. He hasn’t seen it. Green splodges, I say, now that’s hilarious. Quite a nice font, though, don’t you think? The font’s shit and your book’s shit, says W. Later, W. tries to convince me he’s clever. He sends me his notes on Spinoza. See, I’m clever, says W. I read them. Yes, pretty clever. What are you going to do with them?, I ask him of his notes. Nothing, says W. I’m not like you. I don’t try and publish everything I write. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine writing something you didn’t publish? Can you?
Bela Tarr, now he’s serious, says W. You know what he said: ‘We have some ontological problems and now I think a whole pile of shit is coming from the cosmos’. Cosmic shit. The interviewers ask him what this shit is that’s coming from the cosmos, and he says, ‘I just think about the quality of human life and when I say "shit" I think I’m very close to it’. That’s genius, says W.
W.: So what are you reading? Nothing, I tell him. I’m going out a lot. What happened to you? says W. It’s either everything or nothing, isn’t it? Then he says his publisher want to publish me. What are you going to write on?, says W. We think of a few ideas. You ought to do something, says W. Oh yes, you’re writing your comic novel, aren’t you. What’s it about? I don’t know, I say. What happens in it? What funny things are you going to relate? Then: you know what your problem is … – What? – You’re shit. – No you’re shit. – We’re cosmic shit, the shit’s hit the fan, it’s all over. Then W. says, ahh, and I say ahh, life! What happened? When did it all go wrong? We should have been film directors, shouldn’t we? Bela Tarr, he’s our leader. We are agreed on that.
He only makes films with friends, says W. And he hates cinematographers. He went through seven of them when he made Satantango. He says they complicate things. Like Mark E. Smith on musicians, I say. Bela Tarr wanted to be a philosopher, says W., but when he started making films, he stopped wanting to be a philosopher. And he doesn’t believe in God, says W. Bela Tarr’s seen too much to believe in God. He takes years over each film, says W. Years. And they’re full of drunk people. Full of drunk, aggressive people. Like you, says W. Drunk and aggressive like you, says W. And mud. His films are full of mud. That’s where you belong, in the mud, says W.
Bela Tarr is everything you’re not, says W. He’s serious, he’s committed, he works hard. What are you doing at the moment? What are you writing? Your comic novel? Oh you haven’t begun it yet, that’s a surprise. You don’t know what it’s going to be about, that’s a surprise. You shouldn’t think because people laugh at you that you can write a comic novel. You shouldn’t think because you are a buffoon that you can write anything funny.
So how fat are you now?, says W., you must be really fat. Are you eating now? What are you eating? I tell him I’ve been cycling around. Cycling, he says, that won’t help. Where did it all go wrong? It’s all going down, says W., the whole thing. The world’s ending, and we’re done for. I’m not like you, says W., the rat who leaves the sinking ship. You’re not escaping, says W. You’re going to drown like the rest of us. I’m going to make sure of it. You’re going down, says W.
Lars Iyer's Blog 