Morelia, Mexico, June 1981
Marin Sorescu: The world is waiting for you to shed new light on your poetry. Prose is, of course, what you’re best known for, but I’m convinced you also feel very connected to the pursuit, the activity of poetry. Can poetry be called an activity? Perhaps rather a passivity, being the fruit of contemplation. However, your verse is active—an effervescent contemplation. The ferments of this effervescence seem to be a certain political, ethical, social tension, expressed in its own way, hard to define, something unexpected, in any case, a pleasant shock, one with ironic iridescences at times.
Marin Sorescu: The world is waiting for you to shed new light on your poetry. Prose is, of course, what you’re best known for, but I’m convinced you also feel very connected to the pursuit, the activity of poetry. Can poetry be called an activity? Perhaps rather a passivity, being the fruit of contemplation. However, your verse is active—an effervescent contemplation. The ferments of this effervescence seem to be a certain political, ethical, social tension, expressed in its own way, hard to define, something unexpected, in any case, a pleasant shock, one with ironic iridescences at times.
Günter Grass: I have my fingers in many pies. I write poetry, I draw, I write prose. I write slowly. Recently I’ve come upon sculpture. But among them all, among all these different possibilities of expression—I must say poetry was always at the fore.
MS: As permanent state.
GG: Almost like an illness.
MS: Here in Mexico, in fact, you were invited as a poet. And you made your literary debut, if I'm not mistaken, in verse.
GG: Yes, my first book was a collection of poems called Die Vorzüge der Windhühner (The Advantages of the Windfowl).
MS: One could say you had an advantage from the start.
GG: Then I wrote suddenly—but still slowly—a rather long novel. Immediately afterwards, I felt the need to write verse again.
MS: What kind of verse? Can you describe it? We live in the century of explanation and—most of all—self-explanation.
GG: (Smiling.) I was never one to theorize about poetry too much. Maybe only on occasion. What’s certain is that I never write experimental poetry. Poetry for the sake of poetry.
MS: Your poetry is dense, bouldery, I would even say asymmetrical, it has something epic, at times an absurd epic… Full of events and occurrences.
GG: When I write—either prose or poetry—I confront different realities. What we can do is try to feel the things around us, see them in their naivety. It's difficult to hold on to this immoral innocence of things and life around us for long. A geologist once tried to convince me that there is only one reality. If I am sure of anything, it is the fact that there are several of them. And this knowledge of multiple realities keeps me awake at night. It requires me to make that effort which generates the state of wakefulness.
MS: And that way you can scrutinize, right, take note of the innocent immorality of realities. Now I’ll ask you another question, which may seem to be moving away from poetry. Do you like to travel? Sure you do. I don't enjoy traveling, for instance, but I'm always looking for new opportunities to get to know and meet people. Does this constant movement help you write?
GG: Of course. Who wouldn’t like a trip to Mexico? I mean, you only know Mexico from reading or hearing about it in the past... Curiosity pushes you to see it in person. And you’re in for a treat.
MS: Do you write on your travels?
GG: No.
MS: There is a strong social emphasis in your poetry. Do you believe in the power of the word?
GG: By all means. A good poem is like currency, at times it goes up and at others it goes down. I believe in the real value of poetry, although it occasionally suffers from inflation. It’s even more volatile than gold. But the poems about us, about people, never lose their value. Shakespeare's sonnets, for example. They’re as poignant as ever. On the other hand, because they remain the same, interpretations change. Shakespeare's sonnets enchant you as a teenager, re-reading them twenty years later you discover new meanings.
MS: How do you feel when you reread older poems of your own?
GG: If I haven't read them in a while, I discover myself, I find myself, like in old self-portraits. Or I get to relive my childhood. And I remember the circumstances in which I wrote them. This does not mean I consider them good or bad. Poems are, in fact, fragments of poetry. You think you finished them, but then you realize you could just as easily take them further.
MS: This is perhaps the reason why we keep writing. New fragments. Like in the art of mosaics.
GG: Yes, yes. My poems came just like that, out of the blue. Reciting them, I love them like untaught children and believe I could spend more time with them.
MS: You’ve had a great influence on the new generation of writers in your country.
GG: There are many literary phases. You cannot ignore influences. Now in Germany there’s a kind of mystical cult for genius. Like in the 19th century. Everyone believes in their own genius.
MS: We were both good friends with Nicolas Born. We met often, the three of us, sometimes with other writers. He’s still in our thoughts now, on this trip. It couldn't be otherwise.
GG: Of course, an amazing poet—who died so young! He developed very slowly, then blossomed all of a sudden. If you follow his poems, from first to last, you notice an uninterrupted artistic process, well worth studying.
Next to us, a lady holding a few of Grass’s books has been waiting for autographs. We’re still on the terrace of the wonderful Vila Montana. The resounding voice of the Portuguese poet Eugenio de Andrade can be heard from another table. "He talks a lot about silence," laughs Bert Schirbett, the Dutchman.
A little girl of about nine comes over and asks Grass: What is this?
GG: A book.
Girl: Why do you write in German?
GG: Because German is a beautiful language. Powerful, sweet, expressive. And especially because it is my mother tongue. Any language is good for poetry, if it is your mother tongue. When you grow up, what language will you write in?
Girl: In the language of poetry.
GG: Very well, so you should.
We resume the discussion after this short intermezzo, but can no longer limit ourselves to poetry. Grass is also a politician and the thorniest problems of the world trouble him. Yesterday someone asked him if the poet could be a prophet in our times. "Even if he were," Grass replied, "very few politicians are willing to listen to his voice. In any case, poets must feel obliged to continue showing how close to a catastrophe for humanity we are."
MS: What would this catastrophe consist of?
GG: First of all, the issue of arming. Then the contrasts between North and South, between industrialized nations and the Third World. We try not to take these contrasts into account, although we know all too well the phenomena they produce. The population of mankind will have reached seven billion by the year 2000. At present, we are not even able to feed four and a half billion. Mexico is an eloquent example of how far the demographic explosion can lead.
MS: To go back to drawing, if you don’t mind—it also has to do with inspiration, right?
GG: It's difficult for me to talk about drawing. All I can say is that I've been doing it consciously since I was three years old. I only came to conscious writing later, at around fourteen, when I got used to the indispensable rigor of rhyme. As I've never suffered from my double profession, and it never crossed my mind to give either up—despite numerous requests—I draw and write alternately. To be honest, rather than being mutually exclusive, writing poems and drawing physical objects of reality are simultaneous, possible and necessary activities. All objects found in nature, even stuffed ones, serve as models for me. I never attempt abstract compositions. I am not a decorator. Color interests me little: the range from black to white is enough for me. The question of the social significance of my drawings leaves me cold. Images do not improve the world, at most they can show the contradictions of its reality. During the years I was politically active I was unable to draw, since politics deforms all natural objects or puts them in boxes, in the manner of statistics. But nowadays, when I don’t feel like writing, I draw and make engravings. And I like that very much.
I can see in this confession, this sideways poetic creed reflected in the mirror of his other passion, the importance that objects, as they are, the world, as it is, play in Grass's work. A stuffed bird is a fragment of reality in equal measure and he does not put it in a cage nor does he then remove the bars and stuffing to make it sing—according to Prevert's well-known formula—but leaves it as it is: living nature with stuffed bird. That’s why his poetry has the hardness of the actual, completely and utterly unmystified: the dramatic tension unresolved in a happy ending leaves room for the grotesque and ridicule. Grass is a fierce German lyricist and a novelist who articulates the "objects" of his great epic constructions with powerful metaphors. These play the role of ointment, or metaphysical vaseline, to the cranks of a reality in motion.
MS: As permanent state.
GG: Almost like an illness.
MS: Here in Mexico, in fact, you were invited as a poet. And you made your literary debut, if I'm not mistaken, in verse.
GG: Yes, my first book was a collection of poems called Die Vorzüge der Windhühner (The Advantages of the Windfowl).
MS: One could say you had an advantage from the start.
GG: Then I wrote suddenly—but still slowly—a rather long novel. Immediately afterwards, I felt the need to write verse again.
MS: What kind of verse? Can you describe it? We live in the century of explanation and—most of all—self-explanation.
GG: (Smiling.) I was never one to theorize about poetry too much. Maybe only on occasion. What’s certain is that I never write experimental poetry. Poetry for the sake of poetry.
MS: Your poetry is dense, bouldery, I would even say asymmetrical, it has something epic, at times an absurd epic… Full of events and occurrences.
GG: When I write—either prose or poetry—I confront different realities. What we can do is try to feel the things around us, see them in their naivety. It's difficult to hold on to this immoral innocence of things and life around us for long. A geologist once tried to convince me that there is only one reality. If I am sure of anything, it is the fact that there are several of them. And this knowledge of multiple realities keeps me awake at night. It requires me to make that effort which generates the state of wakefulness.
MS: And that way you can scrutinize, right, take note of the innocent immorality of realities. Now I’ll ask you another question, which may seem to be moving away from poetry. Do you like to travel? Sure you do. I don't enjoy traveling, for instance, but I'm always looking for new opportunities to get to know and meet people. Does this constant movement help you write?
GG: Of course. Who wouldn’t like a trip to Mexico? I mean, you only know Mexico from reading or hearing about it in the past... Curiosity pushes you to see it in person. And you’re in for a treat.
MS: Do you write on your travels?
GG: No.
MS: There is a strong social emphasis in your poetry. Do you believe in the power of the word?
GG: By all means. A good poem is like currency, at times it goes up and at others it goes down. I believe in the real value of poetry, although it occasionally suffers from inflation. It’s even more volatile than gold. But the poems about us, about people, never lose their value. Shakespeare's sonnets, for example. They’re as poignant as ever. On the other hand, because they remain the same, interpretations change. Shakespeare's sonnets enchant you as a teenager, re-reading them twenty years later you discover new meanings.
MS: How do you feel when you reread older poems of your own?
GG: If I haven't read them in a while, I discover myself, I find myself, like in old self-portraits. Or I get to relive my childhood. And I remember the circumstances in which I wrote them. This does not mean I consider them good or bad. Poems are, in fact, fragments of poetry. You think you finished them, but then you realize you could just as easily take them further.
MS: This is perhaps the reason why we keep writing. New fragments. Like in the art of mosaics.
GG: Yes, yes. My poems came just like that, out of the blue. Reciting them, I love them like untaught children and believe I could spend more time with them.
MS: You’ve had a great influence on the new generation of writers in your country.
GG: There are many literary phases. You cannot ignore influences. Now in Germany there’s a kind of mystical cult for genius. Like in the 19th century. Everyone believes in their own genius.
MS: We were both good friends with Nicolas Born. We met often, the three of us, sometimes with other writers. He’s still in our thoughts now, on this trip. It couldn't be otherwise.
GG: Of course, an amazing poet—who died so young! He developed very slowly, then blossomed all of a sudden. If you follow his poems, from first to last, you notice an uninterrupted artistic process, well worth studying.
Next to us, a lady holding a few of Grass’s books has been waiting for autographs. We’re still on the terrace of the wonderful Vila Montana. The resounding voice of the Portuguese poet Eugenio de Andrade can be heard from another table. "He talks a lot about silence," laughs Bert Schirbett, the Dutchman.
A little girl of about nine comes over and asks Grass: What is this?
GG: A book.
Girl: Why do you write in German?
GG: Because German is a beautiful language. Powerful, sweet, expressive. And especially because it is my mother tongue. Any language is good for poetry, if it is your mother tongue. When you grow up, what language will you write in?
Girl: In the language of poetry.
GG: Very well, so you should.
We resume the discussion after this short intermezzo, but can no longer limit ourselves to poetry. Grass is also a politician and the thorniest problems of the world trouble him. Yesterday someone asked him if the poet could be a prophet in our times. "Even if he were," Grass replied, "very few politicians are willing to listen to his voice. In any case, poets must feel obliged to continue showing how close to a catastrophe for humanity we are."
MS: What would this catastrophe consist of?
GG: First of all, the issue of arming. Then the contrasts between North and South, between industrialized nations and the Third World. We try not to take these contrasts into account, although we know all too well the phenomena they produce. The population of mankind will have reached seven billion by the year 2000. At present, we are not even able to feed four and a half billion. Mexico is an eloquent example of how far the demographic explosion can lead.
MS: To go back to drawing, if you don’t mind—it also has to do with inspiration, right?
GG: It's difficult for me to talk about drawing. All I can say is that I've been doing it consciously since I was three years old. I only came to conscious writing later, at around fourteen, when I got used to the indispensable rigor of rhyme. As I've never suffered from my double profession, and it never crossed my mind to give either up—despite numerous requests—I draw and write alternately. To be honest, rather than being mutually exclusive, writing poems and drawing physical objects of reality are simultaneous, possible and necessary activities. All objects found in nature, even stuffed ones, serve as models for me. I never attempt abstract compositions. I am not a decorator. Color interests me little: the range from black to white is enough for me. The question of the social significance of my drawings leaves me cold. Images do not improve the world, at most they can show the contradictions of its reality. During the years I was politically active I was unable to draw, since politics deforms all natural objects or puts them in boxes, in the manner of statistics. But nowadays, when I don’t feel like writing, I draw and make engravings. And I like that very much.
I can see in this confession, this sideways poetic creed reflected in the mirror of his other passion, the importance that objects, as they are, the world, as it is, play in Grass's work. A stuffed bird is a fragment of reality in equal measure and he does not put it in a cage nor does he then remove the bars and stuffing to make it sing—according to Prevert's well-known formula—but leaves it as it is: living nature with stuffed bird. That’s why his poetry has the hardness of the actual, completely and utterly unmystified: the dramatic tension unresolved in a happy ending leaves room for the grotesque and ridicule. Grass is a fierce German lyricist and a novelist who articulates the "objects" of his great epic constructions with powerful metaphors. These play the role of ointment, or metaphysical vaseline, to the cranks of a reality in motion.
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Interview available for the first time in English (translation © Daniel Carden Nemo) by kind permission of the Marin Sorescu Foundation. Original text first published in Tratat de Inspirație by Marin Sorescu (Scrisul Românesc, 1985).
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Daniel Carden Nemo is a poet, translator, and photographer. His work has appeared in Magma Poetry, RHINO, Full Stop, Sontag Mag, and elsewhere.
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