Free Old Masters by Thomas Bernhard

in all these respects. I have seen a series of photographs which a supremely talented woman photographer made of Heidegger, who in all of them looked like a retired bloated staff officer, Reger said; in these photographs Heidegger is just climbing out of bed, or Heidegger is climbing into bed, or Heidegger is sleeping, or waking up, putting on his underpants, pulling on his socks, taking a nip of grapejuice, stepping out of his log cabin and looking towards the horizon, whittling away at his stick, putting on his cap, taking off his cap, holding his cap in his hands, opening out his legs, raising his head, lowering his head, putting his right hand in his wife's left hand while his wife is putting her left hand in his right hand, walking in front of his house, walking at the back of his house, walking towards his house, walking away from his house, reading, eating, spooning his soup, cutting a slice of bread (baked by himself), opening a book (written by himself), closing a book (written by himself), bending down, straightening up, and so on, Reger said. Enough to make you throw up. If even the Wagnerians are more than flesh and blood can bear, what about the Heideggerians, Reger said. But of course Heidegger cannot be compared to Wagner, who really was a genius, a man to whom the concept of genius really applies more than to anyone else, whereas Heidegger has always only been a small philosophical rear-rank man. Heidegger, that much is clear, was the most pampered German philosopher of the century, and simultaneously the most insignificant. The people who made pilgrimages to Heidegger were mainly those who confused philosophy with culinary science, who regarded philosophy as something fried and roasted and cooked, which is entirely in line with German taste. Heidegger used to hold court at Todtnauberg and at all times would allow himself to be admired on his philosophical Black Forest plinth like a sacred cow. Even a famous and much-feared North German publisher of periodicals kneeled before him devotionally and open-mouthed, as though, in a manner of speaking, he was expecting the host of the spirit from Heidegger sitting there under the setting sun on his bench before his house. All these people made their pilgrimages to Todtnauberg to see Heidegger and made themselves look ridiculous, Reger said. They made their pilgrimages, as it were, into the philosophical Black Forest, to the sacred Mount Heidegger and knelt down before their idol. That their idol was a total spiritual wash-out — that they could not know with their dull-wittedness. They did not even suspect it, Reger said. Nevertheless the Heidegger episode is revealing as an example of the German cult of philosophers. They invariably cling to the false ones, Reger said, to those who suit them best, to the stupid and the suspect ones. But the most terrible thing is that I am related to both of them, to Stifter on my mother's side and to Heidegger on my father's side, that is positively grotesque, Reger said yesterday. I am even related to Bruckner, even though in a very round-about way, as the saying goes, but related nonetheless. Needless to say, I am not so stupid as to feel ashamed of these connections, that would be the most stupid thing of all, Reger said, even though I am not necessarily as delighted about these connections as my parents always were or as my family always was. Most of my ancestors, no matter from what Upper Austrian, or generally Austrian or German line, were merchants, industrialists like my father, peasants of course at an earlier time, more often from Bohemia than from anywhere else, not so much from the Alps, more from the Alpine foothills, and there was also a massive Jewish contribution. Among my ancestors there was even an archbishop and a double murderer. No way, I have always told myself, will I investigate my origins in any greater detail, who knows what even more frightful horrors I might unearth, and I confess that that frightens me.