What do Johann Sebastian Bach and timber wolves have in common?
Nothing and everything, according to modern-day sage László Krasznahorkai in his latest novel, Herscht 07769—a 406-page meditation on the absurdity of existence.
Bach is a man, and a wolf is a wolf. Homo sapiens and canines differ anatomically, physiologically. We relate (if such a thing can be said) only through the latter’s recent domestication. Despite our differences, however, we are, as the novel suggests, ontological kin: that is, we live to fulfill our primal urges, to compete for viable mates and necessary resources, while temporarily staving off the inevitable. Simply put, we exist to perpetuate an endless cycle of birth and death. Anything more—religion, politics, science, art—is a luxury of the intellect.
Florian Herscht, the naive yet earnest protagonist, challenges simple notions of “human nature” and “personal identity.” He spends most of his time obsessing over quantum field theory and mailing hastily written letters to Angela Merkel, the Chancellor of Germany, warning her of its implications for the future. (The universe, he believes, is on the verge of collapse.) Nothing comes of this, of course, except a sequence of comic misunderstandings, but nonetheless, he persists, doggedly pursuing his aim,
Something had to be done, the worst of outcomes prevented, which, because it could happen, would happen, there was no question as far as Florian was concerned, and it would happen without explanation just as at the time of the Big Bang.
As the narrative progresses, scenes of metaphysical reverie and public duty bleed into one another. Florian, the perpetual orphan and outcast, continues mailing letters into the void of the bureaucratic labyrinth, but he also ventures from the lonely confines of his rooming house, traveling to the capital in search of Angela Merkel and working odd jobs in town for food and access to Wi-Fi (which he uses to research quantum field theory). Most of the townspeople treat him kindly yet distantly, not unlike a stray, while taking full advantage of his extraordinary strength and tireless work ethic. Two in particular, The Boss—a neo-Nazi gang leader—and Herr Kohler—a retired physics teacher—actor prominently in his life as surrogate father figures.
The Boss forces him to clean defaced Bach monuments, while Herr Kohler invites him to build a weather station. Florian commits these acts—one of destruction, the other of creation—out of loyalty to them, to his primary sources of external validation, unwittingly severing his identity into opposing selves, neither of which offer him any solace. Unable to rectify the extremes of his character—his brute power and gentle mien—Florian turns inward, viewing his “mission” through a different lens, a view beyond the petty, ethnocentric concerns, and grandiose ideals of humanity, which eventually becomes a path to his self-actualization:
I must begin with a blank sheet of paper, he decided, and he began writing on a new piece of paper, and he wrote that the time had come to reveal something about himself, because this too pertained to the entire truth.
In true Krasznahorkaian fashion, just at the point where the narrative begins to feel gratuitous, the town explodes into chaos—a wolf attack followed by a double murder. Paranoia descends upon the townspeople, furthering the neighborly divide. Florian learns that fear and desperation are, indeed, a recipe for disaster the taste of betrayal lingers between his teeth like blood. His focus shifts from the supermundane, the mental, to the mundane, the physical considering his place in society (as a glorified mascot), he realizes that his general neediness and inattention to “the journey,” to “the little things,” made him an easy prey. Running from person to person, from place to place, looking for answers and validation from outside sources, all of this blinded him to the simple, yet complete, reality of being.
It didn’t occur gradually, but like a bolt of lightning, like when someone blocks up his ears, and he doesn’t hear anything, and suddenly his ears are unblocked and he hears everything that’s what happened to me, and ever since then I always hear the music of Bach even when it’s not playing … I hear it in my head.
While listening to Bach’s cantatas, Florian experiences an epiphany: the beginning and the end of the universe are irrelevant. Nothing matters except the present, the here and the now. The deepest, most fundamental questions in life cannot be reconciled to the intellect, only to instinct. Our lives are inherently meaningless. We create meaning in order to cope with the absurdity of existence. Finding ourselves thrust in the midst of a wondrous and incomprehensible universe, the only sane response, it seems, is to follow nature’s mandate, participating wholeheartedly in our daily affairs—much of the novel dramatizes the “intimacy of routine.”
To be initiated into the present through the senses, to live with the awareness of other animals, is to be empowered. When Florian takes responsibility over his own life, he assumes the role of vigilante (his superhuman-like physique makes him a “natural” for the job) and leaves town in search of the killers. He survives at the periphery of society, neglecting his appearance and eating raw vegetables as he hunts his prey. His “dual-citizenship,” as village-idiot and forest-barbarian, represents the thin line between refinement and savagery. This becomes especially clear in a scene where he, while avoiding detection, darts past some neighborhood dogs and notices that “they didn’t bark now, they only watched his every movement from a respectful distance, mutely and motionlessly, as if they recognized someone within him.”
Society, for better or for worse, has treated humans as the epitome of evolution. We have reason. Other animals have instinct. In Krasznahorkai’s world, however, neither reason nor instinct enjoy an elevated status. Instead, both are celebrated as unique manifestations of being. Why? Because humans, unlike other animals, possess both. We are blessed and cursed with the knowledge of our own mortality.
Knowing this, we must ask ourselves: How do we contend with that fact?
P.M. Dunne is an award-winning writer from New York. A proud recipient of a PEN Writing for Justice fellowship, his work has appeared, most recently, in Peripheries (Harvard), Exchange (Columbia), Spectre, and the Prison Journalism Project.