1 phase
| Can Kaspar, the owner of one sentence, begin and begin to do something with this sentence?
|
2 phase
| Can Kaspar do something against other sentences with his sentence?
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3 phase
| Can Kaspar at least hold his own against other sentences with his sentence?
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4 phase
| Can Kaspar defend himself from other sentences and keep quiet even though other sentences prod him to speak?
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5 phase
| Can Kaspar only become aware of what he speaks through speaking?
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6 phase
| Can Kaspar, the owner of sentences, do something with these sentences, not only to other sentences but also to the objects of the other sentences?
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7 phase
| Can Kaspar bring himself into order with sentences about order, or rather, with ordered sentences?
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8 phase
| Can Kaspar, from the order of a single sentence, derive a whole series of sentences, a series that represents a comprehensive order?
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9 phase
| Can Kaspar learn what, in each instance, is the model upon which an infinite number of sentences about order can be based?
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10 phase
| Can Kaspar, with the sentence model he has learned, make the objects accessible to himself or become himself accessible to the objects?
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11 phase
| Can Kaspar, by means of sentences, make his contribution to the great community of sentences?
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12 phase
| Can Kaspar be brought to the point where, with rhyming sentences, he will find rhyme and reason in the objects?
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13 phase
| Can Kaspar put questions to himself?
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14 phase
| Can Kaspar, with uninhibited sentences which he applies to his old inhibited sentences, reverse the inverted world of these sentences?
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15 phase
| Can Kaspar defend himself at least with an inverted world of sentences against inverted sentences about the world? Or: Can Kaspar, by inverting inverted sentences, at least avoid the false appearance of rightness?
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16 phase
| Who is Kaspar now? Kaspar, who is now Kaspar? What is now, Kaspar? What is now Kaspar, Kaspar?
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thixtheen years
thoutheast station
whath thould
whath thould
he do
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whath thould
the fellow
whath thould
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thixtheen years
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Ernst Jandl
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The play
Kaspar
does not show how IT REALLY IS or REALLY WAS with Kaspar Hauser. It shows what is POSSIBLE with someone. It shows how someone can be made to speak through speaking. The play could also be called
speech torture.
To formalize this torture it is suggested that a kind of magic eye be constructed above the ramp. This eye, without however diverting the audience's attention from the events on stage, indicates, by blinking, the degree of vehemence with which the PROTAGONIST is addressed. The more vehemently he defends himself, the more vehemently he is addressed, the more vehemently the magic eye blinks. (Or one might employ a jerking indicator of the kind used on scales for tests of strength in amusement parks.) Although the sense of what the voices addressing the protagonist say should always be completely comprehensible, their manner of speaking should be that of voices which in reality have a technical medium interposed between themselves and the listeners: telephone voices, radio or television announcers' voices, the voice that tells the time on the phone, the voices of automatic answering services of all kinds, the speech mannerisms of sports commentators, of stadium announcers, of narrators in the more endearing cartoons, of announcers of train arrivals and departures, of interviewers, of gym teachers who by the way they speak make their directions correspond to the sequence of the gymnastic movements, of language course records, of policemen as they speak through bullhorns at demonstrations, etc. etc. These manners of speaking may all be applied to the text, but only in such a way that they clarify the SENSE or NONSENSE of what is being said. The audience need not be aware which manner of speaking is being used at any given moment, but etc. At the same time, the miniature scenes should be projected, enlarged, on the back of the stage.
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Kaspar (Kasper means clown in German) does not resemble any other comedian; rather, when he comes on stage he resembles Frankenstein's monster (or King Kong).
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The front curtain is already drawn. The audience does not see the stage as a representation of a room that exists somewhere, but as a representation of a stage. The stage represents the stage. On first glance, the objects on the stage look theatrical: not because they imitate other objects, but because the way they are situated with respect to one another does not correspond to their usual arrangement in reality. The objects, although genuine (made of wood, steel, cloth, etc), are instantly recognizable as props. They are play objects. They have no history. The audience cannot imagine that, before they came in and saw the stage, some tale had already taken place on it. At most they can imagine that the stage hands have moved objects hither and thither. Nor should the audience be able to imagine that the props on stage will be part of a play that pretends to take place anywhere except on stage: they should recognize at once that they will witness an event that plays only on stage and not in some other reality. They will not experience a story but watch a theatrical event. This event will last until the curtain comes together at the end of the piece: because no story will take place, the audience will not be in a position to imagine that there is a sequel to the, story. The stage should look something like this: the backdrop of the stage consists of a curtain of the same size and fabric as the front curtain. The folds of the curtain are vertical and plentiful, so the audience has difficulty distinguishing the place where the curtain parts. The wings are bare. The props are in front of the backdrop: they are obviously actors' props. They look new, so the audience won't think they are seeing the representation of a junkshop; and to avoid this possibility, the objects are in their normal positions: the chairs are straight up, the broom is leaning, the cushions lie flat, the drawer is where it belongs in the table. However, so the audience won't think it is seeing the representation of a home-furnishing exhibition, the objects are
situated without any obvious relationship to each other; they stand there tastelessly, so the audience recognizes a stage in the objects on display. The chairs stand far from the table, as though they had nothing to do with it; they do not stand at the usual angle to the table or at a normal angle toward each other (they should not, however, give a picture of disorder). The table and its drawer face the audience. Elsewhere on stage there is another table, smaller, lower, with only three legs. Center stage is empty. Two chairs stand elsewhere, each with a different backrest, one with a cushion, one without. Somewhere else is a sofa with room for almost five persons. Half the sofa (from the vantage point of those sitting in the center of the auditorium) should be behind the wings, thus indicating backstage. Elsewhere there is a rocking chair. Somewhere else, a broom and shovel, one of them bearing the clearly discernible word STAGE or the name of the theater. Somewhere else, a wastepaper basket with the same inscription. On the large table, but not in the middle, stands a broad-necked bottle with water in it, and next to it a glass. At the back of the stage is a stylish closet with a large key in the lock. None of the props has any particularly unusual characteristic that might puzzle the beholder. In front, in the center of the apron, is a microphone.
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The first person in the audience to enter the theater should find the stage lighted softly. Nothing moves on stage. Every theatergoer should have sufficient time to observe each object and grow sick of it or come to want more of it. Finally, the lights are slowly dimmed as usual, an occurrence that might be accompanied by, for example, a continuous muted violin tone (“The tone of the violin is more ample than that of the guitar”âKaspar). The theater is dark throughout the play. (While the audience comes in and as they wait for the play to begin, this text might be read softly over the microphones, and repeated over and over.)
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I
Behind the backdrop, something stirs. The audience detects this in the movement of the curtain. The movement begins on the left or right of the curtain and continues towards the center, gradually becoming more vehement and more rapid. The closer the person behind the curtain comes to the center, the greater the bulge in the curtain. What at first was only a grazing of the curtain becomes, now that the material is obviously pliable, an attempt to break through. The audience realizes more and more clearly that someone wants to get through the curtain onto the stage but has not discovered the slit in the curtain. After several futile tries at the wrong spotsâthe audience can hear the curtain being thrashedâthe person finds the slit that he had not even been looking for. A hand is all one sees at first; the rest of the body slowly follows. The other hand holds on to a hat, so the curtain won't knock it off. With a slight movement, the figure comes on stage, the curtain slipping off it and then falling shut behind it. Kaspar stands on stage.
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II
The audience has the opportunity to observe Kaspar's face and makeup: he simply stands there. His makeup is theatrical. For example, he has on a round, wide-brimmed hat with a band; a light-colored shirt with a closed collar; a colorful jacket with many
(
roughly seven
)
metal buttons; wide pants; clumsy shoes; on one shoe, for instance, the very long laces have become untied. He looks droll. The colors of his outfit clash with the colors on stage. Only at the second or third glance should the audience realize that his face is a mask; it is a pale color; it is life-like; it may have been fashioned to fit the face of the actor. It expresses astonishment and confusion. The mask-face is round because the expression of astonishment is more theatrical on round, wide faces. Kaspar need not be tall. He stands there and does not move from the spot. He is the incarnation of astonishment.
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III
He begins to move. One hand still holds the hat. His way of moving is highly mechanical and artificial. However, he does not move like a puppet. His peculiar way of moving results from his constantly changing from one way of moving to another. For example, he takes the first step with one leg straight out, the other following timorously and “shaking.” He might take the next step in the same manner but reverse the order. With the next step, he throws one leg high in the air and drags the other leg heavily behind him; the next step, he has both feet flat on the ground; the next he takes with the wrong foot first, so that with the subsequent step he must put the other leg far forward to catch up with the first leg; he takes the next two steps
(
his pace quickens and he comes close to toppling over
)
by placing the right leg on the left and the left leg on the right, and he almost falls; on the next step, he is unable to get one leg past the other and steps on it; again, he barely avoids falling; the next step he takes is so long he almost slips into a split, consequently he must drag the other leg laboriously after him; in the meantime he has tried to move the right leg further forward, but in another direction, so once more he almost loses his balance; on the next step, which is even more hurried, he places one foot toeforward, the other toe-backwards, whereupon he attempts to align the toe on one foot with the toe on the other, becomes discombobulated, turns on his axis, and, as the audience has feared all along, finally falls to the ground. Before this occurs, however, he has not been walking toward the audience; his walk consists of spirals back and forth across the stage; it is not so much walking as something between an imminent fall and convoluted progress, with one hand holding on to the hat, a hand which remains on his head when he does fall. At the end of his fall, the audience sees Kaspar sitting on the stage floor in something like a disorderly lotus-position. He does not move; only the hand holding the hat becomes autonomous: it gradually lets go of the hat, slips down along his body, dangling awhile before it too stops. Kaspar just sits there.
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IV
He begins to speak. He utters a single sentence over and over:
I want to be a person like somebody else was once.
He utters the sentence so that it is obvious that he has no concept of what it means, without expressing anything but that he lacks awareness of the meaning of the sentence. He repeats the sentence several times at regular intervals.
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V
In the same position on the floor, the lotus position, Kaspar repeats the sentence, now giving it almost every possible kind of expression. He utters it with an expression of perseverance, utters it as a question, exclaims it, scans it as though it were verse. He utters it with an expression of happiness, of relief. He hyphenates the sentence. He utters it in anger and with impatience; with extreme fear. He utters it as a greeting, as an invocation in a litany, as an answer to a question, as an order, as an imprecation. Then, in monotone, he sings the sentence. Finally he screams it.