Texts of writers participating in the Literary Ark Festival – and/or in Yerevan Book Capital 2012


Some remarks about freedom of expression


What follows is not a statement I make as president of PEN Belgium Dutch Speaking (my function until January 2011). It is my personal opinion, nothing more, nothing less. It only commits myself.


In our international PEN Charter we read that members pledge themselves to oppose any form of suppression of freedom of expression in the country and community to which they belong as well as throughout the world whenever this is possible.


In my opinion, this means that for PEN members and as a consequence for members of PEN Belgium Dutch Speaking, freedom of expression is absolute and should never be thwarted. On the other hand, I am not sure that all members of PEN Belgium Dutch speaking share this opinion.


That’s the reason why I want to make things clear. I repeat: what follows is only my personal opinion.



When we are talking about freedom of expression, we should keep in mind two aspects.

First, we have the legal and the constitutional aspect. What would be the limits here?


E.g. Do we have a right to insult somebody?

Everybody who tries to establish this in legislation runs a hell of a risk. You leave the judgement about what is insulting and what is not insulting up to the person who feels insulted. This is the road to arbitrariness. Now, law is and has always been designed to limit the realm of arbitrariness. Every extension of the realm of arbitrariness by legislation is contrary to the very nature of the concept of law.


Do we have a right to libel?

I know Anglo-Saxon legislation on libel is far more restrictive than Napoleonic legislation. But at least, both types of legislation give you something to hold on, e.g., in the case of allegations of criminal offence or when I threaten to kill or to attack somebody physically.


Is blasphemy allowed?

Again, I think it’s extremely dangerous to make laws about blasphemy. You will always put the judgement about what is blasphemous and what is not into the hands of the most fanatic zealots. They are the ones who see blasphemy everywhere, whereas the bulk of more moderate believers shrug their shoulders. This simply would put an end to freedom of expression. We have had lots of examples in the last two decades. Think of what happened to Salman Rushdie or Ayaan Hirshi Ali.


In our Belgian constitution, art. 19, we read:


Freedom of worship, free and public worshipping and the freedom to express opinions in all respects, are guaranteed, except when criminal offences are committed in the exercise of these forms of freedom.          


Except. So there are some limits. Freedom of expression in Belgium can be limited and in fact, it is limited. E.g. there’s a law prohibiting negationism. There’s a law prohibiting racist utterances.


I myself am against these laws, but this doesn’t mean I will break them. I am a democrat and of course, I have to abide by the laws of my country. Otherwise, things ultimately will end in chaos.


Now, let us turn to the second aspect.


Every philosopher of law will tell you that the law never covers the entire length and breadth of life. Beyond the realm of law, there are other domains where you have to organize your behaviour according to other sets of rules.


Now we touch things like duty, politeness, decency, self control etc.


Let’s have a look at duty.

Do we have a duty to claim freedom of expression always and everywhere? No, we haven’t. I at least am not a citizen of the Netherlands where, after the sixties, people generally shouted: you must always do what you can do.


According to the Austrian-American philosopher Paul Feyerabend ‘anything goes’. One could interpret this as follows: you can do whatever you like. But according to me, one doesn’t have to do anything.


What are the practical consequences of all this?

This depends on everybody’s idiosyncratic inclinations and/or sensibilities and/or wilfulness. But, once again, we have already left the realm of the enforceable, of the punishable, in short, we have left the kingdom of law. We are now in the kingdom of free speech. You don’t have to give a damn about the shrill cries of the insulted. Or, equally, you can join their protest marches if you feel like it.


In conclusion, I would like to add a couple of remarks. They are the result of a series of observations I have made over the past ten years.


It is alarming to notice how easily people seem to feel insulted these days.

In this respect, I recommend growing what is called thick skin.


I think that those who pretend to defend tolerance cannot look away when they bump into people who are determined not to tolerate tolerance.


I think everybody has to decide how far they want to go, even when it’s too far, and nobody has the right to stop them.


I don’t think we can assume that the open society has been established once and for all. In his book The open society and its enemies, Karl Popper has written:


Unlimited tolerance must lead to the disappearance of tolerance. If we extend unlimited tolerance even to those who are intolerant, if we are not prepared to defend a tolerant society against the onslaught of the intolerant, then the tolerant will be destroyed, and tolerance with them.

When writing this, Popper was thinking about Nazism and Stalinism.


I don’t think it would be wise to assume that the progress of rationality and Enlightenment can’t be reversed. It wouldn’t be wise to assume that the followers of rigid religions will change their minds. That idea would be an unbearable example of ethnocentrism and superciliousness. It is a haughty fallacy to think that someday, those others will understand they just have to think like we do.


I think it is in our own interest to carefully study the world religions which don’t give a damn about things like the Enlightenment or which simply aim at darkening it forever. We have to know that those world religions are trying to convert all of us, and also that they are working for eternity. Theirs is a transcendental dimension. I can only speak for myself, but I think and act in categories of radical immanence and temporality, which means that, in comparison with someone who is really religious, my term is short. Religions can wait for centuries.


Having said this, I want to point out the prime importance of tactfulness, delicacy, and a sense of compromise and compassion. But all this should never replace the honesty of an open mind, otherwise we will end up as cowards. Of course, sometimes painful and brutal clashes will happen. Of course, we are all sensitive and highly vulnerable poets. But we can’t afford to shy away from conflicts. At least, I can’t.


The latest fashion in cowardice is to give way to a kind of sentimental feeling of culpability. To be afraid of the wailing of self declared victims. You don’t help anybody by behaving this way, not the so-called oppressor and even less the so-called victim. Of course, there are enough historical and contemporary examples of real oppression and real persecutions. They should always be taken seriously. But that’s exactly the opposite of being sentimental about them.


We should abide by the law and, if we don’t, the law will force us to abide by it. That’s the way things should happen in a democratic, constitutional state.

But once we leave the kingdom of law, and enter the kingdom of free speech, nobody has a right to force us to say or do anything. Oh yes, one can always feel hurt, but one has to bear in mind that hurt feelings can never be the basis for legislation and, consequently, can never impose legislation. That would be equal to blackmail.


Freedom of speech is not meant for the nursery.

Freedom of speech is rather meant for the boxing ring.

Perhaps you don’t know, but the first principle of the noble art of boxing is respect.




Geert van Istendael

Honorary President of PEN Belgium Dutch Speaking.




Out of my books

my poetry addresses the world:

„Here I am – me

and my guinea pig”, she says

thrusting her forefinger out of the pages

and pointing at my photo

on the fourth cover.


Crimea, the Alushta Park
Through cedars and cypresses,

through resinous pines – the bat-like squealing of

squirrels caught in the act of love play

their squealing abruptly broken by

the cry in no way agreeable in colour of

the gaudy peacock,

the cry like a

squirt of jet-black polish bursting out of the

tube chancing under

the heel of the boot

you are shining;

the disagreeable yet

perfect cry of the peacock – perfect because

anyone can understand what it means:

loneliness, vanity.
With all that protracted, inimical exodus through the wilderness,

forty years in all, wandering barefoot

through the sand of the dunes piled up high by the winds

for a season,

the prophets of this world are born even today

with the soles of their feet

already calloused.

With all the writing done throughout antiquity, the renaissance,

on papyrus, on velum, on paper, on stone,

with all the writing done, as in a curse, for Alexandrias,

against the fire, with no second thoughts,

the ones doomed to be writers are born even today

with calluses, with burns upon their fingers.
Back in the days when my youth had something of

the zealous unrest of the gods

in my thirties when wearing a frown on my face

and partly defeated I’d

part with my past

so as not to be engulfed into the lye of ennui

I’d say to myself

„If reality is so ambiguous

why not your dreams, then, if

life is so confuse

what is there left to say about suicide?…

How much incoherence in

the general philosophy of the partly defeated…”

I’d be telling myself again and again and thus

I never came to sup with the apostle of spleen

the former apostle of aesthetics would come instead

in the form of dismay. „What’s the pay check you’re getting?” he would query.

“So what’s it to you?” I would ask

as the discreet continuation of some poem on understanding the youth of life and death

beyond contraceptive conceptions and words

beyond poetry…

And I was

as I’ve already told you

in my thirties and par-

tly de-


and believed nonetheless

in my star quivering with

worthy unrest…
I remember someone writing about

the kangaroo’s leap of poetry

and I – that is a Thomas

Undoubting of sorts –

thought to myself, indeed, the poem could really belong to the

order of kangaroos

as it bears in the pouch of its metaphors

babies – as tiny they are as a

couplet, a stanza

I further realized it was exactly

about the poem and its babies in the pouch

that I had once written this haiku:

The tired kangaroo

is fast asleep. In its pouch

a cicada is chirping.

Translated by Florin Bican





The ballerina
comes on stage

together with the light. Poor
beautiful body

always rented always slight or rather exhausted by
nearly unnatural twists

of a dry voluptuousness. Her dance

positions aim at blackmailing the randy dodderers
who leer at her through monocles from

their poly-official boxes depending on

whatever party is in power.

Woman! Always

sweet turns of staged inconstancy

why haven’t you left for Florida where – I hear –
ordinary immigrants thrive and especially

great artists? In

all the markets of life

in all the theaters their stages and wings

veiled in gossamer as you are

you appear part of the

hetero-ethnic minority of ghosts and even
somehow related to the narcissistic constriction of
an enervated poem that withdraws

into its own verbs and secludes itself seemingly
in a white aesthetic libido; a poem born

in harmony with the pleasure and sorrow

of singular destinies.



Objectively speaking

the slogan that says, „…of the world unite!”
isn’t so stupid except that

the world doesn’t  yet know what to put in place

of the noun „workers.” Someone suggested „poets”
but it seemed awfully silly – well

consider for yourselves how ridiculous

the rallying cry sounds: „Poets of the world

and so forth and so on!” Ha-ha-ha!…. Although
invocation-exhortation to poets would have

a certain basis: it’s surely they who’d know best
how hard it is to find the right word

most of all in this instance when

people can’t figure out what noun to put

in place of the three ellipsis dots in the slogan
”…of the world,



Translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Călin Sobieţki-Mânăscurtă

What kind of beer is that Erdbeer?

by Serge van Duijnhoven

In most articles and economic supplements in the weekly magazines and daily newspapers that have ritually been published on the occasion of the recent Eurotop meetings in Goteborg, Geneva, Ghent, Budapest or Brussels lots of aspects were being discussed in the various fields of economics, politics, safety and military strategy. About culture however, generally not a word was uttered. A painful omission of the various journalists, or a clear sign of the times? When talking about Europe and the EU mercantile, economical and safety issues are on top of all the agendas. Culture, usually the basis for any cohesion among people(s), seems not te be an issue at all. ‘Erst kommt das Fressen, dann kommt die Moral,’ Bertold Brecht once wrote quite sharply. However, in the long history of Europe this has not always been the case.

György Konrád, president of the Academy of the Arts in Berlin, some years ago (July 16th 2000) held a speech in the German capitol, in front of one hundred European writers from 43 countries that are being based on the European heritage, from Armenia till Spain and from Estonia till the Ukraine. ‘If the EU means something more than an economical flirt,’ Konrád pronounced, ‘you also have to show some willingness to look into the soul of other, fellow Europeans. By means of reading literary books e.g., written in other European countries.’

Konrád said so in a white tent placed on the Bebelplatz, in front of the Von Humboldtuniversiteit, the very place where the Nazi’s organized their public burning of books, on 10th of May 1933, of Jewish writers and other ‘entartete’ (deranged) intellectuals. It also is the place where the Israeli sculptor Misha Ullman built a book depot underground, with white empty bookshelves that are visible from the street level through a transparent plaque under which the gloomy prophecy of Heinrich Heine from 1810 is written: the burning of books will inevitable result in the burning of human beings (‘Wo mann Bucher verbrennt, werden einmal auch Menschen verbrennt werden’)…

In the 19th century national cultures were constructed with help of the imagination of writers, scientists and historians. In the 21st century, we see each other in front of the challenge to construct a new Europe from top to bottom. Hopefully this construction will not only take place on an administrative and political level. The foundation of a European culture will be a task for the younger and coming generations of European citizens. Not only politicians and businessmen, but also artists, writers, moviemakers must ask themselves the question what Europe means to them, and what their thoughts are about the ground base for a common culture on the continent. ‘For me personally it means,’ Konrád told in Berlin, ‘that nobody can rule uniquely over Europe. Many have tried, but all of them failed. None of them could beat the strength of European individuals and their humanistic values…’

The strength and prosperity of Europe is closely intertwined with its pluralism. The bouquet blossoms when the flowers open, without the whole falling apart. European humanism, that sees human existence as a struggle for freedom, can function as a binding force within this pluralism. The binding role of the EU still happens to be so superficial, that not more than 0,1% of the budget is being spent on culture  (that is twenty times as little as in the field of defence). Europe should stimulate the translating and co-finance the publication of books throughout all of the European countries. This should become something natural, because exactly books can enhance the understanding among nations and people. The  EU should make it one of its principles to also spread around the production of relevant artistic films and music from other European countries, through mutual funding that can be available and the organization of specific festivals where Europeans can get a glance into one another’s souls. A European literature already existed a long time before the idea of a European Coal and Steel Community came about. The mere existence of a European literature and culture fortunately are not depending on the EU, but when the reverse is going to be the case (when the EU remains ignorant of  the specific culture and literature of its member states) there will be a growing indifference between fellow citizens that will definitely harm the cohesion of the EU in the end. In that case, the current goal of unification will proof to be nothing but an empty case, and the slightest crisis could break the whole project into pieces.

‘What kind of beer is that Erdbeer?’, my good friend the Armenian cinematographer David Matevossian, asked me one afternoon during the Literature Express on the terrace of an ice cream store in the heart of Dortmund. The Babelonia among the huge variety of Europeans is not something that is likely to disappear in a Europe that is taking a chance in getting closer. Unifying the languages and cultures should not be a goal of the EU; getting to know – and respect – each other better, however, should be. True sympathy and respect are possible, if we do not stand with our backs to each other and also dare to look each other in the face, to hear each other talk & sing, to read what’s on each other’s minds. The current balance is not very hopeful. Dutch people prefer to eagerly reach out for the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, rather than being interested in the books, records or films from the Baltic, the Balcans, or the Iberic peninsula. In Belgium, the situation is even more awkward. Even open minded writers from the French speaking part of the country admit never having read their compatriot Nobel prize candidate Hugo Claus (Flemish writer, of the same generation and grandeur as Harry Mulisch or Cees Nooteboom). And on the other side of the spectre the situation is not much better, it seems. Many of my Flemish friends can only mention dead French writing compatriots (Michaux, De Coster, Maeterlinck). Gifted and successful authors like Amélie Nothomb and the poet William Cliff were being easily mistaken by some as being either French or English writers.

‘Europe is a continent of words,’ György Konrád stated at the Bebelplatz. And he told the anecdote of the Buddhist monk from Japan who returned to his country after a visit to Europe. ‘And, please tell us, how are they, those Europeans?’, his colleagues wanted to know. His answer was: ‘Nice people. But they talk too much…’ The unity within Europe is still very far away. But perhaps that is not a very bad thing. Diversity forms the power and glory of our continent. Cultural unity means immobility, standstill, dominance, monopoly, and ultimately monotony. The view from high up in the tower of Babel is much more breathtaking than the view from ground floor. But in order not to let the diversity perish in mercantile unification,   European citizens will actively have to show their willingness to get better acquainted with their fellow Europeans. An exchange of translations of literary works from all European countries, is not a luxury but a necessity.

Deze tekst werd eerder gepubliceerd in De Morgen (18.10.2001), NRC Handelsblad (07.11.200) en The Armenian Literary Review (23.02.2002), maar heeft naar mening van deBuren in de tussentijd haar relevantie en actualiteit allerminst verloren.

Poëzie en het Verdrag van Lissabon

“Dutch people prefer to eagerly reach out for the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, rather than being interested in the books, records or films from the Baltic, the Balcans, or the Iberic peninsula. In Belgium, the situation is even more awkward. Even open minded writers from the French speaking part of the country admit never having read their compatriot Nobel prize candidate Hugo Claus (Flemish writer, of the same generation and grandeur as Harry Mulisch or Cees Nooteboom). And on the other side of the spectre the situation is not much better, it seems. Many of my Flemish friends can only mention dead French writing compatriots (Michaux, De Coster, Maeterlinck). Gifted and successful authors like Amélie Nothomb and the poet William Cliff were being easily mistaken by some as being either French or English writers.”

On how I lived and what I did – in these last ten years

by means of personal introduction; preliminary assignment for the round table discussions on Oct. 23rd in Jermuk, Armenia Literary Ark 2011

I was married to my Macedonian wife Anica, lived in Brussels – a few years happily. Then mainly worrisome. With lack of confidence, of money, of prospect. And reason slipping away, gradually.

Founded ARARAT FILMS AND MUSIC, together with David Matevossian. Went to the Rotterdam Film Festival to enhance our agency, but was entrapped by the complexity of trying to develop fresh and costly new cinema from the far end of Europe, while originally being a writer with no means but his good will, his alliance of friendship and his naive kind of faith in life.

I wrote a book called Bloodtest, a book about War photography, continued to make music with my band Poets Don’t Dance.

Asked myself why I wrote…. Why do we write? Why does one happen to be or become a writer, or poet? When I had just made my debut with the poetry collection Het Paleis van de slaap, I was asked so most frequently. If you put your nose between the doors of literature, one expects some kind of justification. Poete, vos papiers! Poet, show me your papers! A plumber or a pilot or a seller you do not ask for such justifications. And even by other artists, they are most seldomly required. It can indeed be interpreted as a rude gesture. Hey, Peter, nice to see you play cello, but why do you did become a cello player? The question answers itself through the execution of the trade. I’ve become a cellist, because I … No, listen at times that suite. Why I wanted to become a baker? Man! Taste my bread, and shut up! For writers, however, it all seems to be less self-evident. Hey, author, why did you become a writer of novels? Hey, poet, why do you write poetry? Why , you know?
Sometimes I answer: to keep the child alive in me. The child is the source of all creativity, it’s the Lively, the dawn.

Henry David Thoreau, an American writer from the beginning of last century, including the novel Walden, wrote:                                                                                                                       ‘Being awake is being alive. I’ve never met someone who was really awake. How could I look into his eyes? We must learn to wake up and stay awake, not by mechanical means, but with an infinite expectation of the dawn, that we should never let down, not even during our most solid sleep. ‘ I used these words as motto in the first book of poetry (The Palace of Sleep, ed. Prometheus) that I published in Amsterdam, back in 1993.
All people do create when they are young. But most of us stop being or doing so, around the age of puberty. Suddenly one finds it childish, to convey one’s thoughts or emotions to paper, to express them in diverted ways. Some, however, do continue to do so. They are the ones who are most likely to become writers.
Why did the others stop to write, that is what I would like to know. From a certain moment on, I have started to throw the question back in people’s face. Since for me, in these cases, the relevant question is not: “why do I write?” But: “why, as a matter of fact, did you stop doing so?”

Learned by telephone that my good friend the poet Christian Loidl, had died on Dec.16th 2001, after having crashed from one of the windows in his appartment on the third floor. Heard the news only a month later, by word of his compagnion Eva Lavric, once the appartment had been cleared by the police and the investigation into the death of my beloved friend was closed.

Learned the very same evening, also through the phone, of the death of my second father Henny Habing.

Cried, went in a state of hypnosis to the cinema – sneaked in illegally to see Mulholland Drive.

Became the owner of a house in les Marolles, not far from Sablon, and in the meanwhile the owner of two cats – Djambas and Kyra – who immediately found their venerated place in my life circle as the two beloved, magical creatures whom I deeply worship in a heathenly way.

Spent time as writer in residence on the island of Sylt in northern Germany, in between Waddensee and Northsea. Almost got crazy there, slept my way through the month of November. Longing for some light of the sun and human company.

Got into a conflict with my publishing house. Felt deserted. Wanted to kill myself.

Started to work as a receptionist in a hotel in Brussels, in order to get out of debts. Got sacked in that hotel after eight months of work. Found the same kind of job as receptionist in another, much more expensive hotel. This meant a lot more stress, and work, during which I lost twelve kilos and aimed to hit rock bottom.

Got alienated from my wife. Decided to divorce.

Wrote a book called Klipdrift – a word I discovered during a tour with DDN in South Africa in 2003 – about the general tendency to do as the instinct tells one to do, be it destructive or not.

Was one of the main witnesses, in november 2006, to the wedding of my mother – who happily married a man she had met five years after the death of my father. On a golf course.

Met Sainkho Namtchylak during the pre-presentation of the album Klipdrift in Bremen, during Poetry On The Road 2007. Performed with her in the period to come, in Brussels and again in Bremen later that year.

Had fallen in love with a woman from Berlin, whose father was a historian who had killed himself when my girlfriend was only ten years old.

This proved to be an open wound for which there was no cure, at least not during the period my girlfriend had granted our relationship. I dreamed about her father, standing behind me in a garden full of flowers and an orchard full of ripe and already even rottening fruit. Putting his hand on my shoulder, while standing behind me, saying a line that is known to be written by Von Hofmannsthal: “And once the house is ready, death shall pay his visit.”

Published a book of stories and novellas called The Summer That Still Had To Come. A rentree towards prose. Seeking a new voice of clarity. Maturity. Wit.

Saw my fellow writer and friend Kamiel Vanhole vanish into the thin air he was so desperately gasping for, in the last year of his life during which his lung-volume shrank to the critical minimum that ultimately caused his death. Kamiel, an ardent smoker and mild anarchist with whom I had visited Armenia back in 2001, supposedly choked in a cough attack that left him too long without oxygin. Fully in armour, that is, atop his latest writings he that he was editing in the attick of his home in Kessel-Lo.

A bit later, the hounds of death appeared again at our doorstep. On my way back from the filmfestival in Cannes, where I am a regular reporter since 2008 for my own agency Cinema Redux as well as for the International Feature Agency, I Learned about the death of Nazar Honchar – the closest ally of Christian Loidl – mysterious poet from Ukraine who made a guest-performance on my album Klipdrift in Polish. And who drowned while swimming in a little lake in later May 2009. Wondered why death was so blatently present in my life. A chasing dog indeed. But always one that barked and attacked from the side, not directly from up front. So far, the hound inflicted only graze wounds. My body is still in one piece, and my soul seemingly so as well. However, the scars on my charred skin bare witness of how close it got on several occasions. With that grim event on monday Febr. 16th 1998, on the crispy countryside in Hungary, as the ultimate black hole of my existence.  Leaving my best friend dead next to me in the frontseats of our Honda Civic, during a manoeuvre of escape that went terribly wrong when a drunken farmer suddenly decided to turn left on a country roadway without giving any signal of his intention – thus unwillfully turning into a ghostrider who torpeded himself and his car straight in our direction for a few very heavy and lethal moments in time. Joris (26), my compagnion, got executed on the spot. His pericardium impaled by a piece of his rib that got shattered by the impact of the crash and subsequent salto mortale that found its stupor at the end of some pastoral ditch, amidst greenery, flowers, bushes and the trunk of a willow tree.

I was sawed out of the wreck by firemen, rushed off to a hospital. The farmer who caused the collision, did not have a scratch. The police arrested him, however, on the charge of drunken driving and unvoluntary manslaughter for which the guy eventually was sentenced to two and a half years in jail. Imre Forintos, is the name of this angel of death – showing up at the crossroads of fate on that fatal monday afternoon. He said, it was the afternoon sun that had blinded him, as we came driving straight from the south. Heading for Vienna, where alas we never arrived.

Survive, that’s the name of the game. Should I be grateful, or embittered? My life was spared, per chance, my fate had been postponed. My comrade was slain while putting himself at the gravest and most frontal position at the side where the Suzuki of another travelling couple catapulted itself into the side-front of our gently round blue cabin of the Honda built in 1980.

I try not to limit life to a safe and hallowed paveway through the garden of restraint and vigilance. Even though much of its energy, indeed, seems to be spent on matters of damage control and  damage assessment. Whether one likes it or not. The challenge remains to ward off danger by means of vigilance while not succumbing to the neuroses of fear and want for control.The readiness is and may be all, as Hamlet stated. But ever-readiness is as much of a nuisance as it is a wild card for a certain emergence of illusionary trouble.

Part of my endeavour, has been a trial of coming to  terms with the trauma I got trapped in. More specifically: my feelings of fear, guilt, confusion and anger that were obviously eating me up from inside. For a long time I was living in a stage of constant strain. It felt as if nature itself had committed some gross act of betrayal. And I felt utterly enraged about the fact that apparently our fate really has nothing to do with whom we were or what we merited  in our lifes. What we deserve, has got nothing to do with it.  I found this hard to accept. What, then, was the sense of our strivings?

It took quite a while, before I could begin to find a bit of logic in the intricate tango nature is dancing on such clearly opposite grounds. The shere attempt to understand, already made me dizzy. Years passed, before I had matured enough and taken enough distance from events, in order to become aware of the bigger picture. The complexity of the dance. The structure in and underneath the surface. Experienced the archetypal click of the coin. Awareness rolling in, filling body and brain with understanding of life and death not as two opposite forces digging for the Great Divide. But as the opposite ends of one singular cane or stick. A handy frame for the upper part. A pinnacle attached to the side that ploughs the earth. The cane is the connection in between both of these ends.

It was all a matter of stepping back a bitfrom the painting of life that I had gotten so messed up in. Tried to see with fresh eyes. From wider angle. To bear the burden of being in a lighter, more leisurely way. A l’aise, as the French  say. Less cramped.

Studied the works of RIen Halters on ontological differentiality, and grew esteem for the forces I had formerly despised. Recognized their role in the spectacle. Learned to accept them as inseperable partners in an age old, cosmic crime scenario. A gangster war on territorial grouds. Divide et imperare.

Rid myself of the cramp. Began to accept the mechanism of it. To feel comfort, even, in the prospect of death as a necessary and inescapable process. Think it might be an interesting voyage, on which we will embark. An adventurous expedition to the kingdom of fertility , with its crafty army of worms and stinking legion of atomary putrefaction. We still remember how it began, don’t we? Inter urinam, et faeces.

Things lightened up. Praised myself for this achievement. I knew that I had overcome an immanent fallacy in the hereditary constitution of my Neanderthaler organism. I thought that I had saved myself from failure. Such jubilation vanished soon enough. What remained, however, was a feeling of relief. That I had found an exit in this room without windows, where I had almost perished from lack of oxygen. And of light.

I opened the door / the door opened me.

Finally I could breathe again. Founded Cinema  Redux. A resource for international cinema and arts. “Let there be a space for another approach to the world of cinema and art. One that is not so much confined to the limitations of short formats and glossy kinds of superficial exposure to the idolatry cultus of Hollywood stardom. Here at Cinema Redux, it is about something else. can be free to use whatever length of formula they want to share their thoughts on all possible counterfeits that sparked in them some flame of genuinity, vitality. Films and works with un certain gaite d´esprit, with character and wit, projects that were constituted with passion, persistance and un veritable sagesse d´instinct. (…) Contributors of Cinema Redux are kindly invited to be open and freeminded in their writing, passionate and devoted in their choice of subject, critical in their judgement, razorsharp in their bravado, but gentle in their final approach. Let us try to find out a bit more who we might be ourselves, by discovering and reflecting on who and what we truly value and esteem. All works of art appealing to our own inner needs of thought, character, wit and elevation. No matter how illusionary.”

Started to read The Inner Scriptures of Tswang Tse.

Found love through getting re-acquainted with Arlette van Laar (1973), whom I had known a decade before as the compagnion of one of my best friends. Songlines and timelines had progressed, being put in a seemingly more matching order for both of us. Became aware of an emotion that could only be described of the one physically melting into the other. Getting the satisfactory awareness of completing my nature, such as Arlette hopefully had with me.

I learned so much from her. The importance of simplitude, truthfulness, of the way the word is uttered….To speak what we feel /
not what we ought to say’

– William Shakespeare, about ‘the duty of poets’

I learned by means of experience and endeavour in the every day practise of love and life,, that: Each person is a fathomless Ocean – Each soul is a rocket aiming for the center of our inner space – Each body is a marvellous starship stuck on the ground –

Arlette has proven to be the sun in my life. She tests me, mirrors me, enchants me, enlightens me, in a way I did not think possible before. I am glad, so glad, that we have been able to re-encounter on the strict course of our time, and to fall in love so deeply given the age I have already. Interestingly, we say “falling” into love, and not “rising” into love. Love is an act to surrender to another person; it is total abandonment. In love you give yourself over, you let go, and you say, “I give myself to you. Take me, do anything you like with me.” To many people this seems quite mad because it means letting things get out of control. And all sensible people keep things in control. So, is it sensible to find security through vigilance, police and guards? Watch it! Actually, the course of wisdom, what is really sensible, is to let go. To commit oneself, to give oneself up. And this is considered quite mad. It is thus that we are driven to the strange conclusion that in madness lies sanity….  There is no formula for generating the authentic warmth of love. It cannot be copied. You cannot talk yourself into it or rouse it by straining at the emotions or by dedicating yourself solemnly to the service of mankind. Everyone has love, but it can only come out when he is convinced of the impossibility and the frustration of trying to love himself. This conviction will not come through condemnations, through hating oneself, through calling self love bad names in the universe. It comes only in the awareness that one has no self to love.

All sensible people begin in life with two fundamental presuppositions: You are not going to improve the world, and you are not going to improve yourself. You are just what you are, and once you have accepted that, you have an enormous amount of energy available to do things that CAN be done. But the thing is, in fact: that it can NOT be done. One very simple reason is that the part of you which is supposed to improve you is exactly the same as the part which needs to be improved. There is not any real distinction between bad “me” and good “I”, or between the higher self which is spiritual and the lower self which is animal. It is all of one piece. You are this organism, this integrated, fascinating life and energy pattern.

Trying to define yourself is like trying to bite your own teeth. Ego is a social institution with no physical reality. The ego is simply your symbol of yourself. Just as the word “water” is a noise that symbolizes a certain liquid without being it, so too the idea of ego symbolizes the role you play, who you are, but it is not the same as your living organism. If you know that “I”, in the sense of the person, the front, the ego, it really doesn’t exist. Then…it won’t go to your head too badly, if you wake up and discover that you might be the very creator of the universe you are looking for.

While observing the asylum seekers who settled in scores on a little green pasture around the corner of my house, and occupied the ground for weeks in a row. By means of protest to the lack of any decent asylum policy in Belgium and Brussels. These folks were sick of being completely ignored and cast away as illegals who have no right of existence in our affluent society; these migrants demanded the right to exist and to be seen and treated by Belgians not as a germ of some infectious disease but as human beings who had left their mother’s and father’s homes for very good and understandable reasons. The escalating situation, made me aware of the fact that we are all, indeed, strangers on the surface of this planet. On est tous des etrangers, moving and migrating like the waves of air in every weather system, through time and space and accidental nationstates. The reality of theirs is also ours, meaning: differences, borders, lines, surfaces, and boundaries do not really divide things from each other at all; they join them together. All bounderies are held in common….: On est tous des etrangers, I wrote in a poem called Exodus.  “Every single good we own and everything we are/is borrowed, shareware, bonds and loans. Property/of Time alone; that vicious, greedy stockbroker/and billionaire, who having been born without a soul/ supports no other soul as company. Who has no friends /or relatives, and rules the earth /as if he were the master of the universe./We owe him all – as he insists – and everybody has to pay./His will is merciless. No exceptions, no delays./Who prays for help, will be harrassed. /Who disobeys, will disappear. He holds us hostage/Nobody is free to stay. We have to leave and /sneak out like thieves. When evening comes /we pack our bags. We cross the border /in the thick of night. Our exitpapers are called:/death.”

I renovated my house in Les Marolles, Brussels, from top to bottom. Gave the house back the light and soul it had lost since many years. Does a house have a soul? Yes it does, for sure! Servus domus!  While staying in the appartments of friends, during the works, I continued to write. At least tried. Published a broad lyrical hommage in 2011, on behalf of the French singer, composer and cult figure Serge Gainsbourg, who died twenty years ago in his hotel particulier in Paris, in utter sollitude and darkness. A rich and juicy book – Bittersweet it is called – lusciously filled with quasi biographical poems plus some accounts of Lord Byron and Casanova – two of his most destinguished forerunners in time. This was my chance to finally come to terms with this ego- and erotomaniacal genius, who  some kind of shade has always been around in each and every phase of my life. In puberty, in Paris, Montreal, Amsterdam, later in Cannes at the filmfestival by means of his daughter Charlotte. And who died on my mother’s birthday, the second of march, in the year 1991.

The other book that came about this year, is the intricate collection of poems, stories, pictures and landscapes. Title: What I see I cannot be – the slightly taoist result of a very  concrete assignment to visit the Green Forest – het Groene Woud – a region in the province of Brabant, where I was born, and where a group of ardent farmers, scientists, politicians and other folks with a heart for flora and fauna, tries hard to give nature again some of its prominence, space and wildness amidst our densely populated modern landscape. Nature thrives in this area, where man is willfully setting aside a few steps in order to let the forest and its inhabitants have its way. The book is an account of the expedition I undertook last summer, with merely my Waterman fountain pen and my Moleskine notebook as the only means of luggage. Scribbled down what I saw, what I smelled, what I heard, what I felt, discovered and experienced while strolling and marching through the greenery. My mission was to unravel the “genius loci”. The ghost or soul of the area. Learned little by little, in a modest and gentle way, some strokes about the sources of nature, the road of ten thousand things leading back and forward to the soil and stream we stem from and again are heading for.

  • Luft Musst Man Sein, drawing made by Nazar Honchar – who died In May 2009 – in memorary honour of the Austrian poet Christian Loidl – who died seven and a half years earlier. The engraved phrase is a recurring one in the book Kleinstkompetenzen (Christian Loidl, edition Selene 2001).

 Serge van Duijnhoven – 21st of October – Yermuk hotel Olympia – Armenia



                                                                                                                                 I.M. Christian Loidl

1957 (Linz) – 2001 (Vienna)

I                                   The

Open                               Door

  The                                     Opens

                                                                                                        Door                                          Me


‘Mortu tombu miyi’, the title of the following poem  = a vernacular saying in Haiti, meaning: all things burried and gone. It was the title of a specific cycle of poems from Falsche Prophezeiungen, a magnificent book written by the Austrian poet Christian Loidl, who died in December 2001 at the age of 44 after tragically falling out of a window in his Viennese appartment – a death similar to the one of Bohumil Hrabal, the Czech writer he highly respected. Hrabal seemingly fell down while trying to spot a blackbird that was singing underneath his hospital window. Chris – just before tumbling towards his death – also must have been enchanted by the luring song of some dark bird that waited to get out of its cage and ‘melt with the air’.

In some way, it feels as if Chris fulfilled the crystal-clear imperative uttered by the enlightened voice that enchantedly rises up at the end of his last book of poetry: Kleinstkompetenzen; Erinnerungen aus einer geheimen Kindheit: ‘Luft musst mann sein… Luft musst mann sein (…)’  – in English: ‘Air is what we should be… Air is what we should be’.  The day before the accident, Chris had sent me a message that he had changed his email address into ‘airpoet@.gmx.at’. The symbolic meaning of this I only understood weeks later, when I visited Vienna to take part in the memorial-night organised by his close friends and allies. After having climbed up the sandstone stairs of the building in the Vereinsgasse (II Bezirk) where Christian lived,  my eyes fell on  a little blue metal plate that was attached to the frontdoor of the deserted apartment that I knew quite well, saying: ‘airpoet’. It was a souvenir Chris had taken home from one of his travels in Lithuania, where this magical word simply means ‘airport’. Suddenly, it all clicked and became clear, and I realised that my friend indeed must have melted with the air he aspired so wisely and breathed so deeply.

Mortu tombu miyi

The laserbeam in front of the nightclub

touches the sky in search of God

all air blows away

the moon stands high

as a tiny fingerprint

in the stained window

of heaven

We see more

talk less

thunder in the far land

of our memory

water, drops, mudd

rain is still more clear

than blood

To live is to retreat

a ritual of goodbyes

a wounding in slomotion

the ailment of addiction

our dreams fade away

like fog in the morning

our beloved ones depart

what we cherish, perishes

what we leave behind is the pain

to go beyond is to be healed

To bear the chain, you said

one has to sing – because

air is the important thing

the air is always young

the air wears no grey hair

the air never ends up in a wheelchair

Luft müsst mann sein

Luft müsst mann sein

Nicht mehr so mühd

Nicht mehr so mühd


Wach müsst mann sein

from: Bloedtest (De Bezige Bij, album + cd – 2003)


Remembering a discussion I had

some time ago with sister Swantje Lichtenstein in Duesseldorf
Am listening again – by shere accident I thought – to one of my old magnetic tapes from the nineties. Sticking my ear and mind into that magnificent piece of literary audio-junk called Dead City Radio by/with William S. Burroughs. One of my favorite albums ever. My dear friend and poet Christian Loidl – today is his Todestag, so I now realize this fact is not so accidental after all – introduced me to this wizzard for the first time in 1995 in his flat in Vienna, Vereinsgasse. Where he – today seven years ago – flew out of the window after having taken an overdose of a rare Siberian mushroom.

“Dead City Radio” is a true gem of cut up poetry put to music in a most sensitive and workable way.
Question: “What are we here for?”
Answer: “We’re all here to go…”
The old magician gives readings from a variety of sources including “Naked Lunch”, “Interzone”, and “The Western Lands”. He invokes his vision in the name of Pan, god of panic; Ah Pook, the destroyer; and even Jesu the Christ. “Invoke” is the proper word, for this is a work of magic – be it black or white. Burroughs is weaving a vision. He wants us to peek through the chinks and see the monsters that lie behind the machinery of control – behind the great shining lies and the bounds of the Prometheus called Homo Sapiens. His objective is no less than a basic disruption of reality itself.
Please try to see the video belonging to the Ah Pook The Destroyer prayer – about (cosmic?) control – you will love it I am sure:

“Question: Who really gave their order?”
“Answer: Control. The ugly American. The instrument of control.”
“Question: If control’s control is absolute, why does Control need to control?”
“Answer: control needs time.”
“Question: is control controlled by our need to control?”
“Answer: Yes.”
“Why does control need humans, as you call them?”
“Wait… wait! Time, or landing. Death needs Time, like a junky needs junk.”
“And what does Death need Time for?”
“The answer is so simple. Death needs Time for what it kills to grow in. For Ah Pook’s sake.”
“Death needs Time for what it kills to grow in. For Ah Pook’s sweet sake? You stupid vulgar greedy ugly American death-sucker!”

Zjivili to brother Chris out there in the realm of Ah Pook’s universe of Time.


Please try to see the video belonging to the Ah Pook The Destroyer prayer – about vain human longings for cosmic control in the reigning Realm of Ah Pook the Destroyer:

The old magician with the incomparable creeky voice, gives and sometimes sings his ultimately grim and bitter spiritual readings from a variety of sources including “Naked Lunch”, “Interzone”, and “The Western Lands”. He invokes his vision in the name of Pan, god of panic; Ah Pook, the destroyer; and even Jesu the Christ. “Invoke” is the proper word, for this is a work of magic – be it black or white. Burroughs is weaving a vision. He wants us to peek through the chinks and see the monsters that lie behind the machinery of control – behind the great shining lies and the bounds of the Prometheus called Homo Sapiens. His objective is no less than a basic disruption of reality itself. If – somehow – humans would be prepared to rid themselves of their condition humaine for the benefit of a cosmic one, this would not necessarily make our universe a warmer and more pleasant place to find our destiny. Which is? To perish, and melt back into the pot that is permanently boiling on the stove of Ah-Pooks kitchen. What else to do but to cling on to the planetary lifeboats that were assigned to us by some cruel captain who likes to have it rough amidst the violent torrents of Time. If we want to get rid of the many biological boundaries and burdens of our human condition, we shall have to prepare for completely new ways of travelling. We shall have to be prepared to embark on a trans-dimensional voyage through unknown psysical realms, with the velocity of a gravitationless soul. What are we here for? We are here to go! We are here to go on a trip – peeking through tiny holes in the fence that marks the limit of our universe. We have to dive and dig deep, travel far and persist in our uncompromising destiny. So that finally we can find a way of opening up the protecting clamshell in which – at its very origin – our relentlessly self-sufficient galaxy was laid to grow. Like an oyster or a mussle, feeding upon the weak and salty glaze of its atomic fluidum.


Other texts from writers or participants:

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s