The Piano Teacher, by Elfriede Jelinek

Phew. Based on my exposure to her, and, granted, that’s only one book and a few reviews, a few hours with an Elfriede Jelinek work is enough to make you lose faith in humanity. A domineering mother, a submissive and twisted daughter, a first gallant, then stubborn, finally violent piano student, and, well, a Turk having sex in the woods: here is our cast of characters. (Okay, to be fair, the Turk should hardly count, as he only features for a good five pages or so—which is a respectable amount of time to be having sex, I think—but he so nicely illustrates my point that I couldn’t resist.) Only two of those characters have names, and half the time they are simply referred to as “the teacher” and “the student,” as if Jelinek herself couldn’t be bothered to mention, or perhaps even remember, their names. (Come to think of it, it’s been a few days since I’ve read it and I can’t remember their names either.)

One gets the sense, though, that it doesn’t really matter with this book. Did you bother trying to remember their names? Or what they look like? Good for you. Nine thousand brain cells just died while you did. Aren’t you glad to have wasted them? Did you not bother remembering? That just shows what a narcissistic prat you really are. Have a thought for others for once in your life, why don’t you.

So yeah. She’s kind of a downer, this Ms. Jelinek. I don’t know what they’re putting in the water in Austria, but it’s not making her love her fellow man—even the fellow man that she herself created. She puts her characters in despicable situations and then tortures them from a distance. Sex, as usual, is the perfect example: nobody can just have a good old-fashioned roll in the hay, as that would be, well, fun. Moreover that would genuinely connect two people, even if only for a moment—heaven forbid she let a pinch of optimism seep in! (One review on the back of the book described her work as “pornography for pessimists.” This stuff is for pessimists, yes, but I shudder to think at anyone getting off on it.) Instead, sex is only sordid and disconnected—at a peep show, spying on a couple in the woods, and graphically described in a letter, rather than requested or even performed face-to-face. The one genuine sex act between main characters is, fittingly enough, rape. (I can hear Jelinek chuckling.)

I guess it’s good. I mean, the Nobel Prize committee can never be wrong, right? (coughToniMorrisoncough) Yet, as should be clear, I didn’t like it. I don’t agree with her view of humanity: it’s too dark, too disturbing. Isn’t there some good somewhere? Isn’t there a mother who can just let her daughter grow up? Isn’t there a piano teacher who is not stunted and bitter? Isn’t there a pair of lovers who can actually be together? And isn’t there a Turk, somewhere, someday, who could have a name? Maybe not in Austria. Gosh, I never hope I drink their water.