‘De binocle’ (‘The Binoculars’) by Louis Couperus

Suggested by Bas Belleman, a poet, reviewer, essayist and translator of Shakespeare’s sonnets, who is currently managing Holland’s youngest and hottest funk quartet, starring his three sons and their cousin.

It’s hard to imagine that this dark tale of obsession was first published more than a century ago. The charming, florid prose may seem slightly dated, but the obsession that plagues a young operagoer is all too familiar in a world where a vast array of stimuli constantly vie for our attention.He could not clearly see who was seated there, directly below him. The theatre was very dark. But it was this darkness, in which the outlines of the audience dwindled, that he saw once more, yonder, the dove-grey lady he had noticed earlier, who had grabbed the fluttering programme. And the shave-skulled gentleman who sat beside her…
His skull gleamed. Amid the thousand, closely clustered, attentive silhouettes and coiffured feminine heads, but also bald masculine heads, the distant skull gleamed… It gleamed at approximately three-quarters of the sloping distance between the fourth rank and the stage below… It gleamed round, as a full moon of obsession, sunken between figures cloaked in darkness; pious crowns and motionless backs, enraptured; it gleamed like a goal, like a target; it gleamed white; it glistened…

From the collection Proza, (Prose), 1920.  Available in English translation in The Penguin Book of Dutch Short Stories, Penguin, 2016 and available online in Dutch here

‘Daar is de hond’ (‘There is the dog’) by Maartje Wortel

Suggested by author Jan van Mersbergen, who is on the editorial team of De Revisor, but also a generous connector in the Dutch literary scene and an infamous defender in the Amsterdam Saturday League.

Another delightfully absurd story involving pets. A couple find an original way to cope with the death of their dog, adding a new dimension to their own lives and offering an intriguing take on the Dutch expression “niks menselijks is ons vreemd” (we are all prone to human frailty).She asked him on a Wednesday evening. He had swum his lengths at the local pool. When he returned, she said: “I miss the dog.”
“I know,” he said. His hair was still wet. Fifty lengths he’d swum. To stay fit, now that he no longer had to walk the dog and throw sticks around.
Sanderijn was in the kitchen, leaning against the fridge. She had fried potatoes, sliced iceberg lettuce, laid it out on plates.
‘Could you imitate him?’ she asked. She stroked Hans’ head, ruffling his wet hair.
Hans did not reply. He just gave her a quizzical look.
“The dog,” she said. “I really miss him.”
“His barking,” she said. “The fun we had.”
“I’m not going to imitate the dog,” said Hans. “The dog is dead.”
“Yes,” said Sanderijn. “Exactly. It’s so quiet around here.”
She kept quiet for a moment to emphasize the silence.
“Just bark once,” she said. “To hear what it was like. Try it, for me.”
Hans barked. It sounded lame. He didn’t sound like a man who knew how to imitate a barking dog.
“No,” said Sanderijn. “You can do better than that.”
Hans barked again. Much better this time. Sanderijn took a step forward.
“Down,” she said.
“That’s enough now,” said Hans. “Is there any meat?”
“Down,” Sanderijn said once more. She looked strict, raised her finger and put Hans in his place, just as she had done with the dog.

In De Revisor, Biannual Edition 2011-2. Available online in Dutch here

‘Larrios’ by J. Slauerhoff

Suggested by Bart Wessels, former marketing manager at Singel Publishers, where he currently heads the imprint Volt, focusing on translated work by leading foreign authors.

Driven by the desire for love and joy (or perhaps just a tranquil harbour where his soul can find rest), the narrator sails the seven seas in search of the woman of his dreams. This detailed, sublimely written ship’s log hints at the many hours Slauerhoff spent at sea as a surgeon. “My miserable life was slung across those three encounters like a broken bridge on wrecked pillars,” the narrator laments.  Then you appeared on one of the verandas of the last house. That’s when it began. You leaned over the unpainted balustrade. You did not look up at first, but a glance was all I needed to take you in from top to toe, from your skin’s surface to your innermost depths. Still you resembled so many other Spanish women, with a mantle around your slim shoulders, your pose betraying the promise of slender and sultry movement, and of course you wore a red flower in your all too shiny hair. Although I could not see your eyes, your overall appearance hinted at their colour and gaze. When you looked up, just as the train was gathering speed, several metres from the window, I was dismayed to see your eyes were filled with the suffering that has waited patiently for centuries and, despite the grief and subjugation, has refused to submit, but has instead grown stronger in resistance, as if it awaits a single unspeakable word to rise up proud and irresistible, as if that long humiliation were borne arbitrarily, driven by a strange desire to be put to the test. That is how you looked at me and I forgot everything, even that I was being dragged onward, and so I was shaken by the torment that overcomes us all; to be faced suddenly with a life-changing decision, which must be taken that very instant or never again, and once taken is forever irrevocable. This truly is our mortal struggle, in the midst of life, compared to which our later death is merely a painless ascent, but I did nothing and lost you, Larrios.

from the collection Schuim en Asch (Foam and Ash), 1930. Available online in Dutch here

‘Ridders’ (‘Knights’) by Rascha Peper

Suggested by an anonymous editor at Tzum.info, a leading Dutch literary website. Tzum annually organises a competition for the best sentence published in Dutch during the previous year. The cash prize is equal to the number of words in the sentence.

This story almost immediately immerses the reader in a clandestine relationship between a young woman and her elderly lover, mapping out memory and loss inexcruciating detail, as the following excerpt confirms.The rain has stopped and a stiff, warm breeze is blowing. Against a dark-blue sky, tatters of black cloud race past a moon in its first quarter. The streets are quiet. A weekday night.
 He has wrapped his arm around her and she lets him set the pace, which adds stability and rhythm to her unsteadiness. This makes for pleasant walking, especially if he keeps quiet.
The narrow bed in her dorm room creaks disconcertingly under his weight. He is too colossal, in every way, for these tiny quarters full of girly accessories, dried flowers and frilly cushions. A lion in a boudoir. He has chairs at home that even two men cannot lift. Standing by the window a moment ago, he lifted a fragile, light-blue bottle full of cuttings off the windowsill, holding it up to the light to study the delicate roots, before smiling and replacing it with the utmost care. He is studying her with much the same smile now.
An unbearable gaze, prompting her to pull him towards her by his shirt sleeves. He is warm and heavy and smells of cigars. He speaks – his voice a double bass – then he kisses her gently, as if any greater force might snap her like a stick of cinnamon. She trembles under his caressing hands.

Published in Hollands Maandblad, 1988. Available online in Dutch here

‘De vertalers’ (‘The Interpreters’) by Arnon Grunberg

Suggested by Caroline Mulder, my Dutch editor, who also edits the work of Arnon Grunberg and many other authors. Caroline suggested several other stories and authors, but I liked the triangular connection between us.

Caroline writes: “In just four pages, the reader is wrong-footed and the story proves to be far more horrific than you imagined,” succinctly summarising this harrowing story, in which we are introduced to a young woman and soon learn what she is capable of. Lara had a boyfriend who works at a gas station, which is five minutes’ walk from her mother’s house. She promised him she would be faithful, but she did not keep her promise. The pressure was too great. You need to blow off steam here. Sometimes the questioning goes on for five or six hours.
Questioning prisoners is like mopping with the tap open. So little comes out. They contradict one another. Or they all say the same. She often looks at the interpreters and asks: “Is that really all he said?”
She finds it hard to believe. But what can the interpreters do about it?
They also have a doctor present. He usually keeps to himself, as if he is above all this.
Sometimes they urinate on the prisoners during questioning. But only if the prisoner is not yet unconscious.
Farmers also urinate on their wounds to disinfect them.

From Hollands Maandblad, 2006. Available online in Dutch here

‘Een brommer op zee’ (‘A Scooter at Sea’) by J.M.A. Biesheuvel

Suggested by reader Jos on Twitter | The J.M.A. Biesheuvel Prize is annually awarded to the best short story collection in Dutch. Founded in 2015, the prize is crowd-funded and the only award for short fiction in the Netherlands.

Because Biesheuvel’s name is attached to the Netherlands’ only short-story prize, I had high hopes for this story, which proved to be absurd and entertaining, as well as poignant. During the night watch, a young deckhand sees a light approaching. A strange encounter unfolds.“How can you ride on water?” asked Isaac in amazement.
“It’s a question of practising,” said the man. “I started by placing a pin flat on the water’s surface. Then I progressed to heavier and heavier objects. I was building up to my scooter, of course, and eventually I rode my first laps on the city pond. Nowadays, I ride all over the world. I don’t go on land anywhere, but I have to eat, so I regularly ride up to ships. I prefer going in the dead of night, because everyone is asleep then. At first, I used to ride up to ships in the middle of the day, but that drove some people completely magoo. At first they’d say it was the best thing they’d ever seen in their lives, but then they’d started talking nonsense or going crazy. I’m planning to cover 40,000 kilometres by sea, maybe a couple of kilometres more, as long as I make it all the way around the Earth. I want to do something no one else has ever done. That has always been my ambition.”

In Maatstaf, Volume 19, 1971-1972. Available online in Dutch here

‘Dit is wat ik je beloof’ (‘This I promise you’) by Rob van Essen

Van Essen’s work was suggested by several avid readers, including Marieke Ruijzenaars, who is an account manager at Van Ditmar book importers. Van Essen just won the prestigious Libris Prize for his latest novel, De goede zoon (The Good Son). Congratulations, Rob! 

After crashing his bike, the narrator gets help from a female rowing team, who later seem to be on a quest to fulfil his erotic fantasies, drawing the reader deeper into the story, which undergoes a superb transformation from erotica to drama to tragedy in the closing paragraphs.Only when I hit the ground did time continue – with a thud and a crack. Other sounds followed. A tinny voice, more voices, calling, the sound of sloshing water, the damp rustle of footsteps through grass, the muffled sound of socks on asphalt. I saw nothing, then blue sky and white clouds, and branches covered with fresh leaves as fine as down.
And then I saw their faces above, as if it were a single face that kept changing shape and hair colour, and eye colour, and voice, and place. Eyelashes, freckles, damp lips, white teeth, dark nostrils, strong arms exposed, fingertips on my skin. And on top of that, stronger still, the scent of sweat and excitement, warm and fresh at once, like seawater warmed by the sun, like bodies that have endured hard labour, like girls who have been rowing.

Published in De Revisor, 2-3, 2011. Full story available online in Dutch here

‘Intern’ (‘Inside’) by Bertram Coleman

Suggested by Rob van Essen, because it seemed like a good idea to ask leading Dutch writers of short fiction to name authors whose work they admire or enjoy.

A grief-fuelled rant, full of violent fantasies, that sprawls into a comprehensive list of the kinds of people who anger and annoy the narrator, whose senses have been laid bare, following the sudden death of his beloved.I went back to work the day after the funeral. My colleague came up to me and placed his hand on my arm. The expression on his face said he shared my grief, but also that it was a good idea to get on with my life. He told me it had probably been a good way for Tessa to die. When I asked him what he meant, he said she hadn’t suffered and that was the main thing. So I asked him who the fuck he thought he was, deciding what the main thing was for my wife. Whether he had some sort of unique insight into her dying brain, allowing him to peek in and see which cause of death she preferred. A heart attack, out in the street, at the age of thirty. Excellent. Where do I sign up? Sounds fantastic. I told him that, in terms of his analogy, it wouldn’t be a bad thing if he dropped dead tomorrow. He gave me a strange look, as if I’d threatened him. Then he raised his hands and said he meant well. I told him to go to hell, and to keep a close eye on the paving as he went in.
That’s not really what happened.

Published in De Gids, 2015, No. 6. Full story in Dutch online here

‘Ijsregen’ (‘Ice Rain’) by Sanneke van Hassel

Several readers insisted that I read Van Hassel, whose work regularly features on long and shorts lists for Dutch literary awards. 

This nightmarish account of a woman trapped alone in her home by a blizzard first triggered my claustrophobia before opening the door to even darker misery, all mapped out in evocative and intricate detail.Walking back to the kitchen, I am chilled to the bone. I hear droplets falling the sink. Back home, my mother would turn open the silver taps and let the water trickle into the bath, to stop the pipes from freezing up. My survival strategy is limited: I glance in the pantry cupboard, I count the logs, I drag my mattress into the kitchen. Maybe I should shove the snow off the roof before it comes crashing down. Maybe I should shut off the main valve. Hank knows where that is.

The title story from a collection published by the Bezige Bij in 2005. This version was published in Tirade, 2001, Vol.45. Full story in Dutch is online here

‘Het rechtzetten van een misvatting’ (‘Rectifying a Misconception’) by Bob den Uyl

The most prestigious Dutch travel writing prize is named after Bob den Uyl. Several people said he deserved a place on my reading list, including fellow author Rob Waumans. 

Bob den Uyl’s effusive, eloquent and at times ornamentally hilarious tale of cycling woes beyond Dutch borders perfectly reflects the European tendency to distrust, disparage and dislike neighbouring nations, which is hardly surprising in the case of Netherlands, having been occupied by the Germans, French, Spanish, Romans and Vikings at one time or another. In the following excerpt, the narrator finds himself watching a football on television at German hotel in Cologne. 

Much to my dismay, the hotel owner, who was also in attendance, took it upon himself to inform the other members of the audience that I was Dutch and therefore undoubtedly gifted with unlimited insight into the art of football. They took it for granted, unspoken, that Cruyff and Van Hanegem were not only open books to me, but also regularly dropped in for a visit. It is truly remarkable that the winning of several aesthetically questionable trophies, manufactured from inferior materials and won by several Dutch clubs, bestows upon that nation’s inhabitants a certain esteem, despite the fact that they played no part whatsoever in the achievement. This is even more remarkable in Germany, where people seem to experience a certain personal shame on our behalf for the smallness of our country. Germans don’t quite know what to do with something small, and one is often treated with the kind of sympathetic generosity one displays when helping blind people cross busy intersections.

Published in Maatstaf, Volume 21, 1973

Introduction

JG Ballard once said that the greatest novel of the 20th century was the medical textbook Gray’s Anatomy. Always healthily sceptical of the creative capacity of fiction, he was enchanted by the fictive potential in factual writing, textbooks, advertising copy, engineering reports, black box transcripts, political interviews, the Warren Commission Report and a medical volume called Crash Injuries. He saw that mass media and information technology were weaving fiction into the fabric of everyday life, and that … well, we’ll get to that very shortly. But I want to preface my selections with that thought by way of justification. You see, I’ve bent the rules slightly. By which I mean, I have driven a coach and horses through them. Here are my short fictions (non-fiction edition).

‘1974: How to Face Doomsday Without Really Trying’ by JG Ballard

Twenty or thirty years ago [Ballard said this in 1974, to CBC interviewer Carol Orr] the elements of fiction … occupied a much smaller space. … But now I don’t think this is the case. I think we have seen the invasion of almost every aspect of our lives by fictions of one kind or another. We see this is people’s homes – the way they furnish their houses and apartments. Even the sorts of friends they have seem to be dictated by fictions, fantasies, by standards invented by other people to serve various ends, not necessarily commercial. But we’re living more and more in a hot mix of fictions of every kind.

In this interview, Ballard casually limns the next fifty years of human development, dismissing the contemporary obsession with nuclear war and instead pointing to the way that computers would transform human experience and that information technology would seep into our identities. “We are moving into a realm,” he says, “in which inner space is no longer just inside our skulls but is in the terrain we see around us in everyday life.” Fiction was taking over, and to cope we could not turn our backs on technology, but had to learn to cope with it. As prediction, it is extraordinary – and as a benchmark for the powers of a writer’s imagination, it is without equal.

In Extreme Metaphors, 4th Estate, 2012, edited by Simon Sellars and Dan O’Hara.

‘Junkspace’ by Rem Koolhaas

When I first attempted this list it was all weird tales and ghost stories. Those are generally (almost exclusively) the short stories I enjoy. It was weird, but also weirdly pedestrian, a lot of Lovecraft and Charlotte Perkins Gilman. So I thought, with a chuckle, “I should put ‘Junkspace’ on here.” In ‘Junkspace’, the Dutch architect Rem Koolhaas warns about the ubiquitous, homogenous, air-conditioned global environment of airports, shopping malls, convention centres and hotels, an edgeless “fuzzy empire” of “canned euphoria”. But his maddened, feverish tone is straight from Edgar Allan Poe or Colonel Kurtz. It has precisely the structure and prose style of a weird tale, in which a rational man glimpses something unspeakable and returns, his grasp on sanity loosened, to report to us. I’ve recommended it to other writers in the past, and they’ve come back from it wide-eyed. Yeah, I thought, ‘Junkspace’ definitely belongs on the list. And then I thought, what if the whole list was ‘Junkspace’?

In Junkspace with Running Room, Notting Hill Editions, 2013, by Rem Koolhaas and Hal Foster, available here

‘The Mechanization of Adornment’ by Sigfried Giedion

Mechanization Takes Command is definitely one of those “upriver” books about design. How interesting could 750 densely packed pages on the evolution of things like locks, chairs and slaughterhouses possibly be? But you emerge from reading it, some time later, white-haired and changed forever. That’s Giedion’s task, anyway – he looks at how we have shaped mechanisms to suit us, and how they have in turn shaped us and our society. “Mechanization and Death: Meat”, the chapter on abattoirs and the long grisly history of building machines to dismantle mammals, is famous. More cheerful, though, is “The Mechanization of Adornment”, in which Giedion – an early modernist of the bracing, puritanical kind – looks at what happened in the 19th Century when machines began to make decorations, ushering in the ghastly excess of the Victorian home.

The tone is a Lovecraftian “doom-dragged wail”:

The machines began to pour forth statuary, pictures, flower bowls and carpets in mass. Simultaneously, furniture became bloated and its forms dulled. There followed a further packing of the room with all sorts of objects … at no other time in history did man allow the instinct for the goodly ordering of his surrounding to suffer such decay.  … What led them to this abandon?

In Mechanization Takes Command: A Contribution to Anonymous History, first published 1948 by Oxford University Press