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Farmhouse | Oct 05 2005

On the drive from Salzburg to Graf, S and I visited Ohlsdorf—the home, for the last 24 years of his life, of my favorite writer, Thomas Bernhard. Coincidentally it was Thomas Bernhard week; a banner hung over the road announcing this. I winced. Bernhard despised Ohlsdorf, just as he despised all of Austria, which made this an ironic and possibly insulting honor.

Later, in Vienna, I was told that Bernhard’s hatred of Austria is a large part of why so many Austrians revere him. Evidently hatred of one’s homeland is a quintessentially Austrian attitude. But it is by no means universal, for another group of Austrians consider Bernhard a Nestbeschmutzer (someone who soils his own nest). Bernhard himself claimed to love Austria more than his critics; his love was the ground of his hatred. His hatred, however, ran deep. In a famous insult from the grave, his will disallowed all publication and staging of his work within Austria’s borders.

But I digress.

Bernhard’s home, a farmhouse, was far from Ohlsdorf proper. I had no idea what I would do when we arrived—probably nothing more than gawk as we drove past—but the banner made me uneasy. Finally, less than a mile from our destination, I told S, who was driving, that I wanted to turn back.

“But we’re almost there,” she said.

“I don’t care. Bernhard doesn’t want us here.”

“But Bernhard is dead.”

“I know he’s dead. Now please stop the car.”

S pulled the car onto the shoulder, and we sat for moment in silence. Then she asked me to get out.

I remember throwing stones at a tree while I waited for her to return.

We never discussed what she saw at the farmhouse. I never asked her about it, and she never brought it up.