THAT’S WHAT MOTHERS ARE FOR
from The Invalidity of All
Guarantees
Bertolt Brecht:
My mother used to say that the capacity to change your mind was the eighth virtue. ‘If more people changed
their minds the world would be a better place.’
When I was child we used to read Dostoyevsky together. She wasn’t in the
best of health. Breast cancer from giving birth to me. Everybody loves their
mother. In my case it was the other way round. Like those stars in the Southern
hemisphere. She loved me and I loved myself. We had something in common.
Courage, Bertolt. Just as your
truculence is dissipating into despair, you start talking about your mother.
And you’re eating out of any helping hand you can get. Looking me in the eye.
Showing your face. Offering yourself up. I’m a shoulder. It’s a transfer of
power. Though you’ve warned me not to trust you.
BB:
I’m being Sincere to my
shame.
Stop tugging at my
heartstrings, or I’ll end up eating out of your hand, and live to
regret it. What dirty fingernails! But you feel badly about her, and why not.
That’s what mothers are for. I’ve seen the poem you wrote when she died. It was
your coming of age.
They discovered her body was
like a child’s…
O why don’t we say the
important things,
but save on essentials. It
would be so easy…
My mother died yesterday
towards evening
on the first of May. I won’t
be able to
claw her up out again with
my fingernails.
At her funeral when people she hadn’t seen since her last illness
came to give their condolences I said, in the sanctimonious tone of a
conscientious curé, ‘Keep your sympathy for yourself, dear Frau or Herr
whatever. You’re going to die too’. I savoured the revenge. But regretted it.
My mother would have been ashamed of me. Making other people feel better was
important to her. She would have made a better doctor than my father. And
indeed for a long time she was her own.
That evening I looked at the stars and relapsed into adolescent Romanticism, and I saw her amongst them. ‘The stars that sang together and the sons of man shouted with joy.’ But I came down to earth soon enough when I remembered the thud of the coffin as it slipped its ropes when being lowered into the grave.
and sure, the music of Valhalla
the voice of a boy soprano breaking…
WB:
Did your mother ever change her mind about Dostoyevsky?
BB:
Not that I know. But she was reading Kafka the year she died. She
suffered horribly. It was the reason I got so furious with the
Is that why ‘The
important things were left unsaid’?
Well, her advice
was ‘important’. So we ‘saved on essentials’, and read
Dostoyevsky. The Poorly People.
I think she loved
hanging out the clothes short of a peg, matching the light with the light, the
heavy with the heavy. Blouses with handkerchiefs, towels with trousers. It was
an art. And the sharing could lead to dramatic events when there was a wind.
Sheets embracing cami-knickers, silk ties knotting around starched shirts,
pyjamas chasing nighties, tea towels wearing woolen gloves. It was a ballet,
and when I was a boy we used to watch it together, amusing ourselves with
stories about what was going on.
When she was
dead they laid her in the clay.
The flowers grow over her and the
butterflies flutter.
She was so light that the earth didn’t
give way.
How much pain
does it take to be as slight as her?
WB:
That sounds like art for art’s sake to me.
BB:
I feel I ought to return the insult, but all I can think of
is the Russian, ‘Your mother is a crumpled petticoat’.
WB:
Try ‘Keep my mother out of this’.