Abstract

This novel's plot, if one may speak of a plot, appears to have been hatched, if one may speak of something not an egg being hatched, at Oxford. The plotters, who have unlikely names even for plotters, met in Wellington Square, a place I know well. I once drank whiskey in the afternoon there with Jane Minto, as likely a character as any in a city that breeds characters (as any follower of Inspector Morse will know). The plotters, however, drank tea, from a tin teapot, while wearing wellingtons. Making something up is, in general, not that hard; making something up about Kurt Schwitters is, because his life itself was so abundant a collage. I once met a woman in front of one of his portraits: “That's me,” she said, “but I never liked it; nor did my husband; we put it under the bed.” She could have appeared in this novel but does not. Plenty of others do—relations and friends of the inventor of Merz.Merz was a fragment, a piece of Humpty Dumpty who fell off the wall in 1914 and could not be put together again. Not for want of trying by the likes of El Lissitzky, Vladimir Tatlin, Ivan Puni, and Schwitters, especially the last, collecting the Dumpty pieces into a Merzbau that was no more than an assemblage—not a Gesamtkunstwerk and not a cathedral, but what in England was once called a PreFab, a hopeful gesture in an age of helplessness. Schwitters was a collector of the discarded, of the disregarded, of the unregarded, and out of the debris he made beauty. He made poetry (if poetry it may be called) out of sounds, noises sounding in the ear like those made by the guns that had daily blown men, women, and horses to pieces.Clearly, Draesner, the author of this novel, has been totally beSchwittered. I myself became so at Oxford in 1959 and have never wavered in my beSchwitterment, albeit adding over the years beBeuysment, beFluxusment, and beKieferment to my inventory. Thus beSchwittered, I have been a pilgrim to Cylinders, though not finding it; to the grave at Ambleside, with no body in it; to Wordsworth's cottage, where I left my book of Kurt's poems; and to Hannover, to be photographed on Schwitters Square. Kurt's Hannover might have been Hanover (with a single n) had not Bismarck stolen it; Bomber Harris might, in that case, have thought twice about bombing it; and we might not have been asking of this Scheinkünstlerroman how German is it, but instead telling ourselves just how English it is.