Blackout Poem based on Hans Heinz Ewers’ “The Spider”
Entries March 22nd - March 25th
 

Yes, the game. We played it again. And nothing else.

Nothing at all.

Sometimes I wonder what is happening to me? What is it I want? Where

Sometimes I wonder what is happening to me? What is it I want? Whereis all
this leading? I know the answer: there is nothing else I want

except what is happening. It is what I want...what I long for. This

only.

Clarimonda and I have spoken with each other in the course of the last

few days, but very briefly; scarcely a word. Sometimes we moved our

lips, but more often we just looked at each other with deep

understanding.

I was right about Clarimonda's reproachful look because I went out

with the Inspector last Friday. I asked her to forgive me. I said it

was stupid of me, and spiteful to have gone. She forgave me, and I

promised never to leave the window again. We kissed, pressing our lips

against each of our windowpanes.

Wednesday, March 23 

I know now that I love Clarimonda. That she has

entered into the very fiber of my being. It may be that the loves of

other men are different. But does there exist one head, one ear, one

hand that is exactly like hundreds of millions of others? There are

always differences, and it must be so with love. My love is strange, I

know that, but is it any the less lovely because of that? Besides, my

love makes me happy.

If only I were not so frightened. Sometimes my terror slumbers and I

forget it for a few moments, then it wakes and does not leave me. The

fear is like a poor mouse trying to escape the grip of a powerful

serpent. Just wait a bit, poor sad terror. Very soon, the serpent love

will devour you.

Thursday, March 24 

I have made a discovery: I don't play with

Clarimonda. She plays with me.

Last night, thinking as always about our game, I wrote down five new

and intricate gesture patterns with which I intended to surprise

backwards. Or sometimes only the even-numbered ones, sometimes the

odd. Or the first and the last of the five patterns. It was tiring

work, but it made me happy and seemed to bring Clarimonda closer to

me. I practiced for hours until I got all the motions down pat, like

clockwork.

This morning, I went to the window. Clarimonda and I greeted each

other, then our game began. Back and forth! It was incredible how

quickly she understood what was to be done; how she kept pace with me.

There was a knock at the door. It was the servant bringing me my

shoes. I took them. On my way back to the window, my eye chanced to

fall on the slip of paper on which I had noted my gesture patterns. It

was then that I understood: in the game just finished, I had not made

use of a single one of my patterns.

I reeled back and had to hold on to the chair to keep from falling. It

was unbelievable. I read the paper again-and again. It was still true:

I had gone through a long series of gestures at the window, and not

one of the patterns had been mine.

I had the feeling, once more, that I was standing before Clarimonda's

wide open door, through which, though I stared. I could see nothing

but a dark void. I knew, too, that if I chose to turn from that door

now. I might be saved; and that I still had the power to leave. And

yet, I did not leave—-because I felt myself at the very edge of the

mystery: as if I were holding the secret in my hands.

"Paris! You will conquer Paris," I thought. And in that instant, Paris

was more powerful than Clarimonda.

I don't think about that any more. Now, I feel only love. Love, and a

delicious terror.

with such lightning rapidity that we seemed to be moving

simultaneously. I, who had been so proud because I thought I had been

influencing her, I was in fact being influenced by her. Her

influence...so gentle...so delightful.

I have tried another experiment. I clenched my hands and put them in

my pockets firmly intending not to move them one bit. Clarimonda

raised her hand and, smiling at me, made a scolding gesture with her

finger. I did not budge, and yet I could feel how my right hand wished

to leave my pocket. I shoved my fingers against the lining, but

But, of course, I was mistaken. It was I making the gesture, and the

person watching me was the stranger; that very same am        a      stranger who, not

long ago, was so sure that he was on the edge of a great discovery. In

any case, it was not I.

Of what use to me is this discovery? I am here to do Clarimonda's

will. Clarimonda, whom I love with an anguished heart.

Friday, March 25 

I have cut the telephone cord. I have no wish to be

continually disturbed by the idiotic inspector just as the mysterious

hour arrives.

God. Why did I write that? Not a word of it is true. It is as if

someone else were directing my pen.

But I want to...want to...to write the truth here...though it is

costing me great effort. But I want to...once more...do what I want.

I have cut the telephone cord...ah...

Because I had to...there it is. Had to...

We stood at our windows this morning and played the game, which is now

different from what it was yesterday. Clarimonda makes a movement and

I resist it for as long as I can. Then I give in and do what she wants

without further struggle. I can hardly express what a joy it is to be

so conquered; to surrender entirely to her will.

I know that if I look out of my window, Clarimonda will be there

making a gesture that I will have to imitate. I will look just the

same. Clarimonda is there, smiling. If only I could turn my eyes away

from hers

No. Fear is no longer what I feel. Rather, it is a sort of oppressive

terror which I would not want to avoid for anything in the world. Its

grip is irresistible, profoundly cruel, and voluptuous in its

attraction.

I could go to the window, and do what she wants me to do, but I wait.

I struggle. I resist though I feel a mounting fascination that becomes

more intense each minute.

Here I am once more. Rashly, I went to the window where I did what

Clarimonda wanted. I took the cord, tied a noose, and hung it on the

hook...

I won't, and yet I know very well that I have to...have to look at

her. I must...must...and then...all that follows.

If I still wait, it is only to prolong this exquisite torture. Yes,

that's it. This breathless anguish is my supreme delight. I write

quickly, quickly...just so I can continue to sit here; so I can

attenuate these seconds of pain.

Again, terror. Again. I know that I will look toward her. That I will

stand up. That I will hang myself.

Think...think...Write something. Anything at all...to keep from

looking toward her...

My name...Richard Bracquemont. Richard Bracquemont...Richard

Bracquemont..

. no more ...Richard...Richard Bracque—. . .
 

       During World War I, Dadaism— a type of poetry made from cut outs of other forms of media— was founded by Tristan Tzara, a Romanian-born French poet and artist. Contemporary media was rife with violent and nationalist imagery that was intended to increase pro-war sentiment. Dada artists aimed to express their criticism of these values by disturbing the logical aestheticism of the ads, which was seen as a symbol of capitalist values. Over time and in the hands of different artists, Dadaism led to blackout poetry, where the same effect is achieved by blacking out segments of text as opposed to removing them altogether. Just as Dada artists deconstruct political propaganda to expose a more complex underbelly, I have deconstructed Hanns Heinz Ewers’s “The Spider” to expose the roots of his descent into madness and how his story relates to other contemporary tales of insanity.  

       There are many earlier stories with similar elements to “The Spider” by which Ewers may have been inspired. E.T.A. Hoffmann’s “The Sand-man” was published in 1816 and gained notable attention before Ewers published “The Spider” almost a century later in 1908. Each story features a male protagonist, and they share a similar infatuation with their mysterious love interests, Olimpia in “The Sand-man” and Clarimonda in “The Spider”. Both men eventually describe relinquishing control to these women out of love and devotion, while also experiencing an apparent inability to stop themselves even if they wanted to. These stories also share the motif of a window, a portal into another’s life through which Richard plays his game with Clarimonda and Nathaniel’s obsession with grows. While Richard grapples with feeling drawn into Clarimonda’s “dark void,” Nathaniel notes Olimpia’s cold hands and staring into her “eyes of death” as he fails to gain control while they dance (Hoffman 6). Both texts also carry an intense sense of foreboding— perhaps because both men have something to escape. Nathaniel cheating on his fiancee with Olimpia and Richard feeling unfulfilled as a medical student gives these men reason to be looking for a way out of the real world, seeking solace in their newfound relationships and disconnecting with reality. Despite not entirely understanding their motivation for putting themselves in the positions they become stuck in, the reader feels we know exactly what will happen to Nathaniel and Richard— they are in fact, “fated [men]” (Hoffman 7). 

       Another story that may have influenced Ewers’ depiction of madness is Georg Buechner’s “Lenz,” published in 1836. Lenz’s story is one of circumstantial instability, where darkness and loneliness trigger his passing in and out of sanity. Playing the game with Clarimonda has the same impact on Richard— he is far more coherent when not interacting with her, but he loves the control she has over him and thus he is doomed. This is also not unlike the relationship between Manwed and the marble woman he falls for in “The Dead Are Insatiable” by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch. The taboo in these stories lies both in the intensity with which the male protagonist devotes himself to his more powerful female lover, and simply the fact that she is more powerful than him. Since this kind of gender dynamic was foreign at the time (Sacher-Masoch’s story even led to the coining of the term “masochism”), it is expected that Richard might try to repress this love and mask his devotion to Clarimonda in favor of maintaining his masculinity in the eyes of society, but he doesn’t. 

       Sigmund Freud wrote that avoiding things which might trigger dangerous impulses is a form of repression, and people are always repressing things, both consciously and subconsciously. For Richard, Clarimonda triggers dangerous impulses, so he directly contradicts Freudian expectations by choosing to give further into her influence instead of choosing self-preservation. His choice exemplifies that by the end of his story, Richard no longer exists as an individual, which the blackout poem emphasizes. His descent is one cloaked in terror, which seems to excite him in a way that leaves him wanting to be “devoured” even more (Ewers). After staying for too long in Clarimoda’s grasp, Richard finds that attempts to repress his desire for her are fruitless. He gives himself over to Clarimonda entirely, and Richard Braquemont is no more. 

Works Cited

Büchner Georg, et al. Lenz. 1836. 

Ewers, Hans Heinz. The Spider. 1908. 

"Inhibitory Defenses.” Freud’s Concept of Repression and Defense, Its Theoretical and Observational Language, by Peter Madison, NED - New edition ed., University of Minnesota Press, 1961, pp. 38–42. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/10.5749/j.ctttv9gp.8. Accessed 13 Nov. 2020. https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.5749/j.ctttv9gp

ℙ𝚘𝚎𝚝, Ø𝚏𝚏beat. “The History of Blackout Poetry.” Medium, Offbeat Poetry, 14 July 2019, medium.com/offbeat-poetry/the-history-of-blackout-poetry-ca8985f04c35. 

"The Sandman.: Translated from the German of Hoffman, by Lord Albert Conyngham. Nathaniel to Lothario. Clara to Nathaniel. Nathaniel to Lothario.” Lady's Book (1835-1839), Nov. 1835, p. 224. American Periodicals; Periodicals Index Online, https://www.proquest.com/docview/126115758?accountid=14194.%20Accessed%206%20Nov.%202020.

Von Sacher-Masoch, Leopold, and Madalina Mierosu. The Dead Are Insatiable. 1875.