On the Mountain

After reading ten of Bernhard's novels and collections of short pieces in random order, I've decided to start at the beginning and proceed chronologically. This work, more or less a prose poem, is undoubtably a work of juvenilia, but its form--one long sentence--definitely lays the groundwork for the novels, and its content--a somewhat Beckettian preoccupation with mortality and futility--remains nevertheless singular in its perceptiveness and inimitability. I can't help but feel that the stream-of-consciousness nature of the observations, the unannounced ranging from interaction to interaction, is a little half-baked in execution (but maybe I just don't like that approach; I'm not crazy about it in Faulkner, either). Still, there's a show more lot to chew on, and there are some gorgeous and evocative passages. I'm not sure I'd find enough to love in this if I wasn't already steeped in Bernhard's more mature prose, but for the fan, this is worth your time. show less

On the Mountain failed for the second time in making feel anything. The words Bernhard chose to put down on paper were at the least inaccessible to me and at best came from his unconscious where even he was left scratching his head. But this first work triumphed over time, remained alive and at rest all through the subsequent years of Bernhard’s astounding published masterpieces to follow. Haunting and poetic, lyrical in empty spaces, Bernhard held on to this manuscript. And for good reason relented in the end to having it published. Though little understood, and rarely enjoyed, On the Mountain provides a valuable look into Bernhard’s beginnings as a writer and is relevant to his oeuvre.