My mother is the same age as Handke, of the same generation; she is not of the generation of his mother. My mother has not killed herself; she has dementia from multiple strokes. She is 64 years old and has very bad short- and long-term memory. She is also angry and ashamed about this. On the way to Corinthia from Vienna, she wandered away without us noticing, then got off the train at the wrong stop and yelled angrily, “Guys, are you coming?” The conductor and my father rushed to get her back on the train. After that, she wouldn’t sit in the cabin with us. She remained standing by the door, quiet, alone. She was afraid and ashamed.

Handke writes in the tradition of postmodernism. I have read only one of his other books, a short novel, The Left-Handed Woman. I enjoyed it, but I like this book, A Sorrow Beyond Dreams, better. It is nonfiction but still uses many of the techniques of postmodernist fiction. Here is a paragraph I really enjoyed from a highly self-conscious section consisting of many parenthetical paragraphs:

(These two dangers—the danger of merely telling what happened and the danger of a human individual becoming painlessly submerged in poetic sentences—have slowed down my writing, because in every sentence I am afraid of losing my balance. This is true of every literary effort, but especially in this case, where the facts are so overwhelming that there is hardly anything to think out.)

(These two dangers—the danger of merely telling what happened and the danger of a human individual becoming painlessly submerged in poetic sentences—have slowed down my writing, because in every sentence I am afraid of losing my balance. This is true of every literary effort, but especially in this case, where the facts are so overwhelming that there is hardly anything to think out.)

Before Handke’s mother killed herself, she had a nervous breakdown that was preceded by and then accompanied with chronic pain. Before that, she had a life filled with suffering and very few choices, a life which Handke describes minimally, with true artistry and compassion.

She hardly spoke above a whisper, she was even too miserable to complain. She let her head droop, first on one side, then on the other, but the pain followed her.

     “I’m not human any more.

She hardly spoke above a whisper, she was even too miserable to complain. She let her head droop, first on one side, then on the other, but the pain followed her.

     “I’m not human any more.

In my notes, in the margins, I wrote, “The death before death.” My mother, too, has suffered a sort of death before death, a death of memory. If we don’t remember our lives, our days, who are we? Her eyes often show the confusion of a small child. At other times her eyes show the blankness of a small baby. Sometimes I try to convince myself that it is not all bad. That this way, when she does die, she won’t really know she is dying.

This following paragraph somewhat accurately describes my mother on a bad day:

But in the house as well she wandered about, mistaking doors and directions. Often she had no idea how she had come to be where she was or how the time had passed. She had lost all sense of time and place.

But in the house as well she wandered about, mistaking doors and directions. Often she had no idea how she had come to be where she was or how the time had passed. She had lost all sense of time and place.

Here are some other things Handke writes about his mother during her nervous breakdown that also accurately describe my own mother:

She watched television but couldn’t follow… panic-stricken… she was afraid of losing her mind.

She watched television but couldn’t follow… panic-stricken… she was afraid of losing her mind.

When my mother first became demented, I thought she was just being really annoying. She would ask so many questions. I said to her once, “No more questions!” I would get angry with her. Then, when I realized that she couldn’t help it, I was ashamed of my anger. Now I try to be very patient. But it is hard. She asks the same questions, over and over again, all day long, all week long. All she has is questions. She has literally, physically, lost parts of her mind. The MRI showed the brown spots on her brain. They are dead spots, spots where her mind is lost.

Handke’s mother regains her mind, for the most part, but then kills herself anyway. My mother will never regain her mind.

Here is Handke at his most brutal, trying to distill the most true thing:

It is not true that writing has helped me. In my weeks of preoccupation with the story, the story has not ceased to preoccupy me. Writing has not, as I at first supposed, been a remembering of a concluded period in my life, but merely a constant pretense at remembering, in the form of sentences that only lay claim to detachment.

It is not true that writing has helped me. In my weeks of preoccupation with the story, the story has not ceased to preoccupy me. Writing has not, as I at first supposed, been a remembering of a concluded period in my life, but merely a constant pretense at remembering, in the form of sentences that only lay claim to detachment.

I believe objectivity was Handke’s goal, but it is an impossible goal. That said, it is an admirable goal, one that has produced a stark beauty. The real accomplishment of this book, to my mind, lies in the simple act of writing itself. And the book (again in my mind), among many other things, is a tremendous testament to the absolute need of feminism, to the absolute need of women’s reproductive and economic freedom.

Without his knowledge, she gave herself an abortion with a knitting needle…A third abortion, followed by a severe hemorrhage. Shortly before she was forty, she became pregnant again. An abortion was no longer possible; the child was born.

Without his knowledge, she gave herself an abortion with a knitting needle…A third abortion, followed by a severe hemorrhage. Shortly before she was forty, she became pregnant again. An abortion was no longer possible; the child was born.

Here is Handke after hearing about his mother’s suicide, flying to Austria from Germany on the airplane:

Yes, I thought over and over again, carefully enunciating my thoughts to myself: THAT DOES IT. THAT DOES IT. THAT DOES IT. GOOD. GOOD. GOOD. And throughout the flight I was beside myself with pride that she had committed suicide.

Yes, I thought over and over again, carefully enunciating my thoughts to myself: THAT DOES IT. THAT DOES IT. THAT DOES IT. GOOD. GOOD. GOOD. And throughout the flight I was beside myself with pride that she had committed suicide.

Handke’s emotions run the gamut after his mother’s death, but it is not crazy to think that she had put an end to her suffering, and that it was brave. Mind you, it is a passing feeling of Handke’s, like most feelings are, unless we cling to them. I worry that my mother, under all her haze, is deeply suffering. My father suffers. He said to me the other day, “We talk about how we wouldn’t want to live without each other.”

This is the beginning of the end. How long will it last? Ten years? I have no idea.

Upon finishing his book, I had the impression that ultimately, Handke makes clear the necessity of love, and how the lack of it could be the greatest sorrow, the wildest of all the many pains detailed in this book. I say this because upon finishing it, I thought: where did he once use the word love? It’s in there, but mostly as a fleeting moment, not as a part of life between adults.

And yet, a mother’s love for her children is here, vaguely, but permeating the book. (In my mind.) (Also, it is here where I feel most unable to say what I want to say about this book and what I can’t say right is the most important thing that needs to be said.)

Here is Handke toward the end of the book, writing about his mother: