German Authors and Genres

When Judith Hermann’s first volume of stories, “The Summerhouse, Later“ appeared in 1998, critics acclaimed the 28 year-old as “girl wonder”. An interview with the author about lucky coincidences, the life of texts and time frittered away during writing.

Mrs Hermann, can you get anywhere with the term “girl wonder”?

No, not very far. But I wasn’t irritated by it. Maybe rather ... amused? The term has now become unfashionable, probably because we’ve grown somewhat longer in tooth and because the expansive mood of euphoria in which this category was so wittily invented has now faded away. Back then I attributed the expression ‘girl wonder’ to the tendency to categorise. And that was that.

Would you call it fate that you were treated as a “wonder”?

I wasn’t treated as a wonder. The point is that a “girl wonder” isn’t really a wonder; it’s doing things by halves, a miniaturised wonder, a disparaging term. I was neither a wonder nor a girl. All in all, it’s really a waste of time to reflect about it.

It’s true that The Summer House, Later was published in a year when several factors came together: those brittle, sentimental 1990s, the unsettled years in Berlin, the longing for the East and a certain fancy for new stories. I was lucky. If anything, I’d call it fate that I was lucky.

A slow writer

There are five or six year intervals between your books. Each was and is eagerly awaited. Are you annoyed by the question when the next one will appear?

Yes and no. If nobody asked me about my next book, I’d have to suppose it was of interest to nobody. So it’s nice to be asked. It bolsters me up, makes me more confident. But it’s a strain, because writing’s a strain, because I’m a slow writer and find it difficult to have to justify that – also to myself.

It doesn’t suit the times to take time?

Perhaps – the fast-moving market, the high-speed culture, the hectic literary scene, the authors that wear out or burn out ...

In the end you can’t really reflect on this, because it’s not your decision how much time you need for writing. You simply need it. I couldn’t write faster than I do. Strain myself as much as I would, it wouldn’t work. The text would resist being rushed.

The pressure of expectation and the thrill of anticipation

Which set of expectations can you handle better: your own or those of others?

If I start to think about the expectations of others, I can throw down my pencil. The expectations of other shouldn’t play a role in your writings. And my own expectations are demanding enough, although I couldn’t name them. They are precisely my unconscious expectations, the constant pressure of time frittered away, the deficient self-discipline, the weariness. More than sufficient.

Your third book, “Alice“ (2009), is also a volume of short stories. What attracts you to this short form?

Katja Lange-Müller made the following good observation: The length of a text is decided not by the author but by the text. And that’s exactly how it is. I love to read short stories, and as a writer they are very close to what really interests me – something very small, only one short, small, important thing. Not that I’d want to resist a longer text. But all the texts that I attempt come to the end themselves after a short stretch.

Reading aloud is important

You’re currently on a reading tour. You yourself recorded the audio book for “Alice“. Does reading your books aloud belong for you to artistic expression?

Reading aloud, reading your book to yourself, is very important when you are working. I read the text to myself again and again and twist and turn sentences, stops, words until a certain rhythm is right, the right cadence, a musical feeling. Reading and writing is one. I enjoyed recording the stories myself. Even though afterwards I can’t bear to listen to what I’ve read ...

What do you expect from your next book?

Nothing. I don’t know it yet. Sometimes I ask myself whether it will be easier for me than the other books. And then I know – it won’t be easier. It will be difficult in a completely different way than Alice, than Nothing But Ghosts, than The Summerhouse, Later. It will simply have its own importance. Maybe I expect ... a certain pleasure. I look forward to my next book. I hope it will come off all right.