If there is a depressive, addictive, mentally unstable and suicidal author out there, I will seek him out, sooner or later. It is my special superhero power. If I particularly love a book, I now dread to look up the author bio. There seems to be a direct correlation between my admiration of a literary work and the inevitable death by unnatural causes of the author.
This of course was no exception. Fallada is perhaps one of the more unhinged of the lot. Deeeply depressive, with several stints in insane asylums, he finished his lifeas an alcoholic, a chain smoker (200 cigarettes a day. How is this even possible)and a drug addict. Prior to his morphine overdose, his staunch, capable wife had finally had to give up on him. Despite an inauspicious beginning: he’d written her a week before their marriage: ‘I hope you realize that your prospect is one of financial insecurity, that I am in bad health, that I can and must give you no children, that I have been rejected by more social class’, she took him in and kept it together so obligations could be met (read here earn money and pay bills), whilst he went off on bender after bender.
But then, in quick succession, he did two things. First, he had an affair with the au-pair. I don’t know how he managed it – alcoholics are notorious for promises they can’t keep . You know what I mean. Then, he took up with a another woman yet: a partner in crime: a fellow alcoholic and drug addict. The two of them embarked on their very own Selbyesque Requiem for a Dream and ‘erased their own map’ within a year of their unholy union.
Hans Fallada is not a Hans Fallada. He is a Rudolph Ditzen who took his pseudonym from Grimms Fairy tales: Hans with Luck and the Goose Girl. Grimm tales, as everyone knows, are bloodthirsty, gruesome and pretty horrific: it boggles the mind how anyone thought them fit for children, sanitised though they are in English. Hans of course has no luck, and Falada the horse in the Goose Girls gets his head chopped off. See?
The Drinker, it turns out, is a roman a clef. Written in an insane asylum on a scrap paper whilst Fallada was in the process of ‘drying out’ , it maps out the ruinous descent into alcoholism of an Edwin Sommer, his rejection of his stalwart, capable wife Magda and infatuation with the ‘reine of alcohol’, his own real life booze partner. Finally, incarceration in an insane asylum and the implication of ‘indefinite leave to remain’ therein.
Fallada writes with aplomb but no fanfare: the initial stages of Edwin’s alcoholisation are poignantly true-to-life. A petty, insubstantial man, buoyed afloat in his business affairs by his wife, takes the reins of his company in a show of self righteous independence and promptly ruins it. A drink to cope with this fiasco turns to two and ten and then scores of bottles per day: alcohol dumbs down his sense of failure. In fact, failure is no longer a threat: the only important thing is a drink: all else is irrelevant.
Standing in his way, of course, is his wife Magda: a constant reminder of what he can never be: successful, smart, efficient, etc. So, course of action: despise and hate her: transform her in his mind as the harbinger of all his disasters.
Now follow a sequence of escapades in which Erwin reels from one disaster to another: exactly like hapless Pip in Nathaniel Hawthorne’s ‘A Cool Million’ (although Fallada may have been thinking more of Hans with luck). Perhaps worthwhile mentioning that Erwin always seems to be the master of his own misfortune in all of this.
Finally, the stay in the insane asylum, from which he never effectively escapes: beautifully rendered, with detailed anecdotal evidence of the intricacies of such a sojourn (obviously experienced firsthand). First prize for ‘Saddest Sobstory’: Heltz. Incarcerated for sexual offences against young boys. Told he will not be released unless he undergoes a voluntary castration. Takes a year and a half to work up to it. Undergoes procedure. Following which, is denied release and remains interred indefinitely.
I’m not sure, though, that what we have here your typical ‘sad’ ending. It seems to me that, for someone like Erwin Sommer: a failed entrepreneur, husband, citizen, etc on the outside, the therapeutic routine of basket weaving in the asylum provides, for the very first time, a peace and fulfilment to a man wrongly matched with his aspirations in the jurisprudence of life.
Brilliant, sardonic noir.