Matthias Friedrich on
ProponeisiS: Zoembient växelverkanvers
by Johan Jönson
I cannot imagine how someone nowadays could write a poem which is longer than, say, Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene, yet Johan Jönson has dared to do exactly this: he has just published a long poem of 2,272 pages, which mainly, but not completely, consists of two stanzas of five lines per page. The form he has invented has a name of its own: ProponeisiS, or, as the subheading says, Zoembient växelverkanvers. But who is Johan Jönson? Born in 1966, he has been publishing poetry since 1992 and is regarded as one of Sweden’s foremost poets. Probably you have not read him, and that is because most of his works are not available in English (apart from this little book, translated by Johannes Göransson). His breakthrough came with the 800-page volume Efter arbetsschema (According to Work Schedule, 2008), a book which earned him both Aftonbladet’s Literature Prize and a nomination for Northern Europe’s most prestigious literary award Nordiska Rådets Litteraturpris – and, again, in 2020, for Marginalia/Xterminalier. Here is what Ulf Olsson had to say about it in Expressen. The critic describes Jönson’s text as a “machine”:
(It) works for 800
pages, disgorging different types of text. A short slogan like “work and fun
belong together” alternates with diary notes, job descriptions from nursing
homes with accounts from the writer’s machine. And the text grinds and buzzes
so loudly that one really isn’t capable of grasping its different parts: the
machine is working.
Jönson is a conceptual artist. He builds poetry apparatuses,
gets lost in typographical shenanigans, prose fragments, long run-on sentences,
lists, verses scattered all over the page, streams of consciousness. But his
works are far from being inanimate or apathetic. When Efter arbetsschema was
published in Elisabeth Fryking’s Norwegian translation in 2012, his editor Leif
Høghaug said that the reader was “swept away” by the book, and I consider this
to be an accurate description of what Jönson does to those who dare to read
what he has contrived. His writing is hypnotic, dream-like, radical, and one
has to make sure not to get lost in the labyrinths of his mind. Even if there
is very little one can hold onto – the title of his new book is a good starting
point.
In Sara Abdollahi’s and Andrea Lundgren’s podcast Godmorgon,
midnatt, Jönson mentions that ProponeisiS is a made-up word – or, if that’s
what one wants to call it, a creation in the spirit of Finnegans Wake. (If you
understand Swedish, you can listen to him explaining his title at around 1:22.)
First of all, the title contains poiesis, the Greek word for “poetry”, which
also means “making”. For Jönson, poetry connotes mechanical art – that’s not
surprising given his numerous references to factory work. Pro, of course, means
for. Other than that, the creation includes the Swedish word for “no”
(nej), although it is written as nei.
Taking these aspects into account, it is tempting to read Jönson’s obscure
neologism as an apocryphal title: For a Negative Making – that is, a form of
critique in a certain dialectical tradition, both private and political,
socially critical and arty. It is a critique that in itself is a “P.S.”, a post
scriptum to all of Jönson’s earlier works – or, rather, a summa of everything
he has written before.
Zoembient växelverkanvers is another invented term, even a
literary genre of its own. The adjective zoembient is based on a post-dramatic
script written by Jönson himself and includes three words – zoe, zombie,
ambient: zoe is Giorgio Agamben’s term for bare life. Furthermore, it implies
that one aspires to reach a certain form of self-fulfillment through work –
which Jönson’s “I” is never going to reach, precisely because his jobs are
utterly absurd, both to himself and to society. Therefore, he has quite a
different conception of zoe than any neoliberal would have. In a sort of
introduction to his play script, he writes that the word “describes a form of
flickering life, caught between vegetation and an insect-like existence,
landscape and subject, environment and vector, discourse and evolution,
redistribution and geology, movement and language, silence and obscurity”. A zombie is, of course, an undead bedeviling
innocent people, an abhorred revenant that is difficult to kill, and a constant
source of sorrow or even grief personified. Ambient refers to proximate
surroundings (society and nature) – but also to electronic soundscapes: a
background noise, elevator music, a machine humming in the background. Hence,
Jönson uses poetry – aesthetic and rhythmic qualities of language – to
highlight the interplay (växelverkan) between living and inanimate spheres.
What is alive? What is dead? Does his narrator still walk among the animate, or
has he moved back to the inferno? Jönson’s narrating “I” is a kind of Orpheus
whose Eurydice has never existed. He himself tries to sing but is drowned out
by the buzzing city behind his back. The only thing he can do is to try again,
to fail again, to fail better – although he can never give up singing.
The book is centered around “a proponeitic and zoembient
subjectivity”. It refers to itself as “I” and is called “Johan”, but it cannot
be defined as an alter ego of the author. Rather than that, it is, in the words
of the Danish-Norwegian critic Susanne Christensen, “a serial I”, chattering
about the violent society it lives in. This “collective” narrative instance is
caught up between waking and sleeping, and, therefore, bears witness to an
“inertia regime” – an account of a continued dehumanization through work, an
existence between life and death, which is why it is exclusively capable of
delivering sequence upon sequence of hypnagogic images. “Johan” describes how
capitalism has inflicted damage to his body and mind. He has always had
low-paid menial jobs, for example in a graphite powder plant, in nursing homes,
as a cleaner, etc. He is suffering from constant financial strain and feels
that he can’t provide for his family. Furthermore, he doesn’t have much time to
write and moves back and forth between the gloomy existence of a worker and
that of an author. This is what is meant by “zoembient”: “Johan” has to find a
compromise between the animate sphere of literature and the inanimate sphere of
work because he cannot live in both domains at the same time. But his only
accomplishment both as a worker and as a writer is a certain stasis, a
perpetual iteration of internalized procedures in a capitalist society which
only takes and never gives, and reduces him to nothing but a shadow, a
prospective version of himself he can’t recognize. In her review of Efter
arbetsschema, Susanne Christensen likens Jönson’s poetry to the paintings of
Norwegian artist Hariton Pushwagner, in which people merge with the
dehumanizing urban environment, and the Swedish poet’s most recent book further
confirms this comparison.
Truth be told, these limbo chronicles can be as tiring as my
description sounds. However, they are remarkable in terms of syntax: full of
nested sentences, parentheses, and disruptions. The poem begins at a graphite
powder plant and moves on to defining life stations: a childhood in a doomed
family, jobs, an encounter with the love of life, and is constantly interrupted
by small chapbooks – most of them only several pages long –, often right in the
middle of a sentence. In the podcast I have mentioned, Jönson reveals that
these chapbooks were planned as addenda to ProponeisiS, leaflets to be taken
out by the reader and distributed anyplace in the book. Unfortunately, this was
unfeasible for the publisher. Apart from these incognito poetry collections,
the poem itself – that is, the sequences of two five-line stanzas – is not
paginated. Given its length, this seems
to be a sadistic trick of the author. However, it is not that the author
gratuitously mocks the readers by denying them the comfort of knowing on which
page they are at the given moment – his purpose is rather to allow them to go
astray in the zoembient subjectivity’s mind. The enormous extent of Jönson’s
text should not be viewed as the product of loose editing but as a sign of its
obsessive qualities and transgressive potential.
Jönson recounts the history of a personal cataclysm caused
by heavy work and elitist class distinctions. His language is full of anger,
invectives and injuries. He does not have qualms about resorting to explicit
depictions of graphic sexualized violence. There is nothing erotic about
intercourse here (very frequently, sperm clumps are described as little white
“maggots”). Ubiquitous images of violence even haunt the “I”’s sleep in such a way that I (don’t) hope he’s going
to publish a dream protocol:
In a dream, I’m at home, but I’m forced to eat enormous
heaps of fresh ravioli filled with thick sperm. It’s like chomping into a
deliciously fat pillow pasta and realizing that yellowish, gooey ricotta or
mozzarella cheese trickles from the middle of it. I don’t know why I need to
gobble up this food, but somehow, I feel like I have to go for it. And I get
pregnant, my belly swells up, becomes taut. When I’m expected to give birth, it
turns out that the grotesque belly doesn’t contain a child but thick,
semi-fluid, dissolved, feculent fat. It oozes out of me, both out of my anus
and my contaminated, blazing red snatch, and somehow even out of the cesarean
which has been made under my wobbling belly. The doctors and the midwives are
kicking their heels, laughing scornfully.
In the Freudian sense of the term, this dream is a
condensation of the violence the “I” is confronted with and subjected to every
day. Apart from continuous harassment by employers and, as a poor person, being
made invisible by an exploitative and elitist society, the “I” has to deal with
the internalized violence it inflicts on both itself and others. As is
customary in Scandinavian societies, it spirals into a crisis of conscience and
självransakelse (self-examination): Did I commit any mistakes? And, if I did,
how can I make up for them? The “I” has to answer this question by questioning
the destructive aspects of its masculinity through literature and writing. It
has “found itself within a forest dark” – not only like Dante but also like the
man in Ulrich Schlotmann’s magnum opus Die Freuden der Jagd (The Pleasures Of
Hunt), a stream of consciousness which is, in fact, a deconstruction of fatalist
conceptions of masculinity. (Jönson mentions the author a couple of times,
which is impressive because this novel has never been translated and is little
known even in Germany.) The “I” is much more transgressive than, for instance,
Karl Ove Knausgård in his autobiographical novel series – in the sense that it
doesn’t indulge in narcissistic accolades of the self, but in collectivized
images of brutishness caused by a harmful society. Nor does it engage in
kitchen-sink realism or, as the poet would call it, “lifestyle liberalism
literature”.
In a sense, Jönson follows the 19th-century Danish critic Georg Brandes who said that literature had to moot social problems – a request which became increasingly popular not only with Henrik Ibsen’s plays but is still going strong in a lot of Scandinavian books making their way into the Anglophone world. But unlike all those writers (among them Knausgård), Jönson does not dwell on trite simulations of middle-class life in the suburbs. In his conceptual art, he aims to represent the poor, the sick, the dispossessed and invents a disrupted, infinite poetical form, a rich tapestry of subaltern life in today’s Sweden. Does it hurt? Yes. Is it necessary? Not only that, it’s past overdue. https://theuntranslated.wordpress.com/2021/03/16/guest-post-matthias-friedrich-on-proponeisis-zoembient-vaxelverkanvers-by-johan-jonson/
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