Concrete by Thomas Bernhard Read Free Book Online Page A

neither in generosity nor in love of one’s neighbour. The world of do-gooders is steeped in hypocrisy, and anyone who proclaims the contrary, or even asserts it, is either a subtle exploiter of humanity or an unpardonable idiot. Ninety per cent of the time today we are up against subtle exploiters, ten per cent of the time against unpardonable idiots. Neither can be helped. The church — since this suits my argument — exploits both, no matter what church it is, and the Catholic Church I know far too well to leave it a thing. It is the subtlest of them all, taking advantage wherever it can and getting most of its money from the poorest of the poor. But the poorest of the poor can’t be helped. The idea that they can is the most widespread of lies, propagated above all by the politicians. Poverty can’t be eradicated, and anyone who thinks of eradicating it is set on nothing short of the eradication of the human race itself, and hence of nature itself. The greater the sums my sister gives to charity, the louder and more devilishly she laughs about them. No one who has heard her laughing about one of her donations can be in any doubt about what makes the world go around. I’ve heard this laughter so often that I never want to hear it again. People are always talking about it being their duty to find their way to their fellow men — to their neighbour, as they are forever saying with all the baseness of false sentiment — when in fact it is purely and simply a question of finding their way to themselves. Let each first find his way to himself! And since hardly anyone has yet found his way to himself, it is inconceivable that any of these unfortunate millions has ever found his way to another human being — or to his neighbour, as they say, dripping with self-deception. The world is so rich that in fact it can afford anything, but this is prevented by the politicians who rule it. They cry out for aid, yet daily squander billions on arms alone. No, I positively refuse to give this world a single penny, for, unlike my sister, I don’t suffer from this devious craving for gratitude. Those people who are everlastingly saying that they are prepared for any sacrifice, that they would sacrifice everything non-stop, ultimately their lives, and so forth, those saints who are as greedy for sacrifice as pigs for the trough and who are to be found in every country and every continent under every possible and impossible name, I find utterly revolting. Such people have no other aim in mind than to be inundated with praise and showered with honours. These dangerous people, who are more self-seeking and self-satisfied than any others, whose numbers run into millions from St. Francis of Assisi onwards and who disport themselves day in day out in countless religious and political organisations the world over merely to satisfy their craving for fame, I find utterly abhorrent. The so-called social element, which has been talked about ad nauseam for centuries, is nothing but the basest of lies. I refuse to have any part in it, even at the risk of being misunderstood, though to be honest that is a risk to which I have always been indifferent. My sister, together with a number of so-called ladies from the so-called higher and highest reaches of society, once arranged a bazaar at which the Christ Child was made to croak nonstop through some dreadful loudspeaker, and my sister contributed five hundred thousand schillings to the proceeds. She then had the gall to explain to me that she cared about the poorest of the poor, but she soon realised, even though — or perhaps precisely because — I said nothing about this hypocritical enterprise of hers, that I had seen through her. In return for it she had the pleasure of being gallantly kissed on the hand by the Monsignor, the president of one of our biggest charities, who is nothing but a wily old socialite. I should be horrified at having my hand shaken by this particular gentleman. Fifteen or