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In FOcus
German language literature
Deutsch
– about the small language and the big
With smallness – and Swedish is a very small language indeed
– you always run a risk of disappearing completely. The minor
is pushed aside by the major. The little language dwindles into
insignificance, loses its place in writing and ends its days in the
form of phrases or interjections in farmyards or at the pub. That is
what has happened, over less than a century, with all the Romanian-speaking
villages near my own village in Istria. There, no one
speaks Romanian any longer. Or, the last one to do so lacks an understanding
ear nearby capable of comprehending what is being
said (talking to oneself is no solution in the long run). Nor does it
help to have the language in written form, if no one who can read
is capable of understanding it.
Those in the know will tell you that a small language like that
disappears from our world every day.
When you're big – and German is a very big language – you
needn't fear extinction, or even suppression or invasion. The big
language is safe and arrogant. Some of them already find loanwords
to be a nuisance. But a big language can violate itself: the
German language did so for more than a decade in the last century.
A short time, considering the thousand years they had in mind, but
long enough to be devastating.
For the big language, a small one is rarely of any interest, other
than as folklore or quaint curiousity. One's own is enough, sufficient
in itself. It holds everything you need. Often, for the same
reason, other major languages are treated with mild interest and
their classic works are only taken into account once they have
been translated into your own language. A – translated – Shakespeare
might then be counted almost as a German writer.
But a small language cannot afford the luxury of huddling in
its own, confined world. The only way for a Swede, a Czech or a
Hungarian to keep cultural hunger at bay is to learn at least to read
in other languages besides one's native tongue. This necessity, born
out of want and isolation, has many advantages. Thus, a Romanian
or a Pole is seldom as parochial as a French or American, content
with strolling through his own, seemingly boundless, linguistic
garden.
us to look at ourselves from the outside. In all our history it's likely
that only Latin has had as important a role.
All of this, however, ended in 1945. From then on English takes
centre stage.
Why should this be
English is, of course, the language of the victors, representing
a new and modern world, as full of promises as it then seemed
innocent. But I don't think that this explanation quite covers it. In
our country, the switch from one secondary language to another
is so abrupt and complete as to resemble collective amnesia or
censorship.
I rather tend to believe that it has to do with shame; the shame of
having done too little at a time when so much more than the German
language was at stake. After 1945, no one in Sweden was very
keen on remembering this time of humiliating adaptation and
silence. Accordingly, not just the years in Germany's shadow have
been suppressed, but also the German language that reminds us
of them.
In this radical abolition of such a vital piece of our cultural
soil, we also lost things we needn't be ashamed of. These days few
people know that the S. Fischer Publishing House, home to a multitude
of the greatest German-speaking writers, found a safe haven
through the Bonnier family in Sweden. Here Fischer published
books that had already been thrown on the bonfires in Germany
and whose writers had been driven into exile or blacklisted. Some
of these books – Stefan Zweig, Thomas Mann, Franz Werfel – can
be found on my shelves, finds from Stockholm's various secondhand
bookshops, attics and cellars.
In Germany, they are rarities.
Thus a homeless big language could once find shelter with a
small one. Not for long, not without problems; but still. Perhaps
this can be regarded as a humble gesture of
gratitude towards a language that meant so
much for our Swedish culture before its sudden
disappearance from it.
For a long time, German was the first foreign language learned
by Swedes. It was German who raised us from our ‘Kråkvinkel’, incidentally
a German loan-word (meaning ‘backwoods’), enabling
Richard Swartz
Writer and journalist,
living in Vienna and Istria
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