Georg Trakl – Salzburg’s Old City Walls

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Views of a city, engraved in stone, of a man who couldn’t believe his luck.





The prose of the Salzburg author is chiselled into silent and proud walls of the city in prominent places. Engraved in stone, his views and portraits of the city send shivers up the spines of sightseers. In the evening, when the bells ring: Smoking jackets and expensive gowns are all over the festival district. Limousines are directed to the entrances. Old acquaintances are renewed. The theatres open. Chauffeurs can breathe out and pull their caps over their faces. Salzburg is regularly rocked by culture fever in the summer. The talk everywhere is of the festival. The gossip columns are full – the big “who is who” is a not much more than a civilised circus parade. A masked ball. The excitement is that which accompanies a travelling fair, but it’s a high gloss fair, an infectious one, at that. The Salzburg Festival bears witness to a bygone age; founded in the turn of the century epoch, the three or four decades glorified by Austrians today as the zenith of their sciences and arts, the last ecstatic shudders of a culture in full bloom before its fall. What remains of this greatness is the bittersweet song of this decay, of this decadence, and thus, the works of this Salzburg master of words, Georg Trakl. The prose of the Salzburg author is chiselled into silent and proud walls of the city in prominent places. Feelings as delicate as a seismograph and an excessive self destructive tendency armed Trakl with an almost other-worldly clarity, a lucidity, which threatened to collapse at any moment. This son of an ironware dealer began his drug career very early, above all with cocaine and an excessive consumption of alcohol. He had an incestuous relationship with his sister and it was never completely clear if they cultivated a purely literary one. Trakl refused to accept the fact of his lowly descent. He considered himself to be the son of a cardinal or some other man of status. He shared this belief with the legendary German character, Kasper Hauser, and the belief that he could constantly hear bells ringing, and hallucinations of a man with a knife drawn standing behind him. At least, that was what his medical records said. He couldn’t complain that he didn’t receive enough recognition: He visited Else Lasker-Schüler in Berlin, travelled in summer with Adolf and Bessie Loos, his poems were published by the legendary Ludwig von Ficker, who also managed to get Ludwig Wittgenstein to send him 20000 Kronen. Wittgenstein found his composition a work of genius, which really meant something. It is known that he followed his tendency towards taking drugs by studying pharmacy and registered voluntarily for action in the First World War. The war was too much for his nerves, eaten away by drugs. Following a failed suicide attempt he was moved to a military hospital in Krakow. There he requested a visit from Wittgenstein in November 1914, hoping to boost his ability to work and recover. Wittgenstein travelled across the barren, misty lands of Poland. In Krakow he was informed that the poet, Trakl, had taken his own life with an overdose of cocaine a few days earlier. For festival visitors it’s a drama like the others. Three, four hours after the beginning of the performance, the click of the ignitions of noble engines. Engines rumble and first impressions are mutually mumbled uncertainly. Only later, at the parties and get-togethers do the meanings and connections become clear. Strands of meanings are tied together and woven into a carpet. Along ride through the Salzburg night begins. A high-fidelity magic carpet ride. The world decays in nobility. The next day one clears the head. Takes in fresh air, takes a walk. Preferably with Georg Trakl at one’s side. Engraved in stone, his views and portraits of the city send shivers up the spines of sightseers. The beauty as deep as an abyss send butterflies fluttering in the stomach. The feeling of a man who couldn’t believe his luck. Georg Trakl. Text: Michael Ginthör

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