That there is an extremist magazine about burnings and beheadings, and that rich Britons have four-storey basements built under their houses for a private cinema or bowling alley - we learned a lot last night at the International Literature Festival Utrecht (ILFU).
The programme of the ILFU's Saturday night was as richly varied as that of the first evening. French writer and former teacher Laurent Binet spoke in the Great Hall of the former post office on the Neude about Reality, which, according to him, does not exist in either a historical or linguistic sense. Although the conversation remained somewhat flat - unfortunately an interviewer with great expertise does not always guarantee a lively, entertaining interview - Binet's engaging personality made up for a lot. His reading from his new novel The seventh function of language in French was pleasant to listen to.
Very entertaining was the conversation in the Post Room with journalists Frank Westerman and Patrick Pouw on what word can do in the face of terror - an important and, of course, particularly topical subject. Westerman wrote a book, A word a word, about high-profile hostage dramas. Pouw already published the non-fiction book in 2008 Salaam!, about the year he spent among Orthodox Muslims, and recently published the novel The returnee, about a man who radicalises and dreams of following in the footsteps of Theo van Gogh's killer.
In his book, Frank Westerman wanted to explore, among other things, what it took in the perpetrators to want to hear only one story. 'That contradiction, language versus terror, I still can't get over that. Language was civilised, wasn't it? But gradually I discovered that this contradiction is not a real contradiction.'
Because extremists also have a narrative by which they justify their actions - indeed, by which they see themselves as an altruist. This also determines the difference between a terrorist and a criminal: a criminal does his (bad) deeds out of his own gain, a terrorist pursues an ideal that is bigger than himself, and which has a story behind it. And that story is cleverly marketed, Pouw told us. 'IS films are as beautifully made as Hollywood blockbusters. There is also a magazine, Dabiq, which looks very slick, like a glossy. The Linda., but about beheadings, suicide bombings and burnings.'
According to Pouw, it is not just the narrative that causes Muslims to radicalise, but a toxic cocktail of religious belief, propaganda and vanity. And talking does little to change that, even if terrorists are so little different from ourselves.
Under the carpet
On a smaller level, words - books - can indeed do something, writer Griet Op de Beeck told us. 'For exposing obstructive patterns, the novel is a very suitable means,' she said. It is precisely because characters can skirt around the issue or disguise what is really going on that they hold up a mirror to the reader or offer recognition. When that happens, it often enters more intensely, the Flemish writer found out from reader reactions. A book can offer an important new insight. 'When I hear that my novel has contributed to someone looking differently or daring to feel something that has been under the carpet for a long time, I find that very special.'
For example, she was once cycling into a bridge herself when she heard on her headphones a quote by writer Andrew Solomon. 'He said shame is a terribly destructive force. As long as we are ashamed, we cannot tell our story. And stories are the basis of our identity. "Goddammit, that explains a lot!" I thought. I have always been ashamed of who I was in the depths of my mind. And that was by no means a God, rather a little troll,' joked Op de Beeck, with a nod to poet Willem Kloos.
That the public does hold her in high regard was clear. Not only are her three novels bestsellers, she also got laughs with her sharp statements. Moreover, she often gets heartwarming reactions from readers after performances. 'My human and world view has improved immensely since I started writing,' she said cheerfully.
While literature can release or ease pain, Syrian writer Samar Yazbek also knows about the downside. 'Writing about pain renews that pain, makes the pain deeper,' she told her audience, who sat silently listening to her penetrating lecture. 'Writing actually anchors the pain and does not liberate it. That which you write about takes you hostage. A part of me has died, passed away with the hushed-up war crimes.'
Kim van Kooten wrote in her debut novel Darling also about pain, namely that of a friend of hers who was abused for years in her youth. It came down to finding the right tone, balancing on the thin cord between truthfulness, genuineness and lightness, she told writer Michel Faber in conversation. 'Her childhood is now literally for sale to everyone. I had to make sure it became fiction, because if there is no filter on such events, it is far too private. That's not pleasant to read. Many of the details come from my friend, but still, it ended up being my language.'
Library of 187 million
The former post office where the ILFU takes place will be remodelled in the coming years. If only that goes well, joked British writer Jonathan Coe, known for his political satirical novels. He spoke to Volkskrant-journalist Hans Bouman on his new novel Number 11, a witty and socially critical book that, among other things, makes fun of the politics and self-enrichment of bankers and other wealthy Britons. The novel also discusses the debacle surrounding the new library in Birmingham. 'It has become an undeniably magnificent building, but the prestige project ended up costing 187 million. A year after opening, opening hours had to be halved, half the staff were laid off and the public was asked to donate books because they no longer had the money to buy them.' Coe glanced up. 'I hope they are a bit more sensible about that here.'
It generated hilarity, as did his story about the latest antics of the very richest Britons. In his book, someone had an 11-storey basement dug under his house. 'Because their houses have been extended on all sides and they can no longer go up in height, the very rich are now going into the ground. Basements are being built four, five, sometimes six storeys deep, for garages, bowling alleys, a cinema.'
The gap between rich and poor is huge, he told us, and it is not just a nice metaphor that the lives of such characters are partially hidden from view. Hence the novel's remarkable ending - which we won't give away here - about which critics had mixed feelings, because those last two pages of the novel defy realism. Coe: 'What I portray there is the embodiment of rage. We are afraid of that. Most of us are not prepared to rock the boat as much as it takes to really change things.'
And so ILFU sent visitors home into the night with some food for thought. The first edition of the Utrecht literary festival under its new name did not disappoint, even if the monumental building in its current, somewhat brackish state just does not have that cosiness and atmosphere you expect from a festival. Perhaps the ILFU, like the library in the coming years, needs to grow a little better into its premises. But an asset to the city of Utrecht and literature in general, this festival is definitely an asset.
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