Did she finally write and publish the book she had been thinking about for years, it was initially snowed under by corona and her earlier novel about a pandemic. Fortunately Vanishing Point by Wytske Versteeg has now found its way to readers. It is a haunting book about sexual violence. 'The dilemma with writing about pain, is that pain takes all the words away from you.'
I want to live; I want to write, make theatre, explore, be warm, be able, allowed and dared to be at all. But somehow I have created my own prison, and now only manage to survive by keeping myself largely dead.
(Excerpt from Vanishing Point)
After acclaimed and award-winning novels such as The orphans, Boy and Quarantine says writer Wytske Versteeg (36) in the non-fiction book Vanishing Point relentlessly about the consequences of years of abuse by her grandfather during her childhood. As is the case for more victims of sexual violence, Versteeg faces recurrent boundary violations later in life.
In a tissue of diary fragments, situations, memories and references to literature, music and art, she explores all facets of pain and loneliness that resulted from these experiences. The web of guilt, blame, closure and self-loathing closes ever closer around her, until she can barely breathe, talk or even just 'be'. Reading Vanishing Point is an intense, haunting experience - the writer very cleverly allows her readers to experience something of her own feelings.
By corona There was almost more attention to your previous novel recently Quarantine than for Vanishing Point. This is painful with such a personal story, it seems to me.
'Yes, also because I spent a very long time on Vanishing Point have been working, or rather walking around with this manuscript for a very long time. My first book, the non-fiction book This is not a homeless person, appeared in 2008, and it was around that time that I also started working on this. Anyway, against the backdrop of everything going on at the moment, paying attention to a book is obviously a luxury. Meanwhile Vanishing Point did get picked up in many places. Also given the response, I am confident that the book will find its way.'
Was it still too sensitive earlier to write about it or did not manage to find the right form?
'Both. I looked for a form, because I felt it was important that it would not just be about me, so not just stare inward, but also connect with the world around us. There were other things at play too: this is not an easy book for my family. Besides, you run the risk that if you publish such a personal book early in your career, you will subsequently be reduced to that one story.'
'The choice of restraint in what I do and do not tell has partly to do with protecting my family - I have a responsibility in that - but it also has to do with the way the outside world deals with these kinds of stories. There is often something unsavoury about that. Morally, we disapprove of sexual violence, but in fiction, it is precisely the details that are widely publicised. That reinforces certain ideas and images. In interviews, people often ask about the personal details; it is almost as if outsiders feel they have a right to them. I think it is important to distance myself from that and be critical of it. I wanted to talk about the consequences of sexual violence and how it can isolate someone. To that end, I revealed only the details that I thought were necessary to tell this story.'
In the months and years before I was eighteen, I had learned not to think of my body as part of me, let alone my self as part of my body. Anything below my chin, perhaps anything below my forehead, was an area occupied and occupied by others, something over which I had no control. For some time I was convinced that it was possible to destroy my body and then, bodiless, finally live on. Even now I don't understand how I managed that at that time: to do two studies at the same time and pass them with high marks, while at the same time systematically working on the destruction of my body.
(Excerpt from Vanishing Point)
It's something other people who have experienced sexual abuse recognise: people are curious about the how, how often, how long. Whereas you want to talk mostly about the system in which sexual transgressive behaviour thrives and what factors sustain it.
'Exactly. Going into the details, in a way, makes it easier for others to distance themselves from it because it is far from their world. Whereas sexual violence is a more extreme form of the many kinds of boundary violations that exist in our society and persist precisely because we distance ourselves from it and pretend it is normal. When it comes to sexual violence, people are quick to say "just say no". But how often do we actually do that in normal situations? In most social situations, a person does not bluntly say "no", but tries to disguise that no, to package it kindly. So why would it suddenly be easy to say no in cases of sexual violence?'
Moreover, many victims of sexual abuse develop a problem defending their boundaries at a young age, which is part of the reason why many people keep having to deal with it later in life. How exactly does this work?
'If only I knew. It is true that victims of sexual violence often have a vulnerability. When you experience such boundary violation at a young age, it is difficult to learn to feel what your physical and mental boundaries are, which also prevents you from protecting them later on at times when it is necessary. Perpetrators somehow sense that.'
To describe the layers of pain and loneliness, you use a variety of images and associations with art and music. How did this form emerge?
'The dilemma with writing about pain, is that pain robs you of all words, it robs you of your form. Actually, you need very rough language to write about it, polished full sentences are not appropriate. At the same time, you need to be able to express pain in a way that is more or less understandable and accessible to others. That's a paradox, and it was a challenge to find a balance between those extremes. I solved that by using unpolished diary excerpts of moments when that pain was very deep and close, while also reflecting the search for the right language to talk about it, using expressions from others that reflect my feelings in a substantial way.'
'It was also a long search for the ending. I didn't want a Hollywood ending along the lines of: this has all happened, but I came out stronger and now I am successful. While writing, the need to hide my vulnerability sometimes overwhelmed me, but that would not have had integrity. So I looked for an ending like a piece of music, where in the last note all the earlier music still resonates.'
How were the reactions of your family and friends?
'Good, so that's very nice. My brother was not thrilled at the idea of me publishing this story, but was ultimately positive that it would be there. He read the whole manuscript, and we were able to talk about that too. For my parents, with whom I have hardly had any contact for years, it was more difficult, but I think it helped them to understand certain things better.'
That so many strangers, independently of each other, recognised unerringly that I was apparently good enough only for that: to be touched outside on the street or on public transport at night with more or less violence, but never without fear, without wanting (...) - that seemed to prove something to me. It proved that they were right. That they saw it right, that despite all my attempts to be a real human being, I was indeed nothing more or different from what they saw, a body you could use. A body that I increasingly wondered why it was there; why that body was still alive, when it felt like I myself did not exist.
(Excerpt from Vanishing Point)
You have the book Vanishing Point mentioned. What did you mean by that?
'On the one hand, the word has something of an abyss experience in it, which I refer to at the beginning of the book: for a very long time, I preferred not to be there. On the other hand, it is a term from art that relates to perception and direction, to seeing something in the right perspective, which is what the end of the book is about. On the one hand, this history is very big for me personally, at the same time it is a story like so many others; there are so many people who have gone through something similar.'
What do you hope to bring about with this book?
'I think it is important to look for ways to speak more precisely about violence; that also helps to think about it better and have more substantive fine-tuned conversations about it. I hope that books like Falling is like flying by Manon Uphoff or mine could contribute to that.'
'We need to look for ways to get beyond the common frames in which we usually talk about sexual violence; it quickly turns to too easy a blame game or looking for a happy ending or solution. It would be easy for everyone if a victim could say: okay, this happened, but now it's over. But unfortunately, that is often not how it works. Research is under way to see if there are medicines that can be made to reduce the effects of, or memories of, traumatic events. I have wondered: suppose such a drug were available, would I want it? Would I have wished that none of this had happened?'
And?
'That is an impossible question. Of course I wish the abuse hadn't happened. Then things would definitely have been easier. At the same time, the events, my loneliness and being an outsider, have also made me who I am and given me a keen sense of observation, making me notice things that others are less likely to see when the world does feel very familiar and natural to them. Those are two sides of the same coin.'