literature

Thijs van Nimwegen’s Choice: Simon Carmiggelt and Godfried Bomans

Every month, a translator gives literary tips. Thijs van Nimwegen whets our appetite for two literary giants of Dutch literature. One is renowned for his melancholic, often humorous portrayals of everyday life. The other is best known for his modern fairy tales and short stories. Strangely enough, little of their work has been translated into English.

Must-read: ‘A Dutchman’s slight adventures’ by Simon Carmiggelt

For close to forty years, The Hague-born journalist, writer and poet Simon Carmiggelt (1913-1987) published a daily column (a ‘cursiefje’) in Dutch national newspaper Het Parool, using the pen name ‘Kronkel’ (‘Kink’ or ‘Twist’). Every year a selection of ‘Kronkels’ was collected and published in book form, which combined with Carmiggelt’s regular tv-appearances led to great fame and popularity within the Netherlands, and several literary awards.

A Dutchman’s slight adventures (translated by Elizabeth Willems-Treeman) is one of the few English translations of Carmiggelt’s work to come out during his lifetime. ‘Two million books by Carmiggelt have been sold in the Netherlands, that means one book to every four adults’ the cover boasts – no wonder, because this translation was published by Carmiggelt’s regular Dutch publisher De Arbeiderspers, and as such a bit of an experiment in sales and marketing. The book did alright, but not well enough to merit further translations.

Which is a pity, because Carmiggelt’s prose style, a mix of colloquialisms and ironic use of ‘official’ language, is a joy to read, and offers valuable insight into the Dutch everyday life and pub culture of the fifties, sixties and seventies, as well as laugh-out-loud humor and melancholic musing. Many of his columns had the author meeting and listening to disillusioned people in cafes and bars (mostly in Amsterdam, where he lived most of his life), who told him about their sad existence, with some common-man philosophizing thrown in. Often the subjects were middle-aged or elderly men, coining the phrase ‘Carmiggeltmannetje’ (‘little Carmiggelt-fellow’). Carmiggelt also wrote about his children and later his grandchildren, his cats and other slight events in his life. For expats wanting to become familiar with Dutch life and Dutch humor, A Dutchman’s slight adventures is required reading.

Simon Carmiggelt, A Dutchman’s slight adventures, translated by Elizabeth Willems-Treeman, De Arbeiderspers, 1966, 95 pages

To be translated: ‘Pieter Bas’ by Godfried Bomans

Godfried Bomans (1913-1971), also born in The Hague but mostly associated with Haarlem, where he grew up, enjoyed a popularity similar to Carmiggelt. He is mostly known for his modern-day fairy tales, newspaper columns, and short stories. A contemporary of Carmiggelt, the two authors were often compared; Bomans jokingly referred to their ‘competing’ for the title of most popular Dutch writer.

Surprisingly few of Bomans’ works were translated during his lifetime, though this would change a bit in later years. His most famous children’s book, Erik, of Het klein insectenboek, was translated in 1994 as Eric in the land of the insects, and his fairy tales have been published in several languages, even Esperanto. However, the book that meant his original literary breakthrough – Memoires of gedenkschriften van minister Pieter Bas, Memoirs or chronicles of minister Pieter Bas, often shortened to just Pieter Bas – has sadly never been translated. It was first published in 1937, when Bomans was just 24 years old, and it became hugely popular. The purported childhood memories of the fictional statesman Pieter Bas, it even caused some controversy because of its ‘improper’ language and subject matter (potties were discussed). Pieter Bas is an often hilarious, tongue-in-cheek satire of Dutch middle-class life in the early 20th century, and a proper English translation is long overdue.

Godfried Bomans, Memoires of gedenkschriften van minister Pieter Bas, 1947, Het Spectrum, 206 pages

Excerpt from ‘Pieter Bas’, translated by Thijs van Nimwegen

When I reached the age of seven, my parents considered it expedient to send me to a school, ‘Wampier’s pen’, named thusly after its headmaster, Mr. Wampier. On the occasion of this event Mr. Wampier came to pay us a personal visit, an occurrence which would stay lodged deep in my memory. After all, Wampier was, according to the testimony of my three brothers and Johanna, the uttermost cruel and inhuman tyrant ever forged by God’s hand. It was said that he had once, with a single blow, struck dead three boys from the first grade which, from a sporting stance, can be called quite an achievement.

And none of Wampier’s boy pupils believed that Jan Duifjeshuis died of influenza last year. Christiaan van Noordt – a most credible lad – would even state with certainty that Wampier – and none other than Wampier – had had a hand in this. My brother Vincent told me that he did not terribly mind ‘the fact in itself’ – after all, in a fit of pique one might do things that one will regret later – but to march sad-faced in the funeral cortege, now that was a lowly thing to do.

I was trembling all over when introduced to this madman, but very much relieved by the first sight of him: surely he was a callous ruffian, but the way he sat there on the edge of his seat, winking at me through his tiny nickel spectacles, he seemed the most meek of ruffians. Fortunately, Vincent would later inform me that this was all a sham; once I was in his control, the man would reveal his true nature.

Wampier’s pen was a large building in Veerstraat, made entirely of red brick, which gave it a slightly bloodthirsty appearance. On top of the facade was a bronze man holding a pennon, who was called Iron Henry. The meaning of Iron Henry and the pennon in particular I have never fully managed to discover. A great many stories were circulating regarding this, the most noteworthy being that on the first day of the summer holidays, he would wave his pennon and put his left leg forward. Many a time we have stood across the street at the designated hour, to rejoice in his sympathetic heart. ‘What a pity,’ the big boys would say after an hour. ‘Henry’s not doing it this year.’ And how delightful it was to finally ‘find out’ and keep up the tradition for the smaller boys. Thus Wampier’s school was divided into two age groups; those who still believed and those who no longer believed. Incidentally, in Dordrecht, ‘He still believes in Henry’ was what one would say about a simpleton, one who did not know better.

On our way to school we had to pass through Antoniusstraat, where around that hour a man was always hanging out of the window to shower us with curses. This was a very old enmity: when Vincent was attending first grade and had to pass through Antoniusstraat by himself, the man was already hanging from that same window. It seemed to have arisen from a mistake made at the municipal administration office, whereby he had been overcharged with taxes, and he was taking revenge for this injustice on the children of the municipal secretary, usually thusly:

‘Hah, there they are again, the little leeches! You can see by looking at their mugs whose money they’re eating! Scoundrels! Scoundrels! Whose sweat are you eating? Now, whose sweat is it? My sweat! The sweat of Jansen! The sweat of Jansen!’ And he kept repeating this toothsome dish until we had turned the corner. He sometimes would become so enraged that he would follow us for some distance, making loud allusions regarding the sweat of Jansen and the vile manner in which it was being used. I was always scared to death of this terrible Jansen and would pass that window shaking with fear, pressing myself against my brothers, who kept on talking imperturbably, as if nothing was the matter. I have always secretly admired them for this. Joseph, especially, kept very calm. ‘It’s all part of it,’ he would say. ‘There’s nothing to be done about it.’

• Godfried Bomans
• Simon Carmiggelt