Strangely compulsive. A glass half-empty rant that rarely pauses to draw breath. Not quite stream of consciousness; more what goes through your head and is left unsaid. An ode to pessimism, procrastination, and disgust. Strangely beautiful. ( )

In the last quarter of the 20th century weren't the wails of intellectual midlife male anguish beginning to die out, dampened by the weight of themselves? Well we are caught for the brief pages of Concrete in a prolonged wail as disgust at nearly everything, self included, isolation and utter self involvement have compacted with a serious degenerative illness to render mentally paralyzed this volume's subject, the matrix of the concrete arbitrarily complicated with a inclusion involving a young woman of infinite misfortune in Palma. ( )

> Nuit blanche, No. 23 (mai–juin 1986), p. 44 : https://id.erudit.org/iderudit/20502ac

> Babelio : https://www.babelio.com/livres/Bernhard-Beton/4833

A staggering ode to procrastination and much of life's limiting circumstances, Thomas Bernhard's Concerete is laden with provoking musings and festering regrets. Surrounded by the walls of his room, sick Rudolf writes an account of his monotonous days and enduring thoughts: the struggle to start his work on composer Mendelssohn Bartholdy which has been pending for 10 years now, the so-called distractions his sister bring that contribute to the prevention of creative inspiration and motivation's arrival then his seemingly never ending complaints and sentiments about everything that has once been a substantial part of his life as if he won't be fooled with their tomfoolery ever again (past friends, dead parents, nights of parties and engagements, and his travels).

** "Friendship—what a leprous word! People use it every day ad nauseam, so that it's become utterly devalued, at least as much as the word Love, which has been trampled to death." (p51)

But other than these lamentations and contradictions—the imminent arrival of death yet the expectation of a hundred tomorrows; the eventual hope to do what one endeavoured to do—Concrete is an intricate and intimate observation of the human condition despite its misanthropy at face value and harsh realisations of a life yet to be lived.

** "We always demand everything, when in the nature of things we should demand little, and that depresses us." (p84)

Concrete culminates to a devastating piece of memory, that of the tragic story of Anna Härdtl and her husband; remembrance cuts as sharp as papers. Rudolf is stricken with all kinds of pain. Bernhard knew the hard life and the suffering existence brings; the utmost and futile desire, its dangers and pitfalls, for perfection.

** "Very often we write down a sentence too early, then another too late; what we have to do is to write it down at the proper time, otherwise it's lost." (p151) ( )

Picked this up as Karl Ove Knausgaard was raving about it (either in an interview or one of his books, I forget) and can definitely see the influence Bernhard had on him. I loved parts - particularly the ranty sections - but it developed into a bit of a slog. Good approximation of the creative process in general though. ( )