This article is based on this Dutch article of Martinus Benders:
https://martijnbenders.substack.com/p/we-leven-wat-mij-betreft-in-het-tijdperk
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We are living, as far as I’m concerned, in the Herrenberg era.
I read a few pages from Nederhalfrond yesterday. It’s a book that had been on my wishlist for a very long time, but I always hesitated to purchase it—simply because it’s Dutch and hailed as a masterpiece. The chances of disappointment are enormous in such cases.
Well, this book is certainly not a disappointment. In fact, one could speak of literature before and after Herrenberg. We are, as far as I’m concerned, in the Herrenberg era. And yes, I realized this after reading just four pages.
(I immediately added the author on Facebook, and right away it turns out that the people at the Dutch Foundation for Literature are making his life difficult too—which does not surprise me. Everything conformist and workshop-approved is pampered, while misfits face obstacles. The psyborg churning out prefab books that tick all the right boxes will never be met with a string of rejections. By the way, how about that lawsuit, Benders? I won it brilliantly, but more on that later…)
In the meantime, I must temporarily set the book aside, as I’ve committed to reading 2666 by Roberto Bolaño. I see reviewers comparing Herrenberg to James Joyce, and I wonder whether that comparison is justified. Is it due to the complex, layered structure? The linguistic virtuosity? Or is it merely a superficial association driven by the sheer scope and ambition of his work?
The beginning reminded me of two writers: first, Darconville’s Cat by Alexander Theroux, maybe a little of David Foster Wallace, and something that brought Milorad Pavić to mind. But I’ll have to read the entire book carefully to say more about that.
And let’s see if my plastic-spoon-brain can still manage to wade through 900 pages of 2666. A very enjoyable struggle, by the way, though I read at most thirty pages per day, and preferably twenty or ten if possible.
*
Of course, we are looking for another house. I briefly considered Spain, even after watching that episode of Vertokkiet! or Vertrokken or whatever that amusing program is called, in which the Dutch flood Mediterranean countries with bed and breakfasts. This particular episode featured two sunbed-tanned individuals who had apparently bought a house in Spain made of cardboard. That’s something the Dutch are good at—creating endearingly pathetic television.
I immediately ran into a bureaucratic wall. The Spanish real estate agent informed me that a government-issued number was required to buy a house at all. And that number had to be secured before signing the preliminary purchase contract. However, the government stated that the preliminary purchase contract was a prerequisite for obtaining the number. No preliminary purchase contract, no number. And, oh, there’s also a six-month waiting list to obtain the number after that.
Uhm, farewell Spain, is what comes to mind.
How all these sun-baked individuals with their cardboard homes managed to navigate this process, I have no idea. If I’m not mistaken, 99% of these bed and breakfasts go bankrupt within two years. But I suppose that minor statistic doesn’t spoil the scripted adventure. There must be a certain charm in working yourself to the bone for a year and a half in your straw-yellow finca—only to realize, during the first downpour, that the walls have the absorptive capacity of kitchen paper—before going bankrupt spectacularly and ending up in a third-hand camper on a dusty lot somewhere between Málaga and the eternal miscalculation.
No, that fate is not for me. My dream was different. My dream was a whitewashed house with shutters, a shaded patio, and a library filled only with books that smell of tobacco and yellowed pages. I wanted to hear old men reciting Don Quixote while they laid Spanish tiles. But that will not happen. My Spain is closed to me.
So I continued my search and soon discovered that the same real estate logic wouldn’t get me much further elsewhere. In France, I had to sign a form stating that I would sign a form. In Italy, the mayor needed a stamp from himself to process my application, but he was on vacation for an indefinite period. And in the Netherlands? There, I could *maybe* buy a house, but only for the price of a medieval castle—complete with the added bonus of waking up every morning to wistfully watch the neighbors who did take the leap to Spain, only to now observe their own bankruptcy from behind their B&B bar.
Europe remains, in short, a grand undertaking—full of forms, waiting periods, and sky-high prices. Anyone who succeeds in securing a home deserves not so much a notary as a medal.
Best regards,
Martinus Benders, 13-03-2025