(Dutch version on Substack. Don’t forget to subscribe!’)
No response from Dasmag. I always find it curious: the discussion invariably centers on the individual, but never on who placed that individual in that position. Who considered Ali B a writer? What kind of person thought, “Let’s take underage girls to summer camp, that’s really how you cultivate ‘literary talent’ as a publishing house”?
Dead silence. The arrogant little man takes the hits on television. But dead silence when it comes to who actually made the substantive decisions here.
And this is precisely what I find so quintessentially Dutch. This is precisely the Christian parrhesia that Foucault often spoke about: it is the very pursuit of truth that has become Christianized. People believe you’re talking about some kind of identification label: but you don’t need to see yourself as a Christian to slavishly follow the Christianized parrhesia.
This week, I witnessed yet another prime example, undoubtedly one of the most repulsive snippets from Twitterland:

(Translated: ‘Quite ironic. That Nelson Mandela would die on the day we honor black Pete. #apartheid #slavery #sinterklaas) – note: this person now is in power in the Netherlands)
Quite ironic! Indeed. I believe this repulsive snippet played a role in the concept behind Flierman’s passage, where I depict a writer moving along with the most abhorrent racism one could imagine, all in the service of a 1% that actively helps create a writers’ order. Even the demonic portrayal on ‘De Wereld Draait Door’ proved prophetic, but the book vanished into the wings after a gentle theater hook, as it should be in literature, according to that Christianized pursuit of truth, at least.
So be it. I am now translating the book in which I humorously settle scores with Dutch literature, ‘What the Piranha Dreams About in the Lemonade Ditch,’ into English. You might wonder who on earth abroad would be interested in Dutch literature, but I write about it so amusingly and philosophically that it’s simply a very good book: even Gombrowicz described various local Polish literary issues that normally wouldn’t have interested me, but because he depicted them with such ironic flair, it earned him some recognition thirty years later. Not that I harbor any such illusion: the international literary order, where it existed, has long since collapsed, and the gingerbread hearts of Ali-B writers who run the show know this all too well. In this case, however, the translation is simply to gain some weight in international philosophy.
I’ll be done with it this week.
Meanwhile, this curious video surfaced of some guy standing at a restaurant called ‘Martinus,’ reading a book that looks suspiciously like ‘The Eternal Initiation.’ But then something strange happens:
Some ‘figure’ who bears a striking resemblance to Gidi Markuszower conspicuously bumps into this flamboyantly posing ‘dandy,’ and something seems to be exchanged, but the cameraman was apparently too stoned and started zooming in on a stovepipe (?).
This raises a pressing question: was this the moment that the AIVD managed to uncover as conclusive evidence that the man was unfit to join the cabinet?
Am I at risk now that I’m publishing this video? I know nothing; I have no idea why that man is so conspicuously reading my book in front of that restaurant, and I have no clue what was exchanged there or why the cameraman started zooming in so conspicuously.
Is this that nasty ‘lone wolf against the system’ that the professional readers of the Literature Fund always refer to? Readers who, by their own words, are avid followers of my weblog? Mysteries, oh, we are drowning in mysteries again. Fortunately, the security service has now taken the helm. Democracy, but truly safe, so to speak. I had better not get involved anymore, but then some dandy always pops up, and the mysteries are revived, like mushrooms in Rembrandt’s paintings(1).
Martinus 16-06-2024
(1) An allusion to an essay in Amanita Muscaria: the Book of the Empress where i analyse mushrooms present in one particular Rembrandt painting.