This article is based on this Dutch article of Martijn Benders.

What came before: With the help of Bossche bollen, I successfully created a Temporary Autonomous Zone in the objections committee of the Dutch Foundation for Literature. I received a letter from Richard Jackson that was sent just in time after waiting around 10 weeks, arriving exactly when I was on vacation. According to the letter, I have 2 days left to submit additional documents.

Dear Mr. Richard Jackson,

My sincere appreciation for the document you sent us, although I must say the mysterious black ink obscuring part of the report has an aesthetic value that I cannot leave unmentioned. It almost feels like an artistic attempt to conceal reality in such a way that it becomes more appealing, like a veil that reveals more than it hides. In this report, which whispers about anonymous heroes operating in the shadows to protect literature from those who, how shall I put it, color just outside the lines, I sense an enthusiasm that borders on the heroic. And yet, this grandeur is somewhat undermined by the need to share the document only after judicial intervention. But let us not forget, every hero has his weaknesses, and it is good that you have handed over the papers this time without further delay. Bravo, truly.

Then, the matter of language. Ah, Dutch, that beautiful dialect full of cadence and rhythm, must surely sound like music to your ears by now, doesn’t it? Unless you indeed just flew in from the States, in which case I fear that my Dutch poetic might be somewhat lost in translation. However, as you undoubtedly understand, it would be condescending to switch to English just like that, as if I were to doubt your competence in our language. And of course, I would want to avoid that at all costs. It remains a risky assumption, I admit, but let’s give each other the benefit of the doubt. After all, you are a worldly man, aren’t you?

Secondly, and this is truly of utmost importance, I would like to ask you to bring a stopwatch to the hearing. You see, there is something reassuring about the ticking of a clock that reminds us that even bureaucratic obligations know an end. You have indicated that the session will be strictly limited to forty-five minutes. Magnificent! The bureaucratic precision many a philosopher would dream of. But to prevent us from being carried away by rhetoric, it seems useful to have a concrete measurement so that we do not slip unnoticed into eternity. I am considering bringing a proxy, a sort of mediator who ensures that everything proceeds according to the rules. I trust you will have no objection to this, after all, a second pair of eyes is always handy, especially when those eyes are trained in spotting the fine print, in so far as it was not blacked out.

There is something else I need to share with you, though I must request you keep this between us. Should you feel the need to inform Jan Jansen from Information Management 2 about this, I would prefer to avoid that, although I am well aware that secrecy in these circles can be an illusion.

My concerns lie with the sudden and utterly mysterious disappearance of Martine Bibo and Welmoet Tideman. It seems as though they have disappeared “like snow before the sun,” as the saying goes. Their absence is not only physical but also digital: even on the website, they are untraceable. This conjures an image of a backstage setup, where a chess player in a three-piece suit removes his pieces from the board with a genius move, just when no one is looking. Because let us be honest, this disappearance too closely resembles a masterly planned move to be mere coincidence. What this grandmaster’s plan exactly is remains a mystery, but the subtlety of the maneuver makes me think there is more to this than just an administrative error.

Of course, I hope my concerns prove unfounded and that Martine and Welmoet reappear soon, as if nothing happened, perhaps even with a smile that betrays they know what we do not. But until then, I will keep a wary eye on the wings, hoping to catch a glimpse of the hands pulling the strings.

Now that this is off my chest, back to business, Mr. Jackson.

It is not without some surprise, and perhaps a touch of irony, that I reviewed the blacked-out document in which our brave anonymous heroes present their diagnosis of my person with great certainty. That they call me a ‘megalomaniac’ – a title I have yet to have printed on my business card – would be amusing in itself were it not for the fact that these heroes simultaneously get lost in the labyrinth of my plans. They speak of ‘incomprehensible’ ideas and claim that the entire document is ‘impenetrable.’ Oh, if it weren’t so tragic, it would almost be comical.

What truly surprises me, however, is that this confusion is entirely placed on my shoulders, while the problem clearly lies elsewhere. My use of artistic terms – terms that are taken for granted in the world of art – appears to them to be an impenetrable jungle. It seems these gentlemen and ladies, in their haste to neatly compartmentalize everything, have forgotten that art is not a simple math problem, but a game of meanings, context, and nuance. And that they cannot immediately grasp these meanings, well, that may be a sign that they need to dive a bit deeper into the matter. Their own shortcomings are projected onto the writer. In psychoanalysis, we call this “projection.” This mechanism involves attributing one’s unconscious feelings, shortcomings, or undesirable traits to someone else instead of recognizing them in oneself. It is a sort of psychological defense, a way to protect oneself from the unpleasant reality of one’s own shortcomings by placing them outside oneself.

In this case, it seems that our brave anonymous heroes are unable to recognize their own confusion or lack of understanding and instead project the complexity and confusion they experience onto the writer. It is a classical defense strategy but unfortunately one that obscures rather than solves the real problem.

There is another issue that weighs heavily on my mind, which I would like to share with you: the fundamental misunderstanding that underlies the ‘literary work plan’ as it is currently presented to me. This form, which has been adopted and copied from the art world with almost admirable laziness, lacks any trace of philosophical reflection or understanding of the unique nature of the literary world. In the context of the art world, such a plan has its value: a gallery owner must have a good idea of what an artist intends to do with the available space. There is a risk associated with the exhibition, and that risk must be assessed and managed in some way.

But here the shoe pinches. What apparently has not been understood is that this model is totally inapplicable to literature. Where in the art world the gallery owner bears the risk, in literature it is the publisher who takes on this responsibility. And let’s be honest: if the publisher has already approved the project – which usually implies a fairly rigorous selection procedure – then why attach so much weight to a ‘plan’ for the next book?

What makes this all the more poignant is that those evaluating this ‘plan’ seem unable to even decipher some common art terms, let alone appreciate them. If one cannot understand the essence of the terms, how can one possibly judge the plans based on these terms? It is as if an architect is expected to defend his plans before a committee that has never seen a building up close, let alone understands how a foundation works.

Now we come to a fundamental point that I can no longer ignore: the way your Fund uses this ‘work plan’ as a universal lever in what I can only describe as a series of petty annoyances. Because let’s be honest, this is not the first time that ‘the plan’, according to your anonymous heroes, falls woefully short. If you have any doubts, feel free to look into the blacked-out archives of your office. History seems to be repeating itself.

Yet, and this is where the irony really starts to shine, the readers recognized in my last collection, Het Zijn maar Bergen, that I had hit an upward trajectory. That is to say, despite the fact that my plan, which according to bureaucratic or religiously fanatic standards was flawed, still led to a great book. This demonstrates that judgment about the value of a work plan is not necessarily a predictor of the final quality of the literary work. It is proof that my creative process does not fit within the rigid frameworks of such a form – and it doesn’t have to. Gerard Reve was not known for writing great subsidy plans.

It is especially poignant that these anonymous heroes, who apparently cling to non-literary traditions, use this limited and ineffective standard to keep my income unreasonably low. It seems that the work plan is used not so much to measure the value of the work but rather as a tool to create obstacles and frustrate the artist. It is a bureaucratic weapon, and that weapon is wielded without truly understanding the nuances or complexities of the literary process.

Unfortunately, I must conclude that it is impossible for me to predict in advance what one of my literary works will ultimately become. My creative process is organic, an ever-evolving stream that develops as I work. This means that each piece takes on a life of its own, unfolding and transforming in directions I cannot foresee beforehand. This brings me to a painful insight: the plan I submitted last time is filled with things that ultimately do not appear in the final book. But this is not due to ‘megalomania’ – a term that seemingly gets thrown around easily by your anonymous heroes – but rather the inability of your Fund to understand that ‘plans’ are not part of the literary tradition.

Allow me to clarify this with a vivid comparison: imagine an official meeting Jackson Pollock in his office. This official, unfamiliar with the unpredictable nature of Pollock’s work, might rebuke the painter because his plan – if he had one at all – does not resemble the end result. And imagine this official then lowering his salary because the painter ‘deviates’ from the original idea. It’s absurd, isn’t it? But precisely this absurd mechanism seems to be taking place in the literary world.

The shortsightedness of this system, relentlessly clinging to forms and plans, entirely misses the reality of the creative process. Literature is not a construction project where you can indicate exactly where each stone will lie before you begin building. It is a living, breathtaking process that cannot be captured within the cold frames of a form. And yet, this ‘work plan’ is used as a standard, as if the creative process can be controlled or predicted with it.

It is time, Mr. Jackson, that we acknowledge that literature does not follow a blueprint, and that the value of a work cannot be measured by a bureaucratic plan. Perhaps the moment has come to embrace the value of spontaneity, improvisation, and creative freedom – concepts essential to art but which, unfortunately, are too often subordinated to the desire for control and predictability in your system.

What truly troubles me is that these people, who are so concerned with their own ‘safety’, do not even seem to have the courage to practice literary criticism from their own perspective, their own subjectivity. Instead of facing the literary world with an open visor, they hide behind anonymous reports and blacked-out documents. The fear to show their own face, to let their own voice be heard in the discussion, appears so great that they avoid any personal involvement. It is as if they prefer to observe the art world from a safe, distant tower, far removed from the vibrant reality of writing and creating.

But literature is not a safe venture. It requires risk, stepping into the unknown, confronting the unexpected and the elusive. Practicing literary criticism should require the same: daring to embrace the uncertainty inherent in the creative process. It takes courage to leave the comfort zone and show one’s own face, without the protection of anonymity or bureaucratic formalities.

I would like to obtain clarity regarding the accusation that I suffer from ‘megalomania’. This qualification, which is quite loaded, is in no way substantiated in the partially blacked-out report. There is no specific reference to which of my works would support this accusation. Is it based on Het Zijn maar Bergen? Or De Eeuwige Ontgroening? Even that is not mentioned. It all remains shrouded in a haze of vagueness.

Take, for instance, the remark in the report: “It is unclear why Benders wants to learn to play all the instruments himself like his example Prince.” Unclear? What exactly is unclear about my desire to, like Prince, master a wide range of instruments? Prince was an artist who challenged himself and accepted no boundaries in his musical expression. That I harbor the same ambition reflects, in my opinion, dedication and a striving for artistic autonomy rather than a form of madness.

The crux of the matter is that the term ‘megalomania’ is a serious accusation that should not be uttered lightly. The report lacks any concrete support, any analysis, or even a reference to specific passages in my work that would substantiate this accusation. This raises the question of whether the judgment is not the result of misunderstanding or even prejudice, rather than a careful evaluation of my work and intentions.

I urgently request that you elaborate on this accusation and support it with specific examples from my work so that we can communicate about this openly and transparently. For if the substantiation is lacking, as it currently is, the accusation remains nothing more than an empty claim, and I hope you will agree with me that such empty claims and gross qualifications have no place in an objective report.

Of course, it would be easy to point out the age-old argument that ‘art evaluation is by definition subjective’ – a statement often heard in these circles and which the Dutch Foundation for Literature might wish to use as a shield to hide behind. But even within the subjectivity of art criticism, there must be some degree of consistency and fairness. If one passes a judgment as far-reaching as the accusation of ‘megalomania’, then one should at least expect that this judgment is based on concrete observations, examples, and a thorough analysis of the work in question.

If this basis is absent, then art criticism turns into an arbitrary judgment, harming not just the artist but also the integrity of the evaluating body. It would then amount to a superficial or even prejudicial approach, something neither in the spirit of the Dutch Foundation for Literature nor in the interest of art and literature should be.

Moreover, it strikes me that the anonymous heroes in your report scoff at my contributions to The Philosophical Salon, as if the fact that I have been published there is not a noteworthy achievement. This once again demonstrates a lack of insight, but this time not on my end of the spectrum.

The Philosophical Salon is far from a marginal platform. Until recently, it was a part of the Los Angeles Review of Books, one of the most respected publications in the field of literature and cultural criticism. Furthermore, The Philosophical Salon itself is one of the oldest and most renowned journals in the field of philosophy, with contributions from thinkers of global stature. It is a forum where profound intellectual debates take place, and where publication is not only a recognition of academic and philosophical merits but also evidence of some influence in the broader intellectual community.

That your reviewers do not acknowledge this or belittle its importance indicates a clear lack of knowledge about the status and reputation of this publication. It seems as if they are unaware of the reach and weight of such publications within the international intellectual discourse. This sort of ignorance cannot be called anything other than worrying, especially when the judgment about my work, and indirectly my income, is based on such misconceptions.

I strongly urge that they better inform themselves about the context and value of my publications before drawing such premature and unfounded conclusions. A more nuanced and well-informed evaluation would do justice not only to my work but also to the reputation of your Fund as an honest and knowledgeable appraiser of literary talent.

It is perhaps relevant to inform you that The Philosophical Salon was removed from the Los Angeles Review of Books this past November. This happened because the newspaper suddenly took the position that thinkers such as Slavoj Žižek could no longer express opinions on the massacres in Gaza. This decision is a telling indication of the growing pressure on intellectual freedom in certain circles, where even renowned thinkers are punished for their views if they are politically sensitive.

The fact that a philosophical platform of such stature had to give up its position because of this is troubling. It shows that the space for free and critical thought is under pressure, even in an environment always known for its intellectual openness. This makes contributions to The Philosophical Salon not less, but more valuable, given the context in which these publications are now seen as controversial or politically charged.

It strikes me that your Fund regularly celebrates one author when they achieve international success while another author, in this case, myself, is stifled. This difference in treatment raises questions, and it seems that literary quality or cultural value are not the decisive factors here, but rather a hidden political and commercial agenda.

Indeed, it appears that a subtle but unmistakable commercial claw exerts its influence within the Fund. This becomes painfully clear when we look at the differences in treatment. When Marieke Rijneveld achieves success in England, there seems to be no limit to the enthusiasm. But when I achieve a comparable feat, I am branded as ‘megalomaniac.’ This disparity in treatment is not only unjust but also symptomatic of a broader issue within the Fund.

Perhaps it is my placement by philosopher Jurgen Eissink, who in the preface of De Eeuwige Ontgroening places my work among the greats like György Konrád and Les Murray, that leads to this charge of megalomania? It would almost be comical if it were not so sad that such a recognition in literary circles is apparently placed in the corner of shame instead of being appreciated. But no, in the blacked-out committees of the Dutch Foundation for Literature, there seems to be no room for such honors. For that would mean acknowledging that there is more in the world than the safe, limited frameworks they have drawn for themselves.

It seems that the salon saints of the committee adhere to the adage “just act normal, that’s crazy enough,” and greet any deviation with suspicion and cynicism. There is no room for ambition, for greatness, or even for the idea that there is more to life than the small and safe world in which they operate. Knowledge, ambition, and a broader perspective seem to be threats rather than values to be cherished and supported.

It is my hope that this entrenched attitude within the Fund will be challenged and that there will be room for an open view of the world, where both commercial successes and philosophical and literary achievements are evaluated on their own merits.

Additionally, I would like to inquire about the number of days I have left to submit any supplementary documents. This detail isn’t entirely clear to me, and I would regret if a lack of clarity regarding this deadline were to provide the ammunition for your review committee to dismiss my entire argument. It would be particularly unfortunate if, besides being labeled as ‘megalomaniac,’ I were also to be seen as someone who fails to manage administrative matters.

Your confirmation and clarification on these issues would be greatly appreciated.

Yours sincerely,

Martijn Benders, August 18, 2024

P.S. When your committee astutely noted that “I am not the first poet to work with music,” as if I had ever suggested otherwise—I was speaking of new forms, given that A.I. has indeed opened new pathways, and it is the artist’s duty to explore such possibilities—the meaning of art, of the avant-garde, according to your committee, is simply that “I am not the first to work with music.” As if previous poets had somehow resurrected Komrij or Thomas to have them pen the foreword to their new collections. Or is that too considered megalomaniacal?

Anyway, perhaps you are familiar with the poet Leigh Hunt, partly known for his presence in Fournier’s artwork The Funeral of Shelley: