This article is based on this dutch article of Martijn Benders
The Temporarily Autonomous Zone
I immersed myself in the paradox of the literary administrative landscape, a world where the chance of just 0.7% is not only a statistical anomaly but almost a mythological manifestation of bureaucracy. Imagine: four times in a row, an administrator is found seated on the throne of ‘literary expert,’ a term that ironically seems to bask in an outdated administrative culture that is denounced in public discussions yet merrily persists within the Literature Fund. These administrators, freed from the necessity to ever apply for a grant themselves, sacrifice themselves to debate the arts with stately seriousness.
These people, fervent protectors of the institution, still seem to be waging a Cold War with creatives. They do not regard the writer as a partner in conversation, even if the writer has flawlessly adhered to all protocols and procedures. To them, writers are merely pawns, and they? They are the infallible experts, the cold guardians of the literary order, disguised as neutral arbiters while they exude partisanship. All this, while Foucault’s words echo about institutes that only pretend to be impartial—a criticism that ironically would not have been grant-worthy.
And yet it is exciting because I am preparing for one more objection, one last attempt to turn the odds towards the astronomically unlikely. So unlikely that even Our Lord, whom these administrators undoubtedly serve dutifully, would lose faith in it. A gamble in the literary arena, where the dice appear loaded but the outcome is still undetermined. Where the real question lingers in the cold air: when will literary expertise become truly independent of the institution that claims to represent it?
But Benders, you might think, isn’t Asscher also a writer? Indeed, Mr. Asscher wore many hats—writer, administrator, publisher, bookseller. However, I did not challenge him because his literary talent is lacking; such a judgment is not for me to make. I respect any writer who has struggled through the arduous process of creating a body of work—excellence in their craft is not a prerequisite for my respect. My objection to Asscher was based on the undeniable conflicts of interest with various individuals mentioned in my objection letter. This made him fundamentally unsuitable for the role he held, a subtlety that Asscher himself seemed to have difficulty grasping, as he still occupies that position.
I also plan to nominate the man for the Guinness Book of Records, as it would not surprise me if he achieved the world record for the most administrative positions. It seems there is no board in the country of which Maarten Asscher is not or has not been a part. Dozens of positions flash by, and you wonder how someone manages to run even one bookstore properly, let alone fill that store with books from his own publishing house while holding thirty administrative positions.
The merging of these roles inevitably raises questions about the ability to manage these responsibilities without conflicts of interest. How can one honestly assess and promote literary works while simultaneously having personal and business interests in that same literary world? This seems almost a Herculean task, where the boundaries between personal ambition and professional integrity become blurry.
This spectacle of multitasking in the administrative landscape is not only bewildering but also somewhat admirable. Yet the question remains hanging in the air: is this tireless effort driven by a true passion for literature and management, or is it a strategic maneuver in a game where the ordinary writer and reader barely understand the rules? As Maarten Asscher climbs one administrative seat after another, many eagerly await to see if his literary and administrative pirouettes will ultimately elevate him to new heights or unravel the complex fabric of our literary culture.
In addition to all this administrative acrobatics, Maarten Asscher also finds time to write books, and if that were not enough, he also holds the role of a jurist. He seemingly has no problem acting as a judicial authority over other writers who may be less busy. But when I heard that the person holding my literary fate in his hands was none other than Maarten Asscher—a name that until that moment was unknown to me as a literary outsider—I decided to pick up one of his books.
I ordered the book “Toch zit het anders,” attracted by a title that seems so weighty and confident. The book, strangely enough with no online reviews to be found, already promised in its title a renewed vision or a correction of generally accepted truths. And then that cover, with its two lions at the end of a railway—or is it a communist version of a flower bed? One lion has toppled the other, with an air of triumph. A visual display of conflict that only adds weight to the title.
This image immediately raised questions: Is Asscher intending to suggest that everything we consider certain is merely a snapshot, waiting to be overturned? That in the battle of ideas, truth sometimes is like that toppled lion, seemingly defeated but always ready for reinterpretation? The title itself conjures the image of a know-it-all who watches with a smile as everyone else struggles to piece together the puzzle of reality, while he, and only he, has seen the real picture.
So, I began reading, expecting Asscher to guide me through the labyrinthine paths of his intellect, perhaps even toppling my own entrenched convictions like that one lion on the cover. But what I found in the book deeply disappointed me. The first fifty pages were, I couldn’t conclude otherwise, written by someone who gets literary thrill from rummaging through other people’s luggage. Suitcases left behind at stations, and Asscher would open those suitcases and ‘reconstruct the stories’ of the travelers based on the items. A writer-customs officer with a fetishistic tendency to dig through foreign belongings. This concept, though potentially rich in narrative possibilities, came across as superficial and disappointingly linear. The way Asscher allowed himself to use the contents of lost suitcases as a springboard for his literary imagination seemed more like an inappropriate intrusion into the private spheres of strangers than a profound literary exploration.
The tension between Asscher’s public persona as an administrator and the intimate, almost intrusive tone of his book created a dissonance that was difficult to bridge. And more than that, I now understood what I, as a ‘writer,’ essentially was to Mr. Asscher: a suitcase with strange items, and rummaging through it gave him a kind of voyeuristic satisfaction—could this be why he so eagerly takes that seat? I continued reading the book. Almost the entire book was directed at the civil service, not at writers. When I came across the passage where Asscher disclosed that writers and translators were merely a bunch of pretentious individuals for wanting their names on the translated book, I knew enough. It was sobering. This was not the view of an ally in literature but that of a bureaucratic ruler, someone for whom the artistic efforts and personal struggles of creatives were mere trivialities in the larger scheme of administrative order.
This view of creative professionals as annoying children who want to see their names etched on a work spoke volumes about his perception of literary labor. It was a perspective deeply rooted in the cold logic of administrative efficiency rather than an appreciation for literary art or the craftsmanship of translation.
What I had hoped to find in the pages of “Toch zit het anders” was a refined exploration of literature, a celebration of the complexity of language and identity. Instead, I found an account that looked more like a manual for bureaucratic efficiency, where writers and translators were reduced to annoying bureaucratic obstacles rather than celebrated as the crucial cultural contributors they are.
So this is the man who would sit across from me to pronounce judgment over me. I decided that a suitcase had to come along, a suitcase from which I would treat with Bossche Bollen due to my international success at The Philosophical Salon. It is a magical green English suitcase that I received as a gift on my wedding day from Bart van der Pligt. We were in a heatwave, and Veronique had parked on the other side of Amsterdam, so delivering the Bossche Bollen intact to the Literature Fund was quite a task.
The chance that Asscher would accept the Bosschebol was minimal, I knew that. The man is no fool; he is a seasoned administrator, a suit-player, a clever one. There is no messier treat than a Bosschebol. It is impossible to eat a Bosschebol without making a mess; any sense of formality is immediately undermined when confronted with such a creamy, sticky delicacy. But that was precisely the point. If Asscher accepted this gesture, however small and seemingly insignificant, it might reveal a moment of humanity, a crack in the formal facade behind which he so expertly hid.
So there I went, with a suitcase full of Bossche Bollen, through the sweltering heat of an Amsterdam summer, struggling with the idea that the contents could at any moment transform into a sweet mess. The streets seemed longer under the scorching sun, and the idea of going to a formal meeting with this unconventional peace offering felt both ridiculous and brilliant.
We were almost fifteen minutes late. It wasn’t intentional, but it made the committee even a bit more nervous. I placed the suitcase proudly on the conference table and unzipped it. I demonstratively placed the book “Toch zit het anders” on the table, talked about my international success, and that we had something to celebrate, bringing out the Bosschebollen from the worn suitcase. Asscher instinctively declined, “diabetes,” and even Martine Bibo, manager, jurist, didn’t want a Bosschebol. Only the dear Welmoet Tideman, also a jurist, was willing to try such a bun. I took out the golden forks I had specially purchased for this occasion.
Asscher’s face grew even gloomier. Golden forks? His gaze lingered a bit too long on the fork I was holding. It worked, he fell out of his role. The golden forks, glittering under the conference lights, were not only a statement of extravagance but also a challenging nod to the formalities that so often dominate such meetings. The contrast between Asscher and Martine Bibo’s solemn rejection and Welmoet Tideman’s willingness to engage with my little rebellion clearly illustrated the different personalities at the table.
This was not the protocol he was used to following. The Bossche Bollen, the book, and especially the golden forks were undoubtedly symbols of something much larger than a simple treat; they represented a break from the usual, a challenge to the status quo within the literary and bureaucratic world where he felt so comfortable.
Many people do not know that you have to turn a Bosschebol upside down to eat it without significant formal damage. You can then barbarically scoop out the cream, which I demonstrated to the committee on the spot, but Welmoet, with her mouth now plastered with chocolate, had failed to pay attention. Asscher began his speech about the procedure, occasionally interjected by a somewhat sharp Martine Bibo, who was clearly there to lend her self-invented ‘small system’ some weight, something that also visibly irritated Asscher.
Asscher started his argument with the strange claim that he more or less happened to fall into that chair, that he had no idea why the Literature Fund had asked him. Scooping, I listened and marveled at the effectiveness of such a Temporary Autonomous Zone. Instead of building a line of defense, Asscher had, perhaps unconsciously, undermined its foundations. His words opened a chasm between him and the role he was supposed to play. It was a rare moment where the facade of absolute competence and purposefulness, so often projected by those in power, crumbled. There he sat, soon-to-be Guinness Book of Record-holder in number of administrative functions, casually falling into the chair to judge me, the barbarian who was scooping out his Bosschebol upside down. It was a moment of unprecedented tension. Asscher looked at me unsurely. He knew it. He had failed.
And when he subsequently began rattling off his rehearsed speech, I interrupted him and let him know that I was challenging him as a committee member. That was an even bigger bomb. Asscher’s eyes nearly took on astronomical proportions. What is going on here? Especially the instinct of the suit-player came forward, not understanding this incomprehensible move. Because a real clever one, a thorough administrator, would have let Asscher rattle off his entire speech and only then challenged the committee, when all arguments were on the table. Was I not interested in the arguments at all? What is this? What is the political meaning? Why this strange and shocking lack of cleverness?
The man thanked me for challenging so early in the procedure when that is actually the standard, procedural moment if I am not mistaken. No, I had already indicated earlier in the email that I considered Asscher unsuitable, but Martine Bibo had silently ignored it.
With the half-eaten Bosschebollen in hand, we left the conference room to give the committee time to deliberate on the challenge. After ten minutes, it was concluded: Asscher withdrew as chairman of the committee. However, he was so shaken that he made even more mistakes: he stammered that he did not know a certain poet, whose name escapes me now (1), but that one poet, whose boss he was, the publisher—no, he did not know him, although this poet published the only poetry collection at Van Oorschot Publisher that year, a collection overflowing with Rome trips and Potjeslatijn, composed entirely to Asscher’s taste. But he had never heard of him. Sure, Mr. Asscher.
As a writer, I was struck by this to some depth. How sad is it exactly when, as a publisher, you don’t know the only poet you will publish half a year later? No, the formal Asscher would never have made this mistake. It was the result of my successful Hakim Bey-like situationist action. How can someone effectively lead a literary institution and truly advocate for literature if he is not even aware of the creative talents within his own ranks? This was not only a personal failing of Asscher; it was a symptom of a larger, structural problem that demands more attention and improvement.
My action, inspired by Hakim Bey’s idea of the ‘Temporary Autonomous Zone,’ was meant to foster precisely this kind of critical self-reflection within the formal literary world. By creating a situation where Asscher was forced to step outside his usual script and comfort zone, a moment of genuine humanity and vulnerability was revealed.
The Bosschebol served as a catalyst here, as the sweet engine of this Autonomous Zone: this treat, normally served at festive occasions, was used here as an instrument of cultural subversion. The Bosschebol forced everyone at the table, including Asscher, to literally and figuratively get their hands dirty, an act that stood in stark contrast to the rigid formalities of the meeting culture.
Speaking of Temporary Autonomous Zones… no, no, this is another Hakim Bey, but that means ‘My Lord the Judge’ in Turkish…
(1) This was about Daan Doesborgh, the debuting poet who eagerly tries to replicate the success formula of Sasja Janssen’s Potjeslatijn, and on Van Oorschot’s website presents an encyclopedic fact as a poem, undoubtedly quite an accomplishment. Are you reading along, Piet Gerbrandy? I think we’ve finally found the likely successor in the Sancta Ordo Potestis Latini et Fetishistarum Gymnasii. Now let’s ensure his publisher actually learns to know him.
Martijn, 17-08-2024
