Last he recites poems
Op-Ed: Shortly before his suicide—the tenth anniversary of which falls today—Niklaus Meienberg gave one last interview. Dominik Imseng, the interviewer, recalls the event.
Guest commentary Shortly before his suicide, which today marks its tenth anniversary, Niklaus Meienberg gave a last interview. Dominik Imseng, the interviewer, remembers.as he sits there, at half past three in the Kropf restaurant: a chatterbox. He is dizzy, he says, and will not take off his hat during the interview. Anecdotes, anecdotes. Stories about stories. Especially about journalists is blasphemed. Shitheads all. The tape runs and wraps itself around us. Once again salt pretzels and beer. That helps: his answers begin to relate to our questions. Half past eleven. We stroll through the old town and look for Schawinski's doorbell in the Stadelhofer Passage ("Don't hold it in your head that he's sitting in Frisch's apartment now").
Two days later, it is Sunday, he calls. We meet in Oerlikon, and he tells us about the North Africans who were still kicking him in the eyes when he was already lying on the ground as if dead ("Someone took revenge for an article"). Next topic: his motorcycle accident near Toulouse. Someone had thundered into him. Some big government animal had done it. Tomorrow he has to go to the doctor again. He touches his forehead.
We sit in his apartment and drink wine. Then he spreads out correspondences. Even his own. Copies or the originals. For hours we go through folders ("Here are the love letters, one and a half kilos, all addressed to me"). Then he brings a box full of newspaper clippings ("Someone sent them to me"). "Meienberg, the star writer". "Meienberg, the enfant terrible".
He continues to troll. Like a cat proudly presenting killed birds and mice. "Here's the letter from McNamara, there's the fax to Havel." In the corner is his business card from his days in the Stern office in Paris. Last, he recites poetry. Apollinaire and his own. As I leave, he murmurs, "A friend of mine, an old man, he's seriously ill. Do you know anything?" Shortly after, an acquaintance hears a similar story from him. Only now the friend is younger and has a different ailment.
Playhouse, three weeks later. Around one o'clock he comes down to the basement. Sits down with the boys, with the women. Thomas Hürlimann had shivered past him, had sweated past him and had given him four wet fingers. He sits there and tells. About his bike accident. About his wound on the head. There is nothing to see. As we say goodbye, I ask him how many voucher copies he needs. "One and a half."
On the eve of the publication of the book "Tinder. Raids, Assaults, Leftovers," Niklaus Meienberg swallows sleeping pills and puts a plastic bag over his head. "My ashes in the upper reaches of the Seine. No gravestone. Nowhere!"
> Dominik Imseng has written for Weltwoche and the Tages-Anzeiger magazine, among others. Today he is Creative Director at McCann-Erickson Switzerland.
Two days later, it is Sunday, he calls. We meet in Oerlikon, and he tells us about the North Africans who were still kicking him in the eyes when he was already lying on the ground as if dead ("Someone took revenge for an article"). Next topic: his motorcycle accident near Toulouse. Someone had thundered into him. Some big government animal had done it. Tomorrow he has to go to the doctor again. He touches his forehead.
We sit in his apartment and drink wine. Then he spreads out correspondences. Even his own. Copies or the originals. For hours we go through folders ("Here are the love letters, one and a half kilos, all addressed to me"). Then he brings a box full of newspaper clippings ("Someone sent them to me"). "Meienberg, the star writer". "Meienberg, the enfant terrible".
He continues to troll. Like a cat proudly presenting killed birds and mice. "Here's the letter from McNamara, there's the fax to Havel." In the corner is his business card from his days in the Stern office in Paris. Last, he recites poetry. Apollinaire and his own. As I leave, he murmurs, "A friend of mine, an old man, he's seriously ill. Do you know anything?" Shortly after, an acquaintance hears a similar story from him. Only now the friend is younger and has a different ailment.
Playhouse, three weeks later. Around one o'clock he comes down to the basement. Sits down with the boys, with the women. Thomas Hürlimann had shivered past him, had sweated past him and had given him four wet fingers. He sits there and tells. About his bike accident. About his wound on the head. There is nothing to see. As we say goodbye, I ask him how many voucher copies he needs. "One and a half."
On the eve of the publication of the book "Tinder. Raids, Assaults, Leftovers," Niklaus Meienberg swallows sleeping pills and puts a plastic bag over his head. "My ashes in the upper reaches of the Seine. No gravestone. Nowhere!"
> Dominik Imseng has written for Weltwoche and the Tages-Anzeiger magazine, among others. Today he is Creative Director at McCann-Erickson Switzerland.
