ingratitude is †the world’s wages. Or do I mean: nomen est omen? Be that as it may, Mai Spijkers is under fire. He is yet another victim of the puritanical totalitarian ruthless dogmatic humorless Hashtag MeToo movement.
The hungry, unbridled, cunning charming cannibalistic mogul who started the Prometheus publishing house and tried to ram literary giants such as Brusselmans, Lanoye, Palmen, Eco, Eugenides, Franzen and many others down our throats, is accused of ‘bastardism’. He would have created a culture of fear and, moreover, committed transgressive behaviour.
Cross-border behavior is subjective.
When a drunken retired bullfighter in some West Flemish inn puts a hand on my left breast, I beam and blush (and shrug), while a more frail, more fragile, prude, more serious than me, may scream bloody murder and the cops join in. fetches. Because her limit was crossed.
My border is further, somewhere near my ovaries. If my ovaries are spatted against my will, yes, then I’ll probably scream bloody murder too.
Culture of fear then… That sounds vague and Slavic and abstract. Is it something like The Devil Wears Prada? Mai Spijkers is nothing like Meryl Streep (nor Anna Wintour).
slut
Cowardice is universal. In Flanders it is usually referred to as sluggishness. Sometimes rudeness, burping or rudeness.
I am poet Delphine Lecompte.
My publishing house is called De Bezige Bij. The editor I work with is Merijn Hollestelle, a warm, generous, meek and sensitive chap who never instills fear in me and seldom arouses disgust in me. But when I write my grim blasphemous poems and wry perverse stories at 3 a.m. at home in Bruges, Merijn is the last person on my mind or who torments me. Good thing, too.
Sluggishness is annoying. The heat is also annoying.
The rising prices of my favorite sugar wafers, herb cheese and chocolate spread are also particularly irritating.
Annoyances, obstacles and setbacks are part of life. Fear is also part of our existence, it is a rich breeding ground for most writers.
Department manager
I once stocked shelves in a sinister supermarket in Sint Kruis. I was 24 and the slowest, slopiest, dreamiest, dirtiest and most dopey rack filler in the world.
In the dairy department I had a witty, light-hearted, frivolous, honest department manager who condoned my idiosyncrasies and messes, but when I was transferred to the dry food department, it was all over.
The dry food department manager was a bully, a bully, a caricature bully. He still works in that sinister supermarket in Sint Kruis.
I didn’t, I got fired.
Oof!
Life is brutal and unfair, and our fellow human beings will sometimes offend, insult, offend, taunt, taunt, laugh and insult us. Then you have to scratch your hair resignedly, pour a bottle of Martini down your throat, smoke opium, blow a volley of winds, copulate with a disarming tree surgeon, listen to meddle by Pink Floyd and the masterly brilliant indestructible poems by Gerrit Achterberg.
pillory
What you should not do is complain and lament and whine and pillory a so-called bastard… After having toiled and toiled for him for nine years (seemingly peaceful and beneficent).
Mai Spijkers did not anally penetrate Ronit Palache with a courgette (nor with a kohlrabi), nor did he subject her to unwanted cunnilingus on a pile of good, graceful, popular collections of poetry by the cuddly Ingmar Heytze.
Mai Spijkers may be an obnoxious, haughty, gruff, egocentric, bossy guy. And then? Does everyone have to be sweet, droll, polite, impeccable, neat, colorless and hypocritical? Of course not. What nonsense.
I allow everyone to be insufferable, fickle, hot-tempered and stormy. I will always prefer passion and unpredictability to cold decency and bloodless etiquette.
Unfortunately, we live in a society where even the most ignorant hollow stupid reprehensible bastards imagine that they need constant petting, complimenting, hugging, soothing, coddled and encouraged. While it would be much more constructive and sensible to say to some people: Your work is nothing, turn it up a notch, you bungling, unworthy sloth!
Passion
Mai Spijkers had a vision. His passion and dedication must have ensured that he had no time for bungling, and that he could sometimes come across as arrogant and impatient.
It was not Mai Spijkers’ task to create a Valhalla of niceness and harmony. His job (his life’s work) was to publish and promote the books he was passionate about. That was his only assignment.
He’s not a social worker holding hands and distributing blankets, granola bars, plush alpacas, and bleeding wipes. He was not to put syrup on the mouths of frail, mediocre, foppish, pretentious, vain and unjustly glorified writers.
He had to publish excellent breathtaking reckless innovative subversive recalcitrant books. What did he do. And what will now be made impossible for him.
I will always be grateful to Mai Spijkers for his fantastic passion, for his merciless dedication and for his brilliant vision.
Delphine Lecompte is a poet, prose writer and columnist for the Flemish magazine Humo†