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Stefan Hertmans
12quotes
Stefan Hertmans
Belgian Poet, Essayist, and Novelist
Full Name and Common Aliases
Stefan Hertmans was born on January 28, 1951, in Antwerp, Belgium. He is often referred to as a Belgian poet, essayist, and novelist.
Birth and Death Dates
January 28, 1951 (birth) - present (still living)
Nationality and Profession(s)
Hertmans holds Belgian nationality and works primarily as a writer, dividing his time between Antwerp and Amsterdam. His writing career spans multiple genres, including poetry, essays, and novels.
Early Life and Background
Growing up in the post-war era, Hertmans was exposed to the remnants of World War II's aftermath, which later influenced his literary themes. He studied comparative literature at Ghent University and began writing during this period. His early work focused on individual experiences within a larger historical context, setting the stage for his future explorations.
Major Accomplishments
Hertmans' writing career is marked by numerous awards and accolades. Some of his notable achievements include:
Winning the Libris Prize in 2015 for _War and Turpentine_, a novel that explores Hertmans' own family history during World War II.
Being shortlisted for the International Booker Prize for the same book.
Notable Works or Actions
Hertmans has published several collections of poetry, essays, and novels. Some of his notable works include:
_War and Turpentine_ (2015), a novel that delves into Hertmans' family's experiences during World War II.
_What You Did Not Tell Me_ (2013), an essay about Hertmans' father's life, which is part of the "My Father's War" series.
Impact and Legacy
Hertmans' work has had a significant impact on contemporary literature. His unique narrative style, which often blends personal experiences with historical context, has inspired a new generation of writers. His ability to explore complex themes in an accessible manner has also made his work appealing to a wide range of readers.
Why They Are Widely Quoted or Remembered
Stefan Hertmans is widely quoted and remembered for his thought-provoking exploration of historical events through personal narratives. His writing style, which combines poetry, essays, and novels, has made him stand out in the literary world.
Quotes by Stefan Hertmans
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To me, he was still a hero; he gave me fencing lessons, sharpened my pocketknife, taught me how to draw clouds by rubbing an eraser over shapes sketched with a piece of charred wood from the fireplace, and how to render the myriad leaves of a tree without drawing each one separately—the true secret of art, as he called it.
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I take another look at the stone, run my fingertip over the meticulous brushstrokes, and realize that nothing ever returns to time unless it is stored in mute, voiceless objects; rocks do tell tales after all.
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Nothing makes a deeper impression on a boy than seeing his strong mother suddenly girlish and hurt
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Soldiers are destroyers and bitter men when they return from furlough to the front.
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The war had shot humanism full of holes, and what came rushing in was the infernal heat of a barren moral wasteland that could hardly be sown with new ideals, since it was abundantly clear how far astray the old ones had led us. The new politics that would now flare up was fueled by wrath, resentment, rancor, and vengefulness, and showed even greater potential for destruction.
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They’re all daubers, today’s painters; they’ve completely lost touch with the classical tradition, the subtle, noble craft of the old masters. They muddle along with no respect for the laws of anatomy, don’t even know how to glaze, never mix their own paint, use turpentine like water, and are ignorant of the secrets of grinding your own pigments, of fine linseed oil and the blowing of siccatives—no wonder there are no more great painters.
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The truth in life often lies buried in places we do not associate with authenticity. Life is more subtle, in this respect, than linear human morality. It goes to work like a painter-copyist, using illusion to depict the truth.
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Clues like these turn out to have been present throughout my childhood, invisible to me, and only by drawing links between my memories and what I read could I begin work on a modest form of restitution, inadequate reparations for my unforgivable innocence in those days.
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