Fernando Sorrentino is an Argentine writer born in Buenos Aires on November 8, 1942. His works have been translated into English, Portuguese, Italian, German, French, Finnish, Hungarian, Polish, Bulgarian, Chinese, Vietnamese, Tamil, and Kabyle. In 2006 Fernando Sorrentino published a collection of short stories entitled: "Per colpa del dottor Moreau ed altri racconti fantastici". The collection includes all his short stories translated in Italian and is published by Progetto Babele literary magazine.
A very short, and very strange story, of a man鈥檚 ability to overcome a most annoying event in his life - that of a stranger hitting him with an umbrella over and over and over and....!
Fernando Sorrentino (Born 1942) - Argentine author with an international reputation for writing short, offbeat, absurdist fiction, There鈥檚 a Man in the Habit of Hitting Me on the Head with an Umbrella as case in point. Other internationally recognized absurdist writers who come immediately to mind are Soviet-era Danill Kharms and American Russell Edson.
What is it about absurdist fiction that makes it so unusual? Reflecting on just this question, below are seven reasons. And below the list, I've also included Fernando Sorrentino鈥檚 actual story about the umbrella man you can read for yourself.
1. Reason is turned completely on its head: a man climbs up to the apex of his roof, cry giddyup and his house rears up on its back porch and all its bricks fall apart and the house crashes to the ground; actors in a play enter the stage to do nothing but throw-up; someone spends their life receiving bonks over the head with an umbrella. Nonsense? In a way, yes, but these nonsensical happenings provide us with a unique opportunity to examine human nature and modes of behavior.
2. Dark humor, anyone? Absurdist humor frequently deals with themes and issues bordering on nightmare approached obliquely and from unusual angles. In Fernando Sorrentino鈥檚 The Return we encounter the eerie repeated appearance of a rag man through the eyes of a distant observer.
3. The absurdist fiction writer does not judge the wacky events in a story or play so much as leaving any judgment to the reader. Characters can be sliced and diced, mangled, beaten or kicked down a flight of stairs with as much regularity as if they were washing their hands or walking down the street - all without receiving any authorial moralizing.
4. In absurdist fiction the hallmarks of traditional plot structure with its arch of ascending and then descending action revolving around a central event or climax is frequently abandoned. I recall one absurdist play where the curtain goes up, a sigh is heard off stage and the curtain goes down. End of play.
5. Frequently the absurdist writer has direct ties to the worlds of Dada and Surrealist art, or, at the very least, embraces the aesthetic sensibilities of the Dadaist and Surrealist. Matter of fact, when reading absurdist fiction, frequently the surreal art of Ren茅 Magritte or Max Ernst or Salvador Dali comes to mind.
6. Absurdist fiction is usually very short. Here is a Fernando Sorrentino quote from an interview: 鈥淟et鈥檚 just say that my head can鈥檛 imagine plots long enough to write novels. On the other hand, it鈥檚 easy for me to imagine situations or conversations that could eventually turn into relatively enjoyable stories. In other words: I follow mere pleasure, simplicity, or, even worse, the 鈥減ath of least resistance.鈥濃€� I recall similar statements from other absurdist writers like Russell Edson and Barry Yourgreau: short fiction accomplishes what they have to say.
7. Absurdist fiction tests our comfort zones. How conventional and humdrum are most of our opinions and ways of thinking and moving in the world? There鈥檚 no question, nearly all absurdist fiction is 鈥渨ay out there.鈥� Fernando Sorrentino said in an interview that he writes without taking a reader into account, how he writers always to satisfy his own taste in reading and writing. Many people simply do not have a fondness for such stories, no matter how short. But for those of us who do, we can鈥檛 read enough of absurdist tales.
THERE'S A MAN IN THE HABIT OF HITTING ME ON THE HEAD WITH AN UMBRELLA by Fernando Sorrentino
There鈥檚 a man in the habit of hitting me on the head with an umbrella. It makes exactly five years today that he鈥檚 been hitting me on the head with his umbrella. At first I couldn鈥檛 stand it; now I鈥檓 used to it.
I don鈥檛 know his name. I know he鈥檚 average in appearance, wears a gray suit, is graying at the temples, and has a common face. I met him five years ago one sultry morning. I was sitting on a tree-shaded bench in Palermo Park, reading the paper. Suddenly I felt something touch my head. It was the very same man who now, as I鈥檓 writing, keeps whacking me, mechanically and impassively, with an umbrella.
On that occasion I turned around filled with indignation: he just kept on hitting me. I asked him if he was crazy: he didn鈥檛 even seem to hear me. Then I threatened to call a policeman. Unperturbed, cool as a cucumber, he stuck with his task. After a few moments of indecision, and seeing that he was not about to change his attitude, I stood up and punched him in the nose. The man fell down, and let out an almost inaudible moan. He immediately got back on his feet, apparently with great effort, and without a word again began hitting me on the head with the umbrella. His nose was bleeding and, at that moment, I felt sorry for him. I felt remorse for having hit him so hard. After all, the man wasn鈥檛 exactly bludgeoning me; he was merely tapping me lightly with his umbrella, not causing any pain at all. Of course, those taps were extremely bothersome. As we all know, when a fly lands on your forehead, you don鈥檛 feel any pain whatsoever; what you feel is annoyance. Well then, that umbrella was one humongous fly that kept landing on my head time after time, and at regular intervals.
Convinced that I was dealing with a madman, I tried to escape. But the man followed me, wordlessly continuing to hit me. So I began to run (at this juncture I should point out that not many people run as fast as I do). He took off after me, vainly trying to land a blow. The man was huffing and puffing and gasping so, that I thought if I continued to force him to run at that speed, my tormenter would drop dead right then and there.
That鈥檚 why I slowed down to a walk. I looked at him. There was no trace of either gratitude or reproach on his face. He merely kept hitting me on the head with the umbrella. I thought of showing up at the police station and saying, 鈥淥fficer, this man is hitting me on the head with an umbrella.鈥� It would have been an unprecedented case. The officer would have looked at me suspiciously, would have asked for my papers, and begun asking embarrassing questions. And he might even have ended up placing me under arrest.
I thought it best to return home. I took the 67 bus. He, all the while hitting me with his umbrella, got on behind me. I took the first seat. He stood right beside me, and held on to the railing with his left hand. With his right hand he unrelentingly kept whacking me with that umbrella. At first, the passengers exchanged timid smiles. The driver began to observe us in the rearview mirror. Little by little the bus trip turned into one great fit of laughter, an uproarious, interminable fit of laughter. I was burning with shame. My persecutor, impervious to the laughter, continued to strike me.
I got off鈥攚e got off鈥攁t Pac铆fico Bridge. We walked along Santa Fe Avenue. Everyone stupidly turned to stare at us. It occurred to me to say to them, 鈥淲hat are you looking at, you idiots? Haven鈥檛 you ever seen a man hit another man on the head with an umbrella?鈥� But it also occurred to me that they probably never had seen such a spectacle. Then five or six little boys began chasing after us, shouting like maniacs.
But I had a plan. Once I reached my house, I tried to slam the door in his face. That didn鈥檛 happen. He must have read my mind, because he firmly seized the doorknob and pushed his way in with me.
From that time on, he has continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. As far as I can tell, he has never either slept or eaten anything. His sole activity consists of hitting me. He is with me in everything I do, even in my most intimate activities. I remember that at first, the blows kept me awake all night. Now I think it would be impossible for me to sleep without them.
Still and all, our relations have not always been good. I鈥檝e asked him, on many occasions, and in all possible tones, to explain his behavior to me. To no avail: he has wordlessly continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. Many times I have let him have it with punches, kicks, and even鈥擥od forgive me鈥攗mbrella blows. He would meekly accept the blows. He would accept them as though they were part of his job. And this is precisely the weirdest aspect of his personality: that unshakable faith in his work coupled with a complete lack of animosity. In short, that conviction that he was carrying out some secret mission that responded to a higher authority.
Despite his lack of physiological needs, I know that when I hit him, he feels pain. I know he is weak. I know he is mortal. I also know that I could be rid of him with a single bullet. What I don鈥檛 know is if it would be better for that bullet to kill him or to kill me. Neither do I know if, when the two of us are dead, he might not continue to hit me on the head with his umbrella. In any event, this reasoning is pointless; I recognize that I would never dare to kill him or kill myself.
On the other hand, I have recently come to the realization that I couldn鈥檛 live without those blows. Now, more and more frequently, a certain foreboding overcomes me. A new anxiety is eating at my soul: the anxiety stemming from the thought that this man, perhaps when I need him most, will depart and I will no longer feel those umbrella taps that helped me sleep so soundly.
"During certain times in my life I鈥檝e had to carry out very unpleasant jobs (for example, I was an office worker), and for that reason I would never let literature (which is, above all, a game and a pleasure) turn out to be a job.鈥� 鈥� Fernando Sorrentino
Crazy little story that wants you to believe that, over time, you will get used to annoyances in your life. Well, sometimes you will. At other times though, things that irritate you, can become unbearable. But some irksome things you just can鈥檛 escape.
As seen before from Fernando Sorrentino, short and sweet.
You come to terms with a lot of small everyday annoyances if you just place them in an alternate version of your life. However, if you should get such an experience in real-life I advise you to arrange a restraining order from absurdist writers.
This author has such an imagination... main character just gets thumped with an umbrella by a stranger the whole story... I don't get the meaning... maybe if you live with something long enough you get used to it...? Pondering....
Funny little story of a truly caring person. An annoying person keeps hitting him over the head with an umbrella he thinks of ways of getting rid of him, running away for example but when he sees the umbrella wielder is out of breath he slows down again. It's amazing what you can get used too, almost like having one of those annoying kids who ask hundreds of questions a day.
Story is very short and that is the perfect length for this little nugget of madness.
On the other hand, I have recently come to the realization that I couldn't live without those blows. Now, more and more frequently, a certain foreboding overcomes me. A new anxiety is eating at my soul: the anxiety stemming from the thought that this man, perhaps when I need him most, will depart and I will no longer feel those umbrella taps that helped me sleep so soundly.