Echoes from the bin
By Nienke van Dorp
Thomas Heerma van Voss’s De Prullenmand Heeft Veel Plezier aan Mij (The Bin Likes Me a Lot) (Das Mag, 2025) is a book about a generation of authors who have quietly disappeared behind the curtains of the literary stage. In interviewing a generation once so central to Dutch letters, Heerma van Voss constructs an unusually honest piece of literary history – one that turns faded relevance into an act of revival.
Few books have drawn me in as absorbingly as Thomas Heerma van Voss’s new collection of portraits De Prullenmand Heeft Veel Plezier aan Mij. It was a sudden captivation; every word was read thoroughly, every page was turned with eagerness, every interview followed by a quick search for the author behind it. Perhaps it began with the cover – the funky colors, bright purple and yellow, calling out from the bookshop shelf – or the title, whose cheerfulness appears to hide something fragile.
But, my unexpectedness came, as it is, unexpected. What first seemed to be a report on a couple of old authors, some of them forgotten, others standing on the ledge of oblivion, turned into a recollection of personalities, contentment and resentment intertwined.
The seeds – and at the same time its flowers – of the project were a series of self-portraits drawn by several authors in 1977 at the request of Dutch literary magazine De Revisor. The portraits show a wide array of voices: established poets, young prose writers, authors who would later become famous or, conversely, fade into obscurity. Now, almost half a century later, Heerma van Voss interviewed eighteen of them on said portraits.
Every interview, with its own dedicated chapter, follows a similar pattern – a visit to the author’s home, a conversation based upon their 1977 portrait. We meet Cees Nooteboom in Menorca, Judith Herzberg in her pajamas, Jan Kal in his cluttered and crummy apartment. Sometimes Heerma van Voss finds his interviewees in a weakened state, such as Nooteboom, who is limited by Parkinson’s disease, and sometimes he meets energetic voices, like Mensje van Keulen, who reflect clearly on their literary path. This structure creates a mosaic of the authors’ lives, in which each individual story repeatedly raises broader questions: what does it mean to be a writer? What remains of a body of work once the attention has faded? And how does one relate to aging as an artist?
Across these questions and conversations runs a shared undertone: decline. “Vaak ben ik nu gewoon moe, (I am often just tired)” says Hilbert Kuik, “mijn actieradius is afgenomen de laatste jaren. Ik wil zo lang mogelijk op mijn benen blijven staan. Maar ik besef goed: ik heb steeds minder tijd. (My range of activity has decreased in the last few years. I want to stay on my feet for as long as possible. But I realize that I have less and less time.)” The contrast between the youthful self-portraits in 1977 and the interviews surrounding them is a striking example of how dreams that came true now begin to fade. Heerma van Voss thus demonstrates the inequality of literary fame: some remain in the canon and still experience recognition, while others disappear almost silently. The book ends with the interview with H.C. ten Berge, who drew himself in the mouth of a polar bear: “Als je zo oud wordt als ik, dan besta je eigenlijk al niet meer. Ik word niet opgegeten door een ijsbeer, ik los eerder langzaam op. (When you get as old as I am, you basically do not exist anymore. I won’t be eaten by a polar bear; I’ll slowly dissolve instead.)”
The words “not anymore” seem to play a key role in these conversations. The interviews almost all quickly turn melancholic, setting the tone throughout the book. In some interviews, a very clear pessimism enters the stage, as the conversation with the Guus Luijters shows: “Na Hermans en Reve is er niet veel bijzonders gebeurd in de vaderlandse letteren. […] En Grunberg? Laat me niet lachen. (After Hermans and Reve, not much of note has happened in Dutch literature. […] And Grunberg? Don’t make me laugh.)”
It is tempting to read De Prullenmand through Luijters’ eyes,as a lament for Dutch literature’s decline. Alongside his harshness, other authors also only seem to consider contemporary literature through their not-so-contemporary lenses. “De tijden waren ook zo anders toen ik begon, (Times were so different when I started out,)” says Jan Siebelink. “Het gaat slecht met de Nederlandse literatuur, (Dutch literature is not doing well,)” Hans Vervoort complains, “literair succes is nu alleen nog voorbehouden aan schrijvers met een vlotte televisiebabbel. (literary success is now reserved only for writers who are smooth talkers on television.)” Ad Zuiderent concludes: “Dat is nu ondenkbaar. Maar ja, bijna alles van toen is ondenkbaar nu. (That’s unthinkable now. But then again, almost everything from back then is unthinkable now.)” A palpable tragedy shines through what the authors say: everything is no longer what it once was. The repeated segment of the not anymore next to, what seems to be, the complete rejection of contemporary literature creates a pessimistic rhythm, to the point where I started doubting my own passion for literature. The tragedy turns youthful ambition into resignation, once-praised books into forgotten titles, and literary prizes into vague memories. The melancholy of their voices almost becomes repetitive. Is this what the death of the author is? The inevitable refusal of the contemporary? According to Heerma van Voss, the book is about hearing how the authors reflect and reconnect with their literary past and present, not about highlighting their decline. But in this sense, why is literature in this book mostly presented as something so fragile, fading away with every second passing?
“This structure creates a mosaic of the authors’ lives, in which each individual story repeatedly raises broader questions: what does it mean to be a writer? What remains of a body of work once the attention has faded? And how does one relate to aging as an artist?”
The pessimistic and melancholic rhythm builds towards a larger reflection on the fragility of literature: De Prullenmand is a storytelling about the persistence of artistic identity. Even as fame fades, the need for recognition remains. Willem Jan Otten, looking back on his younger self, says: “[…] met je jonge kop en gebrek aan eigen stijl. Je hebt zo nog helemaal niks te vertellen, werkelijk geen spoor van inhoud heb je, en toch claim je het: ja hallo, ik schrijf, hier ben ik. ([…] with your young face and lack of style. You have nothing to say yet, you have absolutely no substance, and yet you claim it: yes hello, I write, here I am.)” Pushing yourself to the foreground could sound vain, but as Otten says it, it becomes a form of survival. Writing, even into obscurity, is an act of existence.
But then, the most surprising thing is: De Prullenmand has almost no attention for the authors’ oeuvres. The works have become textual facts, remnants of Dutch literature. Like Heerma van Voss already mentions in his foreword, he doesn’t want to pay too much attention to biographical facts: “Het zijn portretten, geen historische overzichten, (They are portraits, not historical overviews,)” marking this collection as the enrichment of the author, but at the same time also the demise of the work.
The title itself embodies this paradox. The phrase comes from the interview with Judith Herzberg, when she reflects on her poetic process: “Mijn gedichten zijn eerst altijd veel langer, en dan ga ik de boel snoeien. De prullenmand heeft veel plezier aan mij. (My poems are always much longer at first, and then I start pruning them down. The bin likes me a lot.)” But without this context, the bin becomes both literal and metaphorical: the place where drafts, careers and even reputations end up. It seems to indicate that the author’s only audience is, in fact, de prullenmand. The title seems to have been chosen out of some kind of fear by Heerma van Voss: “Elke keer dat ik vroeg hoe een schrijver zichzelf in 1977 had gezien, vroeg ik in zekere zin of iemand mijn bestaan bijna vijftig jaar later wilde erkennen. (Every time I asked how a writer had seen themselves in 1977, I was in a sense asking whether someone wanted to acknowledge my existence almost fifty years later.)” It is through this fear of being forgotten that the authors want to acknowledge their work as important, or, at least, worthy of time.
“The bin becomes both literal and metaphorical: the place where drafts, careers and even reputations end up. It seems to indicate that the author’s only audience is, in fact, de prullenmand.”
This sentiment perhaps explains why Heerma van Voss approaches the melancholy of the interviews with tenderness rather than bitterness – someday, he might be in that same chair, sitting across an author thirty years younger than him. The result is now that the conversations unfold not only as a dialogue between two authors, but also as one between past and future.
This idea, that literature survives through dialogue instead of material remains, gives the book its heart. This finds one of its most striking examples in the interview with poet Jan Kal. After repeated attempts to reach him, the elusive writer only responds once Heerma van Voss publicly announces on Facebook that the project will soon be published. At first, Kal refuses to let him in his apartment; eventually, he caves. Heerma van Voss writes: “Eenmaal binnen: overal rommel, en overal dezelfde, penetrante lucht. Ik probeer niet door mijn neus te ademen […]. (Once inside: clutter everywhere, and everywhere the same pungent smell. I try not to breathe through my nose […].)” The conversation that follows is erratic and raw. Kal admits he was never an ambitious writer, speaks endlessly of his ailments, and confesses that he thinks a lot about the past, because life just is not anymore what it used to be. The sadness of decline blends with the unfiltered truth of a man observing his own deterioration. During the interview, two employees of a housing association visit Kal’s apartment: “Het licht in de badkamer werkt niet, de wc is kapot. Doucht u nog? (The light in the bathroom isn’t working, and the toilet is broken. Are you still taking showers?)” One of the employees whispers to Heerma van Voss: “Ik kijk nergens meer van op. (Nothing surprises me anymore.)”
The dialogue turns into a portrait that relies on honesty – without it, the interview would be pointless. The only way we can see “the author” is while being honest about it.
What remains after finishing De prullenmand heeft veel plezier aan mij, is not the weight of the decline, but the persistence of honesty. Heerma van Voss never hides the fragility, which can sometimes lead to the imagination of literature as a weakling, something that cannot stand on its own (anymore). But even this fragility reveals one truth: literature is inseparable from the people who make it, and that the people as well as their literature are bound by time. The interviews act as literary disobedience, gestures against neglect. Each conversation invokes the forgotten and the unremembered.
In one of the interviews, Heerma van Voss visits poet Arie van den Berg. At one point, Van den Berg says: “De literatuur is gewoon niet meer geïnteresseerd in mij. (Literature is just not interested in me anymore.)” His tone is not dramatic or bitter, it is only honest, but the not anymore still stings. The words carry the meaning of the entire project, yet at the same time, they reveal how these words are proven wrong. Because in being recorded, in being written, Van den Berg’s words resist the very erasure he laments. When the interview ends, Heerma van Voss writes: “Dan vertrek ik, en Arie van den Berg blijft achter. (Then I leave, and Arie van den Berg remains behind.)”
So, then we leave, and they remain. Not just in there, in the book, but also in us, in the remembrance and in every word that lingers.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nienke van Dorp (she/her) is an MA student specialising in contemporary literature, with a focus on French works. Her bookshelves, however, are filled primarily with Dutch fiction. Drawing on a minor in art history, she is especially fascinated by the intersections between visual and textual art. When she’s not reading, she enjoys being in the sun and scrolling on Vinted.
RevUU 