The Prose of Alfred Lichtenstein Part 4

Stillness is shattered. Everything yawns and has sound. Objects begin to move. Evil shadows generate fear. All forms lose their familiarity. I wait for... a horrible, incorporeal wonder.

I am a firm enemy of ghosts and specters and such things. I find these appearances are not sensible or funny; I want to have nothing to do with them. And yet I could prevent the fact that, shortly before noon, the form of an ancient woman, with austere facial features, appeared to me. I was unpleasantly moved by it. Even more so, when it later occurred to me that it had possibly been my mother.

It is not less unreasonable to deny ghosts than it is unreasonable to acknowledge wonders. If ghosts were an everyday occurrence, philosophers would construct natural laws, by means of which one could derive them. And without fuss overlook them.

I shall avoid further musing on these confusing things, by taking my life. People will be shocked. Deny me the right to have control over myself. They will offer the explanation that I was at the breaking point. Supplying medical reasons. To calm themselves down; for if everyone thought so, then there would soon be a universal protest against living. Life would be boycotted. That must not happen. If you ask: why not?--you will be condemned as a sophist.

People don't like to die; the term is called life-energy. They have recourse to G.o.ds and a more cheerful outlook on life. If misery becomes too severe, you can always go to a better insane asylum.

I decided to free myself from myself a long time ago. The most important motive for the action was: I really don't like myself. I happen to be unable to bear the idea of living with myself for an entire life. I have often complained that I cannot get rid of myself.

I feel myself as a terrible burden. I would like to be in a courageous, honorable, pure young man. My person is untrue, unaesthetic, clumsy. I know that death will destroy me entirely; the thought for me is the cause for keen despair; I can't bear this thought for long. I have lost the ability to breathe. I feel as though a monster is pressing me from within. My brain's activity seems to have stopped. My hands are clenched in animal fear. I weep dry tears. The inst.i.tution of death is probably not fitting for many men; one should be able to find means and ways to circ.u.mvent death.

But dying is a trifle. The man who is preparing for death must not think of death.

Mieze Maier

I'm still attending high school, but am more interested in theater and literature. I read Wedekind, Rilke, and others. Goethe also. I don't like Schiller and George.

My friend's name is Mieze Maier. She lives, with her companions, in an elegant four-room apartment, since her father, Markus Maier, left her a lot of money. Her mother died ten years ago as a result of an operation on her stomach. Her mother must have been beautiful.

Mieze Maier just became sixteen. She had a big birthday celebration.

Many beautiful and wicked girls and a number of young men were invited. Everyone was very silly. People whispered in each other's ears that Mieze was already sixteen. Then they laughed...

Mieze Maier is beautiful. Also smart. Also talented. Very flirtatious. Graceful and slyly charming. Sometimes unhappy. She knows how to make many men sick, so that sorrow fills their eyes when they are awake, and they have smiles on their lips when they sleep.

And their hands are held tightly, close to their bodies...

She always had her favorites. They are like dolls with whom she plays, until, one day, she becomes tired of them and casts them aside carelessly. I know seven. No one has remained in her favor as long as six weeks. I am the eighth.

I know that my days are also numbered. I too will be cast aside by this sixteen-year old thing--still half child. When I think about it, I am already ashamed and tormented within. And yet...

We have not said to each other that we are in love, but we are very gentle with each other. It happens like this:

We met once. It was by chance. The day was grey with weariness.

Twilight lay over all things. Yellow and red light came from a few houses.

We walked together. Her eyes had a brilliance. Sometimes she half covered them with her lids. And she caught the looks of men in her eyes. That must be a fine l.u.s.t.

We did not speak; but once she said that I had red lips. And once I said that she was superficial, for I wanted to make her angry.

The next day we met again. That was not by chance. We walked in the meadows. She put her hand on my shoulder and was good to me. I thought of the kick that I would once day receive from her.

... Yesterday I hurt her, because I called her superficial. There was something like crying in her voice when she said:

"I'm really not as superficial as you believe, Olaf. Twice I have been in love unhappily and once it bloomed happily."

It seemed to me that her hand on my shoulder had become heavier...

We walked slowly. We saw no people. Wind came across the meadows.

In the sky there were clouds everywhere, threatening rain.

She looked at me. Her look was naked and spoke of pa.s.sion.

That was neat, how I suddenly seized her and threw her into the gra.s.s with me and half-intoxicated whispered to her: "You, my"--and how she lay there weary and sobbed: "Olaf"-Afterwards I performed my school work badly. I probably won't be promoted.

Kuno Kohn

For six months I have been living in the house. None of the inhabitants has noticed anything. I am careful.

The white suit brings me luck. I earn enough. And I have begun to save; for I feel that one's powers decline. I am tired frequently; sometimes I have pain. I shall also become fat and old. I don't like to put make-up on-I am no longer being supervised. Kuno Kohn has made me free. I am thankful to him.

Kuno Kohn is repugnant; he has a hunchback. His hair is the color of bra.s.s, his face is beardless, and worn with furrows. His eyes seem old, encircled with shadows. A scar, like a stream of rain, runs from his nose. One of his legs is swollen. Kuno Kohn said once that he has an abscess in the bone.

The first meeting had been strange:

It was raining. The streets were wet and dirty. I stood under a street lamp and looked at my wet clothes. When the wind blew, I was chilled. My feet ached in my shoes.

Few people were on the street. Most of them on the other side.

Protected by the trees. With their coat collars up. With the hat crooked over the forehead. No one was watching me; I was standing there, sad. The gravel crunched beneath me. Hard and sudden, so that I cried out. A

policeman came by, hands behind his back. He moved slowly. He looked at me suspiciously, proud of his authority. With a stark look, he felt that he was master. He moved further on. I laughed scornfully; he did not look back. The policeman despised me.

I yawned: it had become late.--Along came a man who was small and deformed. He stopped when he saw me. He had unhappy eyes; on his lips was an embarra.s.sed smile. He hid part of his face behind scrawny fingers. And he rubbed his right eye-lid, like someone ashamed of himself. And he coughed slightly... I went up close to him, so that he felt me. He said: "Well--: I said: "Come, little one."

He said: "I'm actually h.o.m.os.e.xual."

And he took my hand. And kissed with cold lips.

Mabel Meier

It was late. I heard the sounds of trucks pa.s.sing frequently. In the distance I saw people. On a corner two people were standing who... felt ashamed as I drew near.

Girls came, who were late. A few, who wanted to earn money. I saw the tall wh.o.r.e, who worked this area every night. I recognized her by her slip.

A detective was watching me. In front of me a woman was walking, who stood still often and wailing.

I did not think about it. I looked up at the stars and found nothing to wish for. I looked at myself with indifference, like a foreign object. I shook my head, that the old man was walking alone so late... and murmured to the stars.. and it's so strange.

I met a woman who said: "Ah--" I said: "may I accompany you?" The woman said: "Please." It was quite dark.