Hlasmaein - Modern German Literature

I have experienced

(Author: Martin Walser)

No milk for me. You'll catch a cold. Your life is different. We sit on the deck. I blow out the smoke. The door slams shut. The sun is still shining. The day is almost over. A thread has broken. Do you need more to drink? I kiss his hand. I wipe the blood from my lips. What time is it? This is unbelievable. There are shadows at the factory gate. Not a single seagull in sight. The postman has left on his bicycle. My mother has also left. I don't know her. Gradually I begin to see the funny side. I lose my footing. The ticking of the clock is getting louder and louder. I get another slice of bread. My aunt goes out to clean. I soothe the child. The sound of the chain is ringing. I still find it interesting. The curtain is hanging down. It's a bad feeling for the policeman. It's like the summer of 1937.

The women wore long, wide trousers. I was stiff. In fact, it hurt. People could breathe easily. There were tailors everywhere, the smell of life. This was something that had to change. Everyone was working hard. I thought and wondered. It was a drought. I couldn’t make myself understand. I watched the boatman. I was learning unconsciously. We were poor. We had everything we needed. I was eating heartily. My tongue came out. Now I thought. We were leaving the shore. Very fast. The land. It was foggy. I couldn’t keep going. I had a sense of humor. My neighbor was with the Red Cross. The water was completely calm. The ship was in good shape. We chose Sunday morning. It was getting dark quickly. I braced myself. Let’s try our luck. My cabin faced east. In fact, we were warned. When you're on a ship, those warnings become commonplace.

The sea is not a flat surface. But that doesn't mean I don't smoke. I smoke a cigarette. My friend vomits in his hat. That alone can make you uncomfortable. The story is just beginning. If we could go down, I would like to get there as soon as possible. We can certainly hold our own for those few minutes. The biggest mistake is that we know how to swim. Life is like this. Someone teaches a lot without any benefit. That's how it is. Someone doesn't learn how to hang a rope without pain. They learn by mistake.

The telephone rang. I ran. I was too late. My beloved. I went back into the kitchen and continued to dry the dishes. I wiped each plate with the same cloth. I scrubbed each plate until it was clean. I mopped and cleaned the sink and the stove. If the plates, spoons, forks and pans were still splattered, I would stand in the kitchen and walk along the Kafutinde embankment, wondering if it would be a good idea to go and see *Bismarck ride out on horseback.* I was a little scared. The bells were ringing too loudly.** The Kaiser was too. The wind was howling in the street. The leaves of the yellow oak belonged to George, who had written them. The sons of a vineyard owner were going to the movies. I felt as if I had been born at the beginning of the century. And it's like living in the middle class's kitchen in the well-kept Charlottenburg Palace in Berlin all the time. I'm even more immersed than I thought. I'm caught up in the visions of the ancient sages. We want to write about our shipwrecks for posterity. There are ship records. I believe that if a ship were to sink, the ship records would have been left behind.

With each passing minute I felt like getting off and going. But the lessons of the legends and stories told me that I had to find the logbook. I hoped I would find it. This was the only way to find out about the ancient world. On the one hand, I wondered whether it would be better to go down with everyone and leave the logbook. With a leisurely swimming motion, I pushed a bee floating on the surface of the water into the dark green water. The people were like madmen. I knelt down. I put a small glass tube in my mouth. I followed the dark cemetery. I said goodbye to my relatives. I pushed my head as far as I could into the grove of linden trees that were shaking. I slowly walked into the place where May had been worshipped. I stopped near St. Anthony. The Buddha was beautiful. It's a very beautifully crafted gesture. Even one finger is intricately carved.

I decided to wait until the service was over. Then I took St. Anthony's finger. Because it was curved. It would be useful to scratch my ear. I didn't want to scratch it with my own hand. Oh, the music. Over and over again, it can change someone's attention. Pure blue, a drop of water. From endless space to endless space. My toes haven't forgotten their ability to move. An ant. Who is holding me? Hell. I want to defecate. I can't hold it in any longer. So I let go. It was quite comfortable. But after that I didn't care whose prisoner I was. It was like that. I was suffering even more from being held. Everything fell under my feet. Every now and then it seemed like it had to stop. Then it all dried up. The smell stopped. It broke apart. I got drier and drier. I waited like this for 60, 70 hours. It took me up to 130 hours at most. My head was spinning. I didn't want to look at the birds anymore. Nothing was wrong. There were still ants. The long-legged buggers, which are called in English, are very large. I know. From Mr. K.S. Parkes. A sandwich. I don't wash the dishes. I thought that if I finished a slice of bread, I could just wipe it off without washing it.

Now I looked at each plate. I wondered which plate it was. I felt bad. I had left one plate unwashed. This was bad. Everyone should wash their plates after they had eaten. It would show who had eaten from which plate. That's right, the plate they had eaten from. I knelt down and prayed for forgiveness. I begged Saint Anthony, but I hadn't washed it yet.

I prayed to be shown the dish. But I thought of a burning thought. I was burning with love myself. It had to be done somehow. It burned even more when I thought that St. Anthony was only good at recovering lost things. I was burning even more. Because I knew that no saint was made for this dish. I was alone. For the first time? Maybe. I had never been so afraid. If I had only washed that dish, I would have survived. Life is like that. This is the big deal about life. I knew where my moans were coming from. From the child's tricycle that hadn't been oiled since Christmas. A high-pitched whine, a whine. The sound echoed through the rooms. The sound was self-explanatory.

I was ready. He was alone. He could go straight from the garden to the kitchen. Then in the evening he would come into the kitchen and eat a plate of sausages by himself. I would stand behind the door and watch until he reached for the big loaf of bread. Then I would shout at him sharply. I thought it would be possible. Even a child with a fever could do it. I would shout. As soon as I turned on the recorder, the material battle would develop. Breasts, grenades, brothels, wing shadows, feathers, legs, pearls, apartments, cracks, blood, darkness, stench. They might help me. I was finished. In this situation. Any situation. Following the situation. I did not expect