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As a German, I would have been a neurotic German, a German, who wanders looking hunted down, painfully sensitive, unable to deal, faltering under fire. His demeanor – self-assured but unimposing – attracts people, especially people like myself, people who have little patience and run ahead of the train on most personal and formal occasions, quite an unattractive sight, I keep on reminding myself. On the one hand, my protagonist is a generic type of person: quiet, patient, differential, his lookalike exists in every culture, he speaks dozens of different languages and is still recognizable as Antoine. ‘Why indeed?’ Well, the reasons are several. ‘Why do you want to write on this topic?,’ she asked. My partner, who is German, got somewhat perturbed by me starting the Notes with a story about a Nazi. In this way I have collection blend into a single discourse, a discourse that still begs the question. I keep the books, but I don’t want to see the titles, and so I turn these books around in such a way as have them face the walls when I am there. ‘Too general,’ I said, and we left it at that, but I still wonder looking at all the books translated and written on the subject in so very many languages occupying (yes, a very proper word for the occasion) two whole shelves at my late father’s dacha (he too was bewitched). An acquaintance in Russia I am thinking defined his gruesome interest in ‘all that’ in terms of ‘aesthetics.’ ‘The aesthetics of death,’ I added then. Why anyone wishes to find, pay, and keep all this morbidity, and in secret mostly? I can see how an otherwise decent person caresses this stuff when alone, daring not to show it to strangers. Speaking of which, me digressing again (no wonder my students in the European Far North where I taught the Russian language, gave me the nickname ‘digressor’), I am quite in awe with the collectors of Nazi symbolics: uniforms, war decorations, documents, domestic objects. Speaking of the Nazis, the daughter of a friend from Boston I used to know years ago (most of the people I used to know qualify nowadays to be called ‘used to know,’ ‘some time,’ ‘former this or that,’ or just ‘ex,’ them being somehow gone as if pushed out of circulation by some relational expiration date), well, this young woman called BMW cars ‘fascist.’ There is something to it if you place the front of the car, its (in)famous two eyed grid, underneath the vanity curl of Antoine’s SS hat in the very spot where the Totenkopf emblem would shine with unambiguous menace. When meeting women, he would introduce himself by saying ‘an-tu-ann,’ stressing the last syllable, only to watch one more fair-haired Fräulein melt and become one less. Well, perhaps, but, certainly, not for long. Like many Germans, they were in love with France. His parents named him after obscure French politician Antoine Plissart. Grass’ geography of Flounder comes to mind) hence, his thick black hair, merry freckles around the eyes, and a long lanky figure, you know, the one that is so good for goosestepping – alas, another trite allusion). It makes him think that it matches his SS uniform and his darker skin to a ‘T’ (no, of course, he is still very Arian, he passed all the checks, but he comes from the North Eastern German stock (G. The title of the story is A Man Who Burnt Hitler. What a show! A pity it is missed by all but the Self and Another Self, a presence on stage and a presence offstage, sitting leisurely in the first row directing the incoming dreams. Like in when staring outside shifts to staring inside and the inner space gets illuminated. It always comes after the light is off and the eyes are firmly closed and not aching any more from too much seeing during the day. They are written, yes, still written, but for no particular audience in mind and without any particular purpose. Too soft, too weak, too… ah, occasional and too soon to matter. They are not directionals that blink (blinkers). They are beyond and aside of a directed gaze, or any direction to that matter. They also are what one whispers in awe or frustration, they are those hostages of emotion that are not at all about expression yet, they are to be expressed, if only under the breath in the ear of THE lover, these intimations, imitations, incidentals.īorn out of a long and by now more complicated life than the author has ever desired, these Notes are nonetheless too fleeting to carry any wisdom, to connote in general. These Notes, and this is a strangely – for a generic name ON THE INTERNET – fitting term for what is not intended for writing, point to sound and light variations more than to what is made of words and what, allegedly, carries meanings.

Stylish and compact medieval house minecraft