Have you ever read someone's secret diary?
May 2, 1913
It has become very necessary to keep a diary again. My insecure head, Felice, the decay in the office, the physical impossibility to write and the inner need for it.
Valli walks out of our door behind his brother-in-law, who is moving to Chotkov to practice weapons tomorrow. The recognition of marriage as an institution with which one has come to terms with it down to the core, which lies in this following of it, is remarkable.
The story of the gardener's daughter who interrupted my work the day before yesterday. I, who want to cure my neurasthenia through work, must hear that the Fraulein's brother, his name was Jan and was the actual gardener and likely successor to old Dvorsky, and even the owner of the flower garden two months ago at the age of Poisoned out of melancholy for 28 years. Despite his reclusive nature, he felt relatively comfortable in the summer, since he at least had to hang out with customers; in the winter, on the other hand, he was completely closed. His mistress was a civil servant - urednice - an equally melancholy girl. They often went to the cemetery together.
The huge menasse at the jargon presentation. Something magical that seized me as it moved in harmony with the music. I've forgotten it.
My stupid laugh when I told my mother today that I was going to Berlin at Whitsun. "Why are you laughing?" said the mother (among a few other remarks, including "So check whoever binds himself forever", but I defended them all with remarks like "It's nothing, etc.") "Out of embarrassment," I said and was glad to have said something true about this matter to have.
Hit the bailly yesterday. Her calm, contentment, impartiality and clarity, despite the fact that her transition to the old woman has taken place in the last two years, this annoying abundance will soon have reached the limit of sterile obesity, in the corridor a kind of wallowing and sliding with yourself The belly has pushed forward, or rather protruding, and on the chin - with a brief glance only on the chin - whiskers curl out of the former down.
May 3 (1913)
The terrible uncertainty of my inner existence.
How I unbutton the vest to show Mr. B. to show my rash. How I wave him into an adjoining room.
The leper and his wife. How her back, she lies in bed on her stomach, keeps rising with all the ulcers, despite the fact that a guest is there. How the man always yells at her to stay covered.
The husband is of a stake - you don't know. where it came from - hit from behind, thrown down and pierced. Lying on the floor, he complains with his head up and arms outstretched. Later he can get up swaying for a moment. He has nothing to say other than how he was hit and shows the casual direction he believes the stake has come from. These always the same stories tire the wife, especially since the husband keeps pointing in a different direction.
4 (May 1913) Constantly the idea of a wide smoker's knife that hurries into me from the side with mechanical regularity and cuts very thin cross-sections that fly away almost curled up during the fast work.
One early morning, the streets were still empty far and wide, a man, barefoot and wearing only a nightdress and trousers, opened the gate of a large apartment building on the main street. He held both doors and breathed deeply. "You shame, you damned shame," he said and looked apparently calmly first along the street, then over individual houses.
Despair from here too. Nowhere recording.
1. Digestion 2. Neurasthenia 3. Rash 4. Inner insecurity
If only it mingled in a head without tension
May 24th 13 walk with Pick.
High spirits because I thought the stoker was so good. In the evening I read it to my parents, there is no better critic than myself while reading to my very reluctantly listening father. Many flat spots in front of apparently inaccessible depths.
5 VI 13
The internal advantages which mediocre literary works derive from the fact that their authors are still alive and after them. The real point of obsolescence.
Löwy's story of crossing borders.
21. VI (1913) The fear that I face on all sides. The examination at the doctor's, how he is about to attack me, I literally hollow myself out and he despises in me and makes his empty speeches irrefutably.
The monstrous world that I have in my head. But how to free me and free them without tearing. And a thousand times rather tearing them than holding them back in me or burying them. That's what I'm here for, that's very clear to me.
A tall man in a coat that reached to his feet knocked his fist on the door of a small hut in a bare hilly area around 5 a.m. on a cold spring morning. After every punch he listened, the hut remained silent.
1 VII 13
The desire for senseless solitude. Just face me. Maybe I'll have it in Riva.
The day before yesterday with white, writer of the galley. Jewish doctor, a Jew of the kind who is closest to the type of the Western European Jew and to whom one therefore immediately feels close. The tremendous advantage of Christians, who in general intercourse always have the same feelings of closeness and enjoy z. B. Christian Czech among Christian Czechs.
The honeymoon couple who stepped out of the Hotel de Saxe. In the afternoon. Throwing the card in the mailbox. Crushed clothes, limp crotch, cloudy, mild afternoon. Few characteristic faces at first glance.
The picture of the 300th anniversary of the Romanov celebration in Yaroslavl on the Volga. The car, the princesses standing morosely in the sun, only one tender, elderly, limp, leaning on the parasol, looks straight ahead. The heir to the throne on the arm of the monstrous bareheaded Cossack. - In another picture, in the distance, men who have long since passed salute.
The millionaire in the picture in the cinema "Slaves of Gold". Hold on to him! The calm, the slow, purposeful movement, if necessary a quick step, twitching of the arm. Rich, spoiled, lulled, but how he jumps up like a servant and examines the room in the forest tavern in which he has been locked.
2 (July 1913) sobbed over the trial report of a 23 year old. Marie Abraham, who strangled her almost 1/4 year old child Barbara because of need and hunger with a man's tie, which she used as a garter belt and which she tied off. Very schematic story.
The fire that I used to create a comical cinematographic image in my sister's bathroom. Why can I never do this to strangers?
I would never have married a girl with whom I lived in the same city for a year.
3 (July 1913) The expansion and enhancement of existence through marriage. Sermon. But I almost suspect it.
When I say something it immediately and permanently loses its importance, when I write it down it always loses it, but sometimes it gains a new one.
A band of golden beads around a tanned neck.
19 VII 13
Four armed men emerged from a house. Everyone held a halberd upright in front of them. Every now and then someone turned his face back to see if he was coming, for whose sake they were standing here. It was early in the morning and the alley was completely empty.
So what do you want? Come! - We do not want to. Let us! -
Plus the internal effort. That's why the music from the coffee house sounds so in your ear. The stone's throw becomes visible that Elsa B. talked about.
A woman is sitting on the distaff. A man pushes the door open with a sword that is in its scabbard (he holds it freely in his hand).
M. Here he was!
Q. Who? What do you want?
M. The horse thief? It's hidden here. Do not deny it! (He wields the sword)
F. (raises the distaff as a defense) Nobody was here. Let me!
20 VII 13
Several boats lay down on the river, fishermen had cast their lines, it was a dreary day. A few fellows leaned against the Quai railing with their legs crossed.
When they got up to celebrate their departure and raised their champagne glasses, it was already dusk. The parents and some wedding guests accompanied them to the car. It
21 VII (1913) Do not despair, not even about the fact that you do not despair. When everything seems to have come to an end, new forces will come in, that just means that you are alive. If they don't come, then everything is over here but for good.
I can not sleep. Just dreams no sleep. Today in a dream I invented a new means of transport for a sloping park. You take a branch that doesn't have to be very strong, press it against the ground at an angle, one end is held in your hand and you sit on it as lightly as possible, like in a side saddle, the whole branch then of course races down the slope because you get up Sitting on the branch you are taken along and swings comfortably on the elastic wood at full speed. There is then also a possibility to use the branch to go up. The main advantage, apart from the simplicity of the entire device, is that the branch is as thin and flexible as it is, it can be lowered and raised as required and can get through wherever it is difficult for even a person to get through
Pulled in through the ground floor window of a house by a rope around the neck and without any consideration, as if by one who is not paying attention, bleeding and tattered, being torn up through all the ceilings, furniture, walls and attics, until the empty noose appears on the roof, which only lost my remains when the roof tiles were broken through.
21. VIII (July) 13 Special method of thinking. Emotionally permeated. Everything feels like a thought even in the most indeterminate. (Dostoevsky)
That pulley inside. A tick moves forward, somewhere hidden, you hardly know at first, and the whole machine is already in motion. Subjected to an incomprehensible power, just as the clock seems subject to time, it cracks here and there and all the chains rattle one after the other down their prescribed piece.
Compilation of everything that speaks for and against my marriage: 1) Inability to endure life alone, not inability to live, on the contrary, it is even unlikely that I will understand how to live with someone, but I am incapable the onslaught of my own life, the demands of my own person, the onslaught of time and age, the vague urge to write, insomnia, the closeness of insanity - I am unable to endure all of this alone. Maybe, I add of course. The connection with F. will give my existence more resilience.
2. Everything makes me think right away. Every joke in the Witzblatt, the memory of Flaubert and Grillparzer, the sight of the nightgowns on my parents' beds prepared for the night, Max's marriage. Yesterday my sister said: "All married people (of our acquaintance) are happy, I don't get it", this saying also made me think, I was scared again.
3 I have to be alone a lot. What I've achieved is just a success of being alone.
4 I hate everything that does not relate to literature, I bored of having conversations (even if they refer to literature), I bored of visiting, the sorrows and joys of my relatives bore me into my soul. Conversations take away the importance, the seriousness, the truth from everything I think.
5 The fear of connection, of flowing over. Then I'll never be alone again.
6 In front of my sisters, especially in the past, I was often a completely different person than I was in front of other people. Fearless, exposed, powerful, surprising, touched as you normally would when you write. If I could be it in front of everyone through the mediation of my wife! But wouldn't it then be withdrawn from writing? Just not that, just not that!
7. Perhaps I could really give up my job on my own. Married will never be possible.
In our class, the fifth grade at the Amaliengymnasium, there was a boy named Friedrich Guss whom we all hated very much. When we got to class early and saw him sitting in his place by the stove, we could hardly understand how he had got himself to come back to school. But I'm not telling the truth. We not only hated him, we hated everyone. We were a terrible union. When the state school inspector once attended a lesson - it was a geography lesson and the professor described the Morea peninsula with his eyes turned to the blackboard or the window like all our professors did -
It was on the day school started and it was already off towards evening. The professors at the upper secondary school were still sitting in the conference room, studying the student lists, creating new class books and talking about their vacation trip.
I miserable man!
Just whip the horse properly! Slowly drill the spores into him, then pull them out with one jerk, but now with all your strength let them run into the flesh.
What a need!
Were we crazy We ran through the park at night, swinging branches.
I drove my boat into a small natural bay
During my high school days I used to visit a certain Josef Mack, a friend of my late father's, every now and then. When, after graduating from high school -
During his high school days, Hugo Seiffert used to pay a visit here and there to a certain Josef Kiemann, an old bachelor who was friends with Hugo's deceased father. These visits stopped suddenly when Hugo was unexpectedly offered an immediate post abroad and left his home town for a few years. When he returned, he intended to visit the old man, but there was no opportunity, perhaps such a visit would not have corresponded to his changed views, and despite the fact that he often walked through the alley in which Kiemann lived anyway he lived him Leaning in the window several times, and was probably noticed, he refrained from visiting.
Nothing, nothing, nothing., Weakness, self-annihilation, the tip of a flame of hell penetrated through the ground.
23 VIII (July) 13 With Felix in Rostock. The broken sexuality of women. Your natural impurity. The game with little Lenchen, which is pointless for me. The sight of one fat woman curled up in a wicker chair, one foot pushed back conspicuously, sewing something and talking to an old woman, probably an old maid, whose teeth always appeared in a particularly large size on one side of the mouth. The full blood and wisdom of the pregnant woman. Your back with straight, divided surfaces, literally faceted. Life on the little terrace. How cold I took the little one on my lap, not at all unhappy about the cold. The ascent in the "silent valley"
How childish a plumber to look through the open door of the shop, sit at his work and keep knocking with the hammer
Roskoff, History of the Devil: Among the present-day Karaibs, "he who works at night" is considered to be the creator of the world.
Aug 13 (1913) Perhaps everything is over now and my letter from yesterday will be the last. It would be the right thing to do. What I will suffer, what she will suffer - it cannot be compared to the common suffering that would arise. I'll slowly collect myself, she'll get married, it's the only way out among the living. The two of us cannot cut a path in a rock for the two of us; it is enough that we cried and tormented each other for a year. She will see it from my last letters. If not, then I will certainly marry her, because I am too weak to resist her opinion about our mutual happiness and unable to achieve something that she thinks possible, as far as it is up to me.
Yesterday evening at the Belvedere under the stars.
14. (August 1913) The opposite has happened. There were three letters. I couldn't resist the last one. I love her as much as I can but this love is buried to death under fear and self-reproach.
Conclusions from the "judgment" for my case. I owe the story to her in a roundabout way. Georg perishes on the bride.
Coitus as a punishment for the happiness of being together. To live as ascetically as possible, more ascetic than a bachelor, that is the only way for me to endure marriage. But they?
And in spite of everything, if we, I and Felice, were completely equal, we would have the same prospects and opportunities, I would not get married. But this impasse, into which I have slowly pushed her fate, makes it an inescapable, if by no means unmistakable, duty for me. Some secret law of human relations is at work here.
The letter to my parents caused me great difficulties, especially because a concept that had been drawn up under particularly unfavorable circumstances could not be changed for a long time. Today I managed to do it by the way, at least there is no untruth in it and it still remains legible and understandable for parents.
How cold I was tonight - Oskar and the wife weren't home - to play with Leo, who I supposedly loved. He was disgustingly strange and stupid to me.
15 (August 1913) agony in bed towards morning. The only solution seen in the jump out of the window. The mother came to the bed and asked if I had sent the letter and if it was my old text. I said it was the old text, only tightened. She said she don't understand me. I replied that she did not understand me, however, and not only on this matter. Later she asked me if I would write to Uncle Alfred, he deserved my writing to him. I asked how he deserved it. He telegraphed, he wrote, he means it so well to you. "These are only superficialities," I said, "he is completely alien to me, he completely misunderstands me, he doesn't know what I want or need, I have nothing with me to do to him. "" Well, nobody understands you, "said the mother," I'm probably a stranger to you too, and so is your father. So we all only want your bad things. " "Certainly you are all strangers to me, only the closeness of blood exists, but it does not express itself. You certainly do not want my bad things."
Through this and some other self-observations I have been led to the fact that in my ever-increasing inner determination and conviction there are possibilities of being able to survive in a marriage in spite of everything, and even of leading it to a development that is advantageous for my destiny. It is, however, a belief that, to a certain extent, I already grasp on the edge of the window.
I will shut myself off from everyone until I am unconscious. Make enemies with everyone, talk to no one. -
The man with the dark, stern eyes who wore the pile of old coats on his armpit.
Leopold S. tall, strong man, awkward pulling movements, loosely hanging, wrinkled, black and white checked clothes, hurries through the door to the right into the large room, slaps his hands and calls Felice! Felice! Without waiting a moment for the success of his calling, he hurried to the central door, which he opened, again calling Felice.
Felice S. enters through the left door, stops at the door, 40-year-old woman in a kitchen apron
Here I am already Leo. How nervous you've gotten lately! So what do you want?
Leopold. turns around with a jerk, then stops and gnaws his lips
So now! Come here! (he goes to the sofa)
Q. (does not move) Hurry! What do you want? I have to go to the kitchen.
L. (from the sofa) Leave the kitchen! Come here! I want to tell you something important. It stands for it. Do come!
F. (walks slowly, pulls the apron straps up)
Well what is it so important? If you make a fool of me, I'm angry, but serious. (Stops in front of him)
L. So sit down!
Q. And what if I don't want to.
L. Then I can't tell you. I have to have you close to me.
Q. So now I'm already sitting.
21 VIII 13
I received Kierkegaard's book from the judge today. As I suspected, his case is very similar to mine, despite essential differences, at least he is on the same side of the world. He validates me like a friend. I am drafting the following letter to my father, which I will send away tomorrow when I have the strength.
You hesitate to answer my request, that is quite understandable, every father would do it to every applicant, so that does not at all initiate this letter, in the extreme case it increases my hope of a calm appreciation of this letter. But I am writing this letter out of fear that your hesitation or your deliberations have more general reasons than that it starts, as would be necessary, from the only passage in my first letter which could give me away. This is the passage that speaks of the intolerance of my position.
Perhaps you will ignore this word, but you shouldn't do that, you should rather ask about it very precisely, then I would have to answer you precisely and briefly as follows. My post is unbearable to me because it contradicts my only desire and my only job that is the literature. Since I am nothing more than literature and cannot and will not be anything else, my post can never attract me, but it can completely shatter me. I'm not far from that. Nervous states of the worst kind rule me without interruption and this year of worries and torments for my and your daughter's future has completely demonstrated my lack of resistance. You might ask why I am not giving up this post and - I do not have any assets - I am not trying to get on with literary work. To this I can only give the pathetic answer that I do not have the strength to do so and, as far as I can see my situation, I will more likely perish in this post, but will perish quickly.
And now you confront me with your daughter, this healthy, funny, naturally strong girl. As often as I repeated it to her in about 500 letters and as often as she reassured me with a "no" that was not convincingly justified - it remains true, she must be unhappy with me as far as I can foresee. I am not only a closed, silent, unsociable, dissatisfied person because of my external circumstances, but even more because of my actual nature, but without being able to call this a misfortune for me, because it is only the reflection of my goal. At least some conclusions can be drawn from the way I live at home. Now I live in my family, among the best and most loving people, stranger than a stranger. In the last few years I have spoken to my mother less than twenty words a day on average, and with my father I have hardly ever exchanged more than greetings. I don't speak to my married sisters and brothers-in-law at all without being angry with them. The reason for this is simply that I don't have the slightest thing to say to them. Anything that is not literature bores me and I hate it because it bothers me or stops me, even if only supposedly. I therefore lack any sense of family life except that of being an observer at best. I have no feeling of relatives, in visits I see malice directed against me.
Marriage couldn't change me, just as my job couldn't change me.
30 VIII 13 Where can I find salvation How many falsehoods that I didn't even know about are washed up with me. If the real connection of them would run through as well as the real goodbye then I am sure I have done right. There are no visible lies within myself without human relationship. The limited circle is pure.
14th X 13th
The little street began with the wall of a churchyard on one side and a low house with a balcony on the other. The retired civil servant Friedrich Munch and his sister Elisabeth lived in the house.
A troop of horses broke from the fencing.
Two friends went on a morning ride.
"Devil, save me from this madness!" exclaimed an old merchant, who had lay tiredly on the sofa in the evening and now got up with difficulty in the night with all strength gathered. There was a dull knock on the door. “Come in, come in, everything that's outside!” He shouted
15. X 13 I have perhaps caught myself again, perhaps again in secret I walked a shorter path and stopped myself again, which I already despair in being alone. But the headache, the insomnia! Well it stands for the fight, or rather, I have no choice.
The stay in Riva was very important to me. I understood a Christian girl for the first time and lived almost entirely within her sphere of activity. I am unable to write anything down about it that is crucial for memory. Just to keep myself up, my weakness would rather make my dull head clear and empty, as far as the confusion can be pushed to the edges. But I almost prefer this state of affairs to the mere dull and uncertain pushing, for which, moreover, an uncertain liberation would require a hammer that smashes me beforehand.
Unsuccessful attempt to write to E. Weiss. And yesterday in bed the letter cooked in my head.
Sitting in the corner of an electric line with my coat thrown around me.
Prof. Grünwald on the journey from Riva. His German-Bohemian nose, reminiscent of death, swollen, reddened, blistering cheeks on a face laid out on anemic thinness, the blond beard all around. Obsessed with eating and drinking. Swallowing the hot soup, biting into it and licking the unpeeled salami stump at the same time, serious sips of the already warm beer, the breaking out of sweat around the nose. A disgust that cannot be savored by greedily looking and smelling.
The house was already closed. There was light in two windows on the second floor and then in a window on the fourth floor. A car stopped in front of the house. A young man went to the lighted window on the fourth floor, opened it and looked down at the alley. In the moonlight
It was late in the evening. The student had completely lost interest in continuing to work. It wasn't necessary either, he had made really great progress in the last few weeks, he could probably rest a little and cut back on night work. He closed his books and notebooks, arranged everything on his little table, and wanted to undress to go to sleep. By chance, however, he looked at the window and when he saw the clear full moon it occurred to him to take a little walk on the beautiful autumn night and possibly to fortify himself with a black coffee somewhere. He put out the lamp, took off his hat and opened the door to the kitchen. In general Was it completely indifferent to him that he always had to go through the kitchen, this inconvenience also made his room considerably cheaper, but every now and then when there was particular noise in the kitchen or when he was like today, for example. B. wanted to go away late in the evening, it was a nuisance.
Desolate. Today, half asleep in the afternoon: After all, the suffering must blast my head. And at the temples. What I saw during this performance was actually a gunshot wound, only the edges with sharp edges were turned upright around the hole, like a wildly torn open tin can.
Don't forget about Krapotkin!
20. X 13. The unimaginable sadness in the morning. In the evening Jakobsohn read "Der Fall Jakobsohn". To live this power, to decide, to set foot in the right place with pleasure. He sits in himself like a masterful rower would sit in his boat and in any boat. I wanted to write to him. Instead, went for a walk, blurring all the feelings I had absorbed by talking to Haas, whom I met, women aroused me, now I read "The Metamorphosis" at home and find it bad. Maybe I'm really lost, the sadness of this morning will come again, I won't be able to resist it for long, it robs me of all hope. I don't even feel like keeping a diary, maybe because there is already too much missing, maybe because I only have to describe half and apparently necessary half actions, maybe because even writing contributes to my sadness. I wanted to write fairy tales (why do I hate the word like that?) That W. might like and that she keeps under the table while eating, reads in the breaks and blushes terribly when she notices that the sanatorium doctor has already been a while stands behind her and watches her. Sometimes, actually always her excitement while telling the story (I'm afraid as I notice the literal physical exertion of remembering, the pain under which the floor of the thought-free space slowly opens or even arches a little) Everything defends itself against being written down. If I knew that her commandment not to say anything about her is at work (I kept it strictly, almost effortlessly) then I would be satisfied, but it is nothing but incompetence. By the way, what do I think about the fact that tonight I was thinking a long way about what I have lost in the way of joys with the Russian woman through the acquaintance with W., who perhaps, which is by no means excluded, would have let me into her room at night, that was wrong with mine. While my evening intercourse with W. consisted of knocking on the ceiling of my room below her in a knocking language, whose final discussion we never came to, received her answer, leaned out of the window, greeted her once Let her bless me, once snatched for a band that had been lowered, sat for hours on the window ledge, heard her every step above, mistakenly took every chance knocking as a sign of communication, heard her cough, her singing before going to sleep.
21. (October 1913) Lost Day. Visit to the Ringhofferschen factory seminar Ehrenfels, at Weltsch, supper, walk, now 10 o'clock here. I keep thinking of the black beetle, but I won't write.
In the small port of a fishing village, a boat was equipped for sailing. A young man in harem pants supervised the work. Two old sailors carried sacks and boxes to a jetty, where a tall man with his legs spread apart received everything and handed it over to any hands that reached out from the dark interior of the boat. Five men sat half-reclining on large ashlar stones that encircled a corner of the quay, blowing the smoke of their pipes in all directions.From time to time the man in harem pants came up to them, made a speech, and patted their knees. Usually a wine jug, which was kept there in the shade, was brought out from behind a stone and a glass of opaque red wine went from man to man.
22. (October 1913) too late. The sweetness of sadness and love. To be smiled at by her in the boat. That was the most beautiful thing. Always only the longing to die and the still holding on, that alone is love.
Yesterday's observation. The most suitable situation for me: Listening to a conversation between two people who are discussing a matter that concerns them closely, while I have only a very distant part in it, which, moreover, is completely selfless.
26. (October 1913) The family was having dinner. Through the curtainless windows one could see into the tropical night.
It was a quiet warm evening. The village street was completely covered with the moon
The family was having dinner. Through the curtainless window holes you could see out into the tropical night.
"Who am I?" I started at myself. I got up from the sofa on which I was lying with my knees pulled up and sat upright. The door that led from the stairwell to my room opened and a young man with a bowed face and a scrutinizing look entered. As far as it was possible in the narrow room, he avoided the sofa and stood in the dark in the corner by the window. I wanted to see what kind of apparition it was, went over and took the man by the arm. It was a living person. He looked up at me - a little smaller than me - smiling, even the carelessness with which he nodded and said "Just check me out" should have convinced me. Still, I grabbed the front of the vest and the back of the skirt and shook him. I noticed his beautiful, strong gold watch chain; I grabbed it and pulled it down so that the buttonhole to which it was attached tore open. He tolerated it, just looked down at the damage and tried uselessly to hold the vest button in the torn buttonhole. What you are doing? he finally said and showed me the vest. "Just rest!" I said threateningly.
I began to walk around the room, from step to trot, from trot to gallop, whenever I passed the man I raised my fist against him. He wasn't watching me at all but was still working on his vest. I felt very free, my breathing was already going on in an extraordinary way, my chest only felt an obstacle in my clothes to lift itself gigantically.
For many months Wilhelm Menz, a young bookkeeper, had intended to speak to a girl whom he used to meet every morning on the way to the office in a very long alley, once in this, once in that place. He had already resigned himself to the fact that he would stay with this intention - he was very indecisive about women and the morning was also an inconvenient time to speak to a girl in a hurry - then it happened that one evening - it was over the Christmas season - just before she saw the girl go. "Miss" he said. She turned around, recognized the man she used to meet in the morning, let her gaze rest a little on him without stopping and, since Menz said nothing more, turned away again. They were in a brightly lit alley in the midst of a large crowd and Menz was able to get very close to them without attracting attention. At this crucial moment Menz did not want to think of anything to say, but he also did not want to remain a stranger to the girl, because he wanted to continue something that had begun so seriously, and so he dared to tug the girl at the bottom of the jacket. The girl tolerated it as if nothing had happened.
6. XI 13 Where did the sudden confidence come from? She would stay! If I could go in and out through all the doors as a halfway upright person. I just don't know if I want that.
Margarethe Bloch, Ehrenstein
We didn't want to tell our parents about it, but every evening after 9 o'clock, I and two cousins gathered at the cemetery grate at a place where a small elevation gave a good overview.
The iron grating of the cemetery leaves a large grassy space on the left.
Friedrich: I'm sick of it.
17 November 13
Dream: On an uphill path there was rubbish or solidified clay, which had become lower and lower towards the right as a result of crumbling, while it stood up to the left like the stockade of a fence, mainly in the roadway, starting from below, on the left. I went to the right where the path was almost free and saw a man on a tricycle coming towards me from below and apparently driving straight into the obstacle. It was a man like without eyes, at least his eyes looked like blurred holes. The tricycle was wobbly, it drove accordingly unsteadily and loosely, but still noiselessly, almost exaggeratedly quiet and light. I grabbed the man at the last moment, held him as if he were the handle of his vehicle and steered it into the breach through which I had come. Then he fell against me, I was now huge and just held him in a forced posture, moreover the vehicle began to drive back as if it were now ownerless, albeit slowly and pulled me with it. We passed a wagon on which a few people stood crowded, all dressed in dark clothes, among them was a boy scout with a light gray hat rolled up. I expected help from this boy, whom I had recognized from a distance, but he turned away and pushed himself between the people. Then behind this wagon - the tricycle kept rolling and I had to hunch down with my legs spread - someone came towards me who brought me help, but who I can't remember. Only that I know that it was a trustworthy person who is now hiding as if behind a black fabric stretched out and whose concealment I should respect.
18 (November 1913) I will write again, but how many doubts have I had about my writing in the meantime? Basically I am an incompetent ignorant person who, if he had not been forced to go to school without any merit of his own, barely noticing the compulsion, would just be able to crouch in a doghouse, jump out when he is fed and jump back, when he's devoured it.
Two dogs ran against each other from opposite directions in a strongly sunlit yard.
18. (November 1913) Tormented me from the beginning of a letter to Miss Bloch.
19 (November 1913)
Reading the diary moves me. Is the reason that in the present I no longer have the slightest certainty. Everything seems to me to be a construction. Every comment by someone else, every accidental sight, turns everything in me, even what has been forgotten, completely insignificant, to another page. I'm more insecure than I've ever been, I only feel the violence of life. And I am senselessly empty. I am really like a lost sheep in the night and in the mountains or like a sheep that runs after this sheep. To be so lost and not have the strength to complain.
I deliberately go through the alleys where prostitutes are. Passing them stimulates me to take this distant but at least existing possibility with one. Is that mean? But I don't know anything better and doing it seems to me basically innocent and I hardly regret it. I only want the fat older ones, with outdated clothes that are, to a certain extent, lush with different hangings. A woman probably already knows me. I met her this afternoon, she wasn't in work clothes yet, her hair was still on her head, she had no hat, a work blouse like cooks and maybe carried a bale of some sort to the laundress. Nobody would have found anything appealing about her, only me. We glanced at each other. Now evening, meanwhile it has become cold, I saw her in a close-fitting, yellowish-brown coat on the other side of the narrow street branching off from Zeltnergasse, where she has her promenade. I looked back at her twice, she caught my eyes too, but then I actually ran away from her.
The uncertainty certainly originates from the thoughts of F.
20. (November 1913) Visited the cinema. Cried. "Lolotte". The good pastor. The little bike. The reconciliation of the parents. Excessive entertainment. Previously a sad film "The Unfortunate in the Dock", later a funny one "Finally alone". I am completely empty and pointless, the passing electric has more lively meaning.
21. (November 1913)
Dream: The French ministry, four men, are sitting around a table. There will be a consultation. I remember the man sitting on the right long side with a face flattened in profile, yellowish skin color, a very protruding straight nose (as a result of being flattened), and an oily black, thick mustache overhanging the mouth.
A pathetic observation, which certainly again starts from a construction, the bottom end of which hovers somewhere in the void: When I took the inkwell from the desk to carry it into the living room, I felt a certain firmness in me, like e.g. B. the edge of a large building appears in the fog and disappears immediately. I didn't feel lost, something was waiting inside me, regardless of people, even Felice. How now when I run away from it, like z. B. someone walks once into the fields.
This prediction, this example, this particular fear is ridiculous. These are constructions that, even in the imagination in which they alone rule, only come almost to the living surface, but always have to be inundated with a jolt. Who has the magic hand to put it in the machinery and it would not be torn and scattered by a thousand knives?
I'm on the hunt for constructions. I come into a room and find them in a corner, whitishly mixed up.
November 24, 13 The evening before yesterday at Max's. He's getting stranger and stranger, he's often been to me, now I'm going to be him too. Just put in bed last night. Dream towards morning: I am sitting in the garden of a sanatorium at the long table, even at the head end, so that in the dream I can actually see my back. It's a dreary day, I must have been on a trip and recently arrived in an automobile that pulled up to the ramp in a swing.The meal is about to be served when I see one of the waitresses, a young, delicate girl, walking in a very easy or unsteady way, wearing a dress in autumn leaf colors, coming through the portico that served as the front of the sanatorium and descending into the garden. I don't yet know what she wants, but point to me questioningly to see if she means me. She's really bringing me a letter. I think that cannot be the letter I am expecting, it is a very thin letter and a strange thin, insecure handwriting. But I open it and a large number of thin, fully-written papers come out, but all of them have the strange writing on them. I start reading, leafing through the papers and realize that it must be a very important letter and that it is apparently from F.’s youngest sister. I begin to read eagerly when my right neighbor sees me, I don't know whether a man or a woman, probably a child, over my arm in the letter. I scream "No!" The round table of nervous people begins to tremble. I probably made a mess. I try to apologize with a few quick words so that I can read again straight away. I bend over to my letter again, when I inevitably wake up, as if awakened by my own scream. With clear consciousness I force myself back to sleep, the situation actually shows up again, I quickly read two or three nebulous lines of the letter, of which I have not remembered, and in the rest of my sleep I lose my dream.
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