Tiny, weak, subtle gusts of winds of change

well, this is how it goes. not even a month ago i was telling you how i am seeing myself staying on my own (notice how i am not saying "alone") for the foreseeable future. just to make it perfectly clear: my current situation hasn't changed a bit. and still i find myself sitting on my couch on this very night and intermittently hoping to hear from a guy i met last saturday at my friends' wedding. we did not agree to do so, we did not discuss any potential reunions. in fact, there was nothing definitive enough to justify my current state of mind. except for what he said (sweet things -- bleargh). except for how he behaved (the day after the wedding). i am not misty-eyed, but i am also not naive. and i am not full of myself and don't tend to overestimate myself. he liked me. i really do believe that. but i also need to believe it because i need to feel to be able to rely on my own perception. i need to be able to trust my own judgment. for that reason alone i want him to contact me. also because i liked him, from what i remember. he was intriguing to me, which is among the best things i can say about someone i hardly know.

i can handle the emotional rejection; i've been preparing myself thorougly for that for years. what i'll find harder to do is maintaining my trust in myself. that's what's on the line for me here. that's what's making me anxious.

The Soul of Conversation is Sympathy

i think i'm okay.
i really do.
i really am.

i've been thinking a lot about this, and i need to get some of these thoughts sorted.

i have a nice apartment which i like.
i have a job which lets me pay the bills and which i like.
i have the greatest of friends around me.
i have taken up a hobby.
i eat well. mostly.
i don't drink excessively. mostly.
i read. (nicht nur "gute deutsche zeitschriften," sondern auch bücher. take that, eleventh-grade German teacher.)
i feel good.
i like myself.
i go out. moderately.
i meet new people. sometimes.
i have a boyfriend. -- wait, i don't.

and there you have it. this is supposed to be the one more thing i should have in order to be -- if not content, then at least happy, right?

and yet.

"lately i've been feeling this hole, like something is missing."
no. i haven't. i was surprised when i realized it. i don't feel incomplete. i don't feel like i need to share my happiness in order to experience it doubly.
i do think a boyfriend could be fun. what fun! but i don't feel i need one. nor am i sure i want one.
but that last part is neither here nor there because, guess what: i am happy. i am content. i am okay.

you might be nodding knowingly now, or even be stroking your beard, and mumbling to yourself: "child, please. you're fooling yourself. the blues brothers had it right." to which i might reply: "i've seen people happy together, i've seen people unhappy together, i've seen people unhappy alone, i'm the person who's happy alone." not happy-er, not happy-est, just -- happy.

and who knows -- there is a chance i might be perfecting autosuggestion here. maybe one day i'll realize that i don't want anything more in the world than a partner to hold, help, love, and lean on. there is a chance. and if that moment comes, i'll concede your encompassing wisdom to you.

until then: from my one, single heart: farewell!

The things I've seen

and the things I've done and the things I've heard and the things I've ignored and the things I've enjoyed and the things I've disliked and the things I've believed and the things I've ingested and the things I've liked and the things I've made and the things I've hurt and the things I've created and the things I've destroyed and the things I've grown and the things I've killed and the things I've read.

Since April Twenty-Ninth:

John Hart's The Last Child
Tana French's Grabesgrün and Totengleich
Wolfgang Herrndorf's Sand
Anthony Zuiker's Level 26
Florian Weber's Grimms Erben
John Irving's The World According to Garp
Asa Larsson's Sonnensturm and Weiße Nacht
Neil LaBute's Seconds of Pleasure
Saul Bellow's Seize the Day

Now I am ing-ing all the things listed above with Hjorth and Rosenfeldt's latest crime novel. Unfortunately I won't be able to devour it the way I did the others because.....

BAM!

I'm going to start riding my bike to work (looking like I somehow managed to mistake my horse for a bike), so I won't be able to read as much as before when I had the train ride to and fro to sink into those possible worlds.

Sebastian, forgive me, I promise I will visit you every day in my lunch hour and after work.

Something strange instead of some strange (Part II)

Alright, so we hung out for a bit in the less densely populated part of the floor and had a jolly good time there, too. Then we encountered the couple that had previously gotten on my nerves. Or rather: one half of the couple: the girl. Please excuse this cutesy expression for a grown-ass woman, but really, this was all she projected to be: a girl. She stood behind me at the very end of the bar, where the counter hits the wall. She stood there by herself. Next to her, but not yet with her, leaned a rather conservative-looking guy wearing a green quilted jacket (by the way: wow. It was hot as hell in there) with its collar up. Obviously. He started chatting up The Girlfriend, she flirted back, he twirled her around (what's with all the twirling; did I maybe miss the memo that twirling is the thing to do now?), she obliged delightedly if not delightfully and they both continued flirting aggressively. I was watching them out of the corner of my eye when The Boyfriend stepped into my field of vision. He quickly looked around, found The Girlfriend, leaned to the side a bit in order to see with whom she was talking so animatedly, saw, turned around on the spot, and left. The room. The club. The city. The country. I had no idea which. But the force with which he stormed off might have been enough to catapult him off the earth and straight into space. For all I cared he could have stayed there and orbited the earth with a broken heart. Or ego. Idiot. Apparently, he was the only one who was allowed to twirl The Girlfriend around. Which I get. But what he should have done, I thought in this moment, was go up to The Collar and The Girlfriend and, without so much as a word or a glance to The Collar, take her and twirl her around a couple of times in front of The Collar. That should have cleared things right up.
Alas, I was wrong. He, in fact, did not leave. Well, he did leave the room, but not the club. About ten minutes of unaware flirting later, The Boyfriend came back with their jackets. He unceremoniously walked up to The Girlfriend and The Collar, handed her her jacket, put his arm around her back, and gently guided her out of the club. The Collar remained behind, a little annoyed, I assume. I couldn't suppress a smirk. Not that I wanted to.
Shortly after that episode we decided to leave. By now it was somewhere around half past three. Somehow, the excitement had abated and we felt a bit deflated. Bam, poetry. You're welcome. At that point the line for the coat check was almost as long as when we had come in. So, off to the bathroom I went, leaving J&B to wait on their own. After the five or six minutes that it took me to get into and out of the toilet the coat check line had barely moved. So I didn't feel too bad for making my friends stand in line and hold my spot for me.
After what felt like half an hour but probably only were about seven more minutes and after we had moved up in the line about two meters, seemingly out of nowhere a guy appeared at my side, let's call him The Proposer. The Proposer said something to me, I reacted, he was in a good mood, I was in a good mood, we started chatting. He said he had been trained as a hotel clerk, didn't like it and thus became a cabinet maker. Now, what I should mention to explain my immediate interest in The Proposer is that my brother, who I think is the greatest guy in the world, is a hotel industry expert and that I have always found the art of cabinetmaking to be oddly attractive and that I like to imagine myself in another life or universe as a cabinetmaker designing and producing her own successful line of furniture. Ergo: I was immediately in favor of The Proposer. Had I known then what I know now, namely that he would turn out to be The Proposer, I very likely wouldn't have continued talking to him. Or maybe I would have, just to let it play itself out and have something to tell you folks. Be that as it may, namely hypothetical, the fact is that I did talk to him and did agree to let him buy me a beer.
How this one beer turned into two and more and how he became the Proposer and why I still only came home at around eight thirty in the morning and why four strangers found themselves on New Year's morning in the almost empty tram talking about mathematics, pussy, and the potential for violence in the public space -- well, that is a story for Part III.

Something strange instead of some strange (Part I)

So, folks, the new year has come and I skidded into it on the slippery slope of alcohol and a jolly good time. Oh what a good time I had. But before I start telling that tall but true tale, I should mention that almost simultaneously to my decision to start building a life in Berlin for real I finally received the invitation to a job interview -- at home. 2012 thus ended on a very bittersweet note for me.

With this tiny shock to motivate me to make the best of my time here or anywhere, really, I was looking forward to celebrating the arrival of a new year with my friends to the fullest. All the more surprised it turned out we were when we realized after a delightfully normal but fun meal that we might not make it to midnight if we continued sitting in the kitchen. Thus, at about 10 p.m. we decided to move things along and get to the club early, like old people are wont to do.
We arrived at Magnet in Kreuzberg at about 11 p.m., had no problem getting in but experienced a kind of paradoxal universe where outside noone wants in but inside the queue for the coat check was more than ten meters long. So we spent about 20 minutes waiting for our coats to be checked, which turned out not to be too bad because the guys doing the checking were, if not the quickest of the bunch, still friendly and good-natured. After having successfully gotten rid of our outer wear, we fought our way into the smokers' bar and did what you do in said place: have a smoke. And a beer, of course. Then we scouted the other floors, of which we believed there to be two. Only after having gotten our coats before leaving did J finally figure out that there was a third floor which was not the smokers' bar. She, more than B or I, was very upset about not having discovered it before because she found the music coming from that floor to be very danceable. We did, however, have a good time with one of the other floors for the most part of the night, so that while we were dancing we didn't feel like we were missing something.
We spent most of the night at the electro-indielectro-don't-ask-me-I-just-dance floor where we had an extraordinarily good time. And not just because of the music but also because of the delightfully mixed crowd which covered everything from the cool dudes to the mellow hipsters to the relaxingly normal folks to whom I count the three of us. Ages varied comfortingly, too. At midnight there was a countdown and a happy yet non-hysteric shout-out all around. One nice young lady went around the crowd and distributed sparklers to everyone who would have one. It was a nice, very communal atmosphere among a crowd of very different strangers.
Shortly thereafter, four very drunk, very young guys of about twenty years and with hessian bags dangling unmanageably from their arms managed to conquer the slightly elevated part of the dancefloor in one corner and proceeded to have an awesome time among themselves. Not only were they not in the least obnoxious -- as young, drunk men their age very easily turn out to be -- but more than that, they were absolutely adorable and seemed to be very much content in the company of their friends. When one thoroughly likeable young woman danced up on one of the guys, he without hesitation dismissed her in a friendly manner while simultaneously flinging himself into one of his buddy's arms. It was a sight to behold. So much fun and happiness.
After several trips to the toilets for each of us, which took anywhere from five to twenty minutes, we finally decided that it was getting too crowded on our dancefloor and that it would be wise to retire to another part of the room where there was less dancing and more sitting and talking and thus more room. Lest you think that there was also less fun to be had, let me tell you what happened there. First of all, we re-met this Asian guy who was wearing a suit. We had seen him before near our place on the dancefloor. He was with this cool chick with this cool red dress in the style of the fifties. And he was wearing a skinny suit with a skinny tie. They looked like straight out of Kill Bill, but not keenly so. They were just really cool in a very relaxed and non-exerted way. Then there was this slightly weird guy, his head full of unkempt curls, making his way through the sluggish crowd and yelling what I suppose was his girlfriend's name in regular intervals. It wasn't that big a room or that big a crowd. A thorough scanning of the people around you would have yielded the same, and much less noticeable, results. And then there was the couple.
The couple who a few half-hours before happened to situate themselves next to us on the dancefloor and whom I found to be almost unbearably self-centered. He couldn't keep his hands off her, which, granted, is in itself a good thing. But not in the obnoxious, almost domineering way that he did it and which she happened to enjoy. He twirled her around, he grabbed her ass, he grabbed her thighs, he moved her hair, and she obliged. As old and worn out as the phrase is, all I could think was: "Get. A. Room." This was the couple that we encountered in the "chill-out" area of that floor. And if you want to know what happened next, and what happened after J&B left the club and I stayed, and what the indecent proposal was that I received that night and what happened on the train-ride home, you have to check back. More on what the titular "something strange" and who the titular "some strange" was will be coming soon.

Another Me Bites the Dust

Am 28.9., dem letzten Tag der angegebenen Bewerbungsfrist, schickte ich meine schriftliche Bewerbung an den Arbeitgeber.

Am 22.10. bekam ich meine Unterlagen zurückgeschickt mit der Begründung, die Bewerbung sei nach Fristende eingegangen und zu diesem Zeitpunkt sei das Auswahlverfahren bereits so weit fortgeschritten, daß meine Bewerbung nicht mehr berücksichtigt werden konnte.

Am 6.11. schrieb ich folgende Email an den Absender des Absageschreibens:

Sehr geehrte Frau T., 

bezugnehmend auf Ihr Schreiben (Ihr Zeichen XXX) vom 22.10.2012 möchte ich Sie bitten, Ihre Entscheidung zu revidieren. Sie haben meine Bewerbung zurückgeschickt mit der Begründung, sie sei 1. nach dem Ende der Bewerbungsfrist eingegangen und 2. sei die Auswahl soweit fortgeschritten, daß sie nicht mehr hätte berücksichtigt werden können. 

Dazu möchte ich zweierlei anmerken. 

Zu Punkt 1: In der Stellenausschreibung ist als Bewerbungsfristende der 28.9.2012 angegeben. Hier spezifizieren Sie nicht weiter, ob der fristgerechte Erhalt durch Ihren Eingangsstempel oder aber durch den Poststempel determiniert wird. In diesem Fall lautet die herrschende Meinung, daß das angegebene Datum die Einsendefrist festlegt. Dies bedeutet, daß ich keineswegs die Bewerbungsfrist überschritten habe, da ich meine Unterlagen mit Poststempel vom Freitag, 28.9.2012, an Sie geschickt habe. Daher kann dieser Teil Ihrer Ablehnungsbegründung nicht gelten. 

Zu Punkt 2: Da meine Bewerbung also am Montag, den 1.10.2012, bei Ihnen eingegangen ist, und ich davon ausgehe, daß auch in der XXX als staatlicher Behörde nicht am Wochenende gearbeitet wird, fällt also auch der zweite Teil Ihrer Ablehnungsbegründung als ungültig weg. 

Daher bitte ich Sie freundlich um erneute Prüfung meiner Bewerbungsunterlagen, die ich Ihnen gerne wieder per Post oder Email zukommen lasse. 

Mit herzlichem Dank und freundlichem Gruß

Zöph

Daraufhin erhielt ich heute morgen folgende Antwort: 

Sehr geehrte Zöph,

vielen Dank noch einmal für Ihr zum Ausdruck gebrachtes Interesse an einer Beschäftigung bei der XXX. Gern möchte ich auf Ihre Anmerkungen zum Schreiben von Frau T. eingehen.

In den Ausschreibungstexten der Veröffentlichungen des Trainee-Programms der XXX wird darum gebeten, die Bewerbungsunterlagen bis zum 28.09.2012 an die XXX zu senden. Der Adressat geht in diesem Falle von einem Vorliegen/Posteingang der Bewerbungsunterlagen bis zum 28.09.2012 aus.

Während der ca. 10wöchigen Ausschreibungszeit des Traineeprogramms in Printmedien und im Internet werden bereits parallel die weiteren Auswahlschritte des Bewerbungsverfahrens durchgeführt. Dadurch ergibt sich eine sehr enge Zeitschiene für das Auswahlverfahren, welche die Wahrung der Bewerbungsfrist unumgänglich macht.

Ich würde mich freuen, wenn Sie mich, bei Bedarf, im Juli/August des nächsten Jahres kontaktieren würden, um Ihnen rechtzeitige Informationen zur Durchführung und Terminierung des Trainee-Programm 2014 zukommen zu lassen.

Mit freundlichen Grüßen

Im Auftrag

Frau H. 

Worauf ich nur noch folgendes schrieb:

Sehr geehrte Frau H., 

vielen Dank für Ihre Nachricht. Ich bedauere sehr, daß Sie meine Bewerbung nicht weiter in Betracht ziehen wollen, und betrache die Angelegenheit damit leider für abgeschlossen. Es wäre jedoch im Sinne aller Beteiligten, glaube ich, wenn Sie in weiteren Ausschreibungen unmißverständlich erwähnen, daß für Sie der Eingangsstempel als Ausschlußkriterium relevant ist, da dies, wie erwähnt, nicht die Regel ist. 

Mit freundlichem Gruß und vielen Erfolgswünschen für Ihre Trainee-Auswahl

Zöph

Wer nicht will, der will nicht. Schade. Sei's drum. Der nächste, bitte. 

Tschick: Check

Letzten Endes habe ich es auch geschafft, Tschick zu lesen. Es gefällt mir gut. Es ist ein rührendes, komisches, gut geschriebenes, unpathetisches, leichtes Buch. Nicht so deprimiert und deprimierend, so passiv, wie Salingers The Catcher in the Rye. Mit Symbolanleihen vom Großen Gatsby und Bildklau vom Graduate. Es bleibt also in der literarischen Familie. In der großen literarischen Familie.

Dass es aber nun ein "Klassiker werden wird", der auch "in fünfzig Jahren" noch gelesen werden wird, nach dessen Verzehr man die "Welt mit anderen Augen" sieht, das bezweifele ich. Leider. Unzweifelhaft ist es jedoch "von Anfang bis Ende ein großer literarischer Spaß." (Alle Zitate aus den Blurbs zu Tschick, Hamburg: rororo, 2012.)

Sobald ich wieder die Bücher, die sich zur Zeit im Lager befinden, um mich habe, werde ich mir nach dem "Sonnenbuch Tschick" das "Höllenfeuerbuch" Sand gönnen. Denn ob sobald, oder überhaupt, noch ein weiteres Buch von Herrndorf veröffentlicht wird, steht leider infrage.

Louis CK FTW.

This is becoming my favorite show. 

So there.

Just another manic friday.

Mietauto abgeholt (mit Berliner Kennzeichen -- wenn das mal nicht der Zaunpfahl im Gesicht ist), nach Hause, Sperrmüll eingeladen, zum Recyclinghof gefahren, dort alles unter den wachsamen Augen eines ansonsten gänzlich hilfsunlustigen Mitarbeiters ausgeladen, zur Uni gefahren, dort das Büro im Auto verstaut, nach Hause gefahren, Büro in den Keller ausgeladen, Post durchgesehen, mich über Arbeitslosengeldbescheid gefreut, zur Bank gefahren, Geld abgehoben, zum Umzugsunternehmen umme Ecke gefahren, 40 Umzugskartons gekauft, nach Hause gefahren, Umzugskartons in den Keller und die Wohnung ausgeladen, Auto ausgemessen. Und das alles vor 12 Uhr. Ich lebe hoch.

Und der Tag ist noch nicht vorbei: Gleich werde ich einkaufen fahren, um für 4 verschiedene Kuchen, die ich am Montag backen werde, die Zutaten zu besorgen. Jetzt aber erst mal: duschen.

The Hypocrisy of Hipsters

"i don't like being around stereotypes of any nature. people who embody it. and hipsters are a subset of this. the inherent hypocrisy is "i'm so counterculture, i'm not doing...". you know, that old joke of "why did the hipster girl burn her mouth on the pizza? because she wanted to eat it before it got cool." you know, that old idea -- you can apply it to hippies or beatniks: you can't be on your macbook blogging about steampunk, submitting yourself for the mustache awards, tweeting about some artisian honey place on your iphone, and be counterculture. you're not. it's just a joke. you can't wear this faux-retro-early-80s-aids-era shit and say, look how cool i am, look how individual i am. or counterculture. you're in a room full of counterculture individualists who are all wearing roughly the same classics."

a conversation between marc maron and david cross. it's funny, it's insightful, it's true.

Really quite apropos

And in the end

Today marked the end of my "career" as a professional university teacher. And I went out with a bang. Not only did I sub in my boss's introductory seminar; I also subbed in her introductory lecture on literary history. The introductory seminar, of which I had already taught an identical session on Tuesday in another class, went smoothly and with nary a hiccup. I then met all students from both classes again for the hour-long lecture in the afternoon. That was when I went all bad cop on them. Boy, did I ever. Not only did they piss me off, albeit very slightly, when they demanded more time for the regularly scheduled, previously announced 10-question multiple-choice test on the assigned reading materials; no, they royally crossed me when the majority would not stop talking, and pretty loudly, laughing, giggling, surfing, showing each other their phones etcetera while I was trying to tell them something about literary history. I had a pretty eventful powerpoint presentation, spoke freely regularly and pointed to actually interesting occurences in the history and development of this specific literature. Now, I'm not delusional, so I didn't expect them to hang on my every word. But I did expect a certain amount of respect, for me and their fellow students, as well as a certain amount of active interest in this subject matter -- which is, after all, what they chose to study -- or, at the very least, quiet and non-disturbing disinterest. Not so these students, who, confusingly enough, only two mere hours ago had actively and insightfully engaged in the class discussion, and who had sometimes even voiced their disagreement over or differing opinion on how to read a specific text. So the angry teacher in me wanted out. After challenging the chatty students to please leave because they did not have to be there and to not mistake me either for an entertainer or a lecturer for the sake of lecturing, I kind of lost control and went on a short excursion on the reasonableness and sense of the introductory module with its two short lectures, its seminar, and its tutorial, and on the value of this module for the whole of their studies of literature, and on the fact that we actually thought this structure through in order for them to build a solid foundation on which to erect, gradually, their more specific and selective knowledge on various subject matters, after which I helpfully pointed out that literary studies depends first and foremost on private study and that everything we offer them -- introductory and higher level seminars, lectures, lecture series, tutorials, cramming sessions on how to write term papers etcetera -- is just that: an offer. An offer to help and support them in their studies of literature, to guide the way, to facilitate an understanding of the workings of literature and therefore, by extension and to a certain degree, the world.

And then I was done.

And they were quiet.  

And in the end I had to cut my lecture short because the four minutes it took for me to rant like this were missing for the wrap up. I mean I couldn't make them stay four minutes late, could I now. What kind of teacher would I be.

Apropos targeted advertizing:

Ein Bild-Werbespot in den Werbepausen der Daily Show online -- wie mitleidserregend selbstgefällig.

Quod erat demonstrandum

"Der antimaskuline Reflex lässt sich noch einige Niveaustufen absenken, um dann zu einem formlosen Faul- und Tumbheitsverdacht zu werden, wie ihn gerade beispielhaft der Philosoph Richard David Precht in der Für Sie äußerte: »Die Anzahl der Männer, die mit einem Bier vor dem Fernseher Fußball gucken und einfach nur glücklich sind, ist nun wirklich größer als die Anzahl der Frauen bei einer vergleichbaren Tätigkeit.« Wobei im Dunkeln blieb, a) woher die Statistik stammt und b) was unter einer vergleichbaren Tätigkeit zu verstehen ist: Haar-Extensions einkleben, Germany’s next Topmodel gucken und dabei Baileys schlürfen oder mit der Freundin die neuesten Abenteuer aus den Feuchtgebieten betratschen? Wenn es um Männer geht, begeben sich halt auch Philosophen auf Augenhöhe mit Mario Barth."

aus: Christoph Kucklick, "Das verteufelte Geschlecht", Zeit online 16.4.2012

Postscriptum zum Sonntag

Ich bin immer enttäuscht, wenn eine Bierflasche mit Bügelverschluß beim Öffnen nicht ploppt. Das ist wie ein Witz ohne Pointe: "Der Professor ist sooooo alt..... ."

"I want you to remember....

... I intend this breast satirically."

Das Paradoxon erschafft sich selbst.

GG darf nicht mehr nach Israel einreisen. Nicht nur ist das eine völlig unverhältnismäßige, hysterische und unpassende Reaktion (die auf selbstgerechter Entrüstung basiert, die wiederum durch eine künstliche Kontroverse entstanden ist) auf die Meinungsäußerung eines Schriftstellers, der seinen literarischen und damit kulturrelevanten Zenith längst überschritten hat, sondern diese Reaktion legitimiert nachträglich einerseits Grass' Meinungsäußerung und andererseits seine eigene Entrüstung über die entrüsteten Reaktionen auf seine Meinungsäußerung.

Im Ernst: Haben denn die Politiker keine PR-Berater? Wieso huldigt Israel dem Schriftsteller Grass durch öffentliche Legitimierung seiner Person als ernstzunehmender politischer Kommentator? Die beste, weil einfachste, kürzeste und deutlichste Reaktion wäre eine solche gewesen, welche der Fox News Channel zur Quasi-Kunstform erhoben hat, wann immer er sich Kritik ausgesetzt sieht; in diesem Fall: ein einziger abschätziger Satz zur kulturellen Irrelevanz des Kritikers, herablassend verbunden mit den besten Wünschen für, z.B., seinen Lebensabend. Und fertig.

UPDATE:
Tom Segev wird ein weiteres Mal interviewt und wiederum stimmen wir ziemlich überein in unserer Meinung.

Bisse rund um die Uhr

Ich hatte immer eine sehr genaue Vorstellung der durchschnittlichen Stephenie-Meyer-Leserin. Die Realität ist noch viel zynischer, als ich es je hätte sein können. 

Case in point: Meine Gangnachbarin im Zug. Vor ihr liegt eins der Twilight-Bücher. Sie verdrückt zwei beim Bäcker gekaufte belegte Brötchen als zweites Frühstück, als Nachtisch deut sie Fruchtgummischnecken hinterher und spült alles mit ein paar Fläschchen Schwippschwapp hinunter. Sie paßt kaum in den Bahnsitz. Nach dem zweiten Frühstück und einigen gelesenen Seiten hält sie ein Schläfchen, während dessen ihr Körper das Essen und ihr Unterbewußtsein ihre unterdrückten Verlangen verdauen kann. Dazu legt sie ihre Arme auf ihrer zweiten Fettrolle ab; sie schafft es problemlos, den Kopf beim sitzenden Schlafen geradezuhalten, weil ihre Hälse ihren Kopf stabilisieren. 

Oh cruelty, thy name is reality. 

Zitate des Tages

"Er tut so, als ob er etwas sagt, das noch niemand gesagt hat. Ich fand das etwas pathetisch: mein Schweigen.
(...)
Wenn Dagan ein Gedicht veröffentlichen würde, wäre ich ebenso peinlich berührt, wie wenn Grass eine Atomanalyse publiziert. Ich finde das nicht ganz ernstzunehmend. Ich würde mir wünschen, dass er seine 'letzte Tinte' für einen schönen Roman aufspart.
(...)
Das alles ist viel ernster als die Frage, ob Günter Grass schweigt oder nicht schweigt."

Tom Segev bei Spiegel-Online

"Gewiss, der Ton der sich in Gewissensqualen marternden Unschuld, den Günter Grass in seinem Gedicht "Was gesagt werden muss" anschlägt, der ganze, so sorgfältig inszenierte Schmerzensschrei eines geschundenen Liebhabers des Weltfriedens hat etwas Gekünsteltes.

Er ist ebenso illusorisch wie der Gedanke, man könne in Gestalt von Gedichten - mit oder ohne Mandat - über die Weltpolitik verfügen. Und allzu durchsichtig ist die Funktion, die hier der lyrischen Form übertragen wird: Sie dient dazu, den Schriftsteller der Kritik zu entziehen. Indem er sich - scheinbar - nach innen wendet und sein Innerstes nach außen kehrt, in dem er, vor und anstatt einer politischen Auseinandersetzung, als lyrische Empfindsamkeit auftritt, will er einen Standpunkt über allen anderen einnehmen und sich unangreifbar machen. An der Empfindsamkeit sollen alle Einwände zugrunde gehen. So ist das, und so ist Günter Grass. Einen anderen gibt es nicht mehr."

Thomas Steinfeld bei Süddeutsche.de über Grass' Dichten und Meinen