(no subject)
The bad weather is affected not by the scent of the evening, or by the clouds and pressure in the air but instead by the moods of one, single little girl living in an apartment just outside the giant metropolis. The snow is independant of the weather itself, and falls on its own in powdery tiny flakes always. Droning machines operate day and night to remove it from the streets, otherwise the population would suffocate beneath the sugary powder. But the real moods, the real alcoholic bouts and storms of emotion between the city dwellers and their tides of lovemaking, comes from inside the single kernal of power with her. A city made of sugary icing, marble and cake, reeking of peppermint schnapps and warm rum drinks, cinnamon, fried meats. The night life is dazzling with endless dark holes to crawl into. Once inside, a sense of subdued purple curtains, and behind them a sudden illumination, the curtains open opon a brilliant world of liquor and glowing liquids behind glass. Coal and woodsmoke are burning in every house. Children are fed lamb for breakfast.
*
Last night inside Cafe Anzendgruber I sat drinking beer and reading Siebenkäs with the greatest pleasure. I noticed for the first time that the Reclam edition, (cute little yellow volumes) has numbers for every five lines on the page, so that, like a bible, Richter can be read with the utmost care. I realized then, that one must read him slowly, like honey, feeling the effect of every turn of the volutes and spines, endless threads of content. I looked into the adjoining billiard room, where several old men were playing pool. A sense of quietude came over me. The comfort of the Wiener cafe world, scents of a busy kitchen operating unseen behind old, wooden walls, the cold glass of beer, and the emmersion into dead mens thoughts.
*
Last night inside Cafe Anzendgruber I sat drinking beer and reading Siebenkäs with the greatest pleasure. I noticed for the first time that the Reclam edition, (cute little yellow volumes) has numbers for every five lines on the page, so that, like a bible, Richter can be read with the utmost care. I realized then, that one must read him slowly, like honey, feeling the effect of every turn of the volutes and spines, endless threads of content. I looked into the adjoining billiard room, where several old men were playing pool. A sense of quietude came over me. The comfort of the Wiener cafe world, scents of a busy kitchen operating unseen behind old, wooden walls, the cold glass of beer, and the emmersion into dead mens thoughts.
