gooseflesh, and one thinks with a shudder how easily the well-established state of things can change.When Irene comes home, the boy is already asleep under a quilt patterned with small flowers in the former study, which out of necessity has been converted into a childâs bedroom. She tiptoes in and stands for a moment by his cot without turning on the light. She hears his untroubled breathing. She doesnât think about the ordeals that await the boy in the future; she doesnât even want to know about the anxiety he was prey to before falling asleep. She leaves his room and goes to bed, but she does not turn out her bedside light. She doesnât feel sleepy. Sometimes she reads a book, and sometimes she just cries. Over time she even forgets exactly where the grand piano used to stand in that other living room. In a draft, that much was sure. Memory is not essential to her. Forgetting offers more freedom.
The man often remembers her still, especially at night, when he canât sleep and he stares through the window at the blue neon sign. But each of his recollections is overshadowed by an event at which he was not present and yet which nevertheless is liable to emerge fresh at any moment from his tormented memory. The shocking scene, bathed in the same blue glow as the corner of the street, is infused with the cold passion of pornographic films â it is there that he has seen the event many times; he knows how it could have come about and how it must have ended. His wife thinks that he would have been better off acting magnanimously; she canât understand why he chose vindictive obstinacy. If he had been asked about this, he probablywould have said that she had no need of his magnanimity, since she had unscrupulously protected herself with deceit. Perhaps she or he still thinks that their first chance encounter will change everything. But what can they really expect? To pass one another at a crowded party, with glass in one hand and plate in the other, amid the murmur of other peoplesâ conversations, over which can be heard, for example, a jazz trumpet? When such a meeting finally takes place, it will not occur to either of them that something in their lives is over; rather, they will think with a dull pain that it never existed.
And thatâs all. Itâs high time for the words THE END. If the hobo with the earring is still drifting about in the background, looking for an opportunity to play his part, at this point he ought to find out that itâs too late. The narrator hopes that events that have not yet happened will be called off and that heâll be permitted to forget about the characters left on the margins. After the epilogue he truly cannot imagine what more could be expected of him. He believes he deserves a respite from the affairs of Feuchtmeier, his wife Irene, and the tight-rope walker Mozhe along with his partner, whose name didnât even manage to surface before the uncomplicated plot came to an end. Because no one could be found who is not thoroughly familiar with this story, told thousands of times before. The parts, always the same ones, wait like traps into which new characters will continue to fall, irrespective of their own wishes, promises, and misgivings. The story runs things withan overwhelming force. It makes the narrator dodge about among floors and passageways until the outline of the plot is given substance. It tosses obstacles beneath his feet. In such a way the narrator comes upon a chest filled with gas masks â a new detail that appears out of nowhere and promises nothing but complications. The masks are piled high; most have no cover, and some are hanging out of the chest, hooked to the pile by their tin respirators. Further on, the hallway leads straight to some stairs, but thereâs no sign of an elevator, no sign of a shaft by which an elevator could descend, and no trace of a button by which it could be summoned. The absent elevator spoils
The man often remembers her still, especially at night, when he canât sleep and he stares through the window at the blue neon sign. But each of his recollections is overshadowed by an event at which he was not present and yet which nevertheless is liable to emerge fresh at any moment from his tormented memory. The shocking scene, bathed in the same blue glow as the corner of the street, is infused with the cold passion of pornographic films â it is there that he has seen the event many times; he knows how it could have come about and how it must have ended. His wife thinks that he would have been better off acting magnanimously; she canât understand why he chose vindictive obstinacy. If he had been asked about this, he probablywould have said that she had no need of his magnanimity, since she had unscrupulously protected herself with deceit. Perhaps she or he still thinks that their first chance encounter will change everything. But what can they really expect? To pass one another at a crowded party, with glass in one hand and plate in the other, amid the murmur of other peoplesâ conversations, over which can be heard, for example, a jazz trumpet? When such a meeting finally takes place, it will not occur to either of them that something in their lives is over; rather, they will think with a dull pain that it never existed.
And thatâs all. Itâs high time for the words THE END. If the hobo with the earring is still drifting about in the background, looking for an opportunity to play his part, at this point he ought to find out that itâs too late. The narrator hopes that events that have not yet happened will be called off and that heâll be permitted to forget about the characters left on the margins. After the epilogue he truly cannot imagine what more could be expected of him. He believes he deserves a respite from the affairs of Feuchtmeier, his wife Irene, and the tight-rope walker Mozhe along with his partner, whose name didnât even manage to surface before the uncomplicated plot came to an end. Because no one could be found who is not thoroughly familiar with this story, told thousands of times before. The parts, always the same ones, wait like traps into which new characters will continue to fall, irrespective of their own wishes, promises, and misgivings. The story runs things withan overwhelming force. It makes the narrator dodge about among floors and passageways until the outline of the plot is given substance. It tosses obstacles beneath his feet. In such a way the narrator comes upon a chest filled with gas masks â a new detail that appears out of nowhere and promises nothing but complications. The masks are piled high; most have no cover, and some are hanging out of the chest, hooked to the pile by their tin respirators. Further on, the hallway leads straight to some stairs, but thereâs no sign of an elevator, no sign of a shaft by which an elevator could descend, and no trace of a button by which it could be summoned. The absent elevator spoils
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