Read Online Selected Stories by Robert Walser - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Walser
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doesn’t
make me eighty, not by a long way. I am very tough, I can vouch for that. I am no
longer young, but I am not old yet, definitely not. I am aging, fading a little, but
that doesn’t matter; I am not yet altogether old, though I am probably a little nervous
and over the hill. It’s natural that one should crumble a bit with the passage of
time, but that doesn’t matter. I am not very nervous, to be sure, I just have a few
grouches. Sometimes I am a bit weird and grouchy, but that doesn’t mean I am altogether
lost, I hope. I don’t propose to hope that I am lost, for I repeat, I am uncommonly
hard and tough. I am holding out and holding on. I am fairly fearless. But nervous
I am, a little, undoubtedly I am, very probably I am, possibly I am a little nervous.
I hope that I am a little nervous. No, I don’t hope so, one doesn’t hope for such
things, but I am afraid so, yes, afraid so. Fear is more appropriate here than hope,
no doubt about it. But I certainly am not fear-stricken, that I might be nervous,
quite definitely not. I have grouches, but I am not afraid of the grouches. They inspire
me with no fear at all. “You are nervous,” someone might tell me, and I would reply
cold-bloodedly, “My dear sir, I know that quite well, I know that I am a little worn
out and nervous.” And I would smile, very nobly and coolly, while saying this, which
would perhaps annoy the other person a little. A person who refrains from getting
annoyed is not yet lost. If I do not get annoyed about my nerves, then undoubtedly
I still have good nerves, it’s clear as daylight, and illuminating. It dawns on me
that I have grouches, that I am a little nervous, but it dawns on me in equal measure
that I am cold-blooded, which makes me uncommonly glad, and that I am blithe in spirit,
although I am aging a little, crumbling and fading, which is quite natural and something
I therefore understand very well. “You are nervous,” someone might come up to me and
say. “Yes, I am uncommonly nervous,” would be my reply, and secretly I would laugh
at the big lie. “We are all a little nervous,” I would perhaps say, and laugh at the
big truth. If a person can still laugh, he is not yet entirely nervous; if a person
can accept a truth, he is not yet entirely nervous; anyone who can keep calm when
he hears of some distress is not yet entirely nervous. Or if someone came up to me
and said: “Oh, you are totally nervous,” then quite simply I would reply in nice polite
terms: “Oh, I am totally nervous, I know I am.” And the matter would be closed. Grouches,
grouches, one must have them, and one must have the courage to live with them. That’s
the nicest way to live. Nobody should be afraid of his little bit of weirdness. Fear
is altogether foolish. “You are very nervous!”
“Yes, come by all means and calmly tell me so! Thank you!”
That, or something like it, is what I’d say, having my gentle and courteous bit of
fun. Let man be courteous, warm, and kind, and if someone tells him he’s totally nervous,
still there’s no need at all for him to believe it.
[1916]
The Walk
I HAVE to report that one fine morning, I do not know any more for sure what time it was,
as the desire to take a walk came over me, I put my hat on my head, left my writing
room, or room of phantoms, and ran down the stairs to hurry out into the street. I
might add that on the stairs I encountered a woman who looked like a Spaniard, a Peruvian,
or a Creole. She presented to the eye a certain pallid, faded majesty. But I must
strictly forbid myself a delay of even two seconds with this Brazilian lady, or whatever
she might be; for I may waste neither space nor time. As far as I can remember as
I write this down, I found myself, as I walked into the open, bright, and cheerful
street, in a romantically adventurous state of mind, which pleased me profoundly.
The
make me eighty, not by a long way. I am very tough, I can vouch for that. I am no
longer young, but I am not old yet, definitely not. I am aging, fading a little, but
that doesn’t matter; I am not yet altogether old, though I am probably a little nervous
and over the hill. It’s natural that one should crumble a bit with the passage of
time, but that doesn’t matter. I am not very nervous, to be sure, I just have a few
grouches. Sometimes I am a bit weird and grouchy, but that doesn’t mean I am altogether
lost, I hope. I don’t propose to hope that I am lost, for I repeat, I am uncommonly
hard and tough. I am holding out and holding on. I am fairly fearless. But nervous
I am, a little, undoubtedly I am, very probably I am, possibly I am a little nervous.
I hope that I am a little nervous. No, I don’t hope so, one doesn’t hope for such
things, but I am afraid so, yes, afraid so. Fear is more appropriate here than hope,
no doubt about it. But I certainly am not fear-stricken, that I might be nervous,
quite definitely not. I have grouches, but I am not afraid of the grouches. They inspire
me with no fear at all. “You are nervous,” someone might tell me, and I would reply
cold-bloodedly, “My dear sir, I know that quite well, I know that I am a little worn
out and nervous.” And I would smile, very nobly and coolly, while saying this, which
would perhaps annoy the other person a little. A person who refrains from getting
annoyed is not yet lost. If I do not get annoyed about my nerves, then undoubtedly
I still have good nerves, it’s clear as daylight, and illuminating. It dawns on me
that I have grouches, that I am a little nervous, but it dawns on me in equal measure
that I am cold-blooded, which makes me uncommonly glad, and that I am blithe in spirit,
although I am aging a little, crumbling and fading, which is quite natural and something
I therefore understand very well. “You are nervous,” someone might come up to me and
say. “Yes, I am uncommonly nervous,” would be my reply, and secretly I would laugh
at the big lie. “We are all a little nervous,” I would perhaps say, and laugh at the
big truth. If a person can still laugh, he is not yet entirely nervous; if a person
can accept a truth, he is not yet entirely nervous; anyone who can keep calm when
he hears of some distress is not yet entirely nervous. Or if someone came up to me
and said: “Oh, you are totally nervous,” then quite simply I would reply in nice polite
terms: “Oh, I am totally nervous, I know I am.” And the matter would be closed. Grouches,
grouches, one must have them, and one must have the courage to live with them. That’s
the nicest way to live. Nobody should be afraid of his little bit of weirdness. Fear
is altogether foolish. “You are very nervous!”
“Yes, come by all means and calmly tell me so! Thank you!”
That, or something like it, is what I’d say, having my gentle and courteous bit of
fun. Let man be courteous, warm, and kind, and if someone tells him he’s totally nervous,
still there’s no need at all for him to believe it.
[1916]
The Walk
I HAVE to report that one fine morning, I do not know any more for sure what time it was,
as the desire to take a walk came over me, I put my hat on my head, left my writing
room, or room of phantoms, and ran down the stairs to hurry out into the street. I
might add that on the stairs I encountered a woman who looked like a Spaniard, a Peruvian,
or a Creole. She presented to the eye a certain pallid, faded majesty. But I must
strictly forbid myself a delay of even two seconds with this Brazilian lady, or whatever
she might be; for I may waste neither space nor time. As far as I can remember as
I write this down, I found myself, as I walked into the open, bright, and cheerful
street, in a romantically adventurous state of mind, which pleased me profoundly.
The
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