concerned, Iâm taking a trip to the south. First of all, a little while to Munich and then to Venice, where a person who is unspeakably close to me lives â Mama. For reasons whose depths I cannot understand and consequently cannot evaluate, my parents live apart. Most of the time I live with Father. But naturally Mother also has the right to possess me at least for a while. I can scarcely wait for the approaching trip. I like to travel, and I think that almost all people must like to travel. One boards the train, it departs, and off it goes into the distance. One sits and is carried into the remote unknown. How well-off I am, really! What do I know of need, of poverty? Nothing at all. I also donât find it the least bit necessary that I should experience anything so base. But I do feel sorry for the poor children. I would jump out the window under such conditions.
Papa and I reside in the most elegant quarter of the city. Quarters which are quiet, scrupulously clean, and fairly old, are elegant. The brand-new? I wouldnât like to live in a brand-new house. In new things there is always something which isnât quite in order. One sees hardly any poor people â for example, workers â in our neighbourhood, where the houses have their own gardens. The people who live in our vicinity are factory owners, bankers, and wealthy people whose profession is wealth. So Papa must be, at the very least, quite well-to-do. The poor and the poorish people simply canât live around here because the apartments are much too expensive. Papa says that the class ruled by misery lives in the north of the city. What a city! What is it â the north? I know Moscow better than I know the north of our city. I have been sent numerous postcards from Moscow, Petersburg, and Holland; I know the Engadine with its sky-high mountains and its green meadows, but my own city? Perhaps to many, many people who inhabit it, Berlinremains a mystery. Papa supports art and the artists. What he engages in is business. Well, lords often engage in business, too, and then Papaâs dealings are of absolute refinement. He buys and sells paintings. We have very beautiful paintings in our house. The point of Fatherâs business, I think, is this: the artists, as a rule, understand nothing about business, or, for some reason or other, they arenât allowed to understand anything about it. Or it is this: the world is big and cold-hearted. The world never thinks about the existence of artists. Thatâs where my father comes in, worldly-wise, with all sorts of important connections, and in suitable and clever fashion, he draws the attention of this world, which has perhaps no need at all for art, to art and to artists who are starving. Father often looks down upon his buyers. But he often looks down upon the artists, too. It all depends.
No, I wouldnât want to live permanently anywhere but in Berlin. Do the children in small towns, towns that are old and decayed, live any better? Of course, there are some things here that we donât have. Romantic things? I believe Iâm not mistaken when I look upon something that is scarcely half alive as romantic. The defective, the crumbled, the diseased; e.g., an ancient city wall. Whatever is useless yet mysteriously beautiful â that is romantic. I love to dream about such things, and, as I see it, dreaming about them is enough. Ultimately, the most romantic thing is the heart, and every sensitive person carries in himself old cities enclosed by ancient walls. Our Berlin will soon burst at the seams with newness. Father says that everything historically notable here will vanish; no one knows the old Berlin any more. Father knows everything, or at least, almost everything. And naturally his daughter profits in that respect. Yes, little towns laid out in the middle of the countryside may well be nice. There would be charming, secret hiding spots to play in, caves to crawl in,
Papa and I reside in the most elegant quarter of the city. Quarters which are quiet, scrupulously clean, and fairly old, are elegant. The brand-new? I wouldnât like to live in a brand-new house. In new things there is always something which isnât quite in order. One sees hardly any poor people â for example, workers â in our neighbourhood, where the houses have their own gardens. The people who live in our vicinity are factory owners, bankers, and wealthy people whose profession is wealth. So Papa must be, at the very least, quite well-to-do. The poor and the poorish people simply canât live around here because the apartments are much too expensive. Papa says that the class ruled by misery lives in the north of the city. What a city! What is it â the north? I know Moscow better than I know the north of our city. I have been sent numerous postcards from Moscow, Petersburg, and Holland; I know the Engadine with its sky-high mountains and its green meadows, but my own city? Perhaps to many, many people who inhabit it, Berlinremains a mystery. Papa supports art and the artists. What he engages in is business. Well, lords often engage in business, too, and then Papaâs dealings are of absolute refinement. He buys and sells paintings. We have very beautiful paintings in our house. The point of Fatherâs business, I think, is this: the artists, as a rule, understand nothing about business, or, for some reason or other, they arenât allowed to understand anything about it. Or it is this: the world is big and cold-hearted. The world never thinks about the existence of artists. Thatâs where my father comes in, worldly-wise, with all sorts of important connections, and in suitable and clever fashion, he draws the attention of this world, which has perhaps no need at all for art, to art and to artists who are starving. Father often looks down upon his buyers. But he often looks down upon the artists, too. It all depends.
No, I wouldnât want to live permanently anywhere but in Berlin. Do the children in small towns, towns that are old and decayed, live any better? Of course, there are some things here that we donât have. Romantic things? I believe Iâm not mistaken when I look upon something that is scarcely half alive as romantic. The defective, the crumbled, the diseased; e.g., an ancient city wall. Whatever is useless yet mysteriously beautiful â that is romantic. I love to dream about such things, and, as I see it, dreaming about them is enough. Ultimately, the most romantic thing is the heart, and every sensitive person carries in himself old cities enclosed by ancient walls. Our Berlin will soon burst at the seams with newness. Father says that everything historically notable here will vanish; no one knows the old Berlin any more. Father knows everything, or at least, almost everything. And naturally his daughter profits in that respect. Yes, little towns laid out in the middle of the countryside may well be nice. There would be charming, secret hiding spots to play in, caves to crawl in,
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