meadows, fields, and, onlya few steps away, the forest. Such villages seem to be wreathed in green; but Berlin has an Ice Palace where people ice skate on the hottest summer day. Berlin is simply one step ahead of all other German cities, in every respect. It is the cleanest, most modern city in the world. Who says this? Well, Papa, of course. How good he is, really! I have much to learn from him. Our Berlin streets have overcome all dirt and all bumps. They are as smooth as ice and they glisten like scrupulously polished floors. Nowadays one sees a few people roller skating. Who knows, perhaps Iâll be doing it someday, too, if it hasnât already gone out of fashion. There are fashions here that scarcely have time to come in properly. Last year all the children, and also many grownups, played Diabolo. Now this game is out of fashion, no one wants to play it. Thatâs how everything changes. Berlin always sets the fashion. No one is obliged to imitate, and yet Madam Imitation is the great and exalted ruler of this life. Everyone imitates.
Papa can be charming; actually, he is always nice, but at times he becomes angry about something â one never knows â and then he is ugly. I can see in him how secret anger, just like discontent, makes people ugly. If Papa isnât in a good mood, I feel as cowed as a whipped dog, and therefore Papa should avoid displaying his indisposition and his discontent to his associates, even if they should consist of only one daughter. There, yes, precisely there, fathers commit sins. I sense it vividly. But who doesnât have weaknesses â not even one, not some tiny fault? Who is without sin? Parents who donât consider it necessary to withhold their personal storms from their children degrade them to slaves in no time. A father should overcome his bad moods in private â but how difficult that is! â or he should take them to strangers. A daughter is a young lady, and in every cultivated sire should dwell a cavalier. I say explicitly: living with Father is like Paradise, and if I discover a flawin him, doubtless it is one transferred from him to me; thus it is his, not my, discretion that observes him closely. But Papa may, of course, conveniently take out his anger on people who are dependent on him in certain respects. There are enough such people fluttering about him.
I have my own room, my furniture, my luxury, my books, etc. God, Iâm actually very well provided for. Am I thankful to Papa for all this? What a tasteless question! I am obedient to him, and then I am also his possession, and, in the last analysis, he can well be proud of me. I cause him worries, I am his financial concern, he may snap at me, and I always find it a kind of delicate obligation to laugh at him when he snaps at me. Papa likes to snap; he has a sense of humour and is, at the same time, spirited. At Christmas he overwhelms me with presents. Incidentally, my furniture was designed by an artist who is scarcely unknown. Father deals almost exclusively with people who have some sort of name. He deals with names. If hidden in such a name there is also a man, so much the better. How horrible it must be to know that one is famous and to feel that one doesnât deserve it at all. I can imagine many such famous people. Isnât such a fame like an incurable sickness? Goodness, the way I express myself! My furniture is lacquered white and is painted with flowers and fruits by the hands of a connoisseur. They are charming and the artist who painted them is a remarkable person, highly esteemed by Father. And whomever Father esteems should indeed be flattered. I mean, it is worth something if Papa is well-disposed toward someone, and those who donât find it so and act as if they didnât give a hoot, theyâre only hurting themselves. They donât see the world clearly enough. I consider my father to be a thoroughly remarkable man; that he wields influence in the
Papa can be charming; actually, he is always nice, but at times he becomes angry about something â one never knows â and then he is ugly. I can see in him how secret anger, just like discontent, makes people ugly. If Papa isnât in a good mood, I feel as cowed as a whipped dog, and therefore Papa should avoid displaying his indisposition and his discontent to his associates, even if they should consist of only one daughter. There, yes, precisely there, fathers commit sins. I sense it vividly. But who doesnât have weaknesses â not even one, not some tiny fault? Who is without sin? Parents who donât consider it necessary to withhold their personal storms from their children degrade them to slaves in no time. A father should overcome his bad moods in private â but how difficult that is! â or he should take them to strangers. A daughter is a young lady, and in every cultivated sire should dwell a cavalier. I say explicitly: living with Father is like Paradise, and if I discover a flawin him, doubtless it is one transferred from him to me; thus it is his, not my, discretion that observes him closely. But Papa may, of course, conveniently take out his anger on people who are dependent on him in certain respects. There are enough such people fluttering about him.
I have my own room, my furniture, my luxury, my books, etc. God, Iâm actually very well provided for. Am I thankful to Papa for all this? What a tasteless question! I am obedient to him, and then I am also his possession, and, in the last analysis, he can well be proud of me. I cause him worries, I am his financial concern, he may snap at me, and I always find it a kind of delicate obligation to laugh at him when he snaps at me. Papa likes to snap; he has a sense of humour and is, at the same time, spirited. At Christmas he overwhelms me with presents. Incidentally, my furniture was designed by an artist who is scarcely unknown. Father deals almost exclusively with people who have some sort of name. He deals with names. If hidden in such a name there is also a man, so much the better. How horrible it must be to know that one is famous and to feel that one doesnât deserve it at all. I can imagine many such famous people. Isnât such a fame like an incurable sickness? Goodness, the way I express myself! My furniture is lacquered white and is painted with flowers and fruits by the hands of a connoisseur. They are charming and the artist who painted them is a remarkable person, highly esteemed by Father. And whomever Father esteems should indeed be flattered. I mean, it is worth something if Papa is well-disposed toward someone, and those who donât find it so and act as if they didnât give a hoot, theyâre only hurting themselves. They donât see the world clearly enough. I consider my father to be a thoroughly remarkable man; that he wields influence in the
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