Then she saw him stop and wipe his brow with his handkerchief. Once, twice. And then once again. But she did not see the grin of relief spread over his face. That she did not see because her eyes had filled with tears. And the geraniums, they were just as sad. In any case, that's how they smelled.
Wolfgang Borchertأود لو أكون منارة
فى الليل والعواصف
للأسماك،
لكل قارب.
ولكننى....
سفينة
مهددة بالغرق.
Rums, wie die Fliege
Wolfgang BorchertTags: absurdist
...in deinen süßen heißen mädchenheimlichen Mondrausch.
Wolfgang BorchertTags: deutsch deutschland metapher nachkriegsliteratur
You. Man at the machine and man in the workshop. If tomorrow they tell you you are to make no more water-pipes and saucepans but are to make steel helmets and machine-guns, then there's only one thing to do:
Say NO!
You. Woman at the counter and woman in the office. If tomorrow they tell you you are to fill shells and assemble telescopic sights for snipers' rifles, then there's only one thing to do:
Say NO!
You. Research worker in the laboratory. If tomorrow they tell you you are to invent a new death for the old life, then there's only one thing to do:
Say NO!
You. Priest in the pulpit. If tomorrow they tell you you are to bless murder and declare war holy, then there's only one thing to do:
Say NO!
You. Pilot in your aeroplane. If tomorrow they tell you you are to
carry bombs over the cities, then there's only one thing to do: Say NO!
You. Man of the village and man of the town. If tomorrow they come and give you your call-up papers, then there's only one thing to do:
Say NO!
You. Mother in Normandy and mother in the Ukraine, mother in Vancouver and in London, you on the Hwangho and on the Mississippi, you in Naples and Hamburg and Cairo and Oslo - mothers in all parts of the earth, mothers of the world, if tomorrow they tell you you are to bear new soldiers for new battles, then there's only one thing to do:
Say NO!
For if you do not say NO - if YOU do not say no - mothers, then: then!
In the bustling hazy harbour towns the big ships will fall silent as corpses against the dead deserted quay walls, their once shimmering bodies overgrown with seaweed and barnacles, smelling of graveyards and rotten fish.
The trams will lie like senseless glass-eyed cages beside the twisted steel skeleton of wires and track.
The sunny juicy vine will rot on decaying hillsides, rice will dry in the withered earth, potatoes will freeze in the unploughed land and cows will stick their death-still legs into the air like overturned chairs.
In the fields beside rusted ploughs the corn will be flattened like a beaten army.
Then the last human creature, with mangled entrails and infected lungs, will wander around, unanswered and lonely, under the poisonous glowing sun, among the immense mass graves and devastated cities.
The last human creature, withered, mad, cursing, accusing - and the terrible accusation: WHY?
will die unheard on the plains, drift through the ruins, seep into the rubble of churches, fall into pools of blood, unheard, unanswered,
the last animal scream of the last human animal -
All this will happen tomorrow, tomorrow, perhaps, perhaps even tonight, perhaps tonight, if - if -
You do not say NO.
Da steht ein Mann und spielt Xylophon. Er spielt einen rasenden Rhythmus. Und dabei schwitzt er, der Mann, denn er ist au�ergewצhnlich fett. Und er spielt auf einem Riesenxylophon. Und weil es so gro� ist, muss er bei jedem Schlag vor dem Xylophon hin und her sausen. Und dabei schwitzt er, denn er ist tatsהchlich sehr fett. Aber er schwitzt gar keinen Schwei�, das ist das Sonderbare. Er schwitzt Blut, dampfendes, dunkles Blut. Und das Blut lהuft in zwei breiten roten Streifen an seiner Hose runter, dass er von weitem aussieht wie ein General. Wie ein General! Ein fetter, blutiger General. Er muss ein alter schlachtenerprobter General sein, denn er hat beide Arme verloren. Ja, er spielt mit langen d�nnen Prothesen, die wie Handgranatenstiele aussehen, hצlzern und mit einem Metallring. Er muss ein ganz fremdartiger Musiker sein, der General, denn die Hצlzer seines riesigen Xylophons sind gar nicht aus Holz. Nein, glauben Sie mir, Herr Oberst, glauben Sie mir, sie sind aus Knochen. Glauben Sie mir das, Herr Oberst, aus Knochen!
Wolfgang BorchertTags: krieg albtraum verantwortung
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