fact, but how it can all be done, I do not
know. I told her: “Perhaps by next winter I shall have lost my job.” She looked at
me them, open-eyed, and asked: “Why?” What sort of answer should I have given her?
I certainly cannot with a single stroke show her what sort of person I am. She would
despise me. Till now, she has always thought of me as a man of some ability, a man,
of course a rather odd and boring one, but still a man with a position in the world.
If I now tell her: “You are wrong, my position is very shaky indeed,” she would have
no reason to want my company any more, seeing all her hopes of me destroyed. I let
it go, I am a master in letting things slide, as they say. Perhaps, if I were a dancing
instructor, owner of a restaurant, or a theater director, or had some other profession
connected with the entertainment of people, then I might have some luck, for I am
that sort of person, jaunty, afloat, leg-flinging, light, buoyant, quiet, always making
a bow and having a tender emotion, who would do well as a landlord, stage manager,
or tailor, or something. Whenever I have a chance to make a bow, I am happy. That
helps one, does it not, to give a deep look? I even bow where it is not usual to do
so, or when only toadies and imbeciles do, so much in love am I with the procedure.
For serious man’s work I have not the intellect or the sense, neither ear nor eye
nor mind. Nothing in the world could be further from me. I want to make a profit,
but it has got to cost me no more than the twinkling of an eye, at most the lazy extending
of a hand. Normally, unwillingness to work is not quite natural in men, but it fits
me, it suits me, even if this is a sorry garb which suits me so perfectly, and even
if the garb’s cut is pitiable: why shouldn’t I say, “It suits me,” when anyone can
see for himself that it does, to a T. Unwillingness to work! But I don’t want to say
any more about it. I am always thinking, too, that it is the fault of the climate,
the damp lake air, which prevents me from getting to work, and now, with this knowledge
pressing upon me, I am looking for a job in the south, or in the mountains. I could
direct a hotel, or manage a factory, or run the counter at a smallish bank. A sunny,
open landscape should be able to develop talents in me which till now have been dormant.
A greengrocery would not be bad. In any case, I am a person who always believes that
great inward gains come through external change. Another climate would produce, also,
a different menu for lunch, and perhaps this is what the matter is. Could it really
be that I am ill? So much is wrong; I am deficient, actually, in everything. Could
it be that I am an unlucky person? Could it be a sort of sickness to concern oneself
always, as I do, with such questions? Anyway, it is not quite normal. Today I was
ten minutes late again at the bank. I cannot get there on time any more as the others
do. I ought really to be quite alone in the world, me, Helbling, and not a single
living being besides me. No sun, no culture, me, naked on a high rock, no storms,
not even a wave, no water, no wind, no streets, no benches, no money, no time, and
no breath. Then, at least, I should not be afraid any more. No more fear and no more
questions, and I should not be late any more, either. I could imagine that I was lying
in bed, everlastingly in bed! Perhaps that would be the best thing.
[1914]
The Little Berliner
P APA boxed my ears today, in a most fond and fatherly manner, of course. I had used the
expression: “Father, you must be nuts.” It was indeed a bit careless of me. “Ladies
should employ exquisite language,” our German teacher says. She’s horrible. But Papa
won’t allow me to ridicule her, and perhaps he’s right. After all, one does go to
school to exhibit a certain zeal for learning and a certain respect. Besides, it is
cheap and
know. I told her: “Perhaps by next winter I shall have lost my job.” She looked at
me them, open-eyed, and asked: “Why?” What sort of answer should I have given her?
I certainly cannot with a single stroke show her what sort of person I am. She would
despise me. Till now, she has always thought of me as a man of some ability, a man,
of course a rather odd and boring one, but still a man with a position in the world.
If I now tell her: “You are wrong, my position is very shaky indeed,” she would have
no reason to want my company any more, seeing all her hopes of me destroyed. I let
it go, I am a master in letting things slide, as they say. Perhaps, if I were a dancing
instructor, owner of a restaurant, or a theater director, or had some other profession
connected with the entertainment of people, then I might have some luck, for I am
that sort of person, jaunty, afloat, leg-flinging, light, buoyant, quiet, always making
a bow and having a tender emotion, who would do well as a landlord, stage manager,
or tailor, or something. Whenever I have a chance to make a bow, I am happy. That
helps one, does it not, to give a deep look? I even bow where it is not usual to do
so, or when only toadies and imbeciles do, so much in love am I with the procedure.
For serious man’s work I have not the intellect or the sense, neither ear nor eye
nor mind. Nothing in the world could be further from me. I want to make a profit,
but it has got to cost me no more than the twinkling of an eye, at most the lazy extending
of a hand. Normally, unwillingness to work is not quite natural in men, but it fits
me, it suits me, even if this is a sorry garb which suits me so perfectly, and even
if the garb’s cut is pitiable: why shouldn’t I say, “It suits me,” when anyone can
see for himself that it does, to a T. Unwillingness to work! But I don’t want to say
any more about it. I am always thinking, too, that it is the fault of the climate,
the damp lake air, which prevents me from getting to work, and now, with this knowledge
pressing upon me, I am looking for a job in the south, or in the mountains. I could
direct a hotel, or manage a factory, or run the counter at a smallish bank. A sunny,
open landscape should be able to develop talents in me which till now have been dormant.
A greengrocery would not be bad. In any case, I am a person who always believes that
great inward gains come through external change. Another climate would produce, also,
a different menu for lunch, and perhaps this is what the matter is. Could it really
be that I am ill? So much is wrong; I am deficient, actually, in everything. Could
it be that I am an unlucky person? Could it be a sort of sickness to concern oneself
always, as I do, with such questions? Anyway, it is not quite normal. Today I was
ten minutes late again at the bank. I cannot get there on time any more as the others
do. I ought really to be quite alone in the world, me, Helbling, and not a single
living being besides me. No sun, no culture, me, naked on a high rock, no storms,
not even a wave, no water, no wind, no streets, no benches, no money, no time, and
no breath. Then, at least, I should not be afraid any more. No more fear and no more
questions, and I should not be late any more, either. I could imagine that I was lying
in bed, everlastingly in bed! Perhaps that would be the best thing.
[1914]
The Little Berliner
P APA boxed my ears today, in a most fond and fatherly manner, of course. I had used the
expression: “Father, you must be nuts.” It was indeed a bit careless of me. “Ladies
should employ exquisite language,” our German teacher says. She’s horrible. But Papa
won’t allow me to ridicule her, and perhaps he’s right. After all, one does go to
school to exhibit a certain zeal for learning and a certain respect. Besides, it is
cheap and
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