The Storyteller by Walter Benjamin

formalities had been taken care of and all of the files were to hand, it turned out that it was too late. A broken, feeble-minded old man stood before his work and nobody supposed that it was play-acting when this once respected head leaned with furrowed brow over the tangle of arabesques in a vain effort to discern the name that he had hidden there so many years ago.”
    â€˜To my surprise I noticed that – I cannot say why – I had stepped closer. But before I could reach out and touch the stone, I felt the hand of the sexton on my shoulder. Well-intentioned, yet surprised, he attempted to determine the reason for my interest. In my insecurity and weariness, however, I stuttered only the most senseless thing possible: “Collector”, whereupon I toddled off home.
    â€˜If sleep, as some maintain, is not only a physical need of the organism, but a compulsion effected by the unconscious upon consciousness such that it vacates the scene in order to make room for drives and images, then perhaps the exhaustion that overcame me at noon in a southern Italian town had more to say than it ordinarily would. Be that as it may, I dreamt – I know I dreamt – the name. But not as it had stood before me, undiscovered in the stone; rather, it had been abducted intoanother realm – elevated, disenchanted and clarified at once – and amid the myriad tangles of grass, foliage and flowers, the letters, which at that time had caused my heart to beat most painfully, quaked and quivered towards me. When I awoke it was past eight. Time to have dinner and raise the question of how the rest of the day should be spent. My hours of napping during the afternoon prohibited me from ending it early, and I lacked both the money and the inclination to embark on more adventures. After a few hundred indecisive steps, I happened upon an open square, the Campo. It was dusk. Children were still playing around the fountain. This square, which was off limits to all vehicles, and which no longer served for gatherings, only markets, had its vital purpose as a huge stone play and bathing area for children. For this reason, it was also a popular spot for carts selling sweets, monkey nuts and melons. Two or three of them still stood around the square, gradually lighting their lanterns. A blinking light shot forth from the vicinity of the last one that still had children and idlers crowded around it. As I approached, I gleaned brass instruments. I am an observant ambler. What will or hidden wish, then, prohibited me from noticing what could not possibly have evaded even the most inattentive person? Something was afoot on this street, at whose entrance I now found myself again, without having expected it. The silk drapes that hung from the windows weren’t laundry at all – and why should the peculiar candelabras have survived here and nowhere else in the country? The music got underway. It erupted into the street, which quickly filled with people. And it became apparent that wealth, where it brushes up against the poor, only makes it more difficult for them to enjoy what is theirs. The light from the candles and torches clashed violently with the spherical yellow beams that shone from the arc lamps, illuminating the cobblestonesand house walls. I joined in right at the very end. Preparations had been made to receive the procession in front of a church. Paper lanterns and light bulbs stood closely together, and a perpetual trickle of the faithful began to break away from the jubilant crowd only to get lost in the folds of the curtains that enshrouded the open portal.
    â€˜I had paused some distance from the centre, which shone red and green. The crowd now filling the street was not just some colourless mass. These were the clearly defined, closely connected inhabitants of the local district, and because it was a petit bourgeois neighbourhood, no one of any higher standing was present, let alone any foreigners. As I stood