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Mi, 05.08.2009 19:56
Do, 13.06.2019 01:46
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Jo Nesbø - Schneemann
 
 
Do, 13.06.2019 01:46
 
Teil III
Kapitel 16
10. Tag. Curling

Harry fragte sich, warum Menschen, die auf Kosten anderer Menschen lebten, immer diesen dünnen, glänzenden Schweißfilm auf der Haut hatten, wie ein Firnis aus geheuchelter Scham über ihrem fehlenden Gewissen.
 
Taube21Onlinestatus
 
Jakob Hein - Herr Jensen steigt aus
 
 
Do, 13.06.2019 01:40
 
001
Herr Jensen wird vorgestellt
[…] Aber warum er sich das Gehirn mit diesen Fakten verstopfen sollte, verstand er deshalb keineswegs. Wenn er sich irgendwann für den spezifischen Wärmequotienten von Wasser oder die Induktionsstärke eines Magnetfeldes interessieren würde, würde er die Information schon irgendwo finden können oder notfalls jemanden fragen. Herr Jensen war überzeugt davon, daß er etwas viel Sinnvolleres mit seinem Gehirn machen konnte, er wußte nur noch nicht genau, was.
Wenn er hingegen die Post zustellte, dann war es absolut klar, daß er nichts machte, was sein Gehirn besonders beanspruchte. Briefe austragen war mit Sicherheit das Falsche. Das beruhigte ihn, denn so konnte er besser darüber nachdenken, worin die große Sache bestand, was das Richtige für ihn war, ohne durch etwas anderes abgelenkt zu werden.

006
Herr Jensen wird nach der Zukunft gefragt
Ach wissen Sie“, sagte Herr Jensen. „Ich will eigentlich am liebten wieder Postbote werden. Etwas anderes will ich nicht machen, schon gar keine Qualifikationsmaßnahme. Da warte ich lieber, bis auf der Post wieder was frei wird.“
„Hören Sie mir zu“, sagte die Sachbearbeiterin in einem jetzt merklich gereizten Tonfall. „Sie können keine Bemühungen nachweisen und sind schon zu lange arbeitslos. Wenn Sie jetzt ablehnen, kürzen wir Ihre Bezüge. Verstehen Sie, was ich meine: Sie müssen in eine Qualifikationsmaßnahme.“
„Ach so. Ich muß in eine Qualifikationsmaßnahme“, sagte Herr Jensen verdutzt. Er hätte nie gedacht, in seiner Arbeitslosigkeit so bedrängt zu werden. Jahrelang hatte er eingezahlt und war davon ausgegangen, daß ihm seine Bezüge rechtmäßig zustanden. Arbeitslosigkeit galt als etwas so Schreckliches, daß niemand annehmen konnte, daß er freiwillig arbeitslos war. Es war wie eine schwere Erkrankung, von der viele betroffen waren und die jetzt Hilfe brauchten. Daß er für sein Geld herumgescheucht werden sollte, stimmte Herrn Jensen sehr unzufrieden.
 
Taube21Onlinestatus
 
Margaret Atwood - The Handmaid's Tale
 
 
Mi, 30.01.2019 17:25
 
Chapter Twenty

I admired my mother in some ways, although things between us were never easy. She expected too much from me, I felt. She expected me to vindicate her life for her, and the choices she’d made. I didn’t want to live my life on her terms. I didn’t want to be the model offspring, the incarnation of her ideas. We used to fight about that. I am not your justification for existence I said to her once.

Chapter Twenty-Six

[…] But I also felt guilty about her. I felt I was an intruder, in a territory that ought to have been hers. Now that I was seeing the Commander on the sly, if only to play his games and listen to him talk, our functions were no longer as separate as they should have been in theory. I was taking something away from her, although she didn’t know it. I was filching. Never mind that it was something she apparently didn’t want or had no use for, had rejected even; still, it was hers, and if I took it away, this mysterious “it” I couldn’t even quite define – for the Commander wasn’t in love with me, I refused to believe he felt anything for me as extreme as that – what would be left for her?

Chapter Twenty-Eight

That night, after I’d lost my job, Luke wanted me to make love. Why didn’t I want to? Desperation alone should have driven me. But I still felt numbed. I could hardly even feel his hands on me.
What’s the matter? he said.
I don’t know, I said.
We still have … he said. But he didn’t go on to say what we still had. It occurred to me that he shouldn’t be saying we, since nothing that I knew of had been taken away from him.
We still have each other, I said. It was true. Then why did I sound, even to myself, so indifferent?
He kissed me then, as if now I’d said that, things could get back to normal. But something had shifted, some balance. I felt shrunken, so that when he put his arms around me, gathering me up, I was small as a doll. I felt love going forward without me.
He doesn’t mind this, I thought. He doesn’t mind it at all. Maybe he even likes it. We are not each other’s, any more. Instead, I am his.
Unworthy, unjust, untrue. But that is what happened.
So Luke: what I want to ask you now, what I need to know is, Was I right? Because we never talked about it. By the time I could have done that, I was afraid to. I couldn’t afford to lose you.

Chapter Thirty

The night before we left the house, that last time, I was walking through the rooms. Nothing was packed up, because we weren’t taking much with us and we couldn’t afford even then to give the least appearance of leaving. […]
The cat, is what he said.
Cat? I said, against the wool of his sweater.
We can’t just leave her here.
I hadn’t thought about the cat. Neither of us had. Our decision had been sudden, and then there had been the planning to do. I must have thought she was coming with us. But she couldn’t, you don’t take a cat on a day trip across the border.
Why not outside? I said. We could just leave her.
She’d hang around and mew at the door. Someone would notice we were gone.
We could give her away, I said. One of the neighbours. Even as I said this, I saw how foolish that would be.
I’ll take care of it, Luke said. And because he said it instead of her, I knew he meant kill. That is what you have to do before you kill, I thought. You have to create an it, where none was before. You do that first, in your head, and then you make it real. So that’s how they do it, I thought. I seemed never to have known that before.
Luke found the cat, who was hiding under our bed. They always know. He went into the garage with her. I don’t know what he did and I never asked him. I sat in the living room, hands folded in my lap. I should have gone out with him, taken that small responsibility. I should at least have asked him about it afterwards, so he didn’t have to carry it alone; because that little sacrifice, that snuffing out of love, was done for my sake as well.
 
Taube21Onlinestatus
 
Robert Seethaler - Der Trafikant
 
 
Mi, 30.01.2019 12:15
 
"Dieser Mensch!", holte er aus. "Dieser sogenannte Fleischhacker - den man allerdings viel zutreffender als einen Wurstpanscher bezeichnen sollte, weil er nämlich seine Würste mit altem Fett und Sägemehl streckt -, dieser sogenannte Mensch und Wurstpanscher also, hat Blut an den Händen. Außerdem hat er Scheiße im Hirn und die schwarze Gemeinheit im Herzen. Und wenn man sich so umschaut, ist er damit nicht alleine. Bis jetzt hat nur eine Sau dran glauben müssen. Oder von mir aus ein paar Hendln. Bis jetzt ist nur das Geschäft eines Trafikanten besudelt worden. Aber hier und heute frage ich euch: Was oder wer kommt als Nächstes dran?"
Niemand sagte etwas, einige Leute grinsten, einige schüttelten den Kopf, jemand ging, andere kamen dazu und drängelten sich zwischen die Schaulustigen.
"Einer hat Blut an den Händen, und die anderen stehen da und sagen nix. So ist es immer!", fuhr Otto Trsnjek fort, während Roßhuber mit einem schiefen Lächeln daneben stand. "So ist es immer, so war es immer, und so wird es immer sein, denn so steht es wahrscheinlich irgendwo geschrieben, und so ist es eingeimpft in die unendlich blöden Schädel des Menschengeschlechts. ..."


Franz musste an die Totenmaske denken, die hinter dem Altar in der Nußdorfer Kapelle hing. Sie zeigte das Antlitz irgendeines Dorfheiligen, dessen Name und Herkunft sowie die Gründe seiner angeblichen Heiligsprechung über die Jahre verloren gegangen waren und der je nach Blickwinkel oder Lichteinfall wahlweise freundlich oder verschlagen in den Kirchenraum schaute und den Kindern während der Sonntagsmesse Angst machte. Eigentlich konnte ihn niemand leiden, aber bislang hatte sich noch kein Pfarrer getraut, ihn abzuhängen und im Kirchenkeller in der Kiste mit den alten, von der Zeit zerfressenen Gebetsbüchern zu verstauen, schließlich wusste man ja doch nie so genau, und sicher ist sicher, denn Gottes Wege sind unergründlich.
 
Taube21Onlinestatus
 
Arundhati Roy - The God of Small Things
 
 
So, 25.02.2018 20:01
 
Paradise Pickles & Preserves

Estha had always been a quiet child, so no one could pinpoint with any degree of accuracy exactly when (the year, if not the month or day) he had stopped talking. Stopped talking altogether, that is. The fact is that there wasn’t an ‘exactly when’. It had been a gradual winding down and closing shop. A barely noticeable quietening. As though he had simply run out of conversation and had nothing left to say. […] Slowly, over the years, Estha withdrew from the world. He grew accustomed to the uneasy octopus that lived inside him and squirted its inky tranquillizer on his past. Gradually the reason for his silence was hidden away, entombed somewhere deep in the soothing folds of the fact of it.


Abhilash Talkies

Baby Kochamma, weighed down by her melons, would not admit to herself that she was looking forward to the picture. She preferred to feel that she was only doing it for the children’s sake. In her mind she kept an organized, careful account of Things She’d Done For People, and Things People Hadn’t Done For Her.


Welcome Home, our Sophie Mol

[…] Because Ammu had not had the kind of education, nor read the sorts of books, nor met the sorts of people, that might have influenced her to think the way she did.
She was just that sort of animal.


Work is Struggle

And there it was again. Another religion turned against itself. Another edifice constructed by the human mind, decimated by human nature.


The History House

Blue-lipped and dinner-plate-eyed, they watched, mesmerized by something that they sensed but didn’t understand: the absence of caprice in what the policemen did. The abyss where anger should have been. The sober, steady brutality, the economy of it all.
They were opening a bottle.
Or shutting a tap.
Cracking an egg to make an omelette.
The twins were too young to know that these were only history’s henchmen. Sent to square the books and collect the dues from those who broke its laws. Impelled by feelings that were primal yet paradoxically wholly impersonal. Feelings of contempt born of inchoate, unacknowledged fear – civilization’s fear of nature, men’s fear of women, power’s fear of powerlessness.
Man’s subliminal urge to destroy what he could neither subdue or deify.
Men’s Needs.
What Esthappen and Rahel witnessed that morning, though they didn’t know it then, was a clinical demonstration in controlled conditions (this was not war after all, or genocide) of human nature’s pursuit of ascendancy. Structure. Order. Complete monopoly. It was human history, masquerading as God’s Purpose, revealing herself to an under-age audience.
There was nothing accidental about what happened that morning. Nothing incidental. It was no stray mugging or personal settling of scores. This was an era imprinting itself on those who lived in it.
History in live performance.
If they hurt Velutha more than they intended to, it was only because any kinship, any connection between themselves and him, any implication that if nothing else, at least biologically he was a fellow creature – had been severed long ago. They were not arresting a man, they were exorcizing fear. They had no instrument to calibrate how much punishment he could take. No means of gauging how much or how permanently they had damaged him.
Unlike the custom of rampaging religious mobs or conquering armies running riot, that morning in the Heart of Darkness the posse of Touchable Policemen acted with economy, not frenzy. Efficiency, not anarchy. Responsibility, hot hysteria. They didn’t tear out his hair or burn him alive. They didn’t hack off his genitals and stuff them in his mouth. They didn’t rape him. Or behead him. After all, they were not battling an epidemic. They were merely inoculating a community against an outbreak.
 
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