Brodeck Read Online Free PDF Page B

open air, they fly away from me. And the war did nothing to improve things; it made me even more silent. In the camp, I saw how words could be used and what could be required of them. Before then, before the camp, I used to read books, especially books of poetry. During the time of my studies in the Capital, Professor Nösel instilled this taste in me, and I had retained it as a pleasant habit. I never forgot to stick a volume of poems in my pocket when I set out to gather information for my reports, and often, surrounded by the great spectacle of the towering mountains, the shouldering forests, and the checkerboard pastures, while the sky above seemed to look on, contented with its own infinite expanse, I would read verses aloud. The ones I liked and read again aroused in me a kind of agreeable buzzing, like an echo of some confused thoughts which lay in the deepest part of myself, but which I was incapable of expressing.
    When I returned from the camp, I put all my books of poetry in the stove and burned them. I watched the flames as they consumed everything, first words, then sentences, then whole pages. The smoke that rose from the burning poems was neither better nor nobler nor more charming than any other smoke. There was nothing special about it. I later learned that Nösel had been arrested during the first raids, like a number of professors and others whose occupation it was to study the world and explain it. He died shortly afterward in a camp similar to mine, a camp little different from hundreds of other camps which had sprung up all over the place on the other side of the border like poisonous flowers. Poetry had been of no use to him in the matter of his survival. Perhaps it had even hastened his demise. The thousands of verses, in Latin, Greek, and other languages, which he kept locked in his memory like the greatest of treasures, had availed him nothing. I felt certain that he, unlike me, had refused to act the dog. Yes, that was it. Poetry knows nothing of dogs. It ignores them.
    Orschwir mopped his plate with a piece of bread. “Brodeck, Brodeck, I can see you haven’t had much sleep,” he began, speaking softly, in a tone of muffled reproach. “I, on the other hand—well, it’s been a long time since I’ve slept so well, quite some time indeed. Before, I couldn’t so much as close my eyes, but last night I felt like I was six or seven years old again. I laid my head on the pillow, and three seconds later I was asleep …”
    By this time, the sun had fully risen, and its white light entered the kitchen in oblique rays, which struck the scarlet flagstones of the floor. Farm sounds could be heard: animals, servants, creaking axles, unidentifiable thwacks, and snatches of conversation.
    “I want to see the body.” I spoke the words without realizing what I was doing. They came almost of their own accord, and I let them pass. Orschwir looked surprised and upset. His face changed in an instant. He froze, like a shellfish when you douse it with a few drops of vinegar, and quite suddenly, his features regained all their ugliness. He lifted his cap, scratched the crown of his head, stood up, turned his back to me, walked over to one of the windows, and planted himself in front of it.
    “What good would that do, Brodeck? Didn’t you see your fill of corpses during the war? And what does one dead man look like, if not another dead man? You must tell the story, in sequence, one event after another. You mustn’t forget anything, but you mustn’t add useless details, either. They’ll make you veer off your course, and you’ll run the risk of confusing or even irritating your readers. Because you will be read, Brodeck, don’t forget that; you will be read by people who occupy important positions in S. Yes indeed, you will be read, even though I have a feeling you don’t believe it…”
    Orschwir turned around and looked me up and down. “I respect you, Brodeck, but it’s my duty to put you on your