Berlin Alexanderplatz: The Story of Franz Biberkopf by Alfred Döblin Page A
Authors: Alfred Döblin
Tags: General, Philosophy
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the darkness, and her lips trembled, colon, quotation marks, Eleanore, dash, Eleanore, dash, quotation marks, quotation francs, quotation dollars-going, going, gone!
“Nope, nope, I won’t go with you, Franz. You’re off my calling list. You can make yourself scarce.” “Come on, Lina, I’m going to hand him back his junk.” And as Franz took his hat off and placed it on the chest of drawers-it was in her room-and made a few convincing gestures towards her, she first scratched his hand and wept, then she went off with him. They each took some of the magazines in question and approached the battlefront on the line Rosenthaler Strasse, Neue Schonhauser Strasse, Hackesche Market.
In the fighting zone, Lina, the hearty, sloppy, unwashed, weepy little girl made an offensive of her own ala Prince of Homburg: My noble uncle Friedrich von der Mark! Natalie! Let be! Let be! Oh God, Oh God, he is undone, so be it, so be it! She dashed post-haste and fast-paced to whitehead’s newsstand. Franz Biberkopf, noble sufferer, found it expedient to stay in the background. He stood backgrounded in front of the Cigar-store of Schroder Import Export and from there observed, slightly impeded by fog, street-cars and passers-by, the progress of the action just engaged. The heroes had figuratively contacted each other. They skirmished for each other’s weak and vulnerable points. And so Lina Przyballa of Czernowitz, the farmer Stanislaus Przyballa’s only legitimate daughter - following two miscarriages which only half developed, both of which were to have been called Lina - pitched the package of papers down with a peppery gesture. The rest got lost in the noise of the street traffic. “What a wench! What a wench! “ Franz, the joyously impeded sufferer, groaned in admiration. He approached, in his capacity of reserves, the center of the fighting zone. Already in front of Ernst Kiimmerlich’s beer-shop, Miss Lina Przyballa, heroine and conqueror, threw a smile at him, and sloppy, but joyful, she shrieked: “I gave it to him, Franz.”
Franz knew it. In the cafe she forthwith sank stante pede to that part of his anatomy below his woolen shirt which she took for his heart but which was in more exact terms his sternum and the upper lobe of his left lung. She was triumphant as she poured down her first Gilka: “And now he can pick up his rubbish in the street.”
Oh immortality, thou art my very own, beloved what sheen is now outspread, haiL all haiL to the Prince of Homburg, victor in the battle of Fehrbellin, all hail! (Court ladies, officers, and torches appear on the castle terrace.) “Waiter, how ‘bout another Gilka.”
Hasenheide, Neue Welt, Life’s one damned Thing after Another, we shouldn’t make Life harder than it is
And Franz sits with Miss Lina Przyballa in her room, laughing: “Lina, y’know what a stock-girl is?” He gives her a poke in the ribs. She gapes: “Well, that Fölsch girl, now, isn’t she a stock-girl, she gets out the phonograph records at the music-store.” “That’s not what I mean. When I give you a shove and you’re lying on the sofa, and me next to you, then you’re a stuck-girl and I’m a stock-man.” “You’re a nice one, all right.” She squealed.
So once again, and once again lets umptidumtididdlcdiddledee, roll along, roll along, merrily we roll along, tidumtididdledee, and once again merrily we roll along, roll along, roll along.
And they get up from the sofa-you’re not sick, sir, are you? If so, you’d better visit Uncle Doctor-and merrily stroll towards the Hasenheide, into Neue Welt where the high-steppers go, where bonfires blaze, prizes for the slimmest calves. The musicians sat on the stage in Tyrolese costumes. Soft music: “Drink, drink, brother, let’s drink, Leave all your worries at home, Shun all trouble and shun all pain, Then life’s a happy refrain, Shun all trouble and shun all pain, Then life’s a happy refrain.”
It got into their bones, with every
“Nope, nope, I won’t go with you, Franz. You’re off my calling list. You can make yourself scarce.” “Come on, Lina, I’m going to hand him back his junk.” And as Franz took his hat off and placed it on the chest of drawers-it was in her room-and made a few convincing gestures towards her, she first scratched his hand and wept, then she went off with him. They each took some of the magazines in question and approached the battlefront on the line Rosenthaler Strasse, Neue Schonhauser Strasse, Hackesche Market.
In the fighting zone, Lina, the hearty, sloppy, unwashed, weepy little girl made an offensive of her own ala Prince of Homburg: My noble uncle Friedrich von der Mark! Natalie! Let be! Let be! Oh God, Oh God, he is undone, so be it, so be it! She dashed post-haste and fast-paced to whitehead’s newsstand. Franz Biberkopf, noble sufferer, found it expedient to stay in the background. He stood backgrounded in front of the Cigar-store of Schroder Import Export and from there observed, slightly impeded by fog, street-cars and passers-by, the progress of the action just engaged. The heroes had figuratively contacted each other. They skirmished for each other’s weak and vulnerable points. And so Lina Przyballa of Czernowitz, the farmer Stanislaus Przyballa’s only legitimate daughter - following two miscarriages which only half developed, both of which were to have been called Lina - pitched the package of papers down with a peppery gesture. The rest got lost in the noise of the street traffic. “What a wench! What a wench! “ Franz, the joyously impeded sufferer, groaned in admiration. He approached, in his capacity of reserves, the center of the fighting zone. Already in front of Ernst Kiimmerlich’s beer-shop, Miss Lina Przyballa, heroine and conqueror, threw a smile at him, and sloppy, but joyful, she shrieked: “I gave it to him, Franz.”
Franz knew it. In the cafe she forthwith sank stante pede to that part of his anatomy below his woolen shirt which she took for his heart but which was in more exact terms his sternum and the upper lobe of his left lung. She was triumphant as she poured down her first Gilka: “And now he can pick up his rubbish in the street.”
Oh immortality, thou art my very own, beloved what sheen is now outspread, haiL all haiL to the Prince of Homburg, victor in the battle of Fehrbellin, all hail! (Court ladies, officers, and torches appear on the castle terrace.) “Waiter, how ‘bout another Gilka.”
Hasenheide, Neue Welt, Life’s one damned Thing after Another, we shouldn’t make Life harder than it is
And Franz sits with Miss Lina Przyballa in her room, laughing: “Lina, y’know what a stock-girl is?” He gives her a poke in the ribs. She gapes: “Well, that Fölsch girl, now, isn’t she a stock-girl, she gets out the phonograph records at the music-store.” “That’s not what I mean. When I give you a shove and you’re lying on the sofa, and me next to you, then you’re a stuck-girl and I’m a stock-man.” “You’re a nice one, all right.” She squealed.
So once again, and once again lets umptidumtididdlcdiddledee, roll along, roll along, merrily we roll along, tidumtididdledee, and once again merrily we roll along, roll along, roll along.
And they get up from the sofa-you’re not sick, sir, are you? If so, you’d better visit Uncle Doctor-and merrily stroll towards the Hasenheide, into Neue Welt where the high-steppers go, where bonfires blaze, prizes for the slimmest calves. The musicians sat on the stage in Tyrolese costumes. Soft music: “Drink, drink, brother, let’s drink, Leave all your worries at home, Shun all trouble and shun all pain, Then life’s a happy refrain, Shun all trouble and shun all pain, Then life’s a happy refrain.”
It got into their bones, with every
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