tried to pick her up in a café she finally gave in just to shut him up. The wretched collection of white-skinned homebodies is completed by a young law student and a young high school teacher. Since then, years have passed and passed away. After a concert, two academics had held up her coat sleeves like machine-gun barrels, thereby disarming her: They had the more dangerous weapons. After each of these experiences, Erika wanted to get back to her mother as fast as possible. Mother didn’t suspect a thing. In this way, Erika grazed through two or three bachelor pads withkitchenettes and sitz baths. Sour pastures for the gourmet of art.
At first, she enjoyed preening herself: a pianist, albeit temporarily not performing. None of these men had ever had a pianist sitting on his sofa. Each man instantly behaved like a gentleman, and the woman enjoyed a wide view, over and above the man. But when she’s having sex, no woman remains grandiose. The young men soon took charming liberties, both indoors and outdoors. Car doors were no longer held open, fun was poked at clumsiness. The woman was then lied to, cheated on, tormented, and often not called. She was intentionally left up in the air about his intentions. One or two letters went unanswered. The woman waited and waited, in vain. And she did not ask why she was waiting, because she feared the answer more than the waiting. Meanwhile, the man began to deal with other women in another life.
Sex started those young men rolling with Erika, and then they stopped sex. They turned off the gas, leaving only a whiff. Erika tried to hold them with passion and pleasure. She pounded her fists on the swaying dead weight on top of her, she was so excited she couldn’t help shrieking. Her nails pointedly scratched the back of each antagonist. She felt nothing. She simulated overwhelming pleasure so that the man would finally stop. The man did stop, but then he came another time. Erika felt nothing, she has always felt nothing. She is as unfeeling as a piece of tar paper in the rain.
Each gentleman soon left Erika, and now she doesn’t care to have a gentleman. Only feeble charms emanate from a man, who makes very little effort anyway. Men do not go to any trouble for such an extraordinary woman as Erika. Yet they will never meet such a woman again. For this woman is unique. They will always regret it, but they leave anyway. They look at Erika, turn and depart. They make no effort to investigateher truly unique artistic qualities; they prefer to deal with their own mediocre knowledge and chances. This woman seems like too large a chunk for their dull little knives. They accept the fact that this woman will soon wither and wane. They lose no sleep over their realization. Erika is shrinking into a mummy, and they go about their dreary business as if a rare flower were not asking to be watered.
Unaware of such events, Herr Klemmer sways along, like a living bouquet of flowers, next to the younger Kohut; the older Kohut follows in his wake. He is so young. He doesn’t realize how young he is. He risks a venerating, conspiratorial sidelong glance at his teacher. He shares the secret of understanding art with her. He is certain that the woman next to him is wondering, as he is, how to render the mother harmless. How can he invite Erika for a glass of wine so that the day might end on a festive note? Klemmer’s thoughts go no further. His teacher is pure for him. See the mother home, take Erika out. Erika! He pronounces her name. She pretends she has misunderstood, and she quickens her pace, so we can advance, and so the young man won’t have some bizarre whim. He should simply go away! There are so many streets he can vanish in. Once he’s gone, she and her mother will gossip about the fact that this student has a secret crush on her. Are you going to watch the Fred Astaire movie tonight? Yes, indeed. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Now Herr Klemmer knows what to expect: nothing.
In
At first, she enjoyed preening herself: a pianist, albeit temporarily not performing. None of these men had ever had a pianist sitting on his sofa. Each man instantly behaved like a gentleman, and the woman enjoyed a wide view, over and above the man. But when she’s having sex, no woman remains grandiose. The young men soon took charming liberties, both indoors and outdoors. Car doors were no longer held open, fun was poked at clumsiness. The woman was then lied to, cheated on, tormented, and often not called. She was intentionally left up in the air about his intentions. One or two letters went unanswered. The woman waited and waited, in vain. And she did not ask why she was waiting, because she feared the answer more than the waiting. Meanwhile, the man began to deal with other women in another life.
Sex started those young men rolling with Erika, and then they stopped sex. They turned off the gas, leaving only a whiff. Erika tried to hold them with passion and pleasure. She pounded her fists on the swaying dead weight on top of her, she was so excited she couldn’t help shrieking. Her nails pointedly scratched the back of each antagonist. She felt nothing. She simulated overwhelming pleasure so that the man would finally stop. The man did stop, but then he came another time. Erika felt nothing, she has always felt nothing. She is as unfeeling as a piece of tar paper in the rain.
Each gentleman soon left Erika, and now she doesn’t care to have a gentleman. Only feeble charms emanate from a man, who makes very little effort anyway. Men do not go to any trouble for such an extraordinary woman as Erika. Yet they will never meet such a woman again. For this woman is unique. They will always regret it, but they leave anyway. They look at Erika, turn and depart. They make no effort to investigateher truly unique artistic qualities; they prefer to deal with their own mediocre knowledge and chances. This woman seems like too large a chunk for their dull little knives. They accept the fact that this woman will soon wither and wane. They lose no sleep over their realization. Erika is shrinking into a mummy, and they go about their dreary business as if a rare flower were not asking to be watered.
Unaware of such events, Herr Klemmer sways along, like a living bouquet of flowers, next to the younger Kohut; the older Kohut follows in his wake. He is so young. He doesn’t realize how young he is. He risks a venerating, conspiratorial sidelong glance at his teacher. He shares the secret of understanding art with her. He is certain that the woman next to him is wondering, as he is, how to render the mother harmless. How can he invite Erika for a glass of wine so that the day might end on a festive note? Klemmer’s thoughts go no further. His teacher is pure for him. See the mother home, take Erika out. Erika! He pronounces her name. She pretends she has misunderstood, and she quickens her pace, so we can advance, and so the young man won’t have some bizarre whim. He should simply go away! There are so many streets he can vanish in. Once he’s gone, she and her mother will gossip about the fact that this student has a secret crush on her. Are you going to watch the Fred Astaire movie tonight? Yes, indeed. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Now Herr Klemmer knows what to expect: nothing.
In
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