By Clemens Meyer
A guy bets all he has on a horserace to pay for a pricey operation for his puppy. a tender refugee desires to field her approach instantly off the boat to the pinnacle of the game. outdated pals speak all evening after assembly up accidentally. She imagines their destiny together... tales approximately those that have misplaced out in existence and in love, and approximately their hopes for one particularly gigantic win, the opportunity to make anything in their lives. In silent flats, desolate warehouses, prisons and down by means of the river, Meyer moves the tone of our harsh occasions, and unearths the grace notes, the intense lighting fixtures shining in the dead of night.
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O wife of such a husband, and O husband of such a wife, and O you millions of perturbations! You hordes of directors, come this way and display your managerial talents! But let us return to the refined man, whom I can’t help imagining standing shivering before me, since, after all, considering what a sizeable number of writers there are, all sorts of people living today have grounds to tremble at the prospect of serving as models and being forced without their knowledge to kindly provide entertainment.
It would not have been fitting for him to have a name—this namelessness made him happy and thus he was provided for. The piece of bread always tasted fabulous to him, and when he was eating it, Amazonian rivers of faithfulness flooded through him. What a devotion that must have been! I know that you are namelessly grateful to me for these few lines. Oh these bread-doling carryings-on! Godful! I feel as if I could continue this report on into all incredulity... What else does the infinite consist of other than the incalculability of little dots?
One might naturally also refer to him as a refined individual, since all good people believe they are very refined, and because all beautiful people are virtually incapable of relinquishing the illusion that they are good. Once he founded a sort of enterprise, counting on the support of all the other nice, good, devout, joyous refined persons. Was there not a certain recklessness in this sort of calculation? Be that as it may, these good people left him utterly in the lurch, and the completeness with which they abandoned him might appear in itself to possess great worth.
All the Lights by Clemens Meyer