Every terrible thing…
is a relief.
And I've been reading a lot lately. Jean Fr?mon's Island of the Dead is a curious, tiny paperback. "Resemblances stalk us. The double at the heart of living. The mirror. A phantom doubles each form. The name. The appearance. We dream the singular and demonstrate the serial. And here, Gertrude's double, like a voodoo doll invoked to conjure her absence."
And then there's Gert Hofmann's Lichtenberg and the Little Flower Girl, a perfect, tiny hardback, which, if nothing else, has the most exclamation marks a novel has ever had, even in a novel with ten times as many pages (this has 238).
"So, asked Professor K?stner, there is no bride in the picture? and Lichtenberg replied: Not in this picture!
Well, a man doesn't need a wife to get through life, said Professor K?stner, and Lichtenberg said: Yes, but it shows!
Where in particular do you think it shows?
Above all in the soul."
