Ten ___________________________
stories of a lifetime
stones on that harsh road which we must walk to learn of ourselves Thomas Mann
Note on the Text
Ten operates by using a ten-line, ten syllables per line poem-constraint and by resisting the incorporation of a premeditated trajectory. This work is an exercise in observation and engagement. It has been made from materials found in Thomas Mann Stories of a Lifetime.
I am afraid that I am even yet
a young girl stands strewing bread for a host more and more swoop down in clouds from all sides
from time to time she looks up searchingly she strides perseveringly up and down the scene grows quieter and quieter
you are in venice for the first time, sir? you are seeing all this for the first time? does it come up to your expectations?
the ensuing pause (‌) lasts quite some time
those were the happiest, most peaceful days and when it seemed I would choose between them she would simply put her hands on my head
I still recall her with a heightened sense I would shut myself in alone with her I would draw the curtains and set a lamp
her figure grows more fragile with the years her face thinner, stiller and more dreaming
not that she could have been at all like her I drew her myself with pen and ink
the grey gabled house stands by the north gate
the three girls stand sobbing in a corner the poor mother has already suffered her husband has been snatched away from her
she shows them a picture of their father he is a strange sight, with his pigeon chest his hands and feet are delicately formed his features might almost be called handsome
it is unlikely they could have loved him there is no feeling of good fellowship
he is dressed all in black from head to heels he wears a shabby old-fashioned top hat these garments are all most carefully brushed his clothing belongs to another time
it is a question of no cruel blow but simply that he is not up to it the painful shrinking and humility
a flowerpot full of earth stands on the sill some favourable light seems to be cast
hello little girl – have you hurt yourself?
the name she goes by is always lizzie her full large mouth is utterly lovely a mouth like that is infuriating
he enters lizzie’s dark bridal-chamber he approaches lizzie’s dark bridal-bed lifts her brows in a level line to his
such a love as mine to you is precious it has its value in this life of ours you will never betray or deceive me
but her husband she already deceives
says a tall woman in a long raincoat
if I could help you, soothe you, take you in if only for the sake of charity but each for oneself – so things are arranged
her rooms are rather craftily furnished
out there in the twilight lies a strange place
here, she says to himself, is a refuge it is right to think that I call it that
his boots are very thick-soled, durable but he does not have a stick to lean on
on the other side of it were houses the birds were twittering in the beeches (the dustcart is devoid of interest)
and then you catch a glimpse of a strange face a face you will not easily forget
there is not a soul on earth to love him it was his third child – it too was born dead
this man is named peepsam – praisegood peepsam he is on his way to visit the graves
once he had been able to resist it
everyone pushes away again he stands on the spot where they have left him why then this craving for contact with them?
we lonely ones – so he had written once that is you – he thinks – you are warm, mad, sweet in our eyes there burns an avid longing
lizzie dances with the little painter the lonely man feels his spirit reach out
all his defiance collapses again
ah, to be not an artist but a man
people are crowding round the large windows in the first window a large picture stands its gaze expresses knowledge, suffering
he crosses the street and mounts the church steps he pushes up the latch of the church door he moves his hood-covered head in small turns
her smouldering eyes are rimmed with darkness her strangely smiling lips are half-parted he stands where he is with his hands thrust out
the sky is livid and thunder threatens
the prodigy comes from behind a screen he steps up to the edge of the platform he sits down upon the revolving stool he puts his silk-shod feet on the pedals beside him is the impresario
the audience can barely trust its ears the applause bursts forth unanimously the impudent half-frightened sparrows chirp a page carries up three great laurel wreaths even the princess shares in the applause
hush! let us look into a human soul and after that – whither? to court perhaps
strange forms are taking their place on the stage waltz-time, tinkling glasses, smoke, steam, hubbub the board floor has been scrubbed the whole forenoon
we know these little weaknesses of ours they have the sweetness of forbidden fruit they are always received with warm applause
when the swallows come again – see them fly they could not achieve such a feat themselves
they have met now at the appointed hour they climb the stairs, one after the other they read as they pass the names on the doors
to the right of the entrance is a shrine behind the table are low wooden chairs opposite the window the room narrows on the left is a white-covered table on the right side stands a curtained bookshelf
who is to read them? – asks the novelist he takes them all very seriously
the december wind roars in the chimney it makes the flanges of his nose all raw he might have been wandering on a heath
doubts and struggles? – yes – and ill he has been
the little cup stands on the side-table not the doctor alone has cautioned him his is a dry pedestrian lecture
he stands by the cold fire, awake, alone his neck rises long and white from his shirt the well-marked line of his brows almost meets
she straddles on a prayer-rug pale with age she is small, ugly, prematurely old a necklace rests upon her shrunken breast she wears her hair in complicated twists
he excuses himself his tardiness
he is not allowed to say thou to her she does not like it; she answers briskly his black eyes narrow to glittering cracks he is obliged to be very careful
he knows not of a more pathetic case
and certainly dresden is beautiful I am excited, as I always am I am making a special trip today
never have I seen a handsomer dog he struts in his quarrels, his gaze is cold he is far above feeling journey-proud
there are whistlings and rumblings, hurryings the great electric moons glow through the mist the locomotive whistles in response
I stay awhile by the window watching
they frequent the stage and salon tangos
of course I must go – I must see it all
a checked cap covers his curly blond hair he wears it pulled down over his forehead he sits with his arms clasped around one knee he has on loose cuffs over his shirt-sleeves
he rocks on his hips and weaves in his walk he throws hat coat and waistcoat on the ground
pardon – he says, taking two steps backwards
they had only brushed against each other