Ten

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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


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