Lust

The people of the country will soon have to rise and shine, harried from one place to another, even before they know where they're at. But wait a moment. Even they enjoy an advantage: springtime will be theirs as well, with its puffing and blowing and zephyrs and fresh air. But in the mean time we shall have achieved far more. Because we shall have forged ahead. We are confident, we go to the theatre or a concert or exhibition where we recognize our own image, cast by nothing but the light of their wretched eyes. Yes, we are on the list! If you take a look down there, you'll see a wild heap of unemployed believers at the mercy of the banks, you wouldn't credit it. The light in those eyes, ah, at the end of the federal highway, has gilded nothing but factory dividends. But they forgot to indicate, and, misjudging the bend, dazzled by the glare of a job at long last, plunged into the river. One really shouldn't go falling asleep at the wheel early in the morning. And what is becoming of the taxes we pay in the mean time? The money is squandered like people, wasted like lives, an expensive sports car in a slim and talented country, see, where industry takes a sharp bend downhill. Of course people are run over elsewhere too. Now let us continue on our restless way, leaving barely detectible tracks on the federal tarmac and to our children a colour TV set and a video recorder per head.

11

THEN AT BREAKFAST THEY just can't get enough. The child comes racing down and bounds about before Father, what a young rascal. Little sunshine, he is. Worth his weight in gold. Father wants his son to be a plucky fellow, not a yellow fucker. But it's not plucky the kid is, it's lucky, pushing his luck, always out for the lucky dip at the joke shop in town, always wanting something bought. Me me me. He'll scarcely heed his mates in the distance. They have to watch as the Direktor's son runs out of money (just as they run out of time, time to knock at the door of the business world, which is ajar, neither open to them nor closed). At the Volksschule the son sits in class with kids from poor homes, which is logical enough from an educational point of view, but it's war out there in those cottages! Some of these sons and daughters reek of the byre from their long morning's work with the cattle, up to their ankles in leaden shit. There they all are, the bodies, huddled together, till lack of money sweeps them off to the factories. Never seen flowers like these blowing and fading in the factories? Off the child mischievously skips across the field, upsetting the precarious balance of Nature and natural law. (And the child's quite right to hammer a mole with a stick or whish downhill on skis. But then, you're right too, gentle reader, off for a healthy walk, wrapped up in a genuine, natural cloud of pure new wool.) From time to time a gun is fired into the guts of the forest. Cesspits are meant to protect Nature from human kind and its waste, but who will protect humanity from bank employees who get up early just to look up at the Alps? During the night, thank God, there's been a slight thaw, which keeps would-be skiers in suspense well before they're suspended from the lift. Round the bases of trees, ice is packed like the moulded polystyrene used to pack those delicate hi-tech gadgets that make our eyes pop out.

Some would see it quite differently, mind. Here comes the housekeeper with her shopping trolley. The ground, still frozen in places, drones under the wheels as if it were hollow. As well as above us, there must be something below us, too. Have you put your affairs in order, are you having an affair, do you have a fair weather friend? No? Well, just wait till there's a knock at your door. Who knows, maybe one of these slimmed-down well-built jobless fellows out to sell you a magazine subscription. So that you understand the arts and the economy and politics the better.

Being a man, the Direktor can look down on his wife, since she's sitting down there in her usual place where the light from the window ca

This woman will doubtless be off at the drop of a hat to the hairdresser's, to have herself trimmed for Michael. Brimful of love, the parents clash above the son. Who is immersed in his playthings just as Father is immersed in Mother. Engrossed; it's gross. The manchild alone with his toy. Fetch that child, now. At one time blades of grass grew here, now the knife-blade's at the heart: who could stay calmly on his own pathway and merely look on? They all have to make a song and dance of their sufferings, piss out something creative so that everyone will notice and love them. Everyone asks the son in what way he is superior to the other kids. It's enough to make Mother's breasts squirt milk: the boy just doesn't seem to possess an immortal soul. At least, he gives his mother no joy. Already he wants to be off skiing again, off with the others being taken for a ride on the lifts. Let's hope they don't dare too much and have an accident! Now the mother greedily kisses her child, who twists free of her grip. Benevolently Father paws at the carpet, wishing he were alone with his wife once again to paw her. Sometimes when the child's attention is distracted he shoves a finger or two into the most exciting part of her, that slit, which he finds so enticing that he buys her expensive things to wear so that she can cover it up. Secretly he sniffs his hand. It's a wi