unguided tour

YOU want your woman to become a pretext for your dreams, hopes and deeds. A pretext: nothing more. That is a lot, you say, if indeed it is true that nothing is more difficult or more dangerous than being the pretext for a noble existence. A man’s existence. You can’t imagine that things could be otherwise. Or can you?

I want my man to play the male part; I want him as preface to my voice. A preface: nothing more and nothing less. For this is the duty of man: to speak before I do, to speak beforehand, before my hand… His power ends where my pleasure begins. Because my man would always be ready, always already there, I could be late. There would be no need for me to fake an origin, I’d be able to plunge right into the stream of words. To speak, to dream, to write. To be brave and daring, to pursue a thought to its very end, to exhaust an emotion.

I want him to be the beginning but not the end. I want him to have the first word but not the last. At the end of the day, when he will have spent his words, I want to see him cry.

I would like his face to be as soft and variegated as only marble can be; the color of the skin a finely textured greyish-white. I would like the lips to be full but not parted, the eyes sensitive and blank like the surface of a very still lake. I would like the nose to be noble and straight. I want the head to be small and round. The hair dark, curly, and full. Thick curls. Curls as luxurious as those adorning the head of an ancient Roman emperor’s statue. I want his body to be slender. I want his hands to be small.

I want beauty and I want grace. I want his movements to be measured and smooth. I don’t want anything languid and stiff about him. I want him to dress like an Italian dandy. The  comforting cashmere of his coat, the gentleness of his expensive cotton shirts, the silky radiance of his ties, the brown leather of his shoes, the iridescence of his mother of pearl cufflinks –  in all of this I would find the confidence to move swiftly. The way he would wear his clothes, self-possessed, generous — would satisfy my craving for beauty. For this is the curse of aging: one has to look elsewhere for consolation.

To attach myself to him at the right time. Not as appendage or adornment, or private property, but like a woman dons a veil — with dignity, and with conviction. With him as pre-face I would play the male part: to be free to look without being seen, to travel incognito, to act courageously. The days when I was reduced to nothing but a flat mirror reflecting a man’s ambition would be over.

I want generosity. For only the generous can fight the bitterness of a life half lived, a life in abeyance. I know this life well. I once locked myself in a prison of the imagination, a penitentiary for emotions, a place so dismal and barren it went by the name Happy Valley — an expression of self-deception or an indulgence in self-castigation?

I want my love for him to be a secret. For him to be the object of my most anxious memories, of my vulnerability, of this dark & red chamber within myself that no-one has ever seen. I want him to be a stranger, for we must encounter ourselves somewhere.

I want him quick witted and ironic, well read and well fed. I want him to entertain and amuse me. I want him to be a food lover. I would listen to his fine opinion on wine, truffles and cheese. He would read me stories of lavish dinners, exquisite banquets, subtle desserts — I would share my table with him, but not my bed.

I would like him to be my captive. Like a statue in a sculpture garden to which I possess the only key, I want him to be available and ready. In his solitude I would drink my morning cup of tea. Peaceful and calm. I want unrequited love to be his first memory of love. In this I want him to resemble me most.

I want him to be naked and irrefutable.

I want him to be a eunuch.

For I put my trust in those who have foregone their male parts but retained their masculinity. I have reason to believe that those afflicted with a wound take good care of other people’s secrets. More than anything else the eunuch is the guardian of his master’s privacy: he bathes him, cuts his hair, makes his bed, dresses him, takes out the litter, sorts through the mail, prepares his night potion. He is the first person to greet him in the morning, and the last person to see him at night. I like to imagine the private chambers of an ancient emperor, or the female quarters of a Byzantine palace, as therapeutic spaces. I like to think that eunuchs are the first psychoanalysts. Neither male nor female the eunuch does not take sides. His ambiguity is his strength. For those who are neither this nor that are not afraid of empathy. That’s why I want my man to wear his secret wound with pride.

Most of all I would like him to be the mask I put on when I need to show my face.

In yesterday’s New York TimeS Martha Nussbaum’s gives an excellent analysis on the undemocratic and islamophobic principles governing bans on Muslim veils and burqas in many Western European countries. Read her essay “Veiled Threats” here

Read my “An Argument for the Burqa” here

According to today’s  New York Times

Inside BP, there is a view that President Obama’s unflinching criticism of BP and its chief executive represents an unprecedented example of a chief of state interfering in the affairs of a corporation. (more…)

After several hours of active labour (without any medicinal relief) my mother’s pain was such that she made an effort to jump from the third floor window of the catholic convent where she decided to have me.  There was no one there to stop her. The nuns were praying in the room next door. What kept her from jumping was  sheer physical exhaustion.  She simply couldn’t muster the strength to open the window. Shortly thereafter one of the sisters found her on the floor, about to lose consciousness. (more…)

Half a century ago, when  Nazi engineer Wernher von Braun, chief developer of the devastating V-2 rocket,  found a new home in America — evading prosecution in post-war Germany — no one spoke of illegal immigration. The U.S. was happy to have him. Likewise, Nazi physicist Carl-Friedrich von Weizsäcker, who during the Third Reich worked on the construction of a nuclear bomb for Hitler, never had any problems traveling to and in the U.S. (more…)

Food is a form of Heimat.  In Café Kinski (128 Rivington between Essex + Norfolk) Germanic expats in Manhattan have a Lower East Side locale to indulge in the gratifications of the abandoned motherland without the austerity of the fatherland. (more…)

Two quotes.

1.

One cannot demarcate oneself from biologism, from naturalism, from racism in its genetic form, one cannot be opposed to them except by (more…)

Etwas stimmt nicht in Deutschland, wenn ein Boulevardblatt eine der klügsten, mutigsten und  verantwortungsvollsten Politikerinnen Deutschlands wegen des Überfahrens einer roten Ampel nach 3 Glas Wein erpressen und schließlich zum Rücktritt zwingen kann. Etwas stimmt nicht in Deutschland, wenn weiblichen Politikerinnen die Solidarität verweigert wird, ohne die niemand (auch ein Mann nicht) eine Kampagne der Bildzeitung überstehen kann. DIE VERLORENE EHRE DER KATHARINA BLUM? (more…)

Translation is like a sex change operation: to change the form in order to make shine the essence, the beauty, the truth of that which lies within. And yet no form or shape is ever adequate. (more…)

On the flight to Granada I made a vow: not to complain about the disappointments of Spain’s cuisine and its wine. (The notable exception is a Moscatel from Horacio Calvente:, subtly bitter-sweet, gently graced by the moon. A delight from Granada’s mountains.) (more…)

It’s lunchtime and the city goes to sleep for four hours. I don’t normally eat lunch (I prefer dinner) nor do I take a nap during the day. With no one to talk to, I read.

In the inside there is sleeping, (more…)

There is nothing quite as disappointing as dinner in an American restaurant.

No matter how much money I spend or how far I travel, the food invariably tastes sanitized, drained of its original flavor, infused with a suffocating plethora of aromas. As if the American palate has no patience for the acid sweetness of the tomato, the gentle comfort of chicken, the salty freshness of the oyster, the maternal fierceness of lamb, the coquettish charm of pork. One taste is never enough. Instead chefs invent shocking combinations of ingredients whose flavors exceed even the presumptuousness of chewing gum — or a smoothie. (more…)

For the longest time in history humans were a minority.

Consider this passage from John Berger’s “Here Is Where We Meet”

The Cro-Magnon reply to the first and perennial human question of: Where are we? was different from ours. The nomads were acutely aware of being a minority who were overwhelmingly outnumbered by animals. (more…)

Jorge Luis Borges’s marvelous DREAMTIGERS is available online in its entirety at The Floating Library. (Thank you ghost of Dr. Sineokov!)

Here’s an excerpt: The Draped Mirrors

The prefix neo signifies “a new, revived or modified form of some doctrine, belief, practice, language, artistic style or designating those who advocate, adopt or use it.” (OED)
A neo-Nazi is thus someone who supports the revival and modification of Nazism or Nazi ideological principles, or propagates a modified form of Nazism. But did Nazism ever disappear? And how are neo-Nazis different from Nazis? (more…)

A few weeks ago I was wondering why Americans so calmly endured the atrocities produced by the banking crisis. That might have changed. Today I ran into a demonstration of Harvard workers and students protesting the layoff of 275 clerical workers and forced early retirement of an additional 500 staff members. With “dignity and respect” (quoting an email message from Harvard’s president) layoffs will begin on Monday.

Protesters were chanting “Harvard is not poor”. Indeed! Thanks to ruthless and greedy investments Harvard’s endowment is still at approximately $26 billion, more than 400% of its value 20 years ago. Harvard University is the world’s richest university, one of the wealthiest nonprofit organizations and among the world’s most successful corporations.
Harvard has the means as well as the moral obligation to become a role model for a socially responsible university — a university governed by fairness and justice; a university that serves the society in which it thrives.
Here’s a radical proposition for the Harvard Management Company to contemplate: Harvard is not poor. Harvard can transform itself into a university with a conscience.
Sign the “no layoffs petition” here.

Those of you who read German I urge to read this book: Martin Leidenfrost: Die Tote im Fluss (The Dead in the River).

A careful and highly sensitive report on the atrocities caused by Western European eastploitation; an admirable gesture of compassion and responsibility. (more…)

I love Schnitzel. I grew up with Schnitzel, on Schnitzel. My mother makes an excellent Wiener Schnitzel.

Traveling to Vienna from the U.S. I crave simple food. Slow food. Most of all I crave Wiener Schnitzel. I have one every other day. My Viennese friends make fun of me. It would never occur to them to order the Wiener Schnitzel on the menu.

Wiener Schnitzel is undeniably simple (though, like all simple dishes, difficult to prepare): veal, breading, lemon, cucumbers, potatoes sprinkled with parsley, a glass of Grüner Veltliner.

In its simplicity the Wiener Schnitzel is the antithesis of the often over-spiced food served in American restaurants.

Or is it? (more…)

“Whenever you pass along money, you circulate both heads and tails, both goods and bads, both pleasure and guilt, both food and poison, both life and death.” (Lloyd DeMause)

If all money is guilt-money, America is the world’s largest guilt-sharing network. Even in the current economic breakdown shopping remains a source of guilty pleasures; followed by eating and sex. As a German used to keeping guilt and its pleasures private (for obvious reasons) I am both fascinated and disturbed.

DeMause says that no matter how much pleasure we derive from making and spending money, it will always remain a guilty pleasure. Money functions as a container in which we inject all our negative emotions and bad feelings. A poison container. But, says DeMause, there is only so much guilt a society can contain. “When prosperity becomes too much, we begin to feel extremely sinful, polluted, and money seems more than ever to be all tails, full of our guilt.” (more…)