#borchardt

zamatos fog-szappan

Vasárnapi Újság, 1891. november 8.

I suppose the difference between us now is in how far we’ve strayed from these images - or in what approach we deal with them now. I felt some distance to it (or this tone) at the beginning, like I had forgotten how to speak this way, but I remembered it and it came. Though there is something idealistic, and a kind of reclusion we share in them still.

He told me of the old woman he meets every Friday. She cooks him fish, and whilst she cooks, he reads her his new writings. She once had an affair with Belmondo. They drink a bottle of wine together. He said she doesn't fear death so much after the wine. Every Friday.

Discussed punks and emos, how they seem to be the only (older) subculture with enduring relevance. and the punks in his city, and mine. And his little sister, and her beautiful name, Andromache.

I saw a video of her playing the piano and wanted to cry. They look very similar.

--- also, Borchardt. (das mädchen liest das buch und spricht)

Denn es war im zu Verwirrten, Daß es uns so überblühte, Das es aus den Nächten sprühte Mit den Sternen wie sie schwirrten, —

Daß es stand in jeder Stunde, Uns umfing wie ein Vertrautes! Aber nun, wie fremde schaut es! Nun wie spricht's, mit welchem Munde:

Nun dus wie mit Händen fingest, Stumm, wie stumm ist meine Seele! Auf und ab durch meine Kehle Übermannt michs, daß du singest!