Published online: 15 Apr Additional information Author information Georgina Paul.
Stationäre Mutter-Kind-Behandlungseinheiten in Deutschland | SpringerLink
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Recently I was sitting on a bench in a little park in Stuttgart. Not far from the bus stop on Kleiststrasse. I was just hanging around and I noticed that autumn had arrived, yellow leaves were falling from the trees. A major traffic artery roared behind me, crossed too by the no.
In a few days I would receive the proofs for my first novel, and as the perception gradually rippled through my veins I became aware that these proofs were autumn leaves and were falling from me. I began to be aware that a part of me was dying and had died with these proofs. A tree, a dream tree in the landscape of a lost language, growing out of the water in which I sleep.
Whenever I am conscious that I have found this way of writing, I am also conscious that I am no longer scared. Not feeling scared for a moment releases the catch, lets me be aware that I am here, that I can watch from this park bench as acts unfold around me.
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This unfolding is driven. There is a drive that compels me to sit in a park and take note that autumn has arrived, just as there is a drive that compels me to write a sentence. For a long time I thought that drive was something primarily sexual, but since I found a way of writing I know that drive is an expression of being alive. I sat there in the park as if in a transition zone: ejected from the clinch of a novel-writing process that had lasted many years, before the process metamorphosised into a book. And suddenly, unexpectedly, I felt my own tender touch, the driving leaves became an image of myself, being drive out of my own story, and I thought: autumn is a rupture too, a rupture with summer.
And that there is a magic within every farewell that protects us and helps us to live.
WEAPON SUPPLIES INTO SOUTH SUDAN’S CIVIL WAR
These are not stages, not like stairs leading teleologically up the hill of life, but unexpected ruptures. Life is a sequence of ruptures, painful breaks, reconfigurations, interruptions. Rupture that connects us to the inherent experience. The post always breaks down between two generations. Nothing their parents suggest is taken on board Basic Law. They are drivelling on about herbs? Fascist medicine!
Advice on how to treat superiors, neighbours, women? The stupidest, most gormless and usually most underhanded stuff imaginable. How many years inbetween? The rebuke conveys three difficult experiences. In other words: Jews have spent many generations living in a lawless space and self-denial is part of Jewish identity. The other side to this Jewish capacity for self-denial, as I see it, is the Jewish ability analysed by Arendt to build a relationship with non-being, with the void, with the blank page.
With the childhood state. With the place where language is snow. Where things can happen. Its inhabitants are not formed or developed, but are born and become. The self is always naked as far as birth or death are concerned […]. One is obliged to conclude from this that the THING must present as a threat, that the relationship with the reality of desire must be appparent, for an apparatus of subjugation or oblivion as powerful as totalitarianism to be able and required to emerge.
This is where the origins of totalitarianism must be sought. Lyotard is saying that what the National Socialist system sought to combat in Jewishness was its relationship to nothingness, to natality. Which establishes a bond with genealogy and with the dead. Hannah Arendt:. It is because of my natality, not because of how I develop, that I am capable of a new beginning in the form of independent action.
It is this action, says Arendt, that enables us to discover our unique identity, to explore our mesonatality between the generations; it is our link with the dead. The pain of the rupture as bonding, as the seasoning in the stew that the generations find themselves in together, is a pain to which we can never grow accustomed. It hits us between the eyes every time. Writers and artists who seek to do justice to this difficult fact of the pain inherent in any metamorphosis — and any true art comes at the price of this tussle for justice — are sometimes not easy to bear.
I mean me. I thought that once the weight of my first novel had fallen from me and I had wrung a legacy out of myself that could exist without me, it would be easier for me to be. I would have a protector, a paper shelter. Like an architect whose graduation project is his first very own house. The sentences in my book would be a little nation and I would be their regent.
And I would be able to milk them. Like lice, I would milk the letters in my book and suck the life force out of them.
The blanks between the letters would be my flesh, the alphabet would be my habitat. The lead would be my blood and the ink would drip from my eyes. A lily would spring from my book, and this lily reaching tall into an empty sky would be me! It was only when my mother died that I was capable of writing this book. Only when my mother died did I become fertile, able to sprout buds, to cast off leaves, to give birth. And the conflict I waged with my mother in her last years was due to that curious fact: I was competing with her over her ability to give birth.
This anger towards my mother might have been due to her regarding me as her creation: seeing me as her creature, the work that gave her a justification for her own existence on the shoulders of my being brought into the world. And when my mother died I, the child of this conflict, was able to give birth to my novel, odd as that may sound. When I was twelve I came across two portraits that a street artist in Thun had drawn of my mother when she was twelve. They show the most beautiful girl I know in the world, or have ever known. Simply the separate strands of her thick, healthy, wheat-blond Albert Anker plaits, her eyeballs, the irises of cornflower blue glinting through the tint of lead and paper.
An X-ray gaze shining at me through time and paper, looking at me. Like the ghost of my libido. I remember how I immersed myself full of passion into those drawings by copying them with a pencil. By plumbing my lead into the gaze of my mother, exactly my age, delving into her, for hours, for days. I filled over forty sheets with graphite lines, increasingly accurate, until I could circle her nose precisely and managed to expose exactly the right tiny bright spot on the tip, delicate and not too wide.
With the point of my pencil I was searching out her singular essence — entirely in keeping with Roland Barthes in his book Camera Lucida , which I discovered much later and read like a novel. Back then I did not find it. It was sunk too deep inside me, and the loss of my sweetheart from the mists of memory was too hard and painful for me to feel it at the time. This book is not yet featured on Listopia.
Community Reviews. Showing Average rating 4. Rating details. Sort order. Start your review of Schloss aus Glas. Readers also enjoyed. Videos About This Book. More videos About Jeannette Walls. Jeannette Walls. Jeannette Walls is a writer and journalist. Born in Phoenix, Arizona, she graduated with honors from Barnard College, the women's college affiliated with Columbia University.
She published a bestselling memoir, The Glass Castle , in The book was adapted into a film and released to theaters in August, Books by Jeannette Walls. Trivia About The Glass Castle. Quotes from Schloss aus Glas. Everyone has something good about them. You have to find the redeeming quality and love the person for that. Welcome back. Just a moment while we sign you in to your Goodreads account.
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