1999 : Gunter Grass

1999 : Gunter Grass

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“whose frolicsome black fables portray the forgotten face of history”



16 October 1927

Place of birth


Danzig-Langfuhr, Free City of Danzig







Notable award(s)


Nobel Prize in Literature 1999


Grass (formerly spelled: Grass) was born in Danzig autonomous traders parents (owners of a grocery products Colonial). His father was German and his mother Kashubian. The invasion by the Wehrmacht in Poland and Gdansk was approved by his family even if one of the uncles of young Polish Gunter is shot after participating at the headquarters of the Polish Post Office (episode recounted in The Tin Drum). Enrolled in the Hitler Youth, the boy asked, to fifteen years, to engage in submarines, but joined at the age of 17 years of the 10th SS Panzer Division Frundsberg of the Waffen-SS in October 1944. At the end of the war, he was taken prisoner by the Americans and released in 1946. During his captivity, he might have met Josef Ratzinger, the future Pope Benedict XVI. He says he has no knowledge of the horrors perpetrated by the Nazis after his release and heard confessions of Baldur von Schirach at Nuremberg Trials. Collapsed, horrified by these discoveries, Grass remains in West Germany where he led a bohemian life and trying as best they could to rebuild after tragedies family (his mother and his sister certainly have been raped by soldiers of ‘Red Army). After crossing Europe and studied fine arts in Dusseldorf, and West Berlin with Karl Hartung, he earns his living from his sculptures and engravings. Also graphic designer, illustrator and painter, he tries to write, compose poetry and began writing a novel inspired his distant youth. In 1955, he became a close group of 47, movement of reconstruction and literary reflection in the post-war Germany. He began a career as a poet in 1956 with his book The Journal of coquecigrues (Die Vorzuge der Windhuhner) and playwright in 1957 with pieces Tonton (Onkel, Onkel) and flood (Hochwasser). The same year he won the prize of Group 47 after playing the first two chapters of his work still in fiction: The Tin Drum. The reward money allows him to stay, between 1956 and 1960, in Paris, where he completes the writing of the book in a small room at Place d’Italie. There are frequent literary circles and intellectuals Saint-Germain-des-Pres, discovers the New novel, befriended Paul Celan that inspires them to read Rabelais and takes position for Albert Camus in the quarrel between him Jean-Paul Sartre. In 1959 he became famous with the publication of Drum (Die Blechtrommel) who obtains a global success. The book will be adapted to film twenty years later by Volker Schlondorff. In the 1960s, he joined politics and participated in election campaigns of the German Social Democrats. It also organizes several meetings for the future chancellor Willy Brandt that information on Eastern European affairs and to whom he gives advice, including bringing the two German republics. He joined the SPD in 1982 but gives his resignation in 1993 in protest against restrictions on the right of asylum. From 1983 to 1986, he chairs the Academy of Arts in Berlin. In the late 1980s, he went to India in Calcutta where he finds the misery of the people of India. It will relate this experience in language Pull (Zunge Zeugen 1989). In 1995, the publication of A History (Ein weites Feld) causes an uproar in Germany after the author has claimed that West Germany had taken hostage and victimized through unbridled liberalism , The former inhabitants of East Germany after reunification. The critic Marcel Reich-Ranicki accepts that the Spiegel published a picture in one where we see being torn Grass’s book with the title: “The failure of a great writer. “. The popular press also rebelled against the author: the Bild Zeitung title: “Grass does not love his country,” denouncing the novel “style hollow” and being a real “insult to the motherland”. The author received in 1999 at the age of 72 years, the Nobel Prize for Literature “for having portrayed the forgotten face of history in tales of a black gaiety.” Frequently cited on lists of the Swedish Academy where he was shown several years of big favorite, Grass, “the eternal nobelisable” as the press called him, had anticipated his victory although late. He had proposed to that effect Nobel Committee since the 1970 primer of a joint German writer from the East and West as a symbol of a cultural reunification, making reference, so underlying the idea to honor him and his great friend Christa Wolf. But this proposal was never taken into account by the jury of the prize. In 2001, he proposed to build a German-Polish museum to house works of art stolen by the Nazis. In 2002, Gunter Grass, sometimes accused of having rested on its laurels after his first literary success, is at the forefront of world literature by publishing crabs (Im Krebsgang), by age and maturity, far removed from the excesses baroque language of provocations and verve Rabelaisienne writings of the past. The novel deals through torpedoed by a Russian submarine of the old liner of the KDF Wilhelm Gusthoff responsible for refugees and wounded civilians and military, the problem of collective memory and responsibilities transgenerationelles. In 2005, Grass founded a circle of writers and literary meetings of Lubeck. In 1954 he married the Swiss Anna Schwarz, apprentice ballet dancer, he had four children and he had divorced in 1978. In 1979, he then remarried organist Ute Grunert. Gunter Grass now lives near Lubeck with his second wife. The House Grass “and contains most of his manuscripts and original artistic works. The author himself sees the cover and illustrating his books. He continues to perform in parallel with a major concern of eclecticism, his various artistic activities. He is one of the few writers to invite, at the German publication of each new book, all of its translators to share the translation and allow the exchange cosmopolitan and mixed cultures and languages. In August 2006, he revealed his enlistment in October 1944 in the Waffen-SS after previously claimed to have served in the Flak. This belated disclosure, made just days before the launch of his latest autobiographical book: onion peels (Beim HAUTEN der Zwiebel), has aroused uneasiness and misunderstanding in Europe (he had already given in 1999 for The Literary Magazine No. 381 its’ […] switch to the Hitler Youth “). It has been the source of controversy among European intellectuals, some of them whereas the confession he removed his moral status, unlike other thinking that sincerity, even late, merely strengthen its legitimacy. Lech Walesa, after requesting that he withdraw his title of honorary citizen of the city of Gdansk, has finally forgiven her mistakes of youth. The German right, which is holding its sworn enemy, was it, however much less forgiving: it denounced hypocrisy in its effect and its hackneyed sermons on the Nazi past of the nation. She also requested time to make his Nobel Prize money and he had reported. But the chairman of the Nobel Foundation has supported the writer, stating in this connection that “the awards is irreversible because no price has been withdrawn to anyone in the past”. Among his most famous works, include among others: The Cat and Mouse (Katz und Maus, 1961) and Dog Years (Hundejahre, 1963) that ended Danzig trilogy ( “Die Danziger Trilogy”), opened with The Tin Drum. His other famous books are: The Diary of a snail (Aus dem Tagebuch einer Schnecke, 1972), turbot (Der Butt, 1977), A Meeting in Westphalia (Das Treffen in Telgte, 1979) and La Ratte (Die Rattin, 1985).


A selection of works in German:


  • Die Vorzuge der Windhuhner. Gedichte. Prosa. Zeichnungen – Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1956.

  • Gleisdreieck. Gedichte mit Zeichnungen des Verfassers – Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1960.

  • Novemberland. 13 Sonette – Gottingen: Steidl, 1993.

  • Letzte Tanze – Gottingen : Steidl, 2003.

  • Lyrische Beute : Gedichte und Zeichnungen aus funfzig Jahren – Gottingen : Steidl, 2004.


  • Die bosen Koche. Ein Drama in funf Akten [1961.] – Stuttgart: Reclam, 1978.

  • Die Plebejer proben den Aufstand. Ein deutsches Trauerspiel – Neuwied, Berlin: Luchterhand, 1966.


  • Die Blechtrommel. Roman – Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1959.

  • Katz und Maus. Eine Novelle – Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1961.

  • Hundejahre. Roman – Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1963.

  • ortlich betaubt – Darmstadt, Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1969.

  • Aus dem Tagebuch einer Schnecke – Darmstadt, Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1972.

  • Der Butt. Roman – Darmstadt, Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1977.

  • Das Treffen in Telgte. Eine Erzahlung – Darmstadt, Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1979.

  • Kopfgeburten oder Die Deutschen sterben aus – Darmstadt, Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1980.

  • Die Rattin – Darmstadt, Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1986.

  • Zunge zeigen. Ein Tagebuch in Zeichnungen, Prosa und einem Gedicht – Darmstadt, Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1988.

  • Unkenrufe. Eine Erzahlung – Gottingen: Steidl, 1992.

  • Ein weites Feld – Gottingen: Steidl, 1995.

  • Mein Jahrhundert.– Gottingen: Steidl, 1999.

  • Im Krebsgang : eine Novelle – Gottingen : Steidl, 2002.

  • Beim Hauten der Zwiebel – Gottingen : Steidl, 2006

  • Dummer August – Gottingen : Gottingen, 2007


  • Dich singe ich, Demokratie – Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1965.

  • Uber meinen Lehrer Doblin und andere Vortrage – Berlin: Literarisches Colloquium, 1968.

  • Uber das Selbstverstandliche. Reden, Aufsatze, Offene Briefe – Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1968.

  • Denkzettel. Politische Reden und Aufsatze 1965-76 – Darmstadt, Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1978.

  • Aufsatze zur Literatur 1957-1979 – Darmstadt, Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1980.

  • Widerstand lernen. Politische Gegenreden 1980-1983 – Darmstadt, Neuwied: Luchterhand, 1984.

  • Schreiben nach Auschwitz. Frankfurter Poetik-Vorlesung – Frankfurt: Luchterhand, 1990.

  • Deutscher Lastenausgleich. Wider das dumpfe Einheitsgebot. Reden und Gesprache – Frankfurt: Luchterhand, 1990.

  • Rede vom Verlust. Uber den Niedergang der politischen Kultur im geeinten Deutschland – Gottingen: Steidl, 1993.

  • Fur- und Widerworte – Gottingen: Steidl, 1999.

  • Vom Abenteuer der Aufklarung. Werkstattgesprache – Gottingen: Steidl, 1999.

  • Funf Jahrzehnte : ein Werkstattbericht. Gunter Grass, herausgegeben von G. Fritze Margull – Frankfurt : Buchhandler Vereinigung, 2001.

  • Mit Wasserfarben : Aquarelle – Gottingen : Steidl, 2001.

  • Briefe : 1959-1994. Gunter Grass, Helen Wolff ; herausgegeben von Daniela Hermes – Gottingen : Steidl, 2003

  • Der Briefwechsel / Uwe Johnson, Anna Grass, Gunter Grass ; herausgegeben von Arno Barnert – Frankfurt am Main : Suhrkamp, 2007

  • Catalogue Raisonne. Bd 1, Die Radierungen / herausgegeben von Hilke Ohsoling – Gottingen : Steidl, 2007

  • Catalogue Raisonne. Bd 2, Die Litographien / herausgegeben von Hilke Ohsoling – Gottingen : Steidl, 2007

  • Steine walzen : Essays und Reden 1997-2007 / mit einem Nachwort von Oskar Negt – Gottingen : Steidl, 2007

A selection of works in English:

  • The Tin Drum. Transl. by Ralph Manheim – London: Secker & Warburg, 1962.

  • Cat and Mouse. Transl. by Ralph Manheim – San Diego: Harcourt Brace, 1963.

  • Dog Years. Transl. by Ralph Manheim – New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1965.

  • Four Plays. Introd. by Martin Esslin – New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1967.

  • Speak out! Speeches, Open Letters, Commentaries. Transl. by Ralph Manheim – London: Secker & Warburg, 1969.

  • Local Anaesthetic. Transl. by Ralph Manheim – New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, 1970.

  • From the Diary of a Snail. Transl. by Ralph Manheim – New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1973.

  • In the Egg and Other Poems. Transl. by Michael Hamburger and Christopher Middleton – New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1977.

  • The Meeting at Telgte. Transl. by Ralph Manheim – New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1981.

  • The Flounder. Transl. by Ralph Manheim – New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1978.

  • Headbirths, or, the Germans are Dying Out. Transl. by Ralph Manheim – New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1982.

  • The Rat. Transl. by Ralph Manheim – San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1987.

  • Show Your Tongue. Transl. by John E. Woods – San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1987.

  • Two States One Nation? Transl. by Rishna Winston with A.S. Wensinger. – San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1990; London: Secker & Warburg.

  • The Call of the Toad. Transl. by Ralph Manheim – New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1992.

  • The Plebeians Rehearse the Uprising. Transl. by Ralph Manheim – New York: Harcourt Brace, 1996.

  • My Century. Transl. by Michael Henry Heim – New York: Harcourt Brace, 1999.

  • Too Far Afield. Translated from the German by Krishna Winston. – London : Faber, 2000 ; New York : Harcourt, cop. 2000 – Uniform Title: Ein Weites Feld.

  • Crabwalk. Translated from the German by Krishna Winston. – Orlando : Harcourt, cop. 2002 ; London : Faber, 2003 – Uniform Title: Im Krebsgang.

  • The Gunter Grass Reader. Edited by Helmut Frielinghaus – Orlando : Harcourt, cop. 2004.

  • Peeling the Onion / translated from German by Michael Henry Heim – Orlando : Harcourt., 2007 – Uniform Title: Beim Ha?uten der Zwiebel


  • Cunliffe, W. Gordon, Gunter Grass – New York: Twayne, 1969.

  • Everett, G.A., A Select Bibliography of Gunter Grass from 1956 to 1973 – New York: Franklin, 1974.

  • O’Neill, Patrick, Gunter Grass: a Bibliography 1955-1975 – Toronto: Univ. of Toronto Press, 1976.

  • Hollington, Michael, Gunter Grass. The Writer in a Pluralist Society. London: M. Boyars, 1980.

  • Demetz, Peter, After the Fires. Recent Writing in the Germanies, Austria and Switzerland – San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1986.

  • Critical Essays on Gunter Grass. Ed. by Patrick O’Neill – Boston, Mass.: G.K. Hall, 1987.

  • Keele, Alan Frank, Understanding Gunter Grass – Columbia: Univ. of South Carolina Press, 1988.

  • Engel, Henrik D.K., Die Prosa von Gunter Grass in Beziehung zur englischsprachigen Literatur. Rezeption, Wirkungen und Ruckwirkungen bei Salman Rushdie, John Irving, Bernard Malamud u.a – Frankfurt: P. Lang, 1991.

  • O’Neill, Patrick, Gunter Grass Revisited – New York : Twayne Publishers, cop. 1999.

  • Neuhaus, Volker, Gunter Grass, Die Blechtrommel : Interpretation – Munchen : Oldenbourg, 2000.

  • Preece, Julian, The Life and Work of Gunter Grass : Literature, History, Politics – Basingstoke : Palgrave, cop. 2001.

  • Jurgs, Michael, Burger Grass : Biographie eines deutschen Dichters – Munchen : Bertelsmann, cop. 2002.

  • Rosell Steuer, Pernilla, -ein allzu weites Feld? : zu Ubersertzungstheorie und Ubersetzungspraxis anhand der Kulturspezifika in funf Ubersetzungen des Romans “Ein weites Feld” von Gunter Grass – Stockholm : Almqvist & Wiksell, 2004. Diss.

  • Hall, Katharina, Gunter Grass’s “Danzig Quintet” : Explorations in the Memory and History of the Nazi Era from Die Blecktrommel to Im Krebsgang – Oxford : Peter Lang, 2007


1999: Nobel Prize in Literature.


Excerpt from The Tin Drum

Now it was Monday afternoon and my grandmother sat by the fire potatoes. Sunday Kjolen had her one step closer to entering the world while the garments which on Sunday had enjoyed her body heat now depended entirely sockent highly of her hips. She was given a little, but to suggest a melody, while she with hazel stick petade up its first roasted potatoes from the ashes. She let it cool a bit from the fire and then she pointed potatoes with the CRUNCH, carbonized shell of a twig and brought it to its dry cracked lips, which no longer certain who without blowing soil and ash from the potatoes. She turned a blind eye while she blew, and when she thought she had blown enough, she opened the first one, then the other eye, bit the pilot with his sparse but flawless teeth, was a moment that still steaming hot potato in the mouth, sucked in the smoke and autumn air through the nostrils and stared with open eyes over the plot away to the horizon with its line of telegraph poles and the upper third of the brickworks chimney. Something was between telegraph poles. Grandma came to the lips, tricks up your eyes and munch on potato. Something was between telegraph poles, there were some who ran. Three men ran between the poles around the chimney, one of them turned and took the new rate, he seemed short and wide and came by, it looked as if he disappeared into the air behind the chimney, while the other two were longer and narrower stopped and seemed have lost the motivation to follow. Now they stood and took back or changed costume or hit brick and got paid for it. But my grandmother used the break to pick up a new potatoes and saw how the little short and wide climbed over the horizon as if it were a fence and left behind the two persecutors behind this fence, either at the brick mill or on the road to Brenntau. But he was nevertheless a hurry, he wanted to go faster than telegraph poles, he took a long leap over the plot, kicked off the mud that stuck in the boots, but it was slow for him, sometimes, it looked as if he stayed in the air in sheer, small and wide as he was, and took the time to wipe sweat from his forehead, before again put his feet on the nyplojda potato field, which ranged up to the ravine. And he reached the ravine and had nearly disappeared in it until the two long and lean, during which time I hope to have visited the brick mill, also climbed above the horizon and came boots in the mud so that my grandmother once again prevented to eat their potato, because it was not all days mon saw three grown men, also on adults in different ways, twisting around the telegraph poles, playing hide and seek around the brickworks chimney and jump or dragging its feet in the boots of the plot, which Vincent had plojt for a couple of days ago, and disappear into ravine , Only the small and large, then the long and narrow. Eventually, all three were gone and my grandmother could revert to eat an almost cold potatoes. She blew hastily earth and ashes of the shell, put the whole potatoes in your mouth and thought – if she thought anything at all – they were well from the brick mill. She chewing kretsformigt but had not chew ready until one of them came running from the ravine, looked around with wild eyes above the sharp mustache, approached the fire with two or three leaps, standing in front and behind and beside the fire at the same time, than he swore, than he was afraid and did not know where he would go, could not turn back because behind him came the lean forward from the ravine. He hit on the knees, eyes looked like the crowd out of their halor, sweat stood him in the head and skinned and with TREMBLING mustache, he crept closer to the soles, granny skosulor, and looking up to her as a small and large animals so that the grandmother could not continue to nibble at its potatoes, she drew the attention of the legs and thought no longer on the brick mill, teglet, brick burners, and brick laws, but lifted skirt, against all four skirts so high that the small but broad man who did not belong brick mill could crawl under them ; Gone, he was with the mustache and saw no more like an animal and was neither from Ramkau or from Viereck, was with his fear during skirt and got no more at the knees, was neither wide or small and took its place, however, he forgot to GASP and tremble: it was quiet as on the first day or the last, the wind whirling about for a while with the smoke, telegraph poles went away in a silent row, brick mill chimney stood where the high and unmoved, and she, my grandmother, glossed securely to the top skirt and did not quite understand why it was so unusual on her skin during the fourth. But as the first and second and third were smooth and proper return she went to the potatoes, petade forward another couple of pieces from the ashes, took four crude from the basket in his right elbow, shot them in flames, Osterunda of ash and concerned about the fire so that it flared up again – what else could she have done? Hardly had granny skirts added to the quiet, barely had the thick smoke from the fire as potatoes blast through the man’s blow to the knees, place the change and grandmother petande in the fire lost its direction, back towards the south-west, and spread itself over a yellow field, until they both long and lean, which was after the small but broad, now under skirts installed man, from the ravine, and it showed that they really were long and narrow and of the uniform, apparently belonged faltgendarmeriet.

Presentation Speech:

Presentation Speech by Dr. Horace Engdahl of the Swedish Academy, December 10, 1999.

Your Majesties, Your Royal Highness, Ladies and Gentlemen,These days, we often hear talk of the diminishing importance of literature. We are told that it has been reduced to entertainment or to a hobby for an isolated elite. But just as a philosopher in ancient Greece, wishing to reject the Eleatic theory that motion is impossible, simply walked about in front of the Eleatics meeting place in the hall of pillars, so having Gunter Grass present is enough to make us realize that literature will not easily be pushed to the margin.Publication of The Tin Drum meant a second birth for the German novel of the twentieth century. Not since Thomas Mann’s Buddenbrooks had a first book caused such a stir. This kind of attention has its price. Just like Mann, Grass later met with the reproach that, after being so loved by readers and critics, he had the audacity to write … differently. In Thomas Mann’s case, this reproach turned up even in the Swedish Academy’s citation for his Nobel Prize in 1929. The 1999 citation contains no such reservation.To the merits of Gunter Grass belong not only his creation of a narrative carnival like The Tin Drum, but also the fact that he hasn’t spent his life trying to repeat this feat. Time and again, he has left behind the established critical measures of his greatness and ventured with astonishing liberty into new undertakings. He has set himself above prohibitions and expectations, esthetical as well as political. He continues to do in the newest texts that have come from his workshop.It’s often said that, with The Tin Drum, Grass saved a vanished world from oblivion – the town of Danzig as it existed before the Nazis and the war. But readers intent on a magical time tour should perhaps rather read Cat and Mouse, the short story in which the friendships of boyhood are recalled with the keenness of loss and guilt. The Tin Drum, however, is something else. It seems to stage the very march of history with a formidable array of characters and tall stories. But everything is viewed from an unusually low position a yard above the ground. The Tin Drum has its temper from a first person narrator who resembles nothing in literature or on earth. Regardless of all the tricksters of folklore, regardless of mythical infants equipped with the wisdom of old men, regardless of Shakespeare’s Puck and Hoffmann’s Kleinzach, Oskar Matzerath is a completely original creation: an infernal intelligence in the body of a three-year old, a monster who victoriously approaches mankind with the aid of a tin drum, an intellectual with infantility as his critical method. If, as one voice in the novel suggests, our time could wear the motto “Mysticism, barbarism, gloom,” then Oskar is its sworn enemy. From Dadaism and another cheerfully destructive avant-garde groups of the beginning of our century, he has inherited the creative irreverence, but, unlike them, hasn’t jettisoned reason.Other German writers – I’m thinking of Arno Schmidt and Heinrich Boll – portrayed the collapse of human values as apocalypse or tragedy. Grass preferred a literary method more akin to the one adopted by the anonymous parodist who, sometime after Homer, depicted martial heroism as the battle between the frogs and the mice. Grass broke the spell that lay over the German past and sabotaged the German sublime, the taste for the somberly blazing magnificence of foredoomed destruction. This was an achievement far more radical than all the ideological criticism directed against Nazism. Grass’s novels strip their characters of grand words and emphasize the solidity of the flesh by bringing human forms close to the animal world. We all have a place in his menagerie of cat and mouse, dog, snail, flounder, frog and scarecrow.The different books that followed – the feverish Dog Years, the patiently arguing diary novels from the period when the author was engaged in party politics, the great fables of the seventies and eighties and so on – taught us to read in a new way, with our ears and stomachs just as much as with our eyes and brains. Gunter Grass in his expansive phrases brings together not only the high and the low but also the subject and its distorted representation in general opinion, that spiteful mutter for which no one is responsible and of which no one is innocent. His text displays not the homophony of letters but the polyphony of orality, like a noisy inn where a voice is raised without necessarily silencing friends and opponents. His irony has as many shades as his graphic prints.The major codes of his work – animals and food – meet in The Flounder, a great novel of the formation and malformation of civilization. The author musters the courage to engage in a dialogue with feminism, and attempts a new version of the history of progress, here told as the story of how eminent female cooks taught the people to feed on appetizing and wholesome dishes. With the serious motto that you mustn’t cook without historical consciousness, Grass develops a mode of thinking one would like to call gastrosophy.In his much-debated Ein weites Feld – Grass takes the daring step of giving an undramatic view of the relationship between the henchmen of totalitarianism and its victims. He plays off the eternal humanist against the eternal police informer, sympathetic understanding against the endless inquisition that keeps prying into old mistakes even beyond the grave. Of the two main characters he says: “Seen from the front, they looked very ill-matched, from behind however, as fitting to each other as two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.” There is something so hilariously insolent, independent and relativistic in Grass’s rendering of life in Berlin around the Fall of the Wall, that he was bound to infuriate many readers of his home country.Gunter Grass! Your sense of proportion has done mankind a genuine service. Your new book has the title Mein Jahrhundert – My Century. The fact that you are receiving the twentieth century’s last Nobel Literature Prize is confirmation of the reasonableness of such a title. In your cavalcade of the past hundred years, you give ample proof of your uncanny ability to impersonate the voices of the thoughtless: all those bewitched by the hopes of politics and technology, rendered stupid by the great perspectives. The core of thoughtlessness is enthusiasm. I read Mein Jahrhundert as a critique of enthusiasm and a celebration of its opposite, a good memory. Your style, with its repetitions and specifications and stratification of different voices, tells us that we shall not be in a hurry either when dealing with the past or when dealing with the future. You have shown that as long as literature remembers what people hasten to forget, it remains a power to be reckoned with.I would like to express the warm congratulations of the Swedish Academy as I now request you to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature from the hands of His Majesty the King.

Nobel Lecture:

7 December 1999

To Be Continued …

Honoured Members of the Swedish Academy, Ladies and Gentlemen:

This announcement signaled in the nineteenth century that a prose works came out in the long run. Both dailies and weeklies offered place in line. Serial novel flourished. While the first chapters of the unexpected result was printed in black and white was the story my party just prantats down, and the end was not yet conceived. But it was not only trivial horror stories and hjarteknipande passions that so magic tape reader. Several Dickensian novels came first out of the way, in smaportioner. Tolstoy Anna Karenina was also a serial novel. Balzac time as diligent provider of staple in serial form may very well before he had made a name for itself, have taught him the technology to enhance the excitement the very end of a section. And even almost all Fontaneromaner printed in number after number of any newspaper or magazine, so for example Irrungen, Wirrungen, which was the owner of Vossische Zeitung indignant that proclaim: “Should that horhistorien never going to end?!” But before I spin through the main thread in my speech or repaired it so that I may be some side threads to follow, it should be mentioned that the room I now find myself in and the Swedish Academy, whose guest I am, is not alien to me, purely literary seen. In my novel Rat Prior, who came out for almost fourteen years and whose disastrous course on a steep slope plane epic one or another reader may remember, are a tribute speech held in Stockholm before a comparable mixed societies, a speech devoted rat, specifically laboratories eight . She, the female rat, have received the Nobel Prize. At last, it must be said. For she had long been on the lists and proposals were considered favorites. Deputy of millions of animals ranging from guinea-pigs to rhesus monkeys, it is now, she, the white-haired and rodogda eight laboratories, which received Honor. She more than anyone else – says narrator in my novel – has made possible all the nobeliserade research and inventions in the medical field and – in respect of the discoveries made by Nobel Prize winners Watson and Crick – the activity of genetic manipulation virtually unlimited experimental fields. Since then, it is open to more or less legal cloning. For corn, vegetables, but also all kinds of moron. They advised people at the end of that novel, so the post of human time, proves increasingly dominant called “watsoncricks.” They combine in themselves the best of both genera. The rights are human beings and vice versa. The world seems to seek to recover through this born varelses Guard. It was high time to bring order in the chaos after the big fog, which otherwise only rats, cockroaches and bluebottle plus a remnant of fish and FROGSPAWN had survived, and the new regime would be created with the help of these miraculously rescued watsoncricks. But since this thread of the story was not fardigspunnen, but could potentially missed with a “Continued …”, and Nobel Prize speech to the laboratories, eight are by no means the end of the novel, as a final cheer systems, so that I can say in principle switch to talk about tell of living and art. Already in the beginning told it. Long before mankind practiced in writing and became progressively literacy has told everyone to everyone, and each man was listening to the other. Soon there were among those still not write those who could tell more and better and who could lie more credible. And among them there was once a part as an artificial way managed to dam up their legitimate power, since it was first come up quite leisurely, after which they let the pent-up stuff mass flooding and the river had to ramify without their ever; sudden and surprising found that a wide berth, and now brought it with a lot driving freight, which gave rise to the side acts. They tell us where the very first, which was not dependent on daylight or LAMPLIGHT and could whisper secretive even in the dark, well understood that avvinna darkness or twilight light an injection of excitement, skygge not to be desert dry itineraries or plangent waterfall and put on his height of a pause in the document because all began to feel tired – and then with the promise “Continued …” – And so did many listeners, as indeed themselves could tell, though not so inexhaustible. What was it that told at the time, even when no one could write, write something? From the beginning, already on the Cain and Abel time, it was certainly a lot of talk about murder and manslaughter. Revenge, especially blood revenge, offered stuff. And it was not long before genocide became commonplace. But we could also talk about sin rivers and droughts, on lean and fat years. It skygge not for long lists of property listed in both cattle and humans. No story could lay claim to credibility if it did not contain detailed family records, which indicated who came before and after and on. In such attartavlor was also the hero stories. In particular, they are still popular triangle dramas, but also the dismal stories about creatures in between humans and animals, who were in mazes or deceived in the reeds at the river beach was probably epic staple even at that time. To say nothing of the guda and avgudalegender as well as adventurous sea voyages, as one narrator forwarded to the other, stories that slip was built out, was varied, was fitted with reversed register and finally taken down by a storyteller, who is said to have called Homer or — in the Bible case – tells of a collective. Since then, are literature. In China, Persia, India, in the Peruvian highlands and elsewhere, wherever it occurred some kind of writing was the storyteller who made a name for itself, either as individuals or as literate members of a writers’ collective, unless they remained anonymous. We are contemporary people, which is so extremely caught up in the documentary, has nevertheless retained the memory of the oral storytelling of literature, oral origin. But it would be that we have forgotten that all narratives originally made over the lips, sometimes slowly malande with involuntary pauses, sometimes in a hurry, as well as pajagat of anxiety, and even whispering, as if it revealed the secret must be kept from being known by too many, then again loud, emphatic suspension of the expression of opinions or of the issues that from time immemorial, as well as with the curved trunk has tried SNIFF out how it relates to the inner and outer things – should we happen to have forgotten all that, writing faithful we are, then it would each narrative SCRUNCH dry and not borne by the moist breathing. So good that we have enough books within reach, books that are themselves, whether they are read quiet or loud. Where are my role models. Master of Melville or Doblin, but also with Luther’s German Bible, fluffy on me while I was still young and willing to learn, so I wrote while I shaped the rates high for myself and the ink mixed with saliva. And the way it is. Now in the fifth decade of my having lust-borne serfdom as a writer I chew segfibriga satsfogningar to a ductile porridge, declaims for myself in the best type loneliness and lets nothing get fit on paper than that even orally has found its varying tone and proven the blade right and give the echo. Yes, I love my profession. It make me companion, who Polyphonic looking for the opportunity to be heard and want into my manuscripts as literally as possible. The best meetings with my si, or for so many years ago removed outpaced or expropriated by the readers of books I have when I read before an audience anything written, printed and come to rest. Then, before the young people who become linguistically early weaned, and facing graying listeners who have not yet been measured in words, re-turned the written and printed word into the spoken. And this spell success time after time. In this way acquire shaman in writing by the petitioner a little extra income. He, who writes to conjure the time to flee, he, who is lying together lasting truths about themselves, are believed when he promises, albeit unspoken: Continued … But how was I when the author, poet, signatories – and all of it as well on the shocking white paper? What was it for a homemade hubris that could incite a child to a so overstrained activity? I was only twelve years when I felt sure it was an artist I wanted to be. That was when the Second World War began, in my area, quite near the suburb of Danzig-Langfuhr. Specialization targeting to become poets emerged first subsequent war when I received a tempting offer in Hitlerjugends magazine Hilf mit! [Help!]. It was a call for participation in a telling contest. Prices were promised. And immediately I began to write my first novel, in a diariehafte. Under the influence of my mother’s family background was given the title Die Kaschuben, but it took place not at the present time for the disappearance of small Kashubian folkspillran again was the pain-filled, but twelve-century, during interregnumtiden, the emperor resolve, the terrible time when the brigand and dominated ROBBER BARON roads and bridges and farmers saw no other way to assert their rights than to set up their own, secret courts. As much as I remember to stab and stabs of started immediately after a brief depiction of the economic situation in the Kashubian hinterland. So cool strops, stabbed, lace up and – after the secret court’s ruling – were executed there, with rope or sword, that already Chapter 1 ended with all the key persons and a large part of bipersonerna was dead and the rest either in hastily-dug graves or were thrown as food for crows. Since my style did not allow me to let these numerous kill switch to act as spirits and drive the novel further into rysargenren have my attempts stated as KEEL, and it became a grinding halt for “Continued …”, not for time and eternity; but the beginner vaccinated with the clearly identifiable to the call in its future activities says deal more cautious and more economically with its fictitious personal gallery. But first I read, sat in my books. I read in a special way: with pekfingrarna in the ears. As explanation, I must add that my younger sister and I grew up in overcrowding, which is in a TWO-ROOM FLAT, therefore, without which children have their own room or even a tiny BAY. It proved to be beneficial to me because that way I learned early to focus even among people and surrounded by various sounds. As in a protective ostkupa I was so IMMERSED in my book and told the world that my mother, who was enthusiastic about the joke, replaced limpsmorgas, which was next to my book, which I occasionally took a bite of, for a soap – Probably the mark Palm Olive – and just to prove a grannfru how completely Absent her son was, with the result that both women – my mother with a certain pride – became a witness to how I am, without taking your eyes from the book, raised the soap, biting and chewing in on it in just over a minute before I was thrown out of the printed sequence. This early inovning in concentration gave results that have been made to the day today, but never have I read so manic. The books were in a small cupboard behind glass with blue curtains. My mother was a member of the bokklubb. Dostojevskijs and Tolstoy novels, stood by and between some of Hamsun, Raabe and Vicki Baum. Even Selma Lagerlof “Gosta Berling” was within reach. Later, the city library that are fed me. But it was probably my mother’s book cat who was the triggering factor. She, the careful calculations of business woman, who in his speceriaffar served unreliable clientele who often acted on the chalk, loved the beautiful, listening to opera and operetta melodies of folk receiver, liked to hear me read my success stories and was often at the city theater, where I sometimes had to follow her. But these anecdotes, which I have only ephemeral have outlined and as a matter of experiences in a narrow, bourgeois environment, which I recited for decades since the epic breadth and a fictitious person gallery, fills this no other function than to help me answer the question ” How I became a writer? ” My inclination for sustained dagdrommeri, the desire to be witty and playing with words, the irresistible need to lie without having any benefit from it, just because it would be too bored to reflect the truth, in short, what we call vague enough talent , Was there as safely as a prerequisite, but it was the policy sudden inroad into the family idyll that supplied it too easily sailed away talent with lasting ballast and got it going a little more depth. My mother’s darling cousin, the Kashubian descent, and she herself, was employed at the Polish entry in the period athens Danzig. He went in and out at home with us, was a happy guest. After the post at Heveliusplatz, when the war began, a time had held a position against anstormningen of SS-Heimwehr heard my uncle to surrender, who are all sentenced to death by a capable right and shoot. Suddenly his uncle absent. Suddenly men talk about him, and it did itself. He remained utsparad. But it is precisely in that he was gone he must have put themselves firmly in me and been there unnoticed all these years, when I at the age of fifteen, some in uniform, at sixteen I learned what fear is, at seventeen became a prisoner of war among Americans, at eighteen was free and active as a black market traders, and then I finally learned the stone-and bildhuggaryrket, practiced me at art academies, wrote and cartoons, cartoons and wrote, easily shot the verses with a lot of wind, absurdistiska ONE-ACT PLAY. It continued so until a lot of stuff blocked the road for me, which seemed to have an innate ability to enjoy the aesthetic. There was, in a variety of resolving stones, my mother’s darling cousin buried, where the expected shot dead Polish postal official that I – who else? – Would find and dig him up for his under another name and in another form would be revived by the epic breathing; fixed the time in a novel whose main and SUBSIDIARY CHARACTER, with an appetite for life and birds mortar, survived many chapters and in some cases, was out till the end, so that the author’s standing promise “Continued …” were honored.

And so on and so forth. In connection with the publication of my first novel The Tin Drum and dogs and between them parenthetical novel Cat and mouse, I had early, still relatively young writer, to learn that books can offend, releasing rage and hatred. It was intended as a not-too-easy to love gift to their own country was perceived as dashing in his own living. Since then I have a reputation for me to be controversial. As such, I am in good company of other writers who preferred wanted to send to Siberia or you know where. We should not lament about it. Rather, we can allow ourselves to perceive the state of permanent contentious as life-giving and also in line with the risk we took when we chose the profession. It is now once so that the authors of the acts taking place only in words like prudent and spit in the soup for the powerful, for those who always claim to be entitled to a place on segrarnas bench, and therefore is literature history in a similar relation to censorship methods development and refinement. Despotism unpopular forced Socrates to empty the poison cup, drove Ovid in exile, forced Seneca to open the pulse veins. The literary fruits harvested in the western culture garden has been particularly prytt the Catholic Church’s Index, for centuries and until today. What degree of delay was the Enlightenment in Europe suffered as a result of autocratic furstars censorship measures? How many German, Italian, Spanish and Portuguese writers were driven from their land, their language area, of Fascism in its various forms? How many authors were victims of the Leninist-Stalinist terror? And that coercive measures affecting, even today, the regulatory people in countries such as China, Kenya or Croatia? I come from bokbalens country. We know that lust that in one way or another destroy the hateful book still, or again in tune with the Zeitgeist, and occasionally comes to telecommunications in relation expression, that is, find an audience. Far worse, however, is the fact that persecution of people with writing as a profession is growing throughout the world, until death threats or assassination conducted, and that the whole world has become accustomed to this continuing terror. The part of the world who call themselves free cancels Although indignant cries when Ken Saro-Wiwa and his fellow condemned to death and actually executed after having accused the leadership of the poisoning of the homeland, as we know it from Nigeria in 1995, but then returns parties to the agenda, because ecologically motivated protests could disrupt oil giant Shell’s business activities. What is it that makes books and authors with them so dangerous that state and religion, media and politbyraer, are obliged to retaliate? Rarely is there direct misdemeanors against precisely where and when the ruling ideology that leads to silence decree and worse. Often it is sufficient to demonstrate that literary truth exists only in the plural – as it is not there just a reality but many realities – that such a finding in narrative form to be judged as a danger, a mortal such those who are guardians of the only panacea and truth. Even the fact that the authors, its cold likmatigt, can not let the past be in peace, without tear up the wounds that allowed heal too quickly, dig up the corpse placed in a sealed basement, are treading prohibited place, eating up sacred cows or the like Jonathan Swift recommends Irish children as steak raw material for the fornama English cuisine, that therefore nothing at all is sacred to them, not even capitalism, all this makes the authors infamous and criminal worth. Their worst offense is and remains that their books do not want to lower its time winner in the historical progression, but rather likes to run around among the losers in that process, the marginalized, although they could have a lot to tell but is not going to say. Anyone who gives voice to those questioning the victory. The surrounding themselves with losers among their ranks. The powerful, dressed in one or other time-suit, has certainly nothing in general against literature. They even want a room as decoration and are willing to promote it, at present, the amuse, serve the entertainment culture, not only see the negative, but rather light a small light of hope for people in their distress. What we basically want, whether it is also not required as explicit as in communism time, is the “positive hero.” He may be in our days without further danger presented by Rambo in the free-market household’s endless jungle and laughing go over corpses on their way to success – a brother giddy that is ready for a fast fuck between two shots fluctuations, a winner leaving the sheer losers behind, In short, a hero who leave their positive fragrance brands in our globalized world. And demand for such a hard boiled stafigur are also using the media that is ready to place themselves at the disposal: James Bond has made children en masse, like him, as Dollies. On his style – a cool type – may well continue to triumph over evil. So would his counterpart and adversary to be the negative hero? Not necessarily. As you probably have read, I have been in pikareskromanens Moorish-Spanish school. There is fighting windmill wings remains a model which is transmitted through the centuries. So living adventurer of kapsejsandets comedy. His wit pee on the pillars of power saws and through its HIGH but is aware that he can neither get the temple to collapse or throne tipping over. Nevertheless, it raised quite SCRUFFY out since my Picaro, my rogue, has LINGER past, and the throne is shaky a little bit. His humor is derived from despair. While Ragnarok drags on before a prominent audience in Bayreuth hear him giggle, for his theatrical comedy and tragedy go hand in hand. He mockery of victories that made up the Odets men, and he makes them stumble. While we laugh when he makes a fool of himself, but the laughter he triggers are the bulky battle and stuck in the throat, and with his furious with humor pointed cynicism is tragically cut. From GLARING RED or svartbla Beckmesserfigurers point of view, he is into the bargain forma list, yes manierist in fingerspetsarna: he keeps binoculars UPSIDE DOWN. The time is for him active in a marshalling yard. Everywhere he put up mirrors. Never do you know whose ventriloquist he is at the moment. For the sake of appealing perspective is even dwarfs and giants in the speed of the PICARESQUE arena. See, for example, of Rabelais, who throughout his active life was fleeing from the secular police and the Holy Inquisition, because of his human large adult men Gargantua and Pantagruel had put the school radically orthodox orderly world on its head. What infernal Semitic laughter triggered not these two! And when Gargantua rested its broad ass on the Notre-Dame church towers and pissed daruppifran as he sat across Paris under water, then laughed people, to the extent it had not drowned. Or to once again call Swift as a witness: his culinary savory proposal to the mitigation of famine in Ireland could be taken up again in a form that suits our time, by the next economic summit to serve the TABLE meeting, Heads of State – not as Swifts in time starving Irish parents of children, but instead of street children from Brazil or South Sudan, lukulliskt prepared. Satire called this art form. For it is well known that everything is permitted, and even to tickle laughter muscles with the horrors. When Heinrich Boll made his Nobel Lecture here on May 2, 1973, taking the increasingly cramped circular ring in the two positions sense and poetry, and confronted them with each other, two different positions at first glance seem to be each other’s polar opposite, he regretted in the last sentence of his speech, an omission which was due to lack of time: “I have had to ignore the humor is not a class privilege, and yet forget remove its poetry and that it can serve as a hiding place for the opposition.” – Heinrich Boll knew how far out on the periphery, hardly longer read, Jean Paul has its place in the German spiritual greatness of PANOPTICON, also knew how much Thomas Mann’s literary works were suspected of irony, and it both from the left and right perspective on the time, and I supplerar: a suspicion that remains to this day. Boll was certainly not the only time myshumorn, but the inaudibility laughter between the lines, the chronic susceptibility to sorgmod that characterizes his clown, the comedy of despair that hangs over his collectors knew, the man who filed in silence. Incidentally employment which – if I may once again connect with the announcement “Continued …” – Have formed the school in the media here, I look closely, and have referred to and that the designation “voluntary self-censorship is willing disguised in the free West. In the early fifties, when I had started writing in a conscious way, was the Heinrich Boll already a known, though not recognized, author. Together with Wolfgang Koepp, Gunter Eich and Arno Schmidt was he on the side of the culture industry, which at the time bar restaurationens character. The still young post-war literature had serious concerns with the German language, which had become corrupt under Nazi domination. Another obstacle on the road, so a prohibited sign, for Boll generation, but also for the young authors, to whom I counted myself, was a statement by Adorno. I quote: “To write a poem after Auschwitz is barbaric, and this will corrode also on the understanding [—] why it has become impossible to write poems today …” So, no longer a “Continued …”. Well, we wrote anyway. But we did it while we had to – as well as Adorno in his book of 1951, Minima Moralia. Reflection aus them beschadigten Leben [English subtitle 1986: Reflections from the truncated life] – perceive Auschwitz as a cut point, a crime without the possibility of repentance and healing in the history of civilization. It was the only way to overcome this prohibition painting. And yet the Adorno’s menetekel retained its penetration into the day today. In it, my generation writers supported their foreheads from a clearly declared the defense position. Could remain silent and nobody wanted to do. The force is to liberate the German language from that march in step, and to elicit from the idyll and bluish discoloration introspection. For us, the burned children, it was important that we avsvor us the absolute quantities, the ideological monochrome painting. Doubts and skepticism was godmother, who dopgava gave us the whole gray scale. In each case, I ordered this Asceticism, for only then discover the richness of my language, which too had categorically declared guilty, the tongues seduces only softness, its broken Grubb presented disposition to deep inside, its decidedly flexible hardness, yes luster in its dialects, its silliness and ambiguity, its eccentricity and its in SUBJUNCTIVE PROSPERING beauty. This recycled pound was to manage well, despite Adorno or upon by Adorno’s ruling. Only then could continue writing after Auschwitz – whether it was the poems or prosatexter. Only then, by becoming a memory and not let the past take over, could the German post-war literature to itself and the future generations justify the universal type rule “Continued …”. And only then did it to keep the wound open and by a stubbornly reiterated “There was a time …” repeal the desired as well as the imposed oblivion. How often is it necessary, in whose interests it need be, that it would bring a line, that it would return to normality and free themselves from the ignominy of the past on the grounds that it was history, as opposed to the literature that equal understandable as foolish request. With the right! Because each time the zero hour and the end of the postwar period was announced – as ten years ago, when Wall had fallen and there was a paper on German unity – got past is once again catching up with us. At that time, in February 1990, I held in Frankfurt am Main a lecture to students TITLED “Writing after Auschwitz.” I made up a balance sheet and was awarded accounts, book after book. So I came to the 1972 published a snail’s diary, in which past and present time cross each other on several tracks, but also run parallel and sometimes collide. In this book, one finds, therefore, that my sons require clearance, the following answer to how my profession can be defined: “A writer, my children, is someone who writes against the time flies.” I said to the students: “If it is agreed that the writing should take this view, it implies that he does not see himself as distanced or as contained in a capsule of timelessness, but as a contemporary, well more than that, to he would be in the away escaping era parcels, settles in and takes lot. The risks of such involvement and the lot-taking is known: The distance threatens to be lost, his language is exposed to the temptation to live from hand to mouth, narrow of the circumstances which is precisely the moment can be tight in him and for his free-upptranade show force, he runs the risk of becoming breathless. ” The risk that I spoke of the time have remained faithful to me over the past several decades. But what would be the professional literary activity if it were safe? Well yes, it could give the author a secure existence, as a literature officer. But confronted with his contemporaries, he would be his beroringsangests prisoner. For fear of losing distance, he would remove the villa in the remote, which now only myths flutters and the elevated celebrating itself. No, the contemporary as ever released in forflutenhet will catch up to him and take him in the interrogation. For every writer is born into their own time, how cool he may assert that he has come too early or too late. It is not he who is being arbitrarily chosen topic, rather, have given substance to him in advance. I myself have in any case unable to choose freely. Because if only I myself and my lekdrift had to decide, I would have crippled purely aesthetic laws when I put me on the test and found my role in the absurdistiska, equally untroubled as harmless. But it was not. I encountered the resistance of various kinds. As a result of the German history gestation tornade ruins and corpses mountain up in front of me. This stuff mass, which was larger when I began to disclose in it was impossible to blink away. Furthermore, we have in my family were refugees. Therefore, all the forces that might push an author of the book to book – ordinary ambition, fear of the long boring, egocentricitetsmaskineriet – joined the ranks certainty that homeland is irrevocably lost. Through narrative was the destroyed, lost city of Danzig, no, not recycled but frambesvarjas. This type obsession has eggat me. Not without DEFIANCE, I wanted to talk about myself and my readers that the loss is not doomed to trace sink into oblivion, but can win the figure again by literature, art: in all his greatness and groaning with smaskurenhet, with its churches and cemeteries, with sounds from the shipyards and the smell from the Baltic Sea waters as its waves matt strikes against the country, with a language that is now long overdue ebbat out – this warm stall bars on the words! – Which in addition to sins, who died in the confession also was committed crimes and sins of omission for which the desired absolution never could be, how one confession itself. Losses of this kind has also to other writers proved to be valgodslade discounts from which a manic storytelling sprout. In any case, came Salman Rushdie and I several years ago samtalsvis agree to his loss of Bombay is his source and sopgrop, fix and center in the world in the same way as my lost Danzig, it is for me. This ARROGANCE, this EXALTATION remain, belonging to in terms of literature. It is a prerequisite for a narrative that is powerful that span all the records. With the chase smakonst, subtle psychology or a realism that wrongly think they ought to be high fidelity imitation can not get a grip on such stuff a lot. How much we in the Enlightenment Following are obliged to listen to the voice of reason is the history of events as characterized by absurdity that it simply defies any rational explanation. Just as the Nobel Prize, as soon as we denude it all solemnity, is based on dynamite, an invention which, like other human fetal view – for example atomklyvningen or the equally nobeliserade mapping of the genome – has beskart our earth both welfare, as is also evident literature have burst force, though the explosions that cause happens slowly and, so to speak, emerges as a world-changing events in slow-motion, even where it is both benefit and if that gave mankind reason to cry woe. How much time did not need the European Enlightenment, from Montaigne of Voltaire, Diderot, Kant, Lessing and Lichtenberg, for the reason RUSHLIGHT reach far into the darkest corners of the school policy which spread its gloom. Often enough snuffed out the little light. Censorship slowed the ILLUMINATIONS reason offered. But when it had spread to his sharp light, it was a sense cooled down, reduced to the technically feasible, a sense that absolutely had forsvurit about the economic and social progress and only issued the order to be education, and in their children Capitalism and Socialism, which break down irreparably with each other from the outset, it was the banks a wiseacre jargon and two different but equally doctrinal views on the way to success, where the price got to be how high any time. Today we can see where this has resulted in the Enlightenment’s brilliant but degenerate children. We can form an opinion on which dangerous Contracting position we very break internal has been declared by the explosion, triggered by word and proved its effectiveness in slow motion. Well given tries we repair the damage with the Enlightenment’s funds – some others have, we are not. Horrified, we see that capitalism appears to be driven by megalomania and has begun to ravage fiercely after his brother, Socialism, has been declared dead. He repeats the mistakes of his dodforklarade brother so that he is now becoming increasingly dogmatic, says the market economy to be the only truth, let the binge of their total unlimited opportunities, and goes on like a maniac, that say around the world conducting mergers only maximize profit. No wonder that capitalism and the communism that stifled himself, proves to be incapable of reform. Globalization named its diktat. And again it is alleged, with the conceit that accompanies the belief in its own infallible authority, that there is no alternative. In that case, the story ended. Nothing “Continued …” is waiting with bated breath. Or dare we hope that at least the literature to come to something that may nydogmatismen to dwindle, since it can hardly expect it of a policy that has transferred all decisions impetus to the economy? But how would such a subversivt narrative could prove to be dynamite with literary quality? Are there perhaps enough time for stocks in order to invest in an efficient delayed detonation? Can you imagine a book that lack good future by providing substantial leeway? Is not it currently Rather, the literature has been placed on waivers and the young writers at most are allowed to tumble on the Internet? An operational downtime, as of humbug word “communications” lends a certain aura, is spreading. All stores are planned by the time off to the point where collapse and are waiting to humans. West closes in a culture of industrial VALE OF TEARS. What to do? I am in my impiety no longer has any choice but to bow down before the saint who has always been shown to help and received the heaviest blocks in the roll. So I ask: Oh, Holy Sisyphus, of Camus’ grace nobeliserad, ensuring that stenbumlingen not be lying up there, but we still are permitted to pass up, so that we, like you hope to be happy with our stone and told the story of our existence ‘hardship never let out. Perhaps my deep sigh becomes horsammad? Or could it be that as it lately has glunkats on, that rather than just the systematic born man, a cloned creature, will be in a position to ensure the continued human history? This brings me back to the point where I began my speech and turn once again raised the novel Rat Before, in the fifth chapter is SUBJUNCTIVE contemplated unless laboratories eighth, as the representative of the millions of other experiments in the science research service, should be awarded the Nobel Prize. And immediately, it is clear to me how little all the award-winning merits so far has been devoted to eliminating hunger, the scourge of humanity. Let it can be to operate the new kidney to anyone who can afford to pay for itself. Hearts can also be transplanted. Wireless telephone us across the world. Satellites and space stations revolves around us in the care of our best. As a result of the research results have been lauded throughout the weapon thought out and implemented, so that their owners on a variety of ways to protect themselves to death. All what the human brain can generate has set aside surprising results. Only hunger can not be overcome. The worse, even. Where the old rat poverty from generation to generation can now speak of destitution. Over the whole world is the movement of refugees on the road; hunger is their companion. And no political will, coupled with scientific knowledge, has the determination to put an end to the WILD growing misery. In 1973, while the terror struck in Chile, supported by the U.S. active benevolence, spoke Willy Brandt as the first German chancellor to the United Nations. He came in to the growing impoverishment in the world. His exclamation “While hunger is war!” Had a convincing effect that he is standing up was met by a murderous acclaim. I was present when this speech was held. At the time I wrote on my novel flounder, much of which is the primary basis for human existence, on food security, therefore, lack and abundance, if large glutton and hungry people who no one expected, on the palate This substance, we have left. Poverty and response to the rich world’s wealth, growth is the increased population growth. The prosperous northern and western part of every ball may never so security HUNGRY will shut itself off, and assert itself as a fortress against the poor south, refugees will nevertheless reach it, against the pressure from the starving, no bolts to hold position. To tell if this is one of our tasks for the future. After all, there must be a continuation of our novel. And even if one day it is not down and pressed longer, or if it will not be permitted to do so, on the books survival funds are no longer going to get in, there will be a storyteller, as mouth-to-ear blowing air into us by of the old stuff spinning new threads: vociferously or lagmalt, andfatt skinning or thoughtful and lengthy, and sometimes it will be close to the laughter, sometimes tears.


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