0 www.fuzhnote.com 0 «Pizza always beats art» nick hornby pablo pepito Incompletezze franziska häfeli Interview mit dem Schriftsteller Hans Polder Editorial Sidenote0 Try to picture yourself lying with friends under a gorgeous night sky, preferably at the beginning of August. At some point, someone starts screaming what sounds like random stuff: you can barely recognize words like shooting star and haveyouseenit? and awesome. You now probably hate yourself, cause you thought it would be a good idea to give your eyes some rest just now, or maybe just to point them towards the wrong section of the night sky. If nothing else, you are probably wishing someone had told you to open your eyes a fraction of a second earlier. Now consider for a moment the same situation from a different point of view: you are now a cold chunk of some sort of mineral, traveling through the void of space at some 70 km/s. That’s all you’ve always been doing and, as far as you know, that’s all you’ll ever do. At some point, a blue-ish and slightly bigger chunk of some sort of mineral gets in your way: next thing you know, you are spectacularly being annihilated by its atmosphere, and your journey is over. If nothing else, you probably would have wished that as many eyes as possible would have been open and pointed towards you during that fraction of a second. Meteors, in other words, are cool. What they lack is one single skill, a pretty crucial one if you want people to see you while you’re shining: scheduling. Comets, indeed, are way cooler than meteors. What you are now reading is an attempt to learn from comets. After a first, very exiting and surprisingly successful semester, we decided to start anew: Fussnote will starting from now cease to be a poorly scheduled blog and become a monthly online magazine, published in the form of a PDF file like the one you are reading right now. The basic concept, however, will remain exactly the same: Fussnote is fundamentally a platform on which to share works you care about. We, on our part, will be slightly more active, carrying out some more serious and thorough editorial activities such as basic spell-checking or coming up with captivating layouts. In the following pages you will find a selection of texts and images that have been published on the old blog. Nothing is new, except everything is cast under a very new, shiny light. Enjoy reading some of the old stuff and start getting used to the new format 0 martino oleggini ! h.k. Wir sind die Jammergeneration noé albergati Il canto di Ulisse anonymous Fucked-up Poem mirjam aeschbach Sehen donath morell Il gatto e l’uomo alessia schmocker Ricordi quel tempo raph al guul Raiders of the Lost Ball sara groisman Incontri olivier nüesch Erinnerungen eines Spiegels noupa In My Book Wir sind die Jammergeneration1 _________ Und Jammern Wir sind die Jammergeneration Jammern wir nicht über die Selbstfindungskrise Jammern wir über die SVP-Initiative Die Managerlöhne Oder das Fernsehprogramm gehört zu Wir sind die Jammergeneration Die Teenager jammern über die Alten Die Alten jammern über die Teenager Die sind ja wirklich alle so unhöflich unserem Lifestyle. Wie der Coffee to go und das Internet Wir sind die Jammergeneration Und Jammern gehört zu unserem Lifestyle Wie der Coffee to go und das Internet Ich bin so beschäftigt und hab nicht so viel Zeit Ich würde doch viel lieber Wir sind die Jammergeneration Jammern wir nicht zusammen So jammern wir jeder für sich Und über dies hinaus vergessen wir Dass Jammern ohne Taten Nichts mehr als Smalltalk ist 1 1 h.k. kill the pain now with hideous chemicals with with whisky another goddess-like woman. bed dirty stretching in my giving me a smile2 Fucked-up Poem2 _________ I came to love, she came to forget. I appreciated loneliness she feared it. she has taught me to hate it.. to fear it to be… like a black widow too nice to be true she’s spinning a web catching a new reckless guy to forget the last one everyone claims to be a nice human being giving humanity to those who need it wearing a mask fearing to be unmasked to be real I’m sick of these kinds of people but i was angry to find this behavior as well in me be unfair to all those people who didn’t deserve it and be betrayed by those who claimed to be innocent 1 Strangers Passing by* _________ sitting in the dark the world is sometimes not a joyous place kill the pain now with hideous chemicals with whisky with another goddess-like woman. stretching in my bed giving me a dirty smile at least I was real for a period sitting on a chair writing this fucked-up poem. sitting in the dark the world is sometimes not a joyous place kill the pain now with hideous chemicals with whisky with another goddess-like woman. stretching in my bed giving me a dirty smile This is not what you might think it is. These are just two strangers passing by. at least I was real for a period sitting on a chair writing this fucked-up poem. 2 anonym * antonia steger Come faccio a cacciare se non ho le unghie affilate come le tue? compero Ma io mica caccio, io il mio cibo lo al negozio, lì dove la padrona ti compra i croccantini 3 Il gatto e l’uomo3 _________ Eh, ti piace farti accarezzare, farti viziare mentre il tuo molle corpo si squaglia sulla coperta di lana. E cos’altro ti piace fare? […] Riposarti! Ma riposarti da cosa se non fai niente? […] Dalla fatica?! Eh già, effettivamente dev’essere molto faticoso quello che fai: dalla scodella al divano, dalla televisione alla cassetta; c’è un sacco di strada fra un posto e l’altro, effettivamente dev’essere faticoso. Mi sbaglio? Ci sono forse altre cose che fai? […] Qualche volta esci a prendere aria sul balcone! Come sei coraggioso, quasi temerario. Ma non fa freddo là fuori, non rischi di buscarti un raffreddore? […] Ah, ho capito, esci solo un attimino. […] Come? In che senso: provi una strana sensazione quando esci? Spiegati meglio. […] Ah, capisco: quando vedi la gatta bianca che passa senti qualcosa di strano. Non c’è niente di strano, o almeno, non dovrebbe esserci niente di strano: è un istinto. Ti senti attratto da quella gatta perché un istinto ti spinge verso di lei, perché vuoi montarla, fare dei cuccioli, garantire la sopravvivenza della tua specie. Mi segui? […] No eh, immaginavo. Come potrei spiegarti? Ecco vedi , quel pezzo di carne che ti penzola dal basso ventre, quello da cui pisci, quando vedi una bella gatta si dovrebbe indurire. Quando questo succede vuol dire che è pronto per infilarlo nel corpo della femmina per fecondarla. Ma adesso dove scappi? […] Ti imbarazza questo discorso?! Diamine, non pensavo un gatto si potesse imbarazzare; non ci si deve imbarazzare per queste cose, come ti dicevo si tratta di un istinto, è naturale. Torna qui dai, non ne parliamo più, prometto. Va bene, decidi tu: che vogliamo fare? […] A posto, guardiamo un po’ di televisione se ti piace. Cosa vuoi vedere? […] Programmi di cucina! Ah, ho capito, vuoi sbavare dietro a una qualche bistecca, a un bel pezzo di carne succulento. […] Come cos’è la carne? Non sai cos`è? […] E che mangi scusa? […] Croccantini?! Ma quindi non sai nemmeno d’essere carnivoro? […] No. E quelle unghie a cosa credi servano? […] No, non a grattare i divani, quello serve solo a far arrabbiare la gente. E i tuoi denti affilati? Le tue zanne così taglienti, così acuminate a cosa credi servano? […] No, non a mangiare croccantini. […] Beh, ci provo a spiegartelo, se proprio lo vuoi sapere. Tu sei un carnivoro: sei snello, agile, silenzioso, hai zanne ed unghie affilate per rincorrere ed uncinare i topi, per cacciare! […] Ah, già lo fai? […] Eh no amico, non i tuoi topini di stoffa. Io intendo topi veri, di carne e ossa. I topi veri li devi rincorrere, è per questo che sei agile, li devi braccare, infilare le tue unghie nella loro carne viva e con le zanne strapparla mentre la loro coda si muove ancora a destra e a sinistra! […] Ma come che schifo?! Sei uno strano gatto tu, mi viene da pensare che l’unico istinto che ti sia rimasto consista nel coprire le tue feci con la sabbia profumata della cassetta. […] Non le copri? Schifoso! Vabbè, non è poi così grave: ci sarà chi lo fa al posto tuo. […] La padrona lo fa? Eh già, chi se non lei. Tra l’altro: ci mette sempre così tanto a prepararsi la tua padrona? Dovremmo essere al ristorante per le nove… […] Cosa sono io? Io sono un essere umano. Un homo sapiens; o sapiens sapiens, se preferisci. […] Certo che ho degli istinti, sotto sotto sono un animale pure io. […] Sì, quella cosa del pezzo di pelle la facciamo pure noi: funziona un po’ come da voi, ai maschi quello, alle femmine dentro, sì insomma, hai capito, ci siamo intesi, quella cosa là. […] No, io non sono carnivoro, sono onnivoro. Significa che mangio di tutto: verdure, cereali, carne, tutto insomma. […] Come faccio a cacciare se non ho le unghie affilate come le tue? Ma io mica caccio, io il mio cibo lo compero al negozio, lì dove la padrona ti compra i croccantini. No, figurati, io cacciare, la carne cruda, che schifo! […] Cosa faccio io? Intendi come passo le giornate? […] Beh, io lavoro. […] Cos’è il lavoro mi chiedi? […] Ce ne sono di diversi tipi, io ad esempio lavoro in ufficio: sto seduto e intanto digito cose nel computer, che è una sorta di televisione. […] Come non è faticoso?! Tutto il giorno seduto, alla sera mi fa male la schiena. […] Beh, dopo il lavoro me ne vado a casa, mi siedo sul divano e guardo la televisione. Alla fine un po’ quello che fai tu. […] E no, è diverso per me, i miei istinti, cioè, e, è proprio diverso, nel senso, a me gli istinti non è che servano proprio. […] Come nemmeno a te? […] E ma no, è diverso ti dico: io sono un essere umano, lavoro in ufficio, il cibo lo prendo al supermercato. Gli istinti non li ho più perché non mi servono più. […] 3 donath morell Incontri4 _________ Lei pensava che il suo grande amore avrebbe avuto mocassini marroni, nessuna frangia, un poco sformati. Incontrò lui a caso sul bus delle 9 4 Sedettero vicini 4 ma i mocassini di lui erano a casa, bagnati caso! – in un negozio Ma lui voleva amare una an a e lei non lo riconobbe. Lui la incontrò – che ra gazza cast lei s’era fatta mora per il Carnevale Passarono gli anni, le estati, le scarpe e i capelli. e lui non la riconobbe. caso – all’ospizio. di lei i ca lli fu un lampo hi pe bianc antofole ap nche bia Lui avev S’incontrarono – un e subito si dimenticarono. Ma l’Alzheimer li divorava 4 sara groisman AWA 355 In my 5 book In My Book5 _________ In my book You are far from bad Thoughtful at day, And sweet at night. You try to include me In your decision-making; Because I have a voice, surely. In my book I am never waiting by the phone Do not expect much, And you will not hear me groan. Not once I have to shrug, Because at any given time You shower me with hugs. In my book I am not taken for granted You value my love And I am not left feeling stranded. There is no discrepancy, Need not fight for attention Because you say what you mean. In my book My heart is still; Neither on ice nor fire And not a bad feeling to kill. If only I had the chance to rewrite Because what is really wrong Cannot bring you to make it right. nicole bataclan (a.k.a noupa) 5 Erinnerungen eines Spiegels6 _________ So blickte er in mich hinein. Grimassen schneidend oder Kostüm tragend. Sich stundenlang mit lautem Lachen damit beschäftigend. Die Mutter von hinten eine Krawatte umbindend. Den Groll darüber hegend. mereel tiM kcurdsuA gnalnednuts rim rov 6 dnerrahrev Mit leerem Ausdruck stundenlang So blickte er in mich hinein. Die Frisur und Krawatte mit schnellem Tempo herrichtend. Das Gesamtäussere kurz betrachtend. Schon wieder weg. So blickte er in mich hinein. Mit leerem Ausdruck stundenlang vor mir verharrend. Immerzu den gleichen Fleck auf der Haut anstarrend. Die Ehefrau hinter im Trost einflüsternd. Die faltigen Hände sich umklammernd. vor mir verharrend 6 6 olivier nüesch On the path down the hill, his phone rings – it’s a satellite , or phone something else that works in the jungle , shut up. He picks it up and secretly hopes it s a lady. pretty ’ 7 It is not Raiders of the Lost Ball7 _________ The entrance of a musty cave, somewhere in the Amazon jungle. A man in a dark leather jacket is standing in front of it, ready for an adventure. This man is California Smith, a renowned university professor and freelance adventurer/ archeologist. No one really knows how a profession like that is possible. One would think California – or “Caly”, as his younger female friends tend to call him while being in peril and need of his help – would have both hands chock-full of work with the professorship alone. But somehow he manages to also go on adventures and discover more rare artifacts in a year than any other archeologist could find in a lifetime. Unfortunately, he has the tendency of losing said artifacts immediately after discovering them; it’s actually quite surprising that anyone even believes that he is good at archeology, considering the amount of ancient temples he has already caused to crumble to their grounds. Anyway, let’s get back to the situation at hand. California Smith is standing in front of the cave. He’s wearing a dark leather jacket and a fancy hat. Now, I know what you think. Don’t think that. It’s not that kind of hat. It’s a black top hat, not a fedora. California is well-known for wearing it outside at all times, even though there is little practical value to a top hat in the Amazon jungle. But the hat has never been about practicality, anyway. Think about it, who’d wear a hat on an adventure that is likely to involve hectic movement, free fall, and possibly brawling with native tribes or a rivaling party? You’d have to be packing a ton of backup hats because you’d constantly be losing the one you’re wearing. But California is not bothered by that. He grabs a pack of matches and steps forward into the dark cave. He lights one of the matches and looks around. Cobwebs everywhere – it’s like a cheesy Hollywood movie. The walls of the cave are tastefully decorated with the skulls of dead people. Whoever was in charge of interior design here had some extravagant taste. The light of the match is flickering down the dark corridor of stone and bone and then the small flame dies in California’s hand. “Whatever,” he thinks, “enough with the special effects.” He reaches down to the back of his belt where a flashlight is dangling. In the strong beam of cold white light he can see that a few meters onward, there is a gaping hole of several meters length. He’ll have to make it over there somehow. He walks to the edge and readies his go- to-tool for adventurous archeology: a lion tamer’s bullwhip (obviously). California directs the light towards the ceiling of the cave, trying to find the obligatory hook or plank at which he will swing his whip and subsequently traverse over the obstacle without effort. However, he can’t find it. “Amateurs,” he mumbles to himself, “put all these skulls up but forget the freaking hook.” He grumpily examines the hundreds of dead people’s heads to his left and right; there he spots something. A large lever is sticking out of the wall. There is a little plaque beneath it. California mutters: “That’s new,” and blows onto it to remove all the dust and cobwebs from its surface. The inscription on the plaque isn’t in English, but that doesn’t matter. It’s a language that California understands for some reason, and in his mind, he translates it to: “Only for authorized use. P.S.: Crazy adventurers with hats are not authorized.” First, California is discouraged by the apparently exclusive nature of the lever. Then he looks around, wondering if anybody would notice. He turns off the flashlight and stands still in the darkness, trying not to breathe or make any other sound. For a few minutes he stands there, trying to detect any sound of movement that might indicate that he is being watched. After a while he turns the light back on and says to himself: “Meh, I can always tell them I didn’t see the sign, right?” He pulls the lever and a loud mechanical screech sounds through the cave. As California looks back to the hole in front of him he sees a bridge slowly extending over the obstacle. “Well, that was easy,” he remarks a little incredulously. Effortlessly, he walks over the gaping hole, secretly flipping it off behind his back to indicate his superiority. After the bridge, California finds himself in a larger cavern. There are some openings in the ceiling through which light and some water reach the underground facility. California turns off the flashlight and puts it back on his belt. In the middle of the cavern, there is a small pedestal; on top of it sits a big, golden orb. California knows the significance of this orb from a book that conveniently opened on the one page where a description of this particular artifact was located. This is the Amazonian gold orb – a ball made of gold. Really quite valuable, even though there is not said to be a supernatural component to it. Also, it’s old, which in archeologists’ terms means “better”. He knows not to rush things, though. Surely there are traps leading up to the pedestal. The ground of the cavern is comprised of checkered floor tiles, some bright grey and some dark black. California takes off his hat and pulls a bunnyrabbit out of it. He places the little animal on the ground and it shouts: “Freedom!” Then it runs onto the floor plates. As soon as it touches a black one, it gets impaled by a large, frozen freedom fry – because of anachronistic irony. “So black is bad,” California reflects, “that’s racist.” He moves towards the orb, carefully and a little bit joyfully skipping from grey tile to grey tile. Arriving at the pedestal, he realizes that he might have to replace the orb with something. That’s just common practice amongst ancient artefact hoarders: they want something in return from the tomb and cavern raiders. California checks his pockets; his wallet? No, he’ll need that later down at the pub. Keys? Yeah right. Breath spray? And how will he impress the ladies? Finally he decides to take off one of his shoes, this should be fairly easy to replace – and if the jungle gets too spiky, he’ll hop for a while. He takes the admittedly somewhat stinky shoe in his left hand and gets ready to grab the orb. This is a crucial moment for some reason, so he should wait and hesitate a bit before making the switch. He waits and hesitates a bit. Then he grabs the orb with his right hand. Or maybe it would be more appropriate to say he tries to grab it. But it’s a big ball made of gold, as already mentioned. It is not only very round and thus difficult to get a hold of, especially when trying to do so with only one hand, but it is also quite frankly heavier than a dead priest. California’s hand slips off several times and some swearing occurs. Then he has what seems like a brilliant idea: he steps behind the pedestal and starts pushing the ball down. With an extremely loud thump, the orb falls to the ground. Quickly, California puts his shoe on top of the pedestal. He then proceeds to kick the orb forward with the foot that isn’t naked. There is one problem, though. Remember when we established that the orb is a ball made of gold? Or the time when it was really heavy because it’s made of freaking gold? Yes, we’ve been harping on and on about the gold part of the equation, but apparently that went right over California’s head. When he shoved the gold ball off the pedestal, the resulting impact on the ground deformed the once perfectly round ball. While this does not particularly affect the gold value, it does have a noticeable effect on the ball’s innate rolling properties. Kicking the ball like he would kick any other ball, except with a little more caution in order not to hurt his foot, California is miscalculating the route of the orb. The events that are about to unfold certainly put California’s intelligence into question. Oblivious to the fact that the gold orb is now more of a random wobble than an actual ball, he gives it a second push with his foot; now the dented side hits the ground and the orb immediately changes its course. California is not quick enough to react because he failed to expect complications like these. The ball tilts to the side, tips over, and rolls straight onto one of the black tiles. With eyes of sheer panic, California stares at the ancient artifact touching down on the dangerous ground. Without delay, the massive golden ball is impaled by the frozen freedom fry. Don’t question it. California knows that he won’t be able to salvage the remains of the gold orb. (Again, don’t question it – you’re not there, so who are you to judge the logic of it?) “Damn it,” he mutters to little effect. He is quite used to this type of outcome, though, thus finding his composure again fairly quickly. He walks past the traps, back to the bridge. Oddly enough, he makes it out of the cave without any unexpected surprises. Usually, there’s a final twist or just something really weird that occurs right when he thinks his adventure is over. This time, the only weird thing is that there is no weird thing. “Hey, California, how’s the adventuring going?” It’s Brody Marcus, some fairly annoying guy from work. “What’s up, Brody,” California asks insincerely, “I’m pretty much done with this adventure.” “Oh really? How was it?” “Ah you know, the usual.” “Oh,” Brody says in a disappointed tone, “so, nothing to bring home?” “Unfortunately no.” “What about the orb that you told me about?” “Impaled.” “Ah. Well, that makes sense.” On the path down the hill, his phone rings – it’s a satellite phone, or something else that works in the jungle, shut up. He picks it up and secretly hopes it’s a pretty lady. It is not. raph al guul 7 Ricordi quel tempo8 _________ R i c o r d i quel tempo di ginestre e fiori di campo 8 Ricordi quel tempo di ginestre e fiori di campo, di giochi muschiati e peripezie su foglie sgretolate? Di risate sbiadite ancora risuona l’eco in quest’aria stantia. Ricordi, sua ultima pallida spoglia, gl’infantili giorni miei? Se avessimo sospettato l’avarità del tempo quante altre avventure avremmo tentate? Viaggi tra palpebre stanche e storie da ignoti orizzonti, lunghi silenzi che noi sole avremmo capito. alessia schmocker 8 Sehen9 B Ich höre nichts, kein Atem, kein Geräusch, keine Stimme, keine Gedanken. 9 Nicht einmal die Stille _________ Wir sitzen. In einem Raum. Einem Raum voller Luft und voller Transparenz, ohne nichts und doch nicht leer. Voller uns. Weisse Wände, weisser Boden, weisse Decke. Und doch sind wir nicht eingesperrt, das Weiss blendet nicht, ist nicht trist. Licht brauchen wir nicht. Der Raum hat keine Türe, keine Fenster, keine Luken, keine Ritzen, keine Herkunft und kein Ziel. Wir sitzen, nicht nah und nicht entfernt, auf dem Boden, einander entgegengesetzt, haben wir uns, hat man uns. Ich höre nichts, kein Atem, kein Geräusch, keine Stimme, keine Gedanken. Nicht einmal die Stille. Ich spüre nichts, wir sitzen und doch fühle ich nicht die Härte des Bodens, denn er ist weder weich noch hart, fühle nicht die Kälte des Bodens, denn er ist weder kalt noch warm. Fühle nicht die Arme auf meinen Beinen ruhen. Bewege mich nicht. Windstill. Ich schmecke nichts, schmecke nicht Atem, nicht Zunge, nicht Speichel, nichts. Nicht einmal eine Erinnerung daran. Ich rieche nichts, nicht dich, nicht mich, nicht Haut, nicht Haare, nicht die Luft. Ich vermisse nichts, vermisse keine Geräusche, keine Berührung, keinen Geschmack, keinen Geruch. Ich sehe dich doch. robinmjam* _________ Ich sehe dich doch sitzen, sehe deine Augen, deine Haare, deine Nase, deinen Mund, deine Lippen, deine Falten, deine Hände, deine Beine. Sehe dein Lächeln, sehe jede einzelne Pore deiner Haut, deine feinen Häärchen. Ich berühre dich nicht, fühle dich nicht, höre dich nicht, rieche und schmecke dich nicht. Nicht nicht mehr, nicht noch nicht. Ich sehe dich. mirjam aeschbach 9 * anonym Il canto di Ulisse10 Aspettano sulla scogliera rivolte al il ritorno delle navi mare due sedie vuote _________ Aspettano sulla scogliera rivolte al mare il ritorno delle navi due sedie vuote e sospinge la brezza salmastra il loro discorrere fino all’albatro e intiepidiscono l’aria addii che sospendono tante piccole inezie pungenti, schizzano le onde sbattendo sugli scogli e brucia il fiato di un bacio sulla soglia. Fischia nell’intreccio di vimini il vento marino e sembra urlare tarde parole, vane alla mente dopo che il vento ha gonfiato le vele; sono uscite a pescare le navi e inseguono non lontani banchi di pesci, riempite le stive di corpi argentini dopo giorni di spuma allo scafo tornano tutte al porto, di solito. 10 10 noé albergati I.: Sind Sie unsicherer demnach auch ein Mensch? H.P.: Also bei schönen Frauen Interview mit dem Schriftsteller Hans Polder11 _________ Interviewerin: Mit Verlaub, Alkohol… Sie riechen sehr stark nach Knie. Hans Polder: Selbstverständlich. Die Nacht habe ich in einer Bar verbracht. I.: Sind Sie jetzt gerade H.P.: Selbstverständlich. Die ich habe die Nacht in einer Bar verbracht. bekomme ich durchaus weiche unsicher? I.: In Ihrem Werk spielt die Verzweiflung stets ein zentralle Rolle. Würden sie sich als verzweifelten Menschen bezeichnen? I.: Sind Sie demnach auch ein unsicherer Mensch? H.P.: Also bei schönen Frauen bekomme ich durchaus weiche Knie. H.P.: Sind jetzt I.: Sind Sie jetzt gerade unsicher? Sie H.P.: Sind sie jetzt traurig, wenn ich nein sage? traurig, I.: Es wird über Ihr Werk gesagt, es sei ein Lichtblick in einem Meer von Oberflächlichkeit… wenn ich nein sage? 11 H.P.: Ach wissen Sie, es könnte doch genausogut heissen mein Schreiben sei ein Beispiel dafür, was heute alles schieflaufe in der Literatur. Das ist doch völlig willkürlich, was dieser Zirkus von Kritikern und Rezensenten von sich gibt. Reine Glückssache ob man gehört wird oder nicht. Und überhaupt, was sind das eigentlich für Fragen? Sie sind sehr direkt, das gefällt mir. Aber Sie stellen die falschen Fragen! Bringen sie einem diesen Mist auf der Journalistenschule bei? Wissen Sie was? Ich werde das Interview mit mir selbst weiterführen. Passen sie gut auf! I.: Meine Herren! Ich meine…Herr Polder… H.P.: Lieber Hans, hast du gut geschlafen? H.P.: Selbstverständlich. Eben genau darum wollen wir fremde lesen. H.P. & H.P.: Ruhe! H.P.: Ausserdem Schreibe ich Gedankenfetzen nieder, die ich dann zu Publizieren gedenke, als ein Einblick in den Kopf eines Menschen unserer Zeit. H.P.: Aber hat denn nicht jeder seine eigenen Gedanken? H.P.: Ich habe garnicht geschlafen, aber danke. H.P: Interessanter Gedanke… H.P.: Denkst du was du Schreibst ist wichtig? H.P.: Nicht wichtiger als Steine und Sterne. Dies wäre doch übrigens ein toller Buchtitel, „Steine und Sterne“. H.P.: Machst du dich über mich lustig? H.P.: Warum? H.P.: Ein grandioser Buchtitel! Universell, ambivalent, unmittelbar und transzendent. H.P.: Das Wortspiel. Aber erzähl mir doch auch mal von dir. Was treibst du so? H.P.: Wortspiel? H.P.: Nun, ich führe neuerdings Interviews. H.P.: Vergiss es. H.P.: Was denn? I.: Also wirlklich Herr Polder, was soll das jetzt? Können wir bitte mit dem Interview fortfahren? H.P.: Sind Ihnen denn inzwischen ein Paar gute Fragen eingefallen? I.: Ich bin durchaus zufrieden mit den Fragen, die ich vorbereitet habe, Herr Polder. Es muss hier der Vollständigkeit halber angemerkt werden, dass Hans Polder zuvor und danach, nie als unangenehmer Interviewpartner auffiel. Niemand und noch weniger der Schriftsteller selbst konnte sich erklären, was an jenem Tag in ihn gefahren war. Er schickte Frau Franziska Häfeli, Tage nach dem Interview, als kleine Wiedergutmachung einen grossen, gemischten Blumenstrauss. H.P.: Aber ich nicht! Wieso fragen Sie die Leute nicht, was sie gerne gefragt werden möchten? Ersparen Sie mir die Antwort, ich kenne sie. Fahren wir fort. H.P.: Wohin denn? H.P.: Das interview ist zu Ende. H.P. & I.: Zu Ende? H.P.: Zu Ende. I.: Eine Frage noch Herr… H.P.: …Was hattest zum Frühstuck, Hans? H.P.: Hunger. 11 fransiska häfeli Incompletezze12 _________ s’ogni 12 S’ogni suono, non fa parola, s’ogni una, neppure frase. Fassi realtà? pablo pepito 12 Send us your texts! [email protected] Nein, hier nicht Bibliografie, hier nur reine Fantasie! Ob Gedicht oder Geschicht’ schreibt es rein, stellt’s in Sicht! Satire und Kunst aller Art; lustig, kritisch oder zart. Welche Sprache steht euch frei, auf fussnote ist’s einerlei. Schreiben fällt dir jedoch schwer? Willkommen bist du dennoch sehr, denn nur das Lesen lässt’s bestehen. Was euch beschäftigt, hat hier Raum; wie im All mit Grenzen kaum. Macht doch mit und lasst’s geschehen! impressum Editors Martino Oleggini Sara Schmid Donath Morell Sara Groisman Josip Batinić
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