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By Ernst Jünger

ISBN-10: 1568860269

ISBN-13: 9781568860268

German author Junger (1895- ) gets an late advent to English-language readers with this dependent allegorical novel. Frederick Baroh, descended from a once-aristocratic relations, serves in a rifle regiment of the People's military garrisoned in his previous fatherland in Silesia ahead of deserting to the West. (Junger, now not by the way, fought in either international wars, and as a captain took half within the profession of France; in 1939, notwithstanding, he had written a generally learn anti-Nazi novel.) as soon as within the West, Baroh joins his uncle's funeral company after which develops an vastly profitable firm- an unlimited, world-famous necropoIis. Lucid sentences and a finely tuned plot stability a rigorous time table fascinated about not anything under the mysteries and paradoxes of fabric life. An articulate afterword through Martin Meyer examines the philosophical and literary underpinnings of Jilnger's paintings.

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I dont talk to anybody from Maryland"-and the jokes and the laconic stay, I realize, "America is as free as that wild wind, out there, still free, free as when there was no name to that border to call it Canada and on Friday nights when Canadian Fishermen come in old cars on the old road beyond the lake tarn" (thar I can see, the little lights of Friday night, thinking then immediately of their hats and gear and flies and lines) "on Friday nights it was the nameless Indian came, the Skagit, and a few log forts were up there, Desor¡rroN rN Sollruon 2t and down here a ways, and winds blew on free feet and free antlers, and still do, on free radio waves, on free wild youngtalk of America on the radio, college boys, fearless free boys, a million miles from Siberia this is and Amerikay is a good old country yet-" For the whole blighted darkness-woe of thinking about Russias and plots to assassinate whole peoples' souls, is lifted just by hearing "My God, the score |s 26-0 already-they couldn't gain anything thru 1þs ll¡s"-"Just like the All $¡¿¡s"-"Hsy Ed when you comin down off your lookos¡f "-"nls's goin steady, he'll be wantin to go home straight"-"We might take a look at Glacier National p¿¡l¡"-"\d/s're goin home thru the Badlands of North þ¿þs¡¿"-"You mean the Black Hills"-r'I don't talk to anybody from Syrac¡5s"-rrfinybody know a good bedtime storyl"-"Hey it's eight thirty, we better knock off- How )3 ten-seven till tomorrow morning.

I shudder to think what people DBsor-¡,rroN ANGELS 34 are doing in North Carolina. In Mexico City they wander around eating vast planks of fried porkskin, among parks, even their Sunday is a Blight- It must be the Sabbath was invented to soften joy. For normal peasants Sunday is a smile, but us black poets, ahg-I guess Sunday is God's lookingglass. Compare the churchyards of Friday night, with the pulpits of Sunday mornIn Bavaria, men with bare knees walk around with hands behind their backs- Flies drowse behind a lace curtain, in Calais, and out the window see the sailboats- On Sunday Céline yawns and Genêt dies- In Moscow there's no pomp- Only in Benares on Sundays peddlers scream and snakecharmers open baskets with a lute- On Desolation Peak in the High Cascades, on Sundays, ahgI think in particular of that redbrick wall of the Sheffield Milk Company by the mainline of the Long Island Railroad in Richmond Hill, the mud tracks of workers' cars left in the lot during the week, one or two forlorn Sundayworker cars parked there now, the clouds passing in the pools of brown puddlewater, the sticks and cans and rags of debris, the commute local passing by with pale blank faces of Sunday Travelerspresaging the ghostly day when industrial America shall be abandoned and left to rust in one long Sunday Afternoon of oblivion.

WrrH Hrs ucly MANv BUD LEcs the green alpine caterpillar comports in his heather world, a head like a pale dewdrop, his fat body reaching up straight to climb, hanging upsidedown like a South American ant eater to fiddle and fish and sway around in search, then cromming up like a boy making a limb he aligns himself hidden under heather limbs and plucks and monsters at the innocent green-the part of the green, he is, that was given moving juice-he twists and peers ) - t\¿t ? D¡sor¡rloN rN Solrruon 35 and intrudes his head everywhere-he is in a jungle of dappled shady old lastyear's gray heather pins-sometimis motiónless like the picture of a boa constricror he yaws to heaven a songless gaze, sleeps snakeheaded, then turns in like a busted-out I blow on him, swift to duck, quick ro retire, meek the level injunction of lie still that's meant by the sky whatever may chance from it- He is very sad now as I blow again, puts head in shoulder mourning, I'll let him free ro roam unobserved, playing possum ¿5 þs v/is¡5-there he goes, disappearing, making little jiggles in the jungle, eye level to his world I perceive that he roo is overtopped by a few fruits and then infinity, he too's upsidedown and clinging ro his sphere-we are all mad.

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Aladdin's Problem by Ernst Jünger


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