My Mother the Witch is a story about a grown man that discovers his mother is a witch and tries talking his brother out of getting married because his children might become witches as well. This story has never been translated into English before. Here is the link:
My Mother the Witch
Here is a short excerpt:
If that isn't amazing enough, there is something else she finds just as interesting. What can a person say about her collection of brooms?
In the dark narrow passage that goes between the other rooms into her bedroom mother has no less than forty three brooms, new and old! I believe there is an example of every kind of broom ever made in our house. They are all resting like retired civil servants in rows and files on both sides of the narrow passageway. You can't see them from the stairs because of the curtain that blocks the view.
There is certainly a much better place for such a collection. The great loft next to the kitchen that leads to the garden is almost completely empty and would be a good place for such a collection. You could hang hundreds of brooms there quite comfortably. But no, she presses them tightly together in the small narrow passageway that leads to her bedroom! There are more. One or two brooms stand by themselves in her bedroom behind a small curtain in the corner where her dressing table stands.
You know what a very capable and talented healer mother is. People are always coming and going from the house. She does not treat them as a professional but as a friend. Indeed, mother always tells them that she does not know much but they ask her for every little bit of advice and then follow it faithfully.
She has absolutely no tolerance of quacks and charlatans. Instead she uses herbs. Never on herself, but on the entire neighborhood and she has a loyal following. She is very limited to what she does. She only cures corns, barleycorns, warts and freckles.
For the corns she prepares a brown paste. When you smear it on you must pray the paternoster. The paternoster doesn't seem to help with the barleycorns though, and the cure for them is somewhat complicated and requires the Ave Maria. She caresses the barleycorn with her wedding ring while slowly saying three Ave Maria's. It works best when done by moonlight.
Removing warts takes longer. The person with warts must come every other day for two weeks and get a greenish ointment put on the wart. While this dries, preferably in the sun, they must pray profoundly. This cure works beyond any question. I have seen half a dozen splendid warts disappear with my own eyes.
Even more remarkable is her cure for freckles. She only makes it in the spring. The young girls during the last three weeks of April must smear the bluish ointment on their faces in the mornings and in the evenings and then say the Regina prayer a few times. I haven't heard of any young boys taking the cure.
Mother counts among her patients not only devout Catholics but the daughters of Protestants and free-spirited elders as well. She has learned their beautiful prayers and uses them at times like she uses the paternoster and Ave Maria's.
On Mayday the young girls must get up very early without saying a word and go straight to the garden. There they must throw themselves on the ground and rub their faces in the grass, bathing in the beautiful morning dew of Mayday. After that is another three weeks of ointment and Regina prayers, then the freckles are gone! I tell you, dear brother, they are really gone, just like the barleycorns, warts and corns.
Little Lotte, the doctor's daughter, swears that mother can do more than her papa can, that he doesn't know how to remove freckles. She gave a very lame speech about how he is only a medical doctor and not a corn and wart doctor! The doctor himself is very happy with his daughter's smooth face and takes the competition gladly declaring that he recognizes mother's work and takes the Regina prayers and other foolery into the bargain as well.
Mother has an entire chest full of dried seahorses. They are to be sewn into the petticoat or trouser bottoms as an excellent cure for hemorrhoids. Unfortunately, it appears that this remedy is not widely used in our city. I can't even think of any case that might be in need of a seahorse except for the old washerwoman. She freely maintains that it is an excellent remedy.
All of that is child's play. There are other things much less harmless. Mother never tells fortunes; she never reads palms, never reads cards or other things. When the prophecy comes to her she always calls it stupid stuff; at least that's what she wants us to think.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
My Burial by Hanns Heinz Ewers
My Burial is a light hearted story about a corpse that wants to have a little fun at his funeral and gets into trouble with the law. This story has never been translated into English before. Here is the link:
My Burial
Here is a short excerpt:
It sounded out across the cemetery to where another group was singing at the 3rd crossroads, 8 corridors down and left from the main road. That is to say, to where another funeral was taking place at grave #48679 on the left side diagonally across from me.
They were burying some honorable Privy Councillor and there was a horrendous number of people, Professors, Judges, Military Officers and wealthy industrialists"all refined people! But it was still only an old style funeral without Red Riders.
The Chief Rider waited politely until the people finished singing. Then he cried anew, "Now we sing the favorite song of the departed."
"Daughter of Zion be glad"," but he couldn't finish because the fat pastor began a droning eulogy over at the other funeral.
The Chief Rider waited another five minutes, ten minutes, but the pastor would not stop and was making it bad for me.
"Such speech will speed the decomposition of my corpse considerably," I thought to myself.
The Chief Rider thought so too and looked at his watch. But the pastor talked and talked.
Finally it was too long for the Chief Rider. He had only been paid for two hours. He commanded anew and all forty-five Red Riders let out once more:
"Daughter of Zion be glad!"
The pastor fought on and would not give in. But what is the power of a preacher against forty-five Red Riders? I felt solid satisfaction that the youths were winning and my modern funeral would clear the battlefield and put the old middle class world to shame.
The pastor stopped. But the clergy can never really be defeated. That will not do. He spoke to a couple of gentlemen in top hats and they in turn spoke to some guards. The guards put their helmets on their heads and came over to my grave. They were eager to speak with the Chief Rider but he held his position.
"We are doing our job," he said coldly.
"Do you have a permit?" One of the guards asked.
"Certainly!" The Chief Rider answered and reached into his wallet. "Here it is. An official permit for my Red Riders!"
"Hmm," remarked the guard. "A permit for burials?"
"The Red Riders will do anything!" The Chief declared bravely.
"Bravo! Bravo!" I cried in my crate.
"No one here shouts Bravo!" The guard yelled.
He demanded that all the Red Riders leave but the Chief Rider would not. He was not yet finished with the celebration that he had been commissioned and paid for. He was an honorable man and his highest principle was a strict sense of duty. He requested that the guards leave in an orderly way.
"Such a shrewd citizen!" I thought. "Now it will get into the press and make good publicity for him."
The guards yelled but the Chief Rider yelled even louder. Slowly all the Professors, Judges, Military Officers and wealthy industrialists came over from the other funeral and mixed in. When the pastor came it was entirely too late.
He saw the Red Riders in their red caps and jackets with cigarettes in their mouths.
"Pfui!" He said.
Then he took his glasses off and set them on my crate.
" 'Fragile', 'Do not drop', What's going on here?" He asked sharply.
It was little Fritz that gave him the dreadful answer. He really couldn't smoke and the cigarette was making him sick. He bent forward and then back and then forward again in even faster motion. That's when the accident happened all over the black gown of the pastor.
At first he was speechless, but then everyone was trying to give him his or her handkerchiefs. He got hold of himself and declared seriously:
"That really oversteps all boundaries. I am publicly offended."
"I am also publicly offended," voiced a gentleman with twenty-seven medals.
"We have jurisdiction because we are publicly offended," said the guards.
Things were getting much too colorful for me. I saw that I must come to the help of my hard-pressed Red Riders. I shoved the lid open, stood up and cried in wrath.
"And I, gentlemen, for your disrespectful participation in my burial, I am publicly offended!"
The pastor stared horrified into the grave.
"Is this a Christian burial?" He stammered.
"No," I said. "This is a modern burial with Red Riders."
My Burial
Here is a short excerpt:
It sounded out across the cemetery to where another group was singing at the 3rd crossroads, 8 corridors down and left from the main road. That is to say, to where another funeral was taking place at grave #48679 on the left side diagonally across from me.
They were burying some honorable Privy Councillor and there was a horrendous number of people, Professors, Judges, Military Officers and wealthy industrialists"all refined people! But it was still only an old style funeral without Red Riders.
The Chief Rider waited politely until the people finished singing. Then he cried anew, "Now we sing the favorite song of the departed."
"Daughter of Zion be glad"," but he couldn't finish because the fat pastor began a droning eulogy over at the other funeral.
The Chief Rider waited another five minutes, ten minutes, but the pastor would not stop and was making it bad for me.
"Such speech will speed the decomposition of my corpse considerably," I thought to myself.
The Chief Rider thought so too and looked at his watch. But the pastor talked and talked.
Finally it was too long for the Chief Rider. He had only been paid for two hours. He commanded anew and all forty-five Red Riders let out once more:
"Daughter of Zion be glad!"
The pastor fought on and would not give in. But what is the power of a preacher against forty-five Red Riders? I felt solid satisfaction that the youths were winning and my modern funeral would clear the battlefield and put the old middle class world to shame.
The pastor stopped. But the clergy can never really be defeated. That will not do. He spoke to a couple of gentlemen in top hats and they in turn spoke to some guards. The guards put their helmets on their heads and came over to my grave. They were eager to speak with the Chief Rider but he held his position.
"We are doing our job," he said coldly.
"Do you have a permit?" One of the guards asked.
"Certainly!" The Chief Rider answered and reached into his wallet. "Here it is. An official permit for my Red Riders!"
"Hmm," remarked the guard. "A permit for burials?"
"The Red Riders will do anything!" The Chief declared bravely.
"Bravo! Bravo!" I cried in my crate.
"No one here shouts Bravo!" The guard yelled.
He demanded that all the Red Riders leave but the Chief Rider would not. He was not yet finished with the celebration that he had been commissioned and paid for. He was an honorable man and his highest principle was a strict sense of duty. He requested that the guards leave in an orderly way.
"Such a shrewd citizen!" I thought. "Now it will get into the press and make good publicity for him."
The guards yelled but the Chief Rider yelled even louder. Slowly all the Professors, Judges, Military Officers and wealthy industrialists came over from the other funeral and mixed in. When the pastor came it was entirely too late.
He saw the Red Riders in their red caps and jackets with cigarettes in their mouths.
"Pfui!" He said.
Then he took his glasses off and set them on my crate.
" 'Fragile', 'Do not drop', What's going on here?" He asked sharply.
It was little Fritz that gave him the dreadful answer. He really couldn't smoke and the cigarette was making him sick. He bent forward and then back and then forward again in even faster motion. That's when the accident happened all over the black gown of the pastor.
At first he was speechless, but then everyone was trying to give him his or her handkerchiefs. He got hold of himself and declared seriously:
"That really oversteps all boundaries. I am publicly offended."
"I am also publicly offended," voiced a gentleman with twenty-seven medals.
"We have jurisdiction because we are publicly offended," said the guards.
Things were getting much too colorful for me. I saw that I must come to the help of my hard-pressed Red Riders. I shoved the lid open, stood up and cried in wrath.
"And I, gentlemen, for your disrespectful participation in my burial, I am publicly offended!"
The pastor stared horrified into the grave.
"Is this a Christian burial?" He stammered.
"No," I said. "This is a modern burial with Red Riders."
Thursday, February 12, 2009
The Crucified Minstral by Hanns Heinz Ewers
The Crucified Minstral has never been translated into English before. It is the story of a mime and his strange rendezvous with death. Here is the link:
The Crucified Minstral
Here is a short excerpt:
Then he stretched his arms out wide on both sides and looked up. The blue up there above laughed and sang as if it wanted to take him away from everything. If he raised his head a little he could see the ocean, blue with little white clouds just like those in the sky above. Blue, luminous, radiant blue! He sucked it in with his eyes, touched it with his hands, let it soak into all his pores.
He listened to the music of the blue colors, closed his eyes and still saw them perfectly. He felt a soothing languor as his limbs lay like a corpse. He longed to dissolve into the whitish blue mist that surrounded him like a soft gentle breath. Then it seemed to him as if his head rested on a woman's yielding breasts. He noticed her breathing as they lightly lifted and fell.
He felt so protected and cared for, he didn't want to move or open his eyes. He lay completely still, unmoving, as if he were slumbering. Now he breathed in a fragrance like peach blossoms. He noticed a thin white apparition near his feet. It was Lili. She knelt down and urgently pressed her pale childish cheeks against his shoe.
The Crucified Minstral
Here is a short excerpt:
Then he stretched his arms out wide on both sides and looked up. The blue up there above laughed and sang as if it wanted to take him away from everything. If he raised his head a little he could see the ocean, blue with little white clouds just like those in the sky above. Blue, luminous, radiant blue! He sucked it in with his eyes, touched it with his hands, let it soak into all his pores.
He listened to the music of the blue colors, closed his eyes and still saw them perfectly. He felt a soothing languor as his limbs lay like a corpse. He longed to dissolve into the whitish blue mist that surrounded him like a soft gentle breath. Then it seemed to him as if his head rested on a woman's yielding breasts. He noticed her breathing as they lightly lifted and fell.
He felt so protected and cared for, he didn't want to move or open his eyes. He lay completely still, unmoving, as if he were slumbering. Now he breathed in a fragrance like peach blossoms. He noticed a thin white apparition near his feet. It was Lili. She knelt down and urgently pressed her pale childish cheeks against his shoe.
Friday, February 6, 2009
The Spider by Hanns Heinz Ewers
The Spider is Hanns Heinz Ewers most famous short story and considered one of the best short horror stories ever written. I've recently made a new translation and put it on my website. Here is the link for those interested.
The Spider
Here is a small excerpt:
Three people had already hung themselves in the window of room #7 in the little hotel Stevens on three successive Fridays when medical student Richard Brocquemont resolved to move in.
The first was a Swiss travelling salesman. They found his body Saturday evening. The doctor determined that his death must have occurred between five and six o'clock on Friday evening. The corpse hung on a strong hook that had been driven into the crossbar of the window serving as a place to hang clothes. The window was closed; the deceased had used the curtain cord as a noose. Because the window was very low his legs lay on the floor with his knees almost touching as well. A strong will or purpose must have certainly driven the suicide.
It was further determined that he was married and the father of four children. He had a good job, a cheerful disposition and was always an entertaining character to be around. There was nothing found on his body, not even a note. Yet no one had ever heard him mention anything that would indicate a reason for his suicide.
The second case was not much different. The performer Karl Krause had been hired as a cyclist stuntman for the nearby Medrano circus. He moved into room #7 two days later. When he didn't show for the performance that Friday the director sent a show attendant to the hotel. He found the performer in the open room hanging from the crossbar of the window.
All of the details were the same in both cases. This suicide appeared no less mysterious. The popular performer received a high wage and everything he needed. He was a young man, twenty-five years old, his life was in full bloom and he enjoyed it. In this case as well there was no note, no insidious remark that might have hinted at a reason for the suicide. He was survived by his old mother to whom he had punctually sent 300 Marks on the first of every month for her care and livelihood.
For Mrs. Dubonnet, the owner of the reasonable little hotel, most of her clients were from the nearby Montmartre vaudeville troop. This second strange death in one of her rooms had very unpleasant consequences. Soon these guests left and the regular ones didn't come back.
The Spider
Here is a small excerpt:
Three people had already hung themselves in the window of room #7 in the little hotel Stevens on three successive Fridays when medical student Richard Brocquemont resolved to move in.
The first was a Swiss travelling salesman. They found his body Saturday evening. The doctor determined that his death must have occurred between five and six o'clock on Friday evening. The corpse hung on a strong hook that had been driven into the crossbar of the window serving as a place to hang clothes. The window was closed; the deceased had used the curtain cord as a noose. Because the window was very low his legs lay on the floor with his knees almost touching as well. A strong will or purpose must have certainly driven the suicide.
It was further determined that he was married and the father of four children. He had a good job, a cheerful disposition and was always an entertaining character to be around. There was nothing found on his body, not even a note. Yet no one had ever heard him mention anything that would indicate a reason for his suicide.
The second case was not much different. The performer Karl Krause had been hired as a cyclist stuntman for the nearby Medrano circus. He moved into room #7 two days later. When he didn't show for the performance that Friday the director sent a show attendant to the hotel. He found the performer in the open room hanging from the crossbar of the window.
All of the details were the same in both cases. This suicide appeared no less mysterious. The popular performer received a high wage and everything he needed. He was a young man, twenty-five years old, his life was in full bloom and he enjoyed it. In this case as well there was no note, no insidious remark that might have hinted at a reason for the suicide. He was survived by his old mother to whom he had punctually sent 300 Marks on the first of every month for her care and livelihood.
For Mrs. Dubonnet, the owner of the reasonable little hotel, most of her clients were from the nearby Montmartre vaudeville troop. This second strange death in one of her rooms had very unpleasant consequences. Soon these guests left and the regular ones didn't come back.
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