Status Updates From The Tin Drum

Inizio estenuante

For a time she watched my hands and drumsticks, I wouldn’t even say that her manner was inept; she smiled self-forgetfully and tried to clap her hands to my beat. For a moment she became a not unpleasant old maid, who had forgotten her proscribed occupational caricature and become human, that is, childlike, curious, complex, and immoral.

Right at the start, while still talking with his aunt, trying to tell her that the little orgy in the dark was nothing to get excited about, he had slipped off one shoe, and thrust forward, past my head, a grey sock with a foot in it, searching for, and finding, my mama’s knee. Thereupon Mama had moved closer to the table ... enabling his entire inhabited sock ... to wander about between her thighs.

What impressed me most, however, was ... the sound produced by the dialogue between moth and bulb: the moth chattered away as if in haste to unburden itself of its knowledge, as if it had no time for future colloquies with sources of light, as though this dialogue was its last confession; and as though, after the kind of absolution that light bulbs confer, there would be no further occasion for sin or folly.

But if I had to keep a journal of Koljaiczek’s thoughts or Dückerhoff’s inner life, there’d be plenty to relate: suspicion, suspicion confirmed, doubt, hesitation, suspicion laid to rest, more suspicion. They were both afraid. Dückerhoff more than Koljaiczek; for now they were in Russia.

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