e-book Der Mythos Arminius bei Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock und Heinrich von Kleist (German Edition)

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You can remove the unavailable item s now or we'll automatically remove it at Checkout. Remove FREE. Unavailable for purchase. Continue shopping Checkout Continue shopping. European If you like European eBooks, then you'll love these top picks. Sort By: Bestsellers. Read more PHP Articole burgheze by N. It facilitates processes of Read more PHP4, The Guermantes Way by Marcel Proust After the first two volumes of "In search of lost time", are now "The Guermantes way" where Proust tells the brilliant Parisian life of late 19th century aristocratic and literary environments in the French capital.

The writer draws a satirical and devastating vision on elite French society , revealing flaws, contradictions and lack of depth Life Writing and Politics of Memory in Eastern Europe by Simona Mitroiu This volume addresses the issues of remembering and performing the past in Eastern European ex-communist states in the context of multiplication of the voices of the past. The book analyzes the various ways in which memory and remembrance operate; it does so by using different methods of recollecting the past, from oral history to cultural and historical institutions, and by drawing on various On the basis of material covering a selection of American, British and Turkish literature, as well as examples of Western Orientalist painting and musical operatic illustrations of analysed issues, the study aims to usher in a deeper and more nuanced Read more PHP2, And I decided to join them and to participate — so you will read a lot about German literature in November on this blog.

But I will let you know soon. So, if you are a blogger with an interest in books and literature and if you have a place to publish your own reviews, you are invited to join.

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And if you are a lover of German literature without your own blog, you are invited to send your review to one of the participating blogs. Young Light is the title of a coming-of-age novel by German author Ralf Rothmann. I enjoyed this book very much. Julian Collien, the year old protagonist, is growing up in the Ruhr region in the mids.

Julian is living with his parents and his little sister Sophie in a mining town. Life and work is organized around the work schedule of the coal mine, where almost all the fathers are working, whereas the women follow the traditional role of mother and housewife.

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Everyone is very much living in the present — hardly anyone ever speaks of the past. On the surface the reader has the impression that nothing spectacular is happening within the few weeks that are covered by the story. It is the end of the school year, mother and sister are going on a holiday there is not enough money for the whole family to enjoy holiday together , the father and Julian stay at home and get along quite well. In order to avoid the next beating by the teacher, Julian has an idea:. The razor slightly rusted, but there was a new packet of blades.

I pulled one out, carefully unwrapped the waxed paper and sat down at the edge of the bathtub. I was taking fast breaths with my mouth wide open, and kept going over the skin until the edge of the razor blade disappeared into the flesh. Now the line turned red. But I was already trembling all over, started farting and broke out in sweat.

Finally, my fingers grew so tense that I had to stop. I rinsed my hand under the tap and looked at the ball of my thumb. A nasty scratch, but not a wound. I went to the kitchen, took a match from the box and rubbed the sulphur head about inside the cut until my eyes watered. Then I put a plaster on it, wiped the bathroom floor with toilet paper and told my mother I had fallen over. At night, before going to sleep, I could feel a quiet throbbing under the bandage. Without fever, Julian has to go to school and is pretending to have not been able to do his homework in math because of the wound.

Julian is not particularly close with any of his peers. Gorny senior, in the meantime, a person who has a kind of creepiness about him from the very beginning of the book, turns out to be a man with pedophile and child molesting tendencies at the least. No one in the bedroom either; the bedspread lay neatly folded on the bed and the metal alarm clock was ticking.

A solitary fly scurried across the fridge of the lampshade, and I called again and knocked on the bathroom door. But it had been left ajar. The narrow window was open, and there were nylon stockings lying unwashed in the bath; every time a drop of water fell onto the lightly-coloured heap, it moved. Next to the soap dish lay a little tube of painkillers, slightly squashed; the screw top lay on the floor. I heard my father coming up the stairs with slow, heavy steps, went onto the balcony and looked out to the garden.

Sophie was sitting alone on the edge of the sandbox. One of her teddies was buried up to its neck, and she looked up. Although the sun was behind her, she covered her eyes with her hand. My father, who had heard the question, went to the kitchen and looked around. Where would she be? I shrugged. Hanging up the laundry? He threw his jacket on the sofa and called her; his voice was strangely muted. The glasses in the cabinet trembled slightly as he walked across the floorboards. In the bathroom he bent down to pick up the lid and screwed it back on the tube of tablets.

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His broad back blocked my view. Her head was turned to the wall, her eyes closed, and she was holding an extinguished cigarette between her fingers. Her foot, which was poking out of the end of the covers, still had one of the slippers with the plush edging on it. She was wearing her pearl necklace, and I pulled the cigarette butt out from between her fingers and threw it into the bowl on the bedside rug.

My father breathed out sharply through his nose and ran his hands through his hair. My father shrugged his shoulders. He turned round and went into the kitchen, and while I took the slippers off her feet and placed them next to the bed I could hear him tinkering with the stove rings and scratching about in the coal scuttle; it was much louder than when she did it. I bent down and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. Her skin felt dull from the spray. Her eyelids were trembling, and I turned round to go to the bathroom — and found my father standing in the doorway again.

Folds going down over the bridge of his nose. His lips so pale that I could hardly make them out from the rest of his skin, he held the half-thawed packet of spinach in his fist like a brick. What are hospitals for? When I come out of that hole where I work myself half to death for you all every day, I expect to have something to eat, you understand? Then I bloody well expect to see some food on the table! With a kick, he sent the ashtray next to the bed flying into the corner. But it stayed in one piece, even though it was made of glass.

But the five cigarette butts inside it jumped onto the carpet. If you can smoke one fag after another, you can make your family something to eat! These paragraphs describe the work of a coal miner during his shift almost a thousand meters below the ground. While he is entering an area with water ingress, he is preparing a blasting to avoid a catastrophe; in the end it seems that the miner has an accident, possibly a fatal one. What strikes me about the novel is first of all the language.

Rothmann avoids the trap in which so many writers of autobiographical novels are falling. Julian, from whose perspective most of the novel is told, is not looking back with an affectionate, transfigured view. He reports the things as he sees them and in a rather unemotional, almost a bit detached way. Only with his little sister Sophie who is sometimes a pain in the ass but mostly very cheerful and charming, he is embracing and kissing.

The man is using expressions that resonate well in Julian and that make him want to know who this man, a writer, really is; a man who is speaking in a serious voice which betrays his soft Cologne accent. Unfortunately for Julian, he will not know the name of the man with the sad eyes and the bulbous nose — not this time that is. Rothmann worked as a mason, driver, cook and in various other jobs before he started his career as a writer. What I also have to praise is that Rothmann is an intelligent and conscious narrator.

He has lost a few illusions about his parents, his peers, about adults and maybe life in general. But he will keep the picture of the writer in his mind and will try to find out more about him in the library one day. And he will also remember the words of Pomrehn, who once said to him:. Young Light is one of the best coming-of-age novels I ever read.

Seagull Books, an Indian publisher, has become one of the best addresses for translated literature in the English-speaking world. Seagull publisher Naveen Kishore was awarded the Goethe medal in Weimar in in recognition of his important work. The wooden ship is the talk of the town. The wooden ship is all teak and oak and it looks much too elegant to be an ordinary freighter. Hans Henny Jahnn, the author of The Ship , was not only a famous organ-builder but also the son of a ship carpenter, which helped him to make the description of the ship so convincing.

Unknown cargo is unloaded, the owner is dismissing the crew and leaving just two guards with whom he drinks almost every night on the ship. After a while a new crew is hired and under the supervision of a person who is referred to as the Supercargo — later we learn that his real name is Georg Lauffer — , the new cargo is being carried to the ship without further investigation by the customs.

And here, at the latest, it dawns on the reader that something must be wrong with the ship: neither the content of the coffin-shaped crates nor the destination of the ship are known to the crew or even the captain, and during the process of carrying the crates it comes to an eruption of violence from the side of the Supercargo. The reasons why he lets part of the crew to be beaten up are not exactly clear, but as a result part of the sailors are dismissed and replaced by seamen who will not ask questions and who will stay away from the mysterious cargo.

These events give the author an opportunity to make the reader familiar with his opinions about life in general:. A child who has just burned himself with a glowing red ember, tries, cautiously, to see if a stick of red sealing wax will injure him in the same way. And if Providence intends to give him a thorough knowledge of life, she lets him make the same test at regular intervals. And perhaps he will gain the knowledge that the red stuff—which is apparently always the same—is sometimes hot, and sometimes cool.

And a small corner of the veil of What Happens if lifted. He looks into the abyss of causality and can see the face of time as a reflection of eternity. Certainty becomes questionable, the riddle more powerful than knowledge. He will no longer trust the chance that might burn him. Laws, still unclear which must therefore have been repealed. Metals, malleable as wax, melted in fire and not congealed.

Wood as pliable as a reed. Bodies that have no weight, no face. Stones that can float. Magnetic mountains. A reversal of the senses. The vast kingdom of the unreliable. Their cold glow, uplifting the heart or destroying it, conveyed the deceptive marvel of edifying ideas.

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They see themselves as chosen or rejected. Or what is far away is as far away for them as it pretends to be. It does not penetrate the miasma of their martyred blood. And then again storms spread their noise across the vapors of the earth. Now it was the gleaming dew of loneliness that trickled down upon it. A human being had to fear mountains and water. The wall has to be there. A healthy body is run over by a truck, crushed. Blood, once secreted, once feeling its way blindly through the body, pulsating in a meshwork of thin streams, spreading the chemically charged hormones and their mysterious functions like a red tree inside man—this blood now runs out shapelesssly in great puddles.

But even more horrible—the death struggle itself, in which the innumerable organs, which we believe we feel, take part. Terror is stronger in us than delight.

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  4. Extraordinary things are nothing but steps that lead to crime, and the corruption of the senses seems to be the order of the day. And we are strangled in the noose of the shriveling umbilical cord. Her fiance Gustav Horn decides to come on board as a stowaway. When the ship is leaving port, the owner is mysteriously missing, and Gustav and Ellena are suspecting that for some unknown reason the owner might also be on board as a stowaway. The ship is becoming more and more a mystery to the passengers and the crew. Between Gustav and Tutein there seems to grow a strange mutual attraction, although we readers can only guess the nature of this obvious attraction.

    Gustav, the main figure of the novel, is listening full of fascination to the stories of the primitive, vital and virile sailors. This is a simple world where the men are following their animal instincts, a world that is completely new to the educated Gustav. They had had experience in every direction.

    At fourteen they had already mistaken the joys of Hell for the bliss of Paradise, and, later, stood again and again with empty hands in a completely illuminated world. Gustav becomes jealous when he realizes that his fiancee has secret conversations with Lauffer, because he is suspecting that there is much more to them than Ellena wants to make him believe. There exists only one pain, one passion, on death. But they glitter limitlessly in infinity, in motion everywhere. And every ray, the known and the unknown, hums this consuming rhythm, this melody of downfall.

    He who lays himself open to it founders, goes up in flames, succumbs. Perhaps the greatest work of art is the masterpiece of omnipotence which is everywhere with a soft voice. And we, its servants, are being summoned to all things at every moment. But often we refuse. We shut ourselves off. But when are we so completely healthy or invulnerable that pain cannot reach us? When could we call ourselves out of the reach of death? Where is there peace and justice, a condition without condemnation, that we could let sadness go from us with impunity?

    I want to stand at my own side when I scream or sink to the ground in convulsions. I am not prepared to let myself be put on trial as to whether I am a useful or an objectionable male animal. I have come into being and intend to make myself at home in the condition as I please. Things are escalating quickly after the illiterate carpenter Klemens Fitte, the son of a prostitute, is telling one of the strangest stories you will ever read in your life: the story of Kebad Kenya, a man who wants to be buried alive and who makes his neighbors who will inherit his big fortune kill his favorite horse without any apparent reason.

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    The story of Kebad Kenya leads the sailors to suspect that the coffin-shaped crates contain dead or living human bodies and they rush to break into the cargo room and open the first crate that proves surprisingly to be empty. Is she hiding in the ship? Has she jumped over board? Was she killed — and by whom? A search is started during which the ship is so damaged that it is sinking and the crew has to be evacuated.

    They climbed across the cargo toward the door by which they had entered. Gustav, in a last effort to come closer to the content of the cargo, threw himself down on one of the coffin-like crates. He made the effort, even if with dwindling will power and filled with a premonition of futility, to establish some sort of relationship with the mysterious thing.

    It seemed foolish to him, an error of human perception, that anything could remain hidden which could be approached until only a few centimeters lay between. But it was the usual thing to be struck with blindness. Who could recognize the sickness of his neighbor with his eyes even though it lay palpable under the skin? When Gustav arose from the crate a few seconds later, he had assured himself that the icy aura which filled the hold had infected the crates or, perhaps, they were its sources. He felt as if he had thrown himself down on the snows of a wintry field. And a white wraith of cold crept up to him.

    F luss ohne Ufe r River Without Banks has about pages of which only the first part is translated into English. True, T he Ship is a stand-alone novel. But still it is such a pity that this great and in many ways unique novel is not available in English. It has been translated to French though. In a way, it is devastating and it might be one of these books that have the potential to change your life.

    Traditional concepts of moral, guilt, progress, are rejected. Man is not superior to the rest of the creatures, the animal is his equal and in many ways even superior. Jahnn was an early advocate of animal rights and also a leading figure in the movement against nuclear arms. But this is a pity, because despite all that, Jahnn is such a great author. He writes:. No matter in which direction Jahnn thinks, no matter which ways his painful heroes are pursuing, no matter which vision is lighting up in the moment: the aporia is indissoluble, the novel cannot be concluded, the artistic effort a failure.

    At the end, there is only darkness. That leaves a bitter taste. This is not very digestible. Where is the publisher that makes this masterpiece that has no similarity to any other novel, available to anglophone readers?

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    Things change when his fourth child, his son Menuchim is born. His father gives him much more attention than to the other children, in the hope that this will enhance his development, his mother Deborah is visiting a famous rabbi in the next town to ask his advice, while in the meantime even the usual household routine suffers:.

    When the children grow up, things go worse and worse for Mendel Singer. The only way to save his daughter from the path on which she was embarking seems for Mendel Singer the emigration to America. An invitation from Sam, who sends also the money for the ship tickets through his new American friend Mac, will make it possible. But there is a problem: the sick Menuchim cannot travel the immigration officers at Ellis Island would send whole families back in such cases. Mendel and Deborah make for themselves all kind of excuses.

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    If Menuchim will be healthy one day, he will join the family. Sam, together with his reliable business partner Mac is successful and able to provide a comparatively good life to his family. Jonas is writing a letter from Russia with some good news about Menuchim who surprisingly started to speak. Sam and his wife have their first child. But only for a short while. WWI breaks out and again everything changes for Mendel Singer. After some time he loses contact with Jonas, who went missing and is maybe dead. Mendel fears the worst. After America enters the war, Sam also enlists for the army.

    Only a short time after he was shipped to Europe, he gets killed in combat. When Mac brings the bad news, Deborah has a breakdown and dies. Mirjam has to be admitted to a mental hospital after the outbreak of an unexplicable mental illness, probably schizophrenia.