It was all so different from what she'd expected.
Always those rusted Volkswagens.
At one time she'd almost married a baker.
First she read Hesse, then Handke.
Now often she does crosswords in bed.
With her, men take no liberties.
For years she was a Trotskyist, but in her own way.
She's never handled a ration card.
When she thinks of Kampuchea she feels quite sick.
Her last lover, the professor, always wanted her to beat him.
Green batik dresses, always too wide for her.
Green flies on her Sparmannia.
Really she wanted to paint, or emigrate.
Her thesis, Class Struggles in Ulm 1500
To 1512 and References to them in Folksong:
Grants, beginnings and a suitcase full of notes.
Sometimes her grandmother sends her money.
Tentative dances in her bathroom, little grimaces,
Cucumber juice for hours in front of the mirror.
She says, whatever happens I shan't starve.
When she weeps she looks nineteen.
Hans Magnus Enzensberger
A good way to start: Class Struggles in Ulm...
Many wonderful things here, and the thesis says it all. So, what is to be done if we sacrifice our life to an idea? An idea narrow, dry, illusory; but necessary also. Do we try a new beginning with tentative dances and little grimaces, and odd words in a vacuum? Maybe we do.