This post is from my archives, dated 1st November 2002:

Good trip around Europe. Berlin, especially the former east, was wonderful. A city full of optimism, lots of young people moving in. Visited the Käthe Kollwitz museum. Later we travelled on to Prague, the latter part of the journey through a gauntlet of prostitutes waving down tourists arriving from East Germany. We had to leave our car there (broken piston) and travel on to Amsterdam by train.
Strains of the novel continue to visit me. I thought it would be fascinating to look at what it means that women usually dance backwards. But we know why, don’t we? And I keep getting reminders of something Emma Goldman is credited with: ‘If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be part of your revolution.’

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Out-takes IV

‘How’s the novel doing?’
JD considered. ‘When you say How’s the novel doing, you could be referring to that collection of prose narratives that’ve been around for the last couple of hundred years, and which continue to pop up from time to time; or you could be making a personal inquiry about the book I’m writing.’
Sam [...]



Broken Glass is a brave, bighearted attempt by one of the pathfinders of postwar drama to look at the tangle of evasions and hostilities by which the soul contrives to hide its emptiness from itself.
John Lahr.

Kristallnacht -1938 - the Nazis in Berlin smash the windows and destroy the contents of Jewish shops and synagogues. Old [...]






About Writing:

Altogether, I think we ought to read only books that bite and sting us. If the book does not shake us awake like a blow to the skull, why bother reading it in the first place? So that it can make us happy, as you put it? Good God, we'd be just as happy if we had no books at all; books that make us happy we could, in a pinch, also write ourselves. What we need are books that hit us like a most painful misfortune, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, that make us feel as though we had been banished to the woods, far from any human presence, like a suicide. A book must be the ax for the frozen sea within us. That is what I believe. Franz Kafka letter to Oskar Pollak January 27, 1904

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