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Book Title: The Thief and Other Stories|
The author of the book: Georg Heym
Format files: PDF
The size of the: 32.38 MB
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Reader ratings: 7.2
Edition: Angel Books
Date of issue: February 14th 2011
ISBN 13: 9781870352482
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She was never so beautiful as when the fires of the sinking sun lay shimmering in the dust of the room upon her forehead, and her dark hair began to gleam as if with its own light. Then she seemed to grow forward out of the dark background, to become flesh, and to bask in the light of her own shamelessness. - 'The Thief'
The Mona Lisa is his laughing hell and a mocking heaven. Forces gathering behind in the picture. Maybe it was the curtains with an ominous whisper. Their heroine. She is blind to the madman, unyielding tears of penance. Nothing at all when he touches her hand. A fevered hand to her head. But she will not cry when he takes her. The Thief is afraid of them all. His man made fire eats her otherness, consuming firemen flesh and police are bacon too. The real world victims of his convictions aside, the curled up fetus sucking its brutal thumb of this was when Mona Lisa and the Louvre were his own hell floating in a starless galaxy. I am creeped the hell out by the "Purify their depravity" type of men (or women). I am lost in limbo between wanting to get the hell away from this guy, and the horror of what if you couldn't.... To flop about in his skin like this is even too much. I felt like he was commanding his man is a space ship. His own madness.
Something about Georg Heym's walking and talking hells strangled my sympathies. Or maybe I'm just heartless. They COULD have written these stories and not Heym after all. My book jacket says he told his worried publishers that they chose him. I thought it would be exactly what The Thief would want the world to know the detail he succeeded in every one of his brainiac endeavors.
Starved to pity, scared tired. A stilled sea of white faces buried alive in their filthy streets. 'The Fifth of October'. Rise up, everyone will have the same dream. Wake up or are they sleep avenging. Head sea bobbing together, parting arms of justice. Here comes the flood. To Versailles! I liked best about this story that invisible hand holding them, directing them. Just like if you were in a dream you couldn't wake from if you tried the things you're supposed to be able to wake yourself up in a dream. I think of them silently screaming and pinching while asleep for so long that it just had to happen this way. If you're in the mob, or in their path, you're sacrificed to its judgement. I liked this story the best, except for maybe 'The Ship', because they were the stories that felt organically rising from the subconscious and not so much the monster's self comforting fairy tale. I'm torn on feeling in their head as opposed to their hostage.
They actually let The Madman out of the asylum. I doubt the people in charge had enough time to send his wife, a victim letter about his release. He blazes the trail to home sweet home in corpses. The Madman froths at the mouth and zombie rabies eyes as great beasts within him. They take care of him. Within him he experiences his "immeasurable happiness". It's like this for 'The Thief' when dying in victory. Danilo Kis once said something about not trusting people who could come out of horror unscathed (he said it better than that but the gist, y'know). There's another side to that, though. The hissing in the dark of meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Bright and shiny pain. How do they emerge from the hell they inflict on others? Yeah, insane but this way the incredible happiness doesn't feel like happiness. I don't FEEL like they did win in dying (since these feel like nightmares....nightmares recur, so no winning this way). It feels like enjoying crying because everyone ever should be oh so sorry! What they did to YOU. A Joker's smile of tombstones turned upside down. It is something else than escaping.... I don't know what it is. Maybe that's why these stories made me feel so other than human.
He preserved his loneliness nervously. When people came he sprang up, ran away and crept into the dunes. Once they had gone by, he ran forward again to the sea, whose enormous expanse was the only cup into which he could pour the flood of his endless excess. - 'An Afternoon- Contribution to the History of a Little Boy'
The dying in 'The Autopsy', 'Jonathan' and 'An Afternoon' have the kind of love that is sewn eyes to me and gaping mouths. Trembling lips dream of love that I love you beary much stuffed menageries. Another corpse is the happiest, mutual deafness to tools of his morticians. I just can't embrace this floating above the world on an infinity cloud happiness. I get a different feeling about "seeing" it. Maybe a young girl practicing kissing on her pillow. Not longing, maybe a foreign ritual. I would have felt as lost if he were rejoicing in his sweet lord, I guess. The doctors are business in the front and business in the back. Neither world lived longer enough to haunt the other. You know in short story collections there's a "Huh...." story and passing ships in the night? It's this one for me.
Before the amputations 'Jonathan' had a man's legs. Now a boy's Bambi stumps waltz slow summer days. A child's everlasting words of love with the white girl face he glimpses in the room next to his own. It was the little boy thing that set me off, I'm sure. She's a voice in another room to him, could have been a shape speeding by in a train window. But she can disappoint him, already owes herself and her two week stay too close. I couldn't stand this, this baby talking himself deep down in his soul. I would have her a picture on the wall he dreams can speak to him. Little boys and girls in the hands of the cruel nurse, dancing visions in the wallpaper. The world loses its size to the big takeover of pain. He Benjamin Buttons to a baby, the center of the womb. The best part about this story was how Jonathan's pain called the other hospital inmates to respond in their own helpless pain. I can see them just settled before, trying to go to sleep. Hey, wait, this must still hurt....
I have no sympathy at all for the boy in 'An Afternoon' when the girl of his desire does not meet him for another kiss, as he has bent all of his hopes on discovering her. I feel nothing for dashed romantic hopes. For them to get what they want someone else cannot go free. (Another boy is distraught and on the wrong side of rage when perceiving a female as laughing at them. I wonder why there are only like two stories in this collection to not feature that? This is bothering me a lot.) I have to look for other angles to get inside stories as this aspect is cold to me. I've got it in that he will do it again and again. To do it on purpose to feel the joy to feel the pain or is it the pain to feel the joy. Sleepwalking daywalking all the time. Heym was so good at the savoring the build up. I wish it wasn't like the light falls on one side of the story so much, though. Anna Kavan could irritate the fuck out of me in some of her short stories with the intense neediness, like "Why doesn't everybody see my pain?!" until you want to shake them but maybe you don't ever see them, maybe it's not all about you. And you're feeling sick with them, like watching Dennis Potter's The Singing Detective you forget you weren't burned alive. I have to reassure myself, constantly testing my flesh.... Hedayat could point the righteous finger too. I will want out, want a "but life isn't just" poetic footprint since they are so intense you feel like you DID see them, couldn't do anything..... but it wasn't enough you were caught? Something like swinging on it, between theirs and you. Fish on make believe land. I want to shake them so much. I can't stand it how much.
My favorite story is 'The Ship', I think. It has to be enough to sail on that black ship on ancient prayers. This must be a timeless end of time. Good old fashioned plague. That's what I'm talking about. Maybe we don't all die alone, left with the embryonic walls closing in of only one very ugly very bloody thought. Well, I say that now because their reality didn't threaten to smother mine in their writhing the-world-is-me ugliness. There's no way it isn't going to be 'The Thief' I never forget.... His repulsive ownership will black out to secrets. Probably will go that way.
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