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Der Fall des Lemming - pp 231
Im westlichen Winkel des Praters zwischen Ausstellungsstraße und Hauptallee liegt wie ein vergammeltes Torteneck der Wurstelprater. Schon Mitte des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts entstanden hier die ersten Marktbuden, nachdem Joseph II. das kaiserliche Jagdgebiet zur allgemeinen Benutzung freigegeben hatte. Im Jahr 1840 nahm der legendäre Schausteller Basileo Calafati das erste große Ringelspiel in Betrieb. Johann Fürsts Singspielhalle und Präuschers Panopticum folgten, dann Baschiks Theater für Zauberei, Reinprechts Pony-Karussell und das Varieté der Gebrüder Leicht. Gemeinsam begründeten sie einen der größten und merkwürdigsten Vergnügungsparks Europas: Wer ihn betritt, wird zum Grenzgänger zwischen Geschmacklosigkeit und Poesie, Modernität und Verstaubtheit, Manie und Melancholie. Tagsüber und abends von den Marktschreiern regiert, verwandelt sich der Wurstelprater nach Mitternacht zum Jadgrevier der Huren und Diebe; und nichts vermag darüber hinwegtäuschen, dass das morbide Wiener Karma von Jahrhunderten auf ihm lastet. Am Haupteingang ragt, der Innenstadt zugewandt, sein Wahrzeichen auf – das Riesenrad. Fünfundsechzig Meter hoch, ist es zugleich das verstaubte Fanal und die alternde Diva des Wurstelpraters. Gemächlich und müde dreht es seine Runden, und jedes Mal, wenn einer der fünfzehn Waggons den Zenit erreicht, hält es an und steht still – angeblich, um seinen Passagieren am Boden das Ein- und Aussteigen zu erleichtern. Aber das ist nur ein Vorwand. Es will sich einfach ausruhen, das Riesenrad. Acht Minuten vor zehn lässt Huber den Wagen um das Rondeau des Pratersterns schlittern, überfährt noch rasch eine gelbe Ampel und hält mit quietschenden Reifen auf dem großen Busparkplatz gegenüber dem Planetarium.
Near fragment in time
Diese vielen ekelhaften Menschen, Menschen, nun, diese vielen ekelhaften Erscheinungen im damit vollgestopften Autobus 74 A, die Landstraßer Hauptstraße hinauf oder hinunter, welche Qual, ihnen mehrmals täglich ausgesetzt zu sein, ihnen und ihren mitgeführten, mit sich getragenen Schicksalen, Lebensgestaltungen, Alltagsbewältigungen, Kinderwagen, Krücken; Inländer, Ausländer, Wiener, Asiaten, gleichviel, nein, gleichviel nicht, die Wiener, die 'Hiesigen', sind allemal scheußlicher, Paare vor allem, alte und ältere, verstunkene Wiener Ehepaare, wie sie hereinzittern 'in den Autobus', wie sie hinauszittern 'aus dem Autobus', dem Autobus 74 A, fürsorglich um einander bemüht und eben deshalb einander abrundtief gram, wie ich sie hasse!
pp 51 from Kalte Herberge by
Near fragment in space
We went then to the roundabouts. He chose to ride not on a dappled horse - I had noticed already his dislike of horses -but on a swan. He enjoyed it, but he didn't want to go round again. It was an experience complete in itself.
Then came the Wurschtlmann. He's so famous the Prater is named for him and you can see why. A hideous rubber man with a red nose who, for a few kreutzer one can thump and pound and wallop to one's heart's content, knowing that he will right himself undamaged and come up for more. Give him a name - that of your mean-minded boss, your bullying commanding officer - and you can punch him insensible and walk away, purged.
'Would you like to have a go, Sigismund?'
Even before he shook his head I saw him instinctively shield his hands, hiding them behind his back - and that was the first time I remembered the concert.
In the end, though, the Prater is about the ferris wheel whose fame has spread throughout the Empire. It towers over everything else, its carriages take you a hundred metres into the sky. To be up there and look down on the city is to ride with the gods.
So I asked him: 'What about the giant wheel? Would you like to go on it ?'
His hand tightened in mine. A tremor passed over his face. She had not been frightened even at six years old, but the boy was scared.
'The view is very beautiful from the top. You can see all Vienna.'
He stood still in the middle of the path. He tilted his head and gave a small sniff.
'I want very much to be brave,' he said in his low, cracked voice. 'I very much want it.'
And suddenly it all dissolved - my long antagonism, my restraint, the resentment that I felt at being asked for what belonged only to my daughter. I saw him sitting beside his dead mother in the Polish forest, waiting for her to wake … Saw him wobbling on the Encyclopedia of Art, playing and playing because he could no longer talk. I remembered the silent patience with which he'd endured his uncle's bullying, saw the graze on his forehead of which he'd said no word.
And I knelt beside him and took him in my arms.
'You are brave, Sigi. You're very brave, my darling,' I said - and kissed him.
So now I can tell you this. They are entirely exact descriptions of what happens, those ones in the fairy tales which tell you what occurs when you kiss an ugly frog, a hairy beast, with proper love.Sigi didn't kiss me back or cling to me. He just straightened his shoulders and then in a calm, almost matter-of-fact voice, he said: 'Now we will go up,' - and then led me to the brightly painted carriages swaying high above our heads.
pp 177-178 from Madensky Square by
Then came the Wurschtlmann. He's so famous the Prater is named for him and you can see why. A hideous rubber man with a red nose who, for a few kreutzer one can thump and pound and wallop to one's heart's content, knowing that he will right himself undamaged and come up for more. Give him a name - that of your mean-minded boss, your bullying commanding officer - and you can punch him insensible and walk away, purged.
'Would you like to have a go, Sigismund?'
Even before he shook his head I saw him instinctively shield his hands, hiding them behind his back - and that was the first time I remembered the concert.
In the end, though, the Prater is about the ferris wheel whose fame has spread throughout the Empire. It towers over everything else, its carriages take you a hundred metres into the sky. To be up there and look down on the city is to ride with the gods.
So I asked him: 'What about the giant wheel? Would you like to go on it ?'
His hand tightened in mine. A tremor passed over his face. She had not been frightened even at six years old, but the boy was scared.
'The view is very beautiful from the top. You can see all Vienna.'
He stood still in the middle of the path. He tilted his head and gave a small sniff.
'I want very much to be brave,' he said in his low, cracked voice. 'I very much want it.'
And suddenly it all dissolved - my long antagonism, my restraint, the resentment that I felt at being asked for what belonged only to my daughter. I saw him sitting beside his dead mother in the Polish forest, waiting for her to wake … Saw him wobbling on the Encyclopedia of Art, playing and playing because he could no longer talk. I remembered the silent patience with which he'd endured his uncle's bullying, saw the graze on his forehead of which he'd said no word.
And I knelt beside him and took him in my arms.
'You are brave, Sigi. You're very brave, my darling,' I said - and kissed him.
So now I can tell you this. They are entirely exact descriptions of what happens, those ones in the fairy tales which tell you what occurs when you kiss an ugly frog, a hairy beast, with proper love.Sigi didn't kiss me back or cling to me. He just straightened his shoulders and then in a calm, almost matter-of-fact voice, he said: 'Now we will go up,' - and then led me to the brightly painted carriages swaying high above our heads.