Surely the motive behind the notes in Folder C that seem fragmentary and, at first glance, unrelated to one another is the same as in Abel, namely, an attempt to get to the bottom of the act of writing—that is, novel writing, the authentic invention of reality. Aristides’s various approaches to this problem, his “wrestling with the angel of truth in the ‘as-if’ ” and continual failure in the attempt, as agonizingly and tortuously reported to the literary agent Brodny and to Schwab in Abel, seem to be continued here, although they stay closer to the topic, deteriorate less into blather, and thus seem more disciplined and orderly—small wonder: they are pieces of work that Schwab collected and sequenced with a view to completion and eventual publication which he, Schwab, would have overseen as an editor at Scherping Publishers. Aristides could at this point interject: it’s a job Schwab would have had, had he not died. But that was not the case: Schwab was still alive when the cover of Folder C was closed.

I leave it to the reader to solve the mystery hidden therein.

—G.v.R.

INTENDED AS A PREFACE

by the producer Heinz Wohlfahrt

WHEN I hereby release the manuscript of “The Lost Daughter” in printed form, I do so in unimpeachable legality on the basis of the authority vested in me as sole proprietor and CEO of INTERCOSMIC ART FILMS, Vaduz, Principality of Liechtenstein, P.O. Box BX 391, whose executive and sole proprietor I have always been and remain to this day. Thus it is not some shady deal, as has been claimed in certain quarters. It has always been—and up to the present moment still is—my principle to invariably honor obligations my firm has undertaken, even such as are against my better judgment, but also vice versa. I’ve stuck to that in good years and will keep it up in times of crisis too; some may call me crazy, but I was fanatically devoted to the beautiful profession of filmmaking—however, even the gods strive in vain against a wall of opposition.

There have been some hostile comments made about me recently which I here wish to publicly repudiate. I would like to again lay out the facts, one after the other, in chronological order, especially for the gentlemen from a certain newspaper for egghead superstars, a.k.a. intellectuals, who’ve suddenly discovered a supposed genius in Herr Aristides, even though they knew him before without noticing anything of the kind.