I remember that once, as a kid, I shat on the compost heap, which Papa then turned over with his pitchfork. Today, more or less on the spot where the compost heap used to be, there stands the glass office block of the Lainsam & Sons insurance company. That says quite a bit about the transience of all that is human.

I remember an old pot I found in a corner of our cellar. I peed in it and used it to fertilize the tomato plants in the garden. Later I found out that the pot wasn’t a pot but Grandfather’s steel helmet, which had a piece missing. It was shot away by a sharp-­eyed Englishman, along with a large part of Grandfather’s left temple. He lived another forty-­six years after that, and did pretty well on the whole.

I remember the many hands I’ve shaken, and the few hands that have held me.

I remember the sun on the snow-­covered fields. It had only just risen, and a few larks shot up into the sky as if fleeing its cold light.

I remember my father.

I remember my armchair in the town hall. I’d inherited it from my aunt, and my first act of officialdom was to have it lugged up to the mayoral office. It had woodworm; wood flour trickled from one leg, and horsehair bulged out of rips in the upholstery. It was old, ugly and not especially comfortable. But it belonged to me and me alone. It felt like a tiny piece of native habitat amid all the craziness around me. I could sit down in it, lean back, bury my hands in the horsehair, and feel as if I had something like a home.

And with that, dear people of Paulstadt, let’s return for the last, the very last, time to my failings. Yes, I bribed people, I made false promises, and probably a whole heap of illegitimate children as well; I lied and cheated, I was bad, I was wicked, I was deceitful and mean. To summarize: friends, I was one of you!

Oh yes – one more thing. Some young people have been picnicking on our grave lately on mild summer evenings, among them old Schwitters’ son, an utter idiot with no decency or manners. They picked this grave because it’s got a huge slab of black Labrador marble that retains the heat of the sun until well after nightfall. There they sit, yattering non-­stop, the most egregious nonsense, spilling their beer, which trickles over our family name engraved in the marble and makes the letters sticky. Sometimes young Schwitters pees against the back of the gravestone, and the girls all giggle and shriek. I resent them for it. I hate them for their stupidity and their beauty. I hate them for the miracle inside them, on which they waste not a single thought behind their hot, unwrinkled foreheads.

Can someone go and ask them to stay for ever?

Martha Avenieu

As a girl, I used to write long letters to imaginary men. I would perfume the silk paper pages, slip them into unstamped envelopes and drop them, with thumping heart, into the post box. I wonder if they were ever opened.