Thirty-­nine years.

It’s not true that time contracts when you look back on it. It was a long time, and it felt long to me. I did what I could. Nothing I printed went around the world; it all stayed in Paulstadt. But it makes no difference. Every moment contains the whole of time, and all the world is reflected in the shop windows of Marktstrasse. Once, right at the beginning, I ordered a copy of the New York Times. I wanted to get an idea of what others were doing. The newspaper came by post, with a week’s delay. But it’s not about discovering things in real time. If you want to know what’s happening in real time, look in the mirror. The news only ever recounts what has already happened.

The Americans were good, but they weren’t better than me. People’s actions will always remain the same. The only difference is in the effects. And that too becomes relative with time.

Do you want to hear a story? Write it down. It’s about the tram. Three stops. One at either end, the town hall square in the middle. North-­east to south-­west and back again. That’s progress. Anyone who’s against it isn’t properly informed. Some things you have to listen to, others you don’t. You can sit them out. After all, the town hall’s not a dustbin. It’s only the embittered who make a fuss. It’s only the disqualified who complain. But of course you have to tell it like it is. It affects us. It affects the future. It affects everything. The holes in the road don’t matter. Those we can accept. In winter, they freeze over as soon as they fill with water. Children can sail little boats in them in summer. That’s nice. Everything has pros and cons. The olden days weren’t better, just different. Everything changes. Everything flows. Everything costs money. The holes in the budget are bigger than the holes in the road. The holes in the budget are bigger than the marshy holes on the outskirts of town. That sounds good. Did you get that? Just an idea. A suggestion. Politics doesn’t get to dictate to the press. No one gets to dictate anything to anyone. There’s far too much talk everywhere as it is. Untruthful talk. Improper talk. The school renovation is not on the agenda. Nothing is on the agenda. Nor is the business with the donations. Which isn’t true, incidentally. Some things get exaggerated. A lot gets misrepresented. Everything, really. The truth is malleable, like hot iron. Reality is a matter of opinion. Anyone who wants to can inform themselves. Anyone who doesn’t want to will be informed. That’s freedom. Did you get that? Excellent. From the side, as well? A tram is one thing, the poison in Buxter’s ground pork is something else entirely. You mustn’t confuse them, lump them all together, measure them by the same yardstick. There’s a time for everything. There’s a place for everything. Where would we be otherwise? Hang on. Not like that. That’s not right. Preposterous, and dangerous to boot. Corruption has no name. A name is what gives a person dignity. Do you see the priest lying in the road, his back like a burnt pastry? Did you hear about the dead boy they pulled out of the marsh yesterday? Have you read about the last will and testament of Karl Jonas, who wanted his grave filled with earth from his field? About the firefighters crawling over a mountain of rubble to search for the living and the dead? Think about it. Think what you like. Believe, as soon as you can permit yourself to do so. Belief is actually knowledge. Knowledge becomes opinion. Write that down!