Articles Available Online

I want to tell a story about an old man, a man who no longer says a word, has a tired face, too tired to smile and too tired to be angry He lives in a small town, at the end of the street or near the crossroads It is almost not worthwhile describing him, hardly anything distinguishes him from other men He wears a grey hat, grey pants, a grey jacket and in winter a long, grey overcoat, and he has a thin neck with dry, wrinkled skin, his white shirt collars are far too wide for him   His room is on the top floor of the house, maybe he was once married and had children, maybe he used to live in another town Certainly he was once a child, but that was at a time when children were dressed like grownups One can see them this way in the grandmother’s photo album In his room there are two chairs, one table, a rug, a bed, and a cupboard On a small table stands an alarm clock, next to it lie old newspapers and the photo album, on the wall hang a mirror and a picture   The old man would take a walk in the morning and a walk in the afternoon, exchange a few words with his neighbour, and in the evening sit at his table   This never changed, it was the same even on Sundays And when the man sat at the table, he would hear the clock ticking, always the clock ticking   Then there came a special day, a sunny day, not too hot, not too cold, with birds chirping, friendly people, children playing – and the special thing was that suddenly the man liked all this   He smiled   ‘Now everything will change,’ he thought   He undid the top button of his shirt, took his hat in his hand, quickened his pace, even had a spring in his step as he walked, and was happy  He entered his street, nodded to the children, arrived in front of his house,