Without Lifting A Finger

“​‘You rightly wondered,’ he finally continued, ‘that I’m still living in a hotel. I didn’t want to confront the world. I wanted to deal with it skillfully, I’d almost say mechanically, but I didn’t want to suffer with it. I wanted to be superior to it, not lose my head, control it all like a technician. I looked at the murdered girl, and that was bearable; but when I stood in front of her parents, I suddenly couldn’t bear it any longer, I had to get away from that godforsaken house, and so I promised by my eternal soul that I would find the murderer—just to turn my back on those suffering people, and I never gave a moment’s thought to the fact that I couldn’t keep this promise because I was going to Jordan. And then I allowed the old indifference to rise up in me, Locher. That was so horrible. I didn’t fight for the peddler. I allowed everything to happen. I became my old impersonal self, “Nobody Home,” as some people call me. I slipped back into the calm, the superiority, the formali...

This case gave me a bad feeling; everything had somehow gone wrong; I didn’t know exactly how, but I felt it. I withdrew to my ‘boutique,’ as I called it, a smoke-filled little room next to my office. I ordered a bottle of Châteauneuf du Pape from a restaurant near the Sihl bridge, drank a few glasses. There was always an awful mess in that room, I won’t deny it, a jumble of books and files. I did that on principle, because in my opinion it’s everyone’s duty in this well-ordered land to maintain little islands of chaos, even if only in secret.

“To be honest,” Dr. H. began later, as we were approaching the Kerenz Pass—the road was icy again, and beneath us lay Lake Walen, glittering, cold, forbidding; also, the leaden weariness from the Medomin had come back, the memory of the smoky taste of the whiskey, the feeling of gliding along in an endless, meaningless dream—“to be honest, I have never thought highly of crime novels, and I rather regret that you, too, write them. It’s a waste of time. Though what you said in your lecture yesterday was worth hearing; since the politicians have shown themselves to be so criminally inept—and it takes one to know one, I’m a member of Parliament, as I’m sure you’re aware . . .” (I had no idea, I was listening to his voice as if from a great distance, barricaded behind my tiredness, but attentive, like an animal in its lair) “. . . People hope the police at least will know how to put the world in order, which strikes me as the most miserable thing you could possibly hope for. But unfortunate...

Tried to get my mate to rewatch the movie with me last night, but she wasn't in the mood for sad she said. The book is largely bloodless, if the subject is a bit dark and sad. We watched Anthony's last Hurrah instead (a very fragmented side of NYC I was not that interested in). Anyway ... * It was in the Kronenhalle, on a Saturday evening, I remember it exactly. The place was full—everyone who was anybody in Zürich and up for a meal was there. Waitresses scurrying around, the food on the trolley steaming, and the rumble of traffic sounding in from the street. I was sitting under the Miró, all unsuspecting, eating my liver dumpling soup, when the sales representative of one of the big fuel companies came up to me, said hello, and sat down at my table, just like that. He was slightly drunk and in high spirits, ordered a marc and told me, laughing, that my former first lieutenant had changed his profession; that he had taken over a gas station in Graubünden, near Chur—a bu...

I ordered a bottle of Châteauneuf du Pape from a restaurant near the Sihl bridge, drank a few glasses. There was always an awful mess in that room, I won’t deny it, a jumble of books and files. I did that on principle, because in my opinion it’s everyone’s duty in this well-ordered land to maintain little islands of chaos, even if only in secret.