Вольфганг Хильбиг: The Females

But I’m not finished yet, Madam Magister : I shall proceed with increasingly obscene expositions. Even then, you see, it was clear that the country would have to be divided, the ends of this undertaking were sacred, and required means that had little to do with reform. — I must have been crazy even back then, perhaps even crazier than now; I suddenly imagined the country’s partition first being performed through the waists of the females, so delicately that they’d never even notice… the females’ lower bodies, their perfumed refinement—or so I gathered from the polemical stew my brain was fed—belonged on the other side of the wall in the reactionary camp, where they’d be stuffed with money. Naturally that had to repel me. Some of the lower bodies did in fact stay here, allocated to the academics studying how the situation would develop—specifically, those lower bodies whose prospects for education were less problematic than mine, and which, at that time, seemed to comprise more female lower bodies than male. To my alarm I realized that my prick—which had been provoking me for some time—aimed over this wall, that is, at the females’ lower bodies, but my head still wished to remain here… Oh, I realized that the females’ upper bodies also remained here as well, buttoned-up torsos dressed in gray or blue, with muscular arms longing to embrace the rebuilding of the country—that’s a quote, though I wish I’d forgotten both the quote and the source. And the heads of the females remained here as well, heads filled with clean thoughts, heads that would reward me with brotherly love if I managed to do my part to rebuild. But a leaden prick dangled in front of my accomplishments… the ache in this tiny organ was leaden… and whenever I began to feel some obscene pride in it, I learned that this pride by no means resonated with the females. You see, from the literature that wasn’t prohibited, that I was allowed to trust, I thought I’d learned that in fact the females detested my prick—once again I’m simplifying things rather crudely, Madam Magister , I was an uninvited guest in the literary sphere, and the literature I was permitted to read was one that couldn’t corrupt me—and, avid to learn something about the relationship between my prick and the females, I felt great respect for everything available in print. From all I was able to learn about the problem, it seemed conclusive that my prick was distasteful to the females; the females, I believed, preferred to go to bed with Enlightenment literature; I was at best a sad case study in those disquisitions. This threw me into a panic, but I received words of comfort… I should wait and see, stay calm, for heaven’s sake give myself time, I was told, by the newspapers, that is, for I had no confidante; yes, the newspapers were beginning now and then, in the section aimed at young people, to touch on questions of the relations between the sexes… stay calm, and it was as though I were being handed a bar of soap for my prick, because, I was told, the hearts of my future partners were clean. Indeed, I knew that in their hearts the females loved men such as Lenin, who had no prick… or at least nothing was known about Lenin’s prick. Oh, I took the bar of soap and I washed my prick; out of sheer sympathy with the females I’d begun to detest my prick just as much as they did. And at last I was fit, fit for life, fit for military service, but to my surprise the females were still only to be found in other institutions. And when at last I was allowed to behold them, from an appropriate distance, I assented to their coldness. Everything was perfectly simple; for sheer love of the females and assisted by their image—knit stockings and the blue shirts of the Socialist Youth—I castrated myself, and no one but I was the surgeon. — What a joke, Madam, what a sordid joke, though not much more sordid than the one being played on me now, in what’s jocularly called my second youth… my second, for now everything is repeating for me. Mediocrely… everything repeats mediocrely now, with a mediocre smell. While I, with mediocre success, feel relegated to the lowest category, feel I’ve found my place; while I, with mediocre success, have forgotten all that tormented me, with modest savings to supplement the pension I’ll soon receive, looking back at my mediocre success on the firing ranges of our national defense… at least I seemed motivated by the declared aim of protecting women and children, an aim for which I was found halfway fit… meanwhile, I’ve suddenly been severed from the females again. And I no longer see the females, Madam, my sight has been dimmed by some awful delusion… once again they’re only to be found in other institutions. — But now the academics have cleared the decks, torn off the superfluous buttons, now the breasts can emerge from those blue shirts. Incredible but true, at least that’s my impression… and I’d gone completely unaware of it. There’s a phrase of Frantz Fanon’s that describes an ugly emotion, a precursor to violence; for Fanon it’s revolutionary violence: lustful envy . That’s it, Madam: that describes exactly what I feel when I realize how many things I’ve been oblivious to. Suddenly the academics are acknowledging the lower body, grinning as they announce the results of their experiments. Suddenly they pat us on the shoulders, shaking their heads… claiming not to understand what we’ve been doing with our lives… didn’t we know, hadn’t we heard that sexuality is crucial to personal development? The academics have known that for years, and tested it out most productively—and they present us with excerpts from relevant literature purchased on their trips abroad. Good Lord, in their articles they call it sex now themselves. And they can’t understand how we could have gone without it, they don’t understand how dried up we are, dried up to the point of desperation, oh, the hell with it, they just turn to embrace a new generation. The question is what do we want now, with our dried-up fingers?… What are we complaining about, anyway, they introduced public abortion, they talked about two timing… theoretically possible even for you, Mr. Oldtimer… The academics can point to certain successes: the introduction of the bathtub, the Orgasm Organization, the Party orgy… the introduction of the masquerade, the introduction of the nipple, the importation of four-letter words . I haven’t been doing too badly, either, I became the proud owner of a television set, I could gaze at my reflection in the tube that had digested my youth. — With my slightly obscene sense of humor, with slight regret, I proceed to surmise that people have grown a bit weary of all these academic goings-on. Perhaps I should envy them even this weariness, I don’t know. I stand by at a loss, my brain a blank, Madam Magister , I don’t even understand the foreign expressions. I’m forced to realize that all the things that nearly killed me are utterly irrelevant for nearly everyone else. — But I set out, I raced around the country… I scrambled for jobs… I hurried across construction sites just to track down the females, time after time I swore to ignore my impotence. In the end, at last, I thought I’d come close to the females once more, I found a suitable factory, every day I was allowed to be under them, often with nothing but a metal grate between us; but now I’ve been fired from my women’s factory, once again the sight of the females has been castrated from my skull, and that’s what I wanted to complain about, Madam Chairwoman. — Now you’ll tell me I’m exaggerating, operating with generalizations… but you’re the one who performed the operation. You’ll say I’ve made a fool of myself, I proved my own inadequacy, I myself am to blame for everything… but still you want to hear the conclusions I’ve come to. — I know just one conclusion, there’s just one that comes to mind, and that is: j’accuse . Away with them, that’s the conclusion, I never want to see them again… you neither, Madam Prosecutor. You’re no female, Madam Prosecutor, you’re my father. And my mother raves about you to this day, just because you screwed her once. You won’t bestow your love on me anyway, I’m not good enough for you, you told me that over and over. And there’s only one conclusion: I protest. Yes, I protest… Leaping up from the table, I yelled that last sentence out into the station bar. My voice was so hysterical that I flinched at it myself; I glanced around, shamefaced. The beer-guzzling men hadn’t taken the slightest notice of me; completely self-absorbed, they hadn’t even raised their heads. I tossed a few coins onto the table, more than covering my bill, and left the bar in a hurry.