Of All That Ends

by Günter Grass

  For the pressures and fears that once forced Rabelais to flee his native land remain unchanged, though disguised by the Zeitgeist. All that’s changed are the instruments and methods of torture, in spite of which writing still satisfies an itch.

  But anyone who pulls the thread “To be continued” from the spool better have some staying power and an arrogant certainty: the book will outlive you all, all you cartoon hangmen and thumbscrewers, you well-mannered hypocrites and hired choristers, you cowards yapping from the back of the pack, you overly clever, educated illiterates and telegenic executioners; you will never—and you know it—have the last word.

  I Lack the Strength

  to split the rough block with a rough wedge,

  as Doctor Rabelais did

  back in fifteen fifty

  in his speech—opening

  the fourth book of Pantagruel—

  where he brazenly mocked

  the eternal return of the moralists,

  and to all the popes of his time,

  to all those who wore the habit,

  read the Mass backward and

  pissed in the soup of pious thought.

  I’d like to do that today

  and throw the media’s chorus off-key,

  but—ah!—there are too many,

  tangled in a web of lies,

  so that in the end—like the Curate of Medon—

  the tongue falls lame, mockery sours,

  salt is wasted, and rage evaporates

  before the spark is struck

  to set the fuse alight.

  I can’t even manage a fart

  to vex the nosy

  snoops of my time,

  although I’ve eaten, as instructed,

  flatulent beans by the bowlful.

  And so I lay aside the book

  that entertained me nights on end,

  give thanks to Gargantua and his son,

  and their blasphemous, silver-tongued cronies,

  with a belch. Yes, I’ve had enough;

  I lack the strength to split

  the rough block with a rough wedge.

  On the Inner Life

  When, some fifty years ago, I first composed a work in still-hesitant prose, and then, with the certainty of a prophet, a multi-stanza poem on the egg-an-sich, both manuscripts bore the title In the Egg. After all, I was convinced that the human race lives in the interior of that immutable Ur-form, interminably scribbling, on what is therefore the inner surface of the egg, our various speculations on the question “Who’s sitting on us?,” in light of which, at the end of the poem, I maintained that one sunny-to-partly-cloudy day, the power holding sway outside our shell, which goes by various names, would literally chuck us into the pan and sprinkle us with salt.

  But since in recent years we’ve managed to find one or two clever ways of our own to break the shell, all sorts of weeds of doubt have sprung up in my little garden: no wanton supernatural act—or even divinely inspired appetite—is needed to turn us into scrambled eggs.

  Even if we were smart enough to streamline egg production someday by breeding cubic chickens to lay cubic eggs, we would soon tire of them, however much they increased sales, and destroy what might otherwise have offered us a little security in the form of thin-walled cubes.

  Which Came First

  On Fridays the child was served

  poached eggs in mustard sauce.

  On festive occasions the grownups slurped

  eggnog with long tongues.

  Before the wars

  cookbooks told us:

  Take a dozen eggs,

  break them, and stir, stir, stir . . .

  Nowadays free-range hens

  grant me a single

  hard-boiled egg for breakfast,

  which—blessed with a seal of approval—

  has its price.

  Yet in moderation

  soft-boiled ones taste good too,

  spoon after spoon.

  We watch our health these days,

  busy ourselves with weight-loss programs

  to reduce our fatty affluence.

  Peace reigns at home, since our weapons

  work well enough abroad.

  Only occasionally does the question arise:

  Which came first,

  the chicken or the egg?

  Farewell to What Teeth Remain

  My upper jaw was depopulated some years ago. And only a meager few held the denture in place in the lower. But I could live with it, since adhesive powder helped with the upper. No click has ever revealed my dental condition.

  But recently, when two of the four stalwart teeth in my lower jaw, and then the last but one, broke off at the root without protest from the nerve, and only one remained, gleaming innocently thanks to its cap of precious metal, it seemed time, in light of the dilapidation that could be read in the mirror, to review the past and take another look at those milk teeth my mother kept in a small silk purse, no doubt till the end of the war, for afterward the purse was not numbered among the refugee’s baggage.

  Ah, how they gleamed in pearly innocence. And when their time had passed, and they had all wandered forth, I all-too-quickly believed, with the new ones barely coming through, that I had grown up.

  There were, as required, thirty-two of them. An impressive number, though the protruding lower jaw that appeared with puberty—“prognathism” is the scientific term—served advance notice of a premature reduction of stock.

  And now there’s only one left, still single, who wants to show how stalwart he is. Like his three companions who broke away from their decayed roots, he boasts a golden coat and stands strikingly alone the moment, with a practiced motion, I place my dentures in a full glass of water and refresh them with a fizzy tablet of cleanser.

  Onetooth, Lasttooth, fit only to scare the youngest of my grandchildren when I mime hellish laughter with an open mouth, or mumble stories in which my sole remaining tooth—like Hans Christian Andersen’s brave one-legged tin soldier—strides through one heroic adventure after another.

  Over the Abyss

  When, with wobbly feet

  and a chronically unsteady disposition,

  I sought support, only to find

  that a complex sentence I had believed

  eternally fixed and firm

  had crumbled between my false teeth,

  I clutched instead that branch

  which, since Dürer’s copperplate days,

  has thrust its gnarled way into the picture,

  rooted at the edge of an abyss

  over which I now dangle,

  swaying comically,

  a toothless fool.

  The Last One

  As soon as he loses his grip, breaks off, or is pulled out root and all as a precautionary measure, I may cushion him in cotton wool and place him in a bottle along with a rolled-up letter, then throw him in my Baltic puddle as sea mail, where, aided by a favorable current, he may make his way through the Kattegat into the North Sea, and finally into the Atlantic, perhaps even round the Cape and reach the Pacific Ocean, to be washed up on the shore of a picture-book island. There he may delight the man, or the young woman of my damp and sultry youthful dreams, who finds the bottle; the letter she will throw away.

  He would also make a suitable Christmas tree ornament, like a pearl on a pendant, and—according to family custom—be placed among the bronzed fish bones and dried toads to be admired for his luster.

  Or instead, once my dentist has provided a certificate of authenticity, he might fetch a small sum at a benefit auction for needy bank directors, if my name still carries any market value.

  I can’t think of any other use for him. Since nothing is holy to me, he could hardly serve as a relic. But if he is still standing, I could take him with me to the grave.

  No, I should give him away. But to whom? Which child or grandchild should come first? Or should I put him outside, wait till a magpie . . .

  He’s still hol
ding on, standing in useless beauty. Can’t bite off a thread. Can’t crack a nut. At most he might be put to use as a symbol of transience. Which is why I sit down before a mirror, place my dentures aside, open my mouth, and immortalize him in a self-portrait.

  I’m still not certain. Should I grant him permanance in black ink or soft pencil shades? My last tooth raises questions.

  Self-Portrait

  Old codger, chewer of gums,

  fit for nothing but spooned pap

  were it not for his false teeth

  and their nightly glass of clean water.

  Spit, spit it out, spit it out!

  till not a drop is left.

  Get rid of the phlegm

  so diligently collected.

  Walks at ebb tide

  step by step,

  till high tide wipes away

  all recognizable trace of him.

  Now—long since short of breath—

  with his one last tooth,

  he will never again say Yes and Yes.

  Just No, no no and No.

  This well-known little song

  has only a few verses.

  Whenever it’s sung the desert becomes

  an echo-free rehearsal room.

  Standing Singly and

  in Fairy Rings

  They’re often sought in vain, but when the sun warms the ground again after rainy days, they shoot up through the moss, lift the leaves, and colonize the heath among the junipers, standing singly or in fairy rings: Goat’s Lip, Parasol, families of Puffballs, Moss Heads fresh with dew, Red Caps near alders and birches, Bloody Milk Caps beneath the pines, the tasty Trumpet of Death.

  When Napoleon ruled, I strolled among the mushrooms with Sophie for chapters on end, later with you and with you. Each minding his or her own basket. And we were always warning each other: Not that one, not that one either, that’s Seidenriss, it’s poisonous!

  We knew places now built up, paved over with concrete, snack bars, flagstone paths. And yet, half-shaded spots still remain at the forest’s edge and under oak trees hinting of Steinpilz, king of the mushrooms.

  We often went by smell, which can be deceptive. I saw more in a mushroom than it stood for. After Chernobyl we paused, held back for an autumn or two, discussed contaminated forest floors and half-lives over coffee and cakes. But then fear abated, gentle October days lured.

  All of them—even Slippery Jacks, in spite of their slimy surface—are irresistible: the moment they’re wiped clean and free of mites, cut into slices, their aroma recalls fleshly love. In an iron skillet they turn moist, and stirred with a little cream and then sprinkled with parsley, they appeal even to friends who normally wouldn’t trust a mushroom an inch.

  Complaints of a Traveler

  Grown Sedentary

  Giving up Alpine vistas

  was always easy.

  Nepal never tempted me. Neuschwanstein

  is awful.

  I walked the beach alone and with children,

  stooping, step by step.

  Ah, my Portugal lost, how I miss

  your southwest coast.

  Never again to gaze toward Morocco, the desert,

  weary of Europe, smoking my pipe.

  Traveling only by finger on maps,

  no passport or baggage.

  Autumnal pang, because deep in the alder thicket

  Red Caps are standing on white legs.

  It’s hard to let go. Some things are easier,

  others give rise to howls of complaint.

  Innards

  When cows’ stomachs still hung in rags on hooks at the butcher’s like freshly washed terrycloth hand towels, and chopped tripe for a large pot was sold ready to go, I shocked my mob of children when, as family chef, I set this tasty dish, with white beans or in tomato sauce, on the table.

  Even today they moan “Uuuugh!” when I praise pig’s kidneys in mustard sauce or breaded brains with cauliflower and mashed potatoes. They shiver with disgust when they’re reminded of beef liver, sweetbreads, or calf lung hash. They are appalled by chicken gizzards in lightly spiced broth and beef bone marrow on black bread with salt. “Sickening!” they say with a shudder.

  What once enlivened the palate is now forbidden. No slaughtered animal dare be recognized; a pig’s head serves only to jell an aspic. Whatever used to grunt, moo, cackle, neigh, is turned into sausage. And when I was going on recently about a dinner I once shared with friends long dead, a meal devoted to the rich inner life of animals, celebrating fine taste by its aftertaste, and rewarming old stories in which grilled cod liver appetizers, followed by goose giblets stewed with sweet raisins and thickened with goose blood, were served as invitation to a wedding, the cook in me was unmasked as a boogeyman, and I was, if only metaphorically, pilloried as a father.

  Once

  there stewed over a low flame

  within a covered pot

  for a good two and a half hours,

  an ox-heart, trussed with string

  because its chambers

  were stuffed with prunes.

  Cut into finger-thick slices

  and ringed with boiled mushrooms,

  it served as a declaration of love

  and was a tempting sight;

  instead, rejected, it grew cold

  on the plate across from me.

  And this despite the fact

  I had dusted the pitted plums

  with grated nutmeg

  and plenty of cinnamon;

  ingredients that, since time immemorial,

  have driven desire to ever greater heights . . .

  On Payments

  As the general decline of values was being universally decried around the clock by the man in the street, in lengthy essays, and on flat-screens and the Internet, arousing general assent and cynical commentary, money too went into a consumptive decline, though new currency was constantly being printed and circulated as a spur to speculative profit through virtual transactions on the global market. A race took place on a steeply inclined track, and the victor collapsed just short of the finish line.

  Whereupon roundtable discussions both public and private were organized to pick apart fundamental questions: “Is money necessary?” Or: “What would life be like without money?” Or: “Is a moneyless age a threat or an opportunity?”

  Silver-bearded anarchists long since relegated to the antiquarian book market were quoted. While autumn fell as Nature intended, abstruse ideas descended from the heavens with the leaves. Just as seashells had proved their value as currency in the early Stone Age, now acorns would pass from hand to hand, with beechnuts serving as change.

  In late-night time slots the philosophers had their turn, taking radical positions and praising the monetary decline as a return to the essential. Even the newest pope, who chose to be called Francis, put in a long-awaited accusatory appearance in which he denied the apostolic blessing to avarice and the Church’s own bank.

  Since then the mountain of debt has grown as the Butter Mountain once did; on November days it pierced the cloud cover. Since then, a number of profit-addicted financial jugglers have fled to detox clinics. Since then, interest is a thing of the past, and was in any case, as the Bible tells us, the devil’s work.

  Nevertheless, we are starting to hope again, and ready to save diligently. We just don’t know what to save, or why.

  In Frankfurt am Main

  where Money lives,

  Fear has moved in.

  Thanks to tenant-protection laws

  they can’t throw her out,

  nor her children, who are noisily playing

  Black Friday outside the stock exchange.

  Everyday Events

  make headlines, self-important, like sudden cloudbursts that soon trickle away. But I do recall: in a nearby village during a birthday party, when the name Elfriede came up in passing, rage splintered several chairs, and after a brief but bloody fight, the guests reseated themselves on the remaining chairs an
d chatted on as if nothing had happened.

  A few days later, in the business section of a leading newspaper, readers were treated to a lengthy article on high-quality German goods; the same weapons manufacturers who led the war effort are still at work in peacetime, building tanks named for predators, and other high-quality armaments, to defend our liberal constitution in crisis-torn areas of distant lands.

  And The News in Review lets us compare what occurred the very same day months ago in London and Aleppo—compare, for example, the number of gleaming gold, silver and bronze Olympic medals with the number of dead dragged off during lulls in the street fighting, laid out and covered with white sheets. That’s how graphically events in various struggles pile up.

  And then in the feuilleton: it seems our neighborhood fire department may have to close down. The usual economy measures. Nor have they found volunteers to put out careless fires or those deliberately set. But there’s never any shortage of spectators to watch a neighbor’s house blazing away.

  Property

  My God, your God, our . . .

  So many claims of ownership.

  And when the round of blather ends

  just empty bottles

  and steeples pointing upward.