By Sybille Bedford
A Legacy is the story of 2 very various households, the Merzes and the Feldens. The Jewish Merzes are longstanding individuals of Berlin's haute bourgeoisie who count number a chum of Goethe between their special ancestors. now not that this proud legacy skill a lot of something to them anymore. safe of their large city apartment, they commit themselves to little greater than having fun with their comforts and making sure their wealth. The Feldens are landed aristocracy, prosperous yet no longer wealthy, from Germany's Catholic south. After Julius von Felden marries Melanie Merz the fortunes of the 2 households can be unusually, certainly fatally, entwined.
Set throughout the run-up to global struggle I, a time of weirdly mingled complacency and angst, A Legacy is fascinating, magnificently humorous, and profound, an unforgettable snapshot of a doomed lifestyle.
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Thus silence and darkness Muzzle all adulteration. The sky, in seven-league boots, Strides towards the crossroads of sound. The star eats. The tilted sky Begins its flight towards the peaks, Night sweeps up the scraps Of our gratifying meal. A slug walks the earth, Ten thousand whites touch their caps A slug crawls Where the earth vanished. Yet angels, uncalled by obscenity, Returned in peace When arose the true voice Of the summoning spirit. The sun, lower than day, Turned the ocean to steam 33 A strange yet clear dream Was born on the crumbling earth.
And the noise's muffied sheath bore the dull entreaty and penetration of a living look. Yes, the air spewed out its full mental padding where no thought was yet clear or able to replenish its unloaded objects. But little by little the mass turned like powerful, slimy nausea, a sort of huge influx of vegetal thundering blood. And the rootlets trembled on the borders of my mind's eye, broke away with dizzy speed from the wind's contracted mass. And all the air shook like sexual organs ransacked by the fiery, heavenly globe.
Tiny rootlets filled the wind like a network of veins and their switches flashed. The air was measurable and grinding, but had no penetrable form. And its eye was a mosaic of bursts, a sort of hard cosmic hammer distorted by weight, ceaselessly dropping like a brow in space, with a seemingly distilled sound. And the noise's muffied sheath bore the dull entreaty and penetration of a living look. Yes, the air spewed out its full mental padding where no thought was yet clear or able to replenish its unloaded objects.