An old jewish proverb says that someone who reads a book, can not cry. But on some days, neither a book nor an old jewish saying helps. Today is one of those.

The perfect bride

On a very grey and very rainy morning I find a very bright and very cream colored envelope in my letterbox. My Dear Read On, thank you very much for this marvelous salt cellar and pepper pot says, no screams the card in my face. On the front of the card the newly married pair laughs below a pair of cream colored swans. You are very welcome, do I say to the happy pair and look at the very young and very beautiful bride, who wears a rococo- dress and a long veil. But of course you can see, that she has long and blonde hair, such hair which is made  just for princesses and brides. The topic of the marriage and it makes me no wonder was    “ A Fairytale.“ I do wonder that marriages are obviously not topic enough anymore but in need of a reassured theme.

Splendid, absolutely splendid, says A. on the telephone, who was a guest in the fairytale called marriage a few weeks earlier. The place, you won’t believe it, just absolutely fantastic, an old castle but very, very splendid you know, everyone and everything so tastefully, the flowers so carefully arranged, the silverware so fine, the wines as old as good, the food outstanding, the music wonderfully arranged, the dresses without words, the family of the bride of old gentry, the groom a man who could not have been any more lucky. But where have you been, asks A. in a breath- pause. The bridegroom asked for you more than twice and everybody regretted that you were missing. Oh did he so, say I still looking at the card with the swans swimming upon an imaginary lake and find an excuse to finish the phone call.

C. the bridegroom was one of the first persons I met in a new town and in a new country. C. was intelligent but not boring, funny and smart but never foolish, he was amusing and all the girls in the office looked at him and he knew that they looked after him, but he never became a peacock of the office floor. We went to the theatre together, smoked on balconies, talked about books we loved and artists we disliked, went to bed and got back to work. At one night we opened the bottle of Indian Gin, my mother bought some years ago and I kept the bottle because it was the only bottle she never touched, we got drunk and you got sharp and ironic towards me. You know, did you say to me, you are not girl a  man wants to marry, you are too intense, you are not accommodating enough and why, you started to scream at me, can’t you be like other girls I know. I did not answer, because I am still afraid he might be right and after that night I did not went to bed and than back to work and soon I went away.

One a very grey and very rainy morning I find myself staring at the card, looking in a very young and a very beautiful face of a girl made to be married in a fairytale festivity and still feel the sharp tone of the now laughing bridegroom between my ribs as a very old pain, following me for the whole day, in the shape of a very cream- colored envelope.

Read On

Listen to the voice. Hearing Michel Foucault talking about the meaning of  „parrhesia“.

A true brother of Bulgakow’s Margarita is to be found in “ The Maya Pill“ by German Sadulaev, who depicts Post-Soviet Russia with dark humor, even if humor is no all-cure.

Darryl Pinckney travels with us in a far forgotten land and finds the heart of Harlem.

Tamer Söyler  depicts a pattern of corruption practices in Turkey via kafila.

What a life ! What a woman! Happy Birthday, dear great Gloria Steinem !

My sister wants to know if Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow have a final song of their own. If not, they can try this song.



I never lived in a place so silent before. I never lived in a village so far outside a city before. I never had a neighbor who opens the beer cans with his anterior teeth before. Quick and sharp are his teeth and perfectly silent without any spill he opens one can after another. I tend to forget if it is a Monday or Thursday coming next. When I look across the room and see the old wooden long case clock it is always half past four. In truth the time is here an old grey cat, barely moving and just waiting for nothing more to come. When I go outside the door, the air is sharp and cold, the sea is black and deep, the trees are old and move their branches in a scoffingly way towards me, because they know there is nothing but silence to find, despite the seagulls shrieking over our heads. I went to the opera house with many men and women too, before. But I never went to a concert before with a man who did not even ask reluctantly for a drink, but not even asked at all. I said good- bye to many men and woman too, but I never went to a concert with a man before, who just turned away not even shake hands for a  second and not even looking back for half a second. I went often home alone  but never so silent. In the night the silence sits close by my bed, crawls under my blanket and won’t leave till we both have ice- cold feet.

Oh, Dear Dynasty.


The family as you, Dear Reader are well aware of, is the beginning and the end of nearly everything. Some call family the fundamental unit of society, others see the state en miniature represented in the family, Sigmund Freud called family the place where all neurosis were rooted and so family is the place, where we meet people we would have never known otherwise, get things to know, we would better have forgotten and experience forms of intimacy we would run away from immediately, would the occasion not be great-grandmother’s 95th birthday. And therefore we do not only owe our existence to the family, and the ability to cover the tables that even the Prinec of Wales would not be ashamed of, but family provides us with a whole treasure of absurd love stories, grotesque disputes over heritages, distasteful cases of death and unbelievable stories of adored pets, which are just too good, to be only told at birthdays or wedding parties- now, Dear Reader, do not only think of your little sister, your parents and your great- grandfather but of the involvement in such affairs of whole dynasties. So does Jeroen Duindam, Professor of history at the University of Leiden who will give away the secrets of the courts in Vienna, Beijing and Istanbul at Monday, talking about the global dimensions of early modern family and dynasty networks. Please feel very welcome to this very special family reunion at 24th of March, at 4PM in the Neill / Hoey Lecture Room of the Long Room Hub Building, Trinity College Dublin, Ireland. Oh, and don’t forget to bring your little sister and your great- grandmother with you.

A trace of a toenail

The church advertises in red letters that today and obviously only today and than no more for the next 200 years the holy sacrament will be shown to the public. The church seems to be not very concrete these days. So I better walk faster through the rain because I am afraid a foot nail might be a holy thing too, under certain circumstances of course but not on an ordinary Thursday, where it rains in a very unholy way. In the café where they play all Céline Dior songs in an infinite loop.( I never knew how many songs Céline Dion tend to sing,but I can assure you, an awful lot are played here ). Here Emily wants to have a hot chocolate and Ethan wants  a coke and the father of the kids wants anything than two arguing kids by his side, but as the church would assure in a very concrete way: it can get only worse, when Emily wants to show her new jacket to everyone in the room and Ethan spills half a cup of hot chocolate on his sisters white jacket, than no one should be afraid of calling the following scenes a holy war. So I better walk faster through the rain on an ordinary Thursday, to buy very ordinary things, trying not to be drowned by the waves an ordinary SUV  driven by the mothers to pick kale and parsnips, raises, only to read in the paper that a man discovered a toe- nail in his food. But the paper like the church tends to be not very concrete in these days and nothing can be said so far concerning the holiness of the discovery.

Read On

Raoof Mir takes a closer look on the multifold connections between cricket and Muslim identity via kafila.

The extraordinary author Mieko Kanai wrote a a new book and what else could be said about it than Read On?

Between too much and so few, the pictures of Chemin de Chair are unpredictable.

All right. Are you sure about this? Matthew Mc Conaughey explains why you are not all right, all right, all right.

Yiddish poetry will never die and hopefully will find many, new readers.

My sister and I agree to let the winter go with this great song ICEBEAR. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.