I'm still attending high school, but am more interested in theater
and literature. I read Wedekind, Rilke, and others. Goethe also. I
don't like Schiller and George.
My friend's name is Mieze Maier. She lives, with her companions, in
an elegant four-room apartment, since her father, Markus Maier, left
her a lot of money. Her mother died ten years ago as a result of an
operation on her stomach. Her mother must have been beautiful.
Mieze Maier just became sixteen. She had a big birthday celebration.
Many beautiful and wicked girls and a number of young men were
invited. Everyone was very silly. People whispered in each other's
ears that Mieze was already sixteen. Then they laughed...
Mieze Maier is beautiful. Also smart. Also talented. Very
flirtatious. Graceful and slyly charming. Sometimes unhappy. She
knows how to make many men sick, so that sorrow fills their eyes when
they are awake, and they have smiles on their lips when they sleep.
And their hands are held tightly, close to their bodies...
She always had her favorites. They are like dolls with whom she
plays, until, one day, she becomes tired of them and casts them aside
carelessly. I know seven. No one has remained in her favor as long
as six weeks. I am the eighth.
I know that my days are also numbered. I too will be cast aside by
this sixteen-year old thing--still half child. When I think about it,
I am already ashamed and tormented within. And yet...
We have not said to each other that we are in love, but we are very
gentle with each other. It happens like this:
We met once. It was by chance. The day was grey with weariness.
Twilight lay over all things. Yellow and red light came from a few
houses.
We walked together. Her eyes had a brilliance. Sometimes she half
covered them with her lids. And she caught the looks of men in her
eyes. That must be a fine lust.
We did not speak; but once she said that I had red lips. And once I
said that she was superficial, for I wanted to make her angry.
The next day we met again. That was not by chance. We walked in the
meadows. She put her hand on my shoulder and was good to me. I
thought of the kick that I would once day receive from her.
... Yesterday I hurt her, because I called her superficial. There
was something like crying in her voice when she said:
"I'm really not as superficial as you believe, Olaf. Twice I have
been in love unhappily and once it bloomed happily."
It seemed to me that her hand on my shoulder had become heavier...
We walked slowly. We saw no people. Wind came across the meadows.
In the sky there were clouds everywhere, threatening rain.
She looked at me. Her look was naked and spoke of passion.
That was neat, how I suddenly seized her and threw her into the grass
with me and half-intoxicated whispered to her: "You, my"--and how she
lay there weary and sobbed: "Olaf"-Afterwards I performed my school
work badly. I probably won't be promoted.