3358. MAN THE MAKER

MAN THE MAKER

I remember reading 'Homo Faber' in 1974, Max Frisch,

I believe, 'Man the Maker' in translation. It was all OK

with me  -  that guy on the jet plane  - as it taxied down

the runway  -  the gleaming of the glass, the metal all

below, and, far off, the vision of that crazy field. Looking

back on it all now, I don't really know why I bothered.

Christina Rosner, the girl from Berlin - we visited regularly,

often and between classes. I asked what language they

spoke in Bonn, that 'temporary' capital, as she called

 it, that backwater, disgusting southern town. She

answered, 'Why, they speak Bonn!', in some disgust, as

if southern yokels would know no better and speak 

the same. It made me realize, and then wonder 

some more  -  for just like us, all those regional

differences rose to the surface - Alabama to

 Boston and Berlin to Bonn. We knew no difference,

 we spoke the same. (And what was this civilization

 then built upon anyway?). Now, long these far

years later, so right she was -  Bonn is long

over, all those yokels are finished, and some

redefined Berlin now rules the land once more,

and I am finished and she is gone and what

relapse remains is a memory lone, something

forgotten yet  -  here and there still  -  vaguely

recalled and remembered and thought of.

Where she is now, I do not know.