Tanners, The by Walser Robert

Author:Walser, Robert [Walser, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Modern Classics, Novel, Translated, Fiction
Publisher: New Directions Publishing
Published: 2012-07-16T03:00:00+00:00

The weather was growing ever warmer and the earth more resplendent, it was covered with a thick, blossoming carpet of meadows, the fields and pastures were steaming, the forests offered an enchanting sight with their beautiful, fresh, rich green. All of nature was presenting itself, expansive, stretching, curving, rearing up, whizzing and rustling and buzzing, fragrant and motionless as a bright beautiful dream. The land had become perfectly fat, lush, opaque and glutted. It was lolling, as it were, in voluptuous surfeit. It was green and dark brown and flecked with black, white, yellow and red, blossoming with hot breath, almost perishing beneath its profusion of blossoms. It lay there like a luxuriating, veiled woman, immobile, shifting her limbs, perfumed with scents. The gardens spread their fragrance into the streets and out over the fields, where men and women were working; the fruit trees were a bright, twittering singing, and the nearby, round, vaulted forest was a choral song of young men; the bright paths scarcely penetrated the green. In forest clearings, one would see a white, dreamy, indolent sky that one could imagine sinking down and rejoicing as birds rejoice, tiny birds that one has never before seen but that are so natural a part of nature. Memories arrived that a person didn’t wish to analyze and dissect, you weren’t capable of this, it caused such sweet pain, and you were too indolent to feel a pain through to the end. Thus you walked and thus stopped in your tracks, turning in all directions, gazing off into the distance, gazing up, away, down, across and to the ground, feeling deeply affected by all the languor of this blossoming. The buzzing in the forest was not the buzzing in the barer clearing, it was different and required in turn a staking out of new positions for new daydreams. Always you were having to tussle, resist, gently thrust aside, reflect and waver. It was all one great wavering, a struggle, a finding yourself weak. But this was sweet, quite simply sweet: a bit difficult, and then a bit parsimonious, then hypocritical, then crafty, then nothing at all, then perfectly stupid; and finally it became rather difficult to find anything else beautiful any longer, this just didn’t seem called for, and so you sat, strolled, loitered, drifted, trotted and tarried in such a way that you yourself became a bit of spring. Could all this buzzing feel delight at its own buzzing and cooing and singing? Was it given to the grass to observe its own beautiful variability? Might it have been possible for the beech to fall in love with its own appearance? Without growing weary or blunted, you let things be as they were, let them go, let them waver this way and that. All of nature, the way it was looking, was just a loiterer, a lingering and dangling! Scents hung in the air, and all the earth lingered and waited. Colors were the blissful expression of this. You could discern something prematurely weary and portentous in the bush with its blossoms.

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