Immediately after, in the kitchen or in the woodshed, when she was telling me the tale of the headless dwarf,
or when she quarreled with the women of the neighborhood in the little butcher’s shop,
then she was another person, belonged to the other world, and was enveloped in mystery.
It was the same with everything and everyone, especially with myself.
To be sure, I belonged to the bright, respectable world, I was my parents’ child, but the other world was present in everything I saw and heard,
and I also lived in it, although it was often strange and foreign to me, although one had there regularly a bad conscience and anxiety.
Sometimes I even liked to live in the forbidden world best, and often the homecoming into the brightness—
however necessary and good it might be—seemed almost like a return to something less beautiful, to something more uninteresting and desolate.
At times I realized this: my aim in life was to grow up like my father and mother, as bright and pure, as systematic and superior.
But the road to attainment was long, you had to go to school and study and pass tests and examinations.
The road led past the other dark world and through it, and it was not improbable that you would remain there and be buried in it.
There were stories of prodigal sons to whom that had happened—I was passionately fond of reading them.
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