German novelist, playwright, poet, and sculptor Günter Grass passed away on April 13. Although he published more than 25 works, it is his first novel, Die Blechtrommel (The Tin Drum,
1959), that received the greatest acclaim. With it, he became the voice of so many of his generation who grew up in the Nazi era and survived the war. It was the first of his "Danzig Trilogy" and was made into a film in 1979: http://www.theguardian.com/culture/2010/nov/01/gunter-grass-interview-maya-jaggi
This translation is by Breon Mitchell.
The Tin Drum
BOOK ONE
The Wide Skirt
GRANTED: I'M AN INMATE in a mental institution; my keeper watches me, scarcely lets me out of sight, for there's a peephole in the door, and my keeper's eye is the shade of brown that can't see through blue-eyed types like me.
So my keeper can't possibly be my enemy. I've grown fond of this man peeping through the door, and the moment he enters my room I tell him incidents from my life so he can get to know me in spite of the peephole between us. The good fellow seems to appreciate my stories, for the moment I've finished some tall tale he expresses his gratitude by showing me one of his latest knotworks. Whether he's an artist remains to be seen. But an exhibition of his works would be well received by the press, and would entice a few buyers too. He gathers ordinary pieces of string from his patients' rooms after visiting hours, disentangles them, knots them into multilayered, cartilaginous specters, dips them in plaster, lets them harden, and impales them on knitting needles mounted on little wooden pedestals.
He often plays with the notion of coloring his creations. I advise him not to, point toward my white metal bed and ask him to imagine this most perfect of all beds painted in multiple hues. Horrified, he claps his keeper's hands to his head, struggles to arrange his somewhat inflexible features into an expression of manifold shock, and drops his polychrome plans.
My white-enameled metal hospital bed thus sets a standard. To me it is more; my bed is a goal I've finally reached, it is my consolation, and could easily become my faith if the administration would allow me to make a few changes. I'd like to have the bed rails raised even higher to keep anyone from coming too close.
Once a week Visitors Day disrupts the silence I've woven between my white metal bars. It signals the arrival of those who wish to save me, who find pleasure in loving me, who seek to value, respect,