Unpolished Thoughts by H. Jeramias Grobschmied


Unpolished Thoughts

From the estate of H. Jeramias Grobschmied. Edited with inner outrage by Otto von Leixner.

In the beginning there were only men in the world. They were so noble, honest and peace-loving that upon their death they were all nominated to be angels. But when the crush became too great, the dear God needed additional help and created woman. Thus it came about that man was brought to ruin, and there were no longer many angels in heaven, and women had to be employed. But St. Peter complained about their merits. They were weak, very weak.

* * * * *

There are men who are poisoned because of unhappy love, hanged, shot, or even—they must be very bitter—poem writers. Fools, threefold fools! Not to realize how well-intended their fate really is. If their love had been returned they would have become married!

* * * * *

There are men that are two tongued. Women never are. They are at least three tongued.

* * * * *

The greatest man on the best path becomes very small when he begins to succumb to the flattery of women.

* * * * *

A beautiful and spiritually rich woman is never completely satisfied if a man only finds what her mouth speaks to be beautiful. They must also admire her lips.

* * * * *

Does man ever hear anything about the devil’s grandfather? The most exhaustive and learned research has only been able to prove and document his grandmother. A cheerful validation of my own opinion that the source of evil came into the world through parthenogenesis.

* * * * *

When I didn’t know the “beautiful sex”, how I romanticized it! I would have plunged into the nearest ocean for one sweet glance. Now I see through the wrinkles, to inside where Satan sits. And irony of fate: I have six daughters. I would have to adopt a boy, to inherit my hatred of women—if my Frau would allow it.

* * * * *

I often have the opportunity to see many men of the spiritual occupation. What time makes of us! Either it weakens us or it blows us up! Narrow chest—hanging belly, between Scylla—and Charybdis. Few navigate happily through it. At first we are oxen and stuff our brains with all kinds of things, which we are obliged to forget. What man calls “gymnastics of the spirit”. Then our knowledge becomes ratified and we step into an occupation. One sits the entire day in some type of office; or in a teacher’s chair in order to get the students to say something that they must unlearn twenty or thirty years later, because it is not true anymore; others run up stairs, run down stairs, in order to make healthy people sick, naturally all for science—and so on. So it goes for days, years, decades. The nerves become mad, the muscles sleep. And that is supposed to be a man’s life! Often when I go on the street, a foolish longing rises up in me, to beat myself and scream out to my betters: “Fellow, now box with me until we both have black and blue spots on our bodies!” You can feel it as well hidden in hacked up poetry.  But that won’t do. The policeman has no sympathy with my cultural fatigue, and the Herr Judge—whether narrow chested or fat bellied—would sentence me for general mischief.

* * * * *

Oh divine crassness! The refined vilify you, but I worship you. How often they have come to me, the refined and polished, in order to have me toil with beautiful words; to entice me to be untrue to myself; for my honor they offer me honors; I should lower myself; should speak for injustice; for falsehood—inside I can believe what I want. And they always came again and couldn’t be shaken off. Then you came to me and gave me words, powerful, bulky and flowery, but German and true. That at first hit the refined right in the nose. Since then I have been branded as “unrefined”. But at least they have not pressed me into their mold; I have saved myself—and I have you to thank for that, divine crassness!


This entry was posted in Anarchist World, German art, German literature, H. Jeramias Grobschmied, Joe Bandel, Jugend, Jugend magazine, literature, poems, short stories, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

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