Parable

If you like, listen while reading: Once upon a time, there was a boy who grew up in a house where the light rarely reached the floor. His hands were still small, yet they already knew how to tremble. His back was still soft, yet he already knew how to hunch when the footsteps outside the door grew heavy. And worse than the blows that could be seen were the sentences that stayed behind. They did not draw a boundary around what he did — they described what he supposedly was: too loud, too little, wrong. ...

Once upon a time there was a man whom the people in the village gave a wide berth. They called him the curmudgeon. When children ran past his garden fence, they grew quiet, and when someone greeted him on the street, at most a terse grumble came back. His gaze always looked first for what was crooked, what was noisy, or what might break. What nobody in the village knew: the man did not want to be like that at all. ...

Behind him, the mountain gave way. A deep rumble, a blow, then dust that took his breath away. When it grew quiet again, a wall of rock and clay lay behind the wanderer. The valley he had come from – the familiar, the beautiful, the known – was buried. The way back no longer existed. He stood in the old tunnel. It was cold. Under his boots lay sharp rubble that the collapse had broken from the ceiling. Above him, in the unseen vault, there was rustling and squeaking. Bats, startled from their sleep, shot closely past his face through the darkness. ...

Once upon a time there was a boy in whom a restless fire burned. In the village, nobody knew what to do with him. He ran too fast, he asked too much, he did not fit on any chair. Wherever he went, he met gazes that kept him small. “Sit up straight,” said the teacher’s eyes. “Pull yourself together,” said the neighbours’ eyes. The more strictly they looked, the more wildly the boy’s heart thrashed about. ...

If you like, listen while reading: In a village at the edge of the forest, everyone wore invisible suits of armour made of iron. Whoever wanted to be strong showed no weakness. Only one man did not play along. If you asked him who he was, he grinned: “An idiot and a fool – it even says so on my report card.” Then he laughed, and people quickly walked on. ...

Once upon a time there was a black sheep. It lived in a village full of sheep and carried a bucket with it. A bucket of filth. Everything it had not allowed itself to be, everything the village had not wanted to see, lay in it. It could not put the bucket down. For a time the sheep thought about tipping the bucket out. Over the others. They should turn black too, it thought, then it would no longer be alone. It imagined nights in which it moved through the village spraying colour. The thought warmed and poisoned at the same time. ...