Tale 91 holy crusade of the poor Written by Rainer: rainer.lehrer@yahoo.com Learn languages (via Skype): Rainer: + 36 20 549 52 97 or + 36 20 334 79 74

------------------------------

Holy crusade of the poor   He woke up soaked in sweat. He no longer knew how he got to this deserted place, only the words of the village preacher rang in his ears: “The children will rule the world and create God's kingdom! The last will be the first! Only a poor man can fit through the eye of the needle. ”And after that there was a gap in his memories. It was cold and almost night; the first owl began its hunting cry: “Uhuuu, uhuuu!” He lay there for a while, before he got up. Small, sparkling eyes looked at him from the thicket. The moonlight cast various shadows. And there it was again, now he remembered a moment before he fainted. A middle-aged man with uncombed hair, blood on his forehead and a dirty robe that was once certainly white said to him: "Go, gather the poor and children and reclaim my grave, go to Palestine!" Then the apparition disappeared again, only the moon shone through the leaves of the trees and bushes at the edge of the clearing on which he stood. He moved slowly in what he suspected to be a footpath. Now he was no longer afraid because he knew what his goal was: "Palestine, the tomb of Jesus!" His mother was a maid, his father probably the farmer. When her pregnancy slowly became visible, he hid her. He could have sent her away too. Nobody would have scolded him for this, or accused him of adultery. This only applied to women. Everyone in the village would have put the blame on her. And so, he grew up as an illegitimate child in the forest. After his mother had died, he went on a wandering. At some point, a farmer employed him as a shepherd. Food was scarce and hunger was his constant companion. He picked mushrooms, berries and herbs, although he did not know all of them. Sometimes he was in a coma for hours because he had eaten something poisonous. The forest opened up and somewhere to his right a dog could be heard. When it got light, he would ask for a piece of old bread there. It was a market square with a church. People from all over the area gathered here every Sunday. People were setting up their stands. Before and after church, people traded, sold and exchanged. During church service, one needed a guard for the goods and the servant or shepherd would get an extra piece of dry bread for it. A servant gave him half of his and was therefore able to go to church and attend church service. After devouring the piece, he remembered his mission and when the people came out of the church he stood in the middle of the square and shouted like an obsessed, “I saw the Messiah, he appeared to me. We have to go to Palestine and look for the rich tomb of Jesus.” Many laughed at him and continued to haggle over cheaper prices. Only a few shepherds and servants gave him an ear. The word "rich" in particular caught their attention. He didn't know how long he had spoken, but as he left the square, two young people joined him. They accompanied him until they were out of sight and hearing of the settlement and wanted to rob him. They were looking for the "rich" that of course only existed in his brain. He only woke up a few hours later from the blow on the back of the head, alone again. However, this mishap didn't wake him up, it just made him more confident that he was on the right track. At the next spring, he washed the dried blood from his hair. More and more people joined him, soon there were a hundred. They didn't know exactly where they were going, but Palestine was everywhere. Whenever they came near a village, the mayor immediately met them and brought food to prevent the crowd from entering the village. Probably the dignitaries were scared. As he approached a larger city with a thousand men, they were faced with a group of soldiers who preferred to speak to them in awe. The many wooden crosses were certainly like lances in their eyes. The spiritual leader of the city that had formed around the monastery had heard of this wandering army of God. He knew that the last few years of bad harvests had pushed people to extremes. At such times, church, monastery and house looting was not uncommon. Who would stop this hungry crowd once they got into frenzy and set the red rooster (fire) on the rooftops of the city? Therefore, he rode up to them at the head of his handful of soldiers before they reached him. He was greeted by a loud cry “To Palestine, to the grave of Jesus!”. Like mad of hunger and religious fanaticism, they roared and shouted. He had to show them the way to or into the grave before the whole thing turned into a peasant revolt. They were in the foothills of the Alps and autumn was already over, it would soon snow. When the clerical dignitary in his white robe with pink overcoat raised his hands, he himself was surprised that the horde slowly fell silent. "Jesus appeared to me and commanded me to lead you," he cried. A loud cheer was the answer. “The noble goal is on your left,” he pointed to the mountains. “A rich reward will be given to those who liberate the grave of our Savior from the heathens and Muslims. Follow me! I will show you the way." They followed him with great enthusiasm. He led them into the Alps, the mountains became higher and the valleys deeper. When it started to snow one morning and visibility became very poor because of the dense fall of flakes, he rode far ahead and left them. He knew that those weakened and hungry folks would not survive the storm. The storm lasted for two days, then the crows and other wild animals came and the whole winter enjoyed this rich supper of Christ, which God had given them so unexpectedly.     Continue with tale 92!

-----------------------------------------------

--------------------------------------------------

-------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------

Back to Hungarian portal! Back to English portal! Back to German portal! Back to Spanish portal! Back to French portal! Back to Russian portal!

 

Märchen 90 der bewusste, deutsche Bürger Written by Rainer: rainer.lehrer@yahoo.com Learn languages (via Skype): Rainer: + 36 20 549 52 97 or + 36 20 334 79 74

------------------------------

Der bewusste, deutsche Bürger   Ein alter Wecker aus Großvaters Zeiten klingelt. Er braucht keinen Strom, man muss ihn aufziehen. Hans wacht auf seinem selbstgezimmerten Bett auf. Es ist vier Uhr. Jetzt muss er die Kuh und die Ziege melken, dann das Schwein, die Hühner, den Hund und die Katze füttern. Bevor er ins Büro fährt, lässt er die Tiere noch in den umzäunten Garten. Während er arbeitet hält der Hund Wache. Dann fährt er los. Der Dieselmotor seines alten Mercedes brummt. Er müsste wieder einmal vom Mechaniker überprüft und neu eingestellt werden. Zudem verliert er Öl. Aber Hans hat jetzt dafür keine Zeit. Er muss schnell in die 50 km entfernte Stadt fahren. Er arbeitet dort als Angestellter in der Personalabteilung. Wenn er sich nicht beeilt, wird er sich noch verspäten. Mit 160 nimmt er die letzte Kurve zur Autobahnauffahrt. Er hatte sich geschworen auf seinem Einsiedlerhof so wenig Technik wie möglich zu installieren, hat einen Brunnen statt fließendes Wassers, benutzt seine Autobatterie, wenn er wirklich mal ein bisschen Lampenlicht braucht, aber normalerweise geht er mit den Hühnern ins Bett und steht mit dem ersten Hahnenschrei auf. Außerdem heizt er mit Holz aus seinem kleinen Wäldchen. Als er sich ein paar Mal verspätete, oder im Winter nicht zur Arbeit fahren konnte, weil der meterhohe Schnee nicht geräumt worden war, legte sein Chef ihm nahe, sich doch wenigstens eine Antenne aufs Dach zu setzen, um via Internet mindestens die wichtigsten Sachen zu erledigen. Auch sein Handy lässt er immer im Büro, weil er diesen Kontrast zur modernen Welt braucht. „Zurück zur Natur!“ - hieß damals seine Devise. Und er hat bis jetzt durchgehalten. Er hätte auch gerne seinen Kindern dieses zurückgebliebene Leben aufgezwungen, aber seine Exfrau hatte bei der Scheidung das Erziehungsrecht bekommen und war in die Stadt zurückgezogen. „Hier gibt es ja nicht einmal einen Tierarzt!“ meinte sie. Jetzt kommen seine Tochter und sein Sohn jedes zweite Wochenende. Jasmin, den Namen für die Tochter hatte die Mutter des Kindes durchgesetzt, er hätte sie Krimhild oder Brunhild benannt, wollte Kosmetikerin werden. Sein Sohn Matthias, für ihn wäre es Siegfried geworden, schwärmte für schnelle Autos, die neuesten Computerspiele und Basketball. „Sag wenigstens ‚Korbball‘!“ sagte er ihm immer wieder. Seine Kinder kommen nicht gern zu ihm und als sie zu Weihnachten ein Amulett bekamen, das sie vor bösen Geistern bewahren sollte, brach Jasmin, 16 Jahre alt, in großes Gelächter aus und meinte, dass man in einem zivilisierten Land nicht mehr um den Marterpfahl herumtanzen sollte. Sein Sohn, 15 Jahre alt, hielt seinen Vater für das Indianerspielen ein bisschen zu alt. Seltsam sei ihm diese Mischung von „Grün und Braun“. Aber die Idee, seinem Vater zum Geburtstag ein Steckenpferd zu schenken, ließ er fallen, als dieser ihm erklärte, dass die Germanen keine Reittiere in Anspruch genommen hatten. Das seien die Ungarn gewesen, die, nach dem sie tausend Jahre später als die Germanen endlich vom Baum gestiegen waren, nicht laufen, sondern in den Steppen sofort reiten gelernt hätten. Im Büro trägt er Anzug, Krawatte und Brille. Er lässt sozusagen seine Überzeugung zu Hause, weil er die doch irgendwie finanzieren muss. Also nicht nur „Grün und Braun“, sondern auch „Farblos“? Aber er hofft, dass die Germanen irgendwann wieder einmal zu ihrer würdigen Größe kommen. Sie bräuchten nur einen starken Führer, Armin der Cherusker, Otto, Wilhelm und Hitler.     Fahr mit Märchen 91 fort!

-----------------------------------------------

--------------------------------------------------

-------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------

Back to Hungarian portal! Back to English portal! Back to German portal! Back to Spanish portal! Back to French portal! Back to Russian portal!

 

tale 90 the conscious German citizen Written by Rainer: rainer.lehrer@yahoo.com Learn languages (via Skype): Rainer: + 36 20 549 52 97 or + 36 20 334 79 74

------------------------------

The conscious German citizen   An old alarm clock from grandfather's time rings. It doesn't need electricity, you have to wind it up. Hans wakes up on his self-made bed. It's four o'clock. Now he has to milk the cow and goat, then feed the pig, chickens, dog and cat. Before he goes to the office, he lets the animals into the enclosed garden. The dog keeps watch while he works. Then he drives off. The diesel engine of his old Mercedes is humming. It should be checked and readjusted again by the mechanic. It also loses oil. But Hans doesn't have time for that now. He has to drive quickly to the city 50 km away. He works there as an employee in the human resources department. If he doesn't hurry, he'll be late. At 160, he takes the last curve to the motorway entrance. He had sworn to install as little technology as possible on his hermitage, has a fountain instead of running water, uses his car battery when he really needs a bit of lamplight, but usually he goes to bed with the hens and gets up with the first crowing of the cock on. He also heats with wood from his little grove. When he was late a couple of times or couldn't drive to work in winter because the meter-high snow hadn't been cleared from the roads, his boss suggested that he should at least put an antenna on the roof to manage at least the most important things via the Internet. He always leaves his cell phone in the office too because he needs this contrast to the modern world. “Back to nature!” - was his motto back then. And he has held out so far. He would have liked to force this backward life on his children, but his ex-wife had been given the right to bring up the children when they divorced and had moved back to the city. “There's not even a vet here!” she had said. Now his daughter and son come to see him every second weekend. Jasmin, the child's mother had fought for the name for the daughter, he would have named her Krimhild or Brunhild, wanted to become a beautician. His son Matthias, for him it would have been Siegfried, raved about fast cars, the latest computer games and basketball. “At least say 'Korbball’!” he kept telling him. His children don't like coming to him and when they got an amulet for Christmas to protect them from evil spirits, Jasmin, 16, burst out laughing and said that in a civilized country, one couldn't dance around the torture stake anymore. His son, 15 years old, thought his father was a little too old to play Indians. This mixture of "green and brown" was a bit strange to him. However, he dropped the idea of ​​giving his father a hobbyhorse for his birthday when the latter explained to him that the Germanic peoples hadn't used any horses. It was the Hungarians who, after having finally climbed down from the tree a thousand years later than the Germans, did not want to walk, but instead straight away learned to ride in the steppes. In the office, he wears a suit, tie and glasses. He leaves his conviction at home, so to speak, because he has to finance it somehow. So not just “green and brown”, but also “colourless”? However, he hopes that the Teutons will one day come back to their worthy size. You only need a strong leader, Armin der Cherusker, Otto, Wilhelm and Hitler.     Continue with tale 91!

-----------------------------------------------

--------------------------------------------------

-------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------

Back to Hungarian portal! Back to English portal! Back to German portal! Back to Spanish portal! Back to French portal! Back to Russian portal!

 

Märchen 89 Begabung Written by Rainer: rainer.lehrer@yahoo.com Learn languages (via Skype): Rainer: + 36 20 549 52 97 or + 36 20 334 79 74

------------------------------

Begabung   Als er 3 Jahre alt war, machte sein Vater ihn zum ersten Mal damit bekannt. Dem Jungen gefiel es, dass nach der Mutter auch der Vater begann, sich für ihn zu interessieren. „Der Kleine stellt sich gar nicht so dumm an!“ – meinte der Alte und seit diesem Tag wurde geübt. Immer länger zogen sich diese Tätigkeiten hin. Nach Tränen versuchte die Mutter, den Vater zu beschwichtigen, aber ohne Wirkung. Sichtlich wollte der Vater seine eigene Erfolglosigkeit mit dem Jungen kompensieren. Strafe und Lob wechselten sich ab. Oft hörte er andere Kinder im Hof spielen. Mit 5 wurde er erstmals einer kleineren Zuschauergruppe vorgestellt. Aber das Lampenfieber und der durch die Erwartung seines Vaters entstandene Druck machten es ihm unmöglich, sich zu konzentrieren. Damals wäre der Kleine am liebsten nicht nach Hause gegangen. Als er 10 war starb sein Vater und wochenlang beschäftigte er sich nicht mit dem Traum des Alten. Seine Gedanken führten ihn lieber auf den Hof zu den anderen Kindern, aber ihm fehlte die Fähigkeit, sich mit ihnen zu verständigen. Er hatte den Anschluss verpasst. Weder die Großen wollten etwas von seiner Kunst, noch die Kleinen etwas von seiner Person wissen. Nach einer Zeit begann er sich wieder mit dem Einzigen zu beschäftigen, was doch 7 Jahre lang jeden seiner Tage bestimmt und ausgefüllt hatte. Irgendetwas musste er doch machen, er konnte ja nicht tatenlos herumsitzen. Langsam fand er wieder seinen Rhythmus. Seine Mutter die eigentlich nichts davon verstand, engagierte einen Lehrer. Aber der war nicht viel besser als sein Vater. Erfolglos, von Zweifeln geplagt und Komplexen getrieben, nahm dieser sich seinem Schützling an. Von seinem Fach hatte der noch irgendwie eine Ahnung, aber auf Kinder verstand er sich nicht. Mit 17 Jahren war er fertig, oder besser, es gab in der Umgebung keinen, der ihm noch etwas hätte beibringen können. Neugierig, aber auch voller Angst ging er hinaus. Vielleicht würde die Welt doch an seinem Können Gefallen finden. Man, oder besser Frau begrüßte ihn herzlich, war er doch ganz schön gebaut und in Gegenwart der Jugend fühlt sich das Alter wieder frischer. Man/Frau reichte ihn von Hand zu Hand und versuchte seine Schüchternheit abzubauen. Langsam wurde seine Schale weicher. Aber was für ein Kern sollte sich darunter verbergen? Dann gelang es endlich einer Vierzigjährigen ihm seine Unschuld zu nehmen. Für sie war es ein wunderbares Gefühl, aber er konnte es noch nicht genießen. Es war ihm unklar, worauf er achten müsse. Hätte er in seiner Jugend so wenig gelernt? – war die Frage, die er sich immer wieder stellte. Er fühlte auch weiterhin nicht genau, wo bei der ganzen Sache der Genuss hätte sein sollen, aber verstand sehr bald, dass daraus sein Unterhalt und mögliches Vorankommen gesichert sein kann. Leute wurden ihm vorgestellt, die entweder auf die gleiche Weise ausgehalten wurden und ihn deshalb als Konkurrenz betrachteten, oder die sich in dieser Hierarchie der Günste selbst von Fuß zu Fuß nach oben geküsst hatten. Selten ergab sich ein Treffen mit einem eigenständigen Geist, von dem sich etwas hätte abschauen lassen. Es waren die Wellen, die beim Fall eines Steines in stilles Wasser verursacht werden. Umso weiter die Kreise sich dann entfernten, desto kleiner ist ihre Kraft. Aber im Unterschied zum Wellenspiel, wo sich diese entfernen wollen, um ihren Ruhezustand wiederzugewinnen, hängen die Ringe in dieser Hierarchie verzweifelt am Ursprung der Bewegung. Die Zusammensetzung der Kreise gründet fast ausschließlich auf Unterwürfigkeit, wird aber durch Begriffe wie Begabung und Mode ersetzt. Dies waren seine Gedanken, wenn er allein war. Befand er sich in Gesellschaft, blendete ihn, wie alle anderen, das Licht, um das in der Nacht Insektenflieger schwärmen. Schaltet man es aus, suchen sie sich nach einiger Verwirrung eine neue seeleneinflößende Quelle. Bereichert durch diese Erfahrung fühlte er sich einmal dem Dichter gleich, den die Athener den Spartanern statt Soldaten geschickt hatten, um letztere im Kampf zu unterstützen. Die kriegerischen Spartaner wussten nämlich damit, nichts anzufangen. Andermal überfiel ihn Angst, einfach ein Ballast der Gesellschaft zu sein. Er beruhigte sich damit, nicht der einzige zu sein. Schließlich hatte er ja genug Begabung dazu.   Fahr mit Märchen 90 fort!

-----------------------------------------------

--------------------------------------------------

-------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------

Back to Hungarian portal! Back to English portal! Back to German portal! Back to Spanish portal! Back to French portal! Back to Russian portal!

 

tale 89 talent Written by Rainer: rainer.lehrer@yahoo.com Learn languages (via Skype): Rainer: + 36 20 549 52 97 or + 36 20 334 79 74

------------------------------

talent   When he was 3 years old, his father introduced him to it for the first time. The boy liked the fact that after that the mother, the father also became interested in him. "The little one doesn't act so stupidly!" - said the old man and since that day they had been practicing. These activities dragged on longer and longer. After tears, the mother tried to appease the father, but without effect. Obviously, the father wanted to compensate his own failure in life and put all hope in the boy. Punishment and praise took their turns. He often heard other children playing in the yard. At the age of 5 he was first introduced to a smaller audience. However, the stage fright and the pressure caused by his father's expectation made it impossible for him to concentrate. That day, the little one would have preferred not to go home. When he was 10, his father died and for weeks, he did not care about the old man's dream. His thoughts preferred to lead him to the other children in the yard, but he lacked the ability to communicate with them. He'd missed the boat. Neither the big ones wanted to know anything about his art, nor the little ones about his person. After a time, he began to deal with the only thing that had determined and filled each of his days for 7 years. He had to do something, after all, he couldn't sit around idly. Slowly he found his rhythm again. His mother, who actually didn't understand anything about music, hired a teacher. But he wasn't much better than his father. Unsuccessful, plagued by doubts and driven by complexes, the teacher tortured him. Somehow, he knew something about profession, but he didn't understand children. At 17 he was finished, or rather, there was no one in the area who could have taught him anything new. He went out curious, but also fearful. Maybe the world would like his skills after all. He was greeted warmly especially by women, he was quite well built and in the presence of youth, old age feels fresher again. Women passed him from hand to hand and tried to reduce his shyness. Slowly he softened. However, what kind of nucleus was hiding behind this face? Then a forty-year-old finally managed to take his innocence away. It was a wonderful feeling for her, but he couldn't enjoy it yet. It was unclear to him what to pay attention about. Had he learned so little in his youth? - was the question he kept asking himself. He still did not feel exactly where the pleasure should have been in the whole thing, but soon understood that his maintenance and possible progress could be ensured by it. He was introduced to people who were either supported in the same way and therefore viewed him as competitor, or who had kissed themselves from foot to foot in this hierarchy of favors. There was rarely a meeting with an independent spirit, from whom he could have been learned something. It was the waves that are caused when a stone falls into still water. The further the circles moved away, the smaller their power. However, unlike the wave game, where they want to move away to regain their idle state, the rings in this hierarchy are desperately attached to the origin of the movement. The composition of the circles is almost entirely based on submissiveness, but is renamed by terms such as talent and fashion. These were his thoughts when he was alone. When he was in company, like everyone else, he was blinded by the light that insect fliers swarm about at night. If you turn it off, after some confusion they look for a new soul-inspiring source. Enriched by this experience, he once felt like the poet that the Athenians had sent to the Spartans instead of soldiers to support the latter in battle. The warlike Spartans did not know what to do with it. At other times, he was afraid of simply being a ballast of society. He calmed down by recognizing of not being the only one. After all, he had enough talent for it.   Continue with tale 90!

-----------------------------------------------

--------------------------------------------------

-------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------

Back to Hungarian portal! Back to English portal! Back to German portal! Back to Spanish portal! Back to French portal! Back to Russian portal!

 

Märchen 88 schon seit Tagen Written by Rainer: rainer.lehrer@yahoo.com Learn languages (via Skype): Rainer: + 36 20 549 52 97 or + 36 20 334 79 74

------------------------------

Schon seit Tagen   Schon seit Tagen saß er in seinem Dachzimmer, umgeben von Büchern, Gemälden und Musikinstrumenten. Manchmal setzte er sich ans Klavier und spielte ein bisschen, aber auch das wollte ihn nicht befriedigen. Dreimal täglich brachte ihm die Haushälterin sein Essen, wechselte das Wasser zum Händewaschen. Der Holzofen blieb unberührt und die Fenster geöffnet, weil es Sommer war. Deshalb konnte er das lustige Treiben der Nachbarskinder im Hof hören. Warum ging er nicht hinaus zu ihnen? Sie mochten ihn, den komischen Vogel aus dem Dachgeschoss. Immer erzählte er ihnen etwas Witziges. Meist umringten sie ihn und ließen ihn nicht gehen, bis er sie nicht mit irgendeiner Geschichte erfreut hatte. Das war der Zoll, den die Kinderschar ihm abverlangte. Aber nur ihm, die anderen Leute im Haus wurden mit Gleichgültigkeit gestraft. Sie waren einfach grau und langweilig. Die Kinderwelt braucht Farben, um ihre Gedankenwelt auszufüllen. Und das war es, wovor er zitterte, wovor ihm schauderte, die Kinder mit ihren fordernden Augen nicht befriedigen zu können. Am vorigen Tag war sogar eines, das kleinste und niedlichste an seine Tür gekommen und hatte geklopft. Sie wussten von der Haushälterin, die ihn für einen Taugenichts hielt, dass er nicht krank war. „Was soll mit ihm schon sein!“ hatte sie den kleinen geantwortet, „der sitzt an seinem Tisch und macht nichts.“ Er hatte dem bittenden Klopfen nicht geöffnet und die kleinen, leichten Schritte waren traurig wieder die Stiegen hinuntergegangen. Aber irgendwann würde er sich zeigen müssen und eingestehen, dass er genauso wie alle anderen farblos und durchschnittlich war. Sollte er ihnen sagen, dass auch er nur so in den Tag hineinlebt und seinen Instinkten folgte? Nein, das konnte er nicht. Er schämte sich dafür, ihnen nur Schokolade und Existenz anbieten zu können. Aber wenn wir wollen, dass der Mensch sich weiterentwickelt, dürfen wir unsere Kinder nicht nur mit Süßigkeiten vollstopfen und ihnen alle möglichen Spielzeuge aus dem Schaufenster kaufen. Sie brauchen geistige Nahrung. Er könnte ihnen doch irgendeine Fabel (Geschichte, in der die Tiere sprechen können.) von Aesopos erzählen, sie würden sich auch darüber freuen. Wie Phaedrus und später Jean de la Fontaine. Aber er wusste, dass das eine oder andere früher oder später einmal das Original lesen würde, und dann natürlich sehr enttäuscht wäre, dabei ein Vorbild verlieren würde. Wir brauchen Illusionen, aber müssen dabei aufpassen, diese nicht auf brutalste Weise zu zerstören. Er wollte ihnen, aber vor allem sich selbst, treu bleiben. Und so saß er eingeschlossen in seinem Dachzimmer.   Fahr mit Märchen 89 fort!

-----------------------------------------------

--------------------------------------------------

-------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------

Back to Hungarian portal! Back to English portal! Back to German portal! Back to Spanish portal! Back to French portal! Back to Russian portal!

 

tale 88 for days Written by Rainer: rainer.lehrer@yahoo.com Learn languages (via Skype): Rainer: + 36 20 549 52 97 or + 36 20 334 79 74

------------------------------

For days   He had been sitting in his attic for days, surrounded by books, paintings, and musical instruments. Sometimes he would sit down at the piano and play a little, but that didn't satisfy him either. Three times a day the housekeeper brought him his food, changed the water to wash his hands. The wood stove remained untouched and the windows opened because it was summer. So he could hear the hustle and bustle of the neighbouring children in the yard. Why didn't he go out to them? They liked him, the weird bird from the attic. He always told them something funny. Most of the time they surrounded him and didn't let him go until he had delighted them with some tale. That was the customs duty that the crowd of children demanded of him. But only of him, the other people in the house were punished with indifference. They were just grey and boring. Children need colours to fill their world of thoughts. And that was what made him tremble, what made him shudder not to be able to satisfy the children with their demanding eyes. The previous day even one, the smallest and cutest, had come to his door and knocked. They knew from the housekeeper who thought he was a good-for-nothing that he wasn't sick. "What should be with him!" She had answered the little child, "he is sitting at his table and does nothing." He hadn't opened the asking knock and the small, light steps had sadly gone back down the stairs. However, at some point he would have to show himself and admit that he, like everyone else, was colourless and average. Should he tell them that he too just lived into the day and followed his instincts? No, he couldn't. He was ashamed of being able to offer them only chocolate and existence. But if we want humans to develop, we shouldn't just stuff our children with sweets and buy them all sorts of toys from the shop window. One needs spiritual nourishment. He could tell them some fable (story in which the animals can speak) of Aesop, they would also be happy about it. Like Phaedrus and later Jean de la Fontaine. But he knew that one or the other would read the original sooner or later, and then of course would be very disappointed and lose a role model. We need illusions, but we have to be careful not to destroy them in the most brutal way. He wanted to stay true to them, but above all to himself. And so he stayed locked up in his attic.   Further to tale 89!

-----------------------------------------------

--------------------------------------------------

-------------------------------------------------

---------------------------------------------------

Back to Hungarian portal! Back to English portal! Back to German portal! Back to Spanish portal! Back to French portal! Back to Russian portal!