Well be in touch taste hearing sight and smell.
When the door has been locked, Gerti too begins to calm down in her little fortress of curtains. But is that any reason for the Direktor to get violent? The child races from one to the other, puffing itself up. Father wants to make the child a gift of oblivion, he picks him up by the fly and drops him on the floor. He wants to throttle a social choke from Mother's gorge at last. Quick, put in a finger! Only the child, played by a boy, is still bothersome, gushing truths from his likewise throttled throat: he wants a present. What cavilling criteria went into the choosing of this child, anyway? The parents are blackmailed and sit silently on each other in their beautiful residence. The supply of child language seems inexhaustible, but it is not very varied, and only involves money and goods. This child makes a plausible wish for whole whirlwinds of technical appliances, tootle tootle tee! His language stumbles out of all the hollows Mother has fixed pictures of animals over. Mother loves this child because they both obey the same law, which says that not the earth but Father begat them. Whole catalogues of merchandise shoot out of the child. A horse could be bought as well. And the child wants to be absolutely at one with one thing, which isn't the voice of the violin, it's sport. Goods become words become money. Father has to let go of his trouser sack again, in which he is restraining his thing, one really cannot pass this woman by without doing something. He'll lick this kid into shape all right, perhaps drag him in to dinner by the hair? The TV set is a source of sound and vision, an octopus stretching out its tentacles into the room, enabling Youth to recognize itself in the image of sundry famous persons. It is very loud. The club spokesman angrily shouts out his decision: that all three were made by one and the same father, true, but were made up by me!
Mother lurches about in her alcohol-soft body and knocks against her household utensils. Without any necessity, this family buys its surroundings. Just look at this peace! The tables are bending beneath the glow of the table lamp, which is shining on the secret, sacred foods. What a homely country. Father's half-stiff tail is laid like a retriever, good boy, between his thighs on the edge of the armchair, the glans half peeking out, the railings bending under it. It falls from out of men, where their innards begin, where they can make more haste less speed, and on and on they chase through the undergrowth. No, this sex will not lie down to sleep till it has roused itself up and thoroughly rained itself down. That's how they'd like it. Father whets himself on his seat: how variable and how lovely is the valley between his thighs! How long it's been, and how long it is. The woman gazes ahead, and sometimes slaps the table. If she had her own way she'd promptly be off after her latest desires and storming into that considerable prospect called Michael. That path is now closed to her, I fear. She murmurs dark words from her scarcely open mouth. The student's holiday home, that place of pilgrimage for Gerti's flesh, we'll still have time to drive over there later. The children do not sing in the houses and do not clap their little hands, nor does the sun dare venture anything any more. Silence falls. When, I wonder, will the woman grasp the urgency of her local security organ?
The child buffoons about, now wound up into a total beast. Invariably before he has to go to bed, when one has so little interest in supper, the child starts flinging himself about, in sheer physicality. Mother too lays her head violently on the table. Her gaping wound is connected with Michael. She indicates that she will not eat anything but will have something to drink. Father, who is bursting to be off hunting, is already upping the tempo in his he-man clothing. He finds the child a nuisance, here he is in his own house, after all, where people die if they don't make it to hospital in time. The last workers escape the weather and hurry into their blessed parlours. Soon it will be completely quiet. Father's prick, that herculean muscle, feels the call of Mother. The lordly dog is still lying asleep, but soon he will have the scent in his nostrils. Upstairs the child will be talked to about school. Then the doubled-up woman will be pinched in the warm flesh of her shoulder, she will be taken by the shoulders and put upright again. Nowadays the child is increasingly acting the self-appointed boss at dinner. Disturbed in his desire, Father sinks deep within himself, indeed we see that Mother too has arrived here, only to carry on and then return. These people cannot sit still, which is generally the case with the uncannily rich from foreign parts. Nothing keeps them in one place. They drift about with the clouds and the streams. Their crowns rustle above them and their purses bustle. Elsewhere things are better, and they bare their breasts to the sun. And always the same answer to the question: who's that on the phone? The child becomes an even greater nuisance, polishing his lists of presents for his birthday, though he doesn't plane away any of hit wishes. Father does things the same, on principle. He will refresh Mother with his bubbling spring. Life swirls about his ankles. Indeed, in the heat of his senses, which no rubber could contain, his body is at rest, and the fires flicker prettily from his figure. The child makes a great many demands, so that most of them will be met. His parents have finally been stowed away in the midst of their sensations by the sleeping car conductor (with the countryside flying past outside, and their urges growing too big for them and growing out into the open). For different reasons, they want the child to shut his open mouth. Agreements are violated. An hour of violin practice isn't the end of the world. Now the woman does eat a tiny little mouthful. The child won't be grown up for a long while yet. So let's get ourselves ready instead!
They can't sit around together in the altogether, the child would disturb them. The child is damned to seventh heaven. He has no secrets from his parents, spluttering the milk about behind his remaining milk teeth. It is quite a strong bond, the architecture that secures him to his parents, this child. As a matter of fact the son isn't only a nuisance when he's on the drip of his violin. He is always a nuisance. Superfluities of this kind (i.e. children) can only be created by the kind of rash actions that bring troublemakers into the house, so that they can start to shine bright and stupid as lamps from out of their awkward language. Instead of everyone being able to do it with everyone else in every conceivable hole in the place. Father wants to drag the fabric off his wife at last and run dashingly down her hill, but no, the child pervades the room like a holiday, his horn resounds throughout the entire house where all things conduce to love and particularly the specific construction of Father, who, like the big settee in the living room, is obviously suited for love. How nicely these commercial travelers of sex flower by the wayside, these protected little plants, please do not pull them up, they'll be on their way of their own accord! Hide in the woods, but don't tread on their feet, amid all that green they can be incredibly poisonous!