Yours, Klaus.
When a week had passed, Simon entered his employer’s office just as evening was arriving and made the following speech: “You have disappointed me. Don’t look so astonished, there’s nothing to be done about it, I shall quit your place of business this very day and ask that you pay me my wages. Please, let me finish. I know perfectly well what I want. During the past week I’ve come to realize that the entire book trade is nothing less than ghastly if it must entail standing at one’s desk from early morning till late at night while out of doors the gentlest winter sun is gleaming, and forces one to scrunch one’s back, since the desk is far too small given my stature, writing like some accursed happenstance copyist and performing work unsuitable for a mind such as my own. I am capable of performing quite different tasks, esteemed sir, than the ones entrusted to me here. I’d expected to be able to sell books in your shop, wait on elegant individuals, bow and bid adieu to the customers when they’re ready to depart. What’s more, I’d imagined I might be allowed to peer into the mysterious universe of the book trade and glimpse the world’s features in the visage and operation of your enterprise. But I experienced nothing of the sort. Do you imagine my young years in such a sorry state that I need to crumple up and suffocate in a lousy bookshop? You are equally mistaken if you suppose, for example, that a young man’s back exists in order to be hunched. Why didn’t you allocate for my use a good proper desk so I could comfortably sit or stand? Are not splendid American-sized desks available for purchase? If one wishes to have an employee, I believe, one should know how to accommodate him. This is a knack which, apparently, you don’t have. Lord knows, all sorts of things are demanded of a young beginner: industry, loyalty, punctuality, tact, sobriety, modesty, moderation, purpose, and who knows what else. But to whom would it ever occur to start demanding virtues from a business owner such as yourself? Should my strength, my desire for activity, the pleasure I take in my own person, and the talent for being so gloriously capable of all these things be squandered on an old, meager, narrow bookshop? No, before I do any such squandering, I might join the army and sell my freedom altogether, if only for the sake of getting rid of it. It does not please me, respected sir, to own a half-measure, I would prefer to number among those who are utterly without possessions, for then at least my soul will still belong to me. You may be thinking it’s inappropriate for me to speak with such vehemence, and that this is not a fitting place for a speech: So be it, I shall hold my tongue, pay me what I am owed and you will never set eyes on me again.”
The old bookseller was quite astonished now to hear this young, quiet, shy individual — who had worked so conscientiously during the past week — speaking in such a way. From the adjoining work rooms, some five heads belonging to clerks and shop assistants pressed together, watching and witnessing this scene. The old gentleman said: “If I had suspected you of such inclinations, Mr. Simon, I would have thought twice before offering you employment in my shop. You appear to be quite peculiarly fickle. Since a desk isn’t to your liking, the entire enterprise displeases you. From what region of the world do you come, and are all the young people there cut from the same cloth? Just look how you are now standing before me — the old man. No doubt you don’t yourself know what, in that callow head of yours, you actually want. Well, I have no intention of preventing you from leaving — here is your money, but in all honesty I must say this gives me no pleasure.” The bookseller paid him his money, and Simon pocketed it.
When he arrived at home, he saw his brother’s letter lying on the table, he read it and then thought to himself: “He’s a good person, but I’m not going to write to him. I don’t know how to describe my circumstances, and they aren’t worth describing anyhow. I’ve no cause for complaint, and just as little reason to jump for joy, but grounds aplenty to keep silent. It’s quite true, the things he writes, but for just that reason I shall be satisfied with the truth — let’s leave it at that. That he is unhappy is something he himself must come to terms with, but I don’t believe he is really so terribly unhappy. Letters often come out sounding that way. Writing a letter, you get carried away and make incautious remarks. In letters, the soul always wishes to do the talking, and generally it makes a fool of itself. So it’s best I don’t write.”
— And with this, the matter was settled. Simon was filled with thoughts, with beautiful thoughts. Whenever he was thinking, beautiful thoughts flooded his mind quite involuntarily. The next morning — the sun was blindingly bright — he reported to the Employment Referral Office. The man who sat there writing got to his feet. This man knew Simon quite well and was in the habit of addressing him with a sort of mocking agreeable familiarity. “Ah, Mr. Simon! Back again? What brings you to us today?”
“I’m looking for a job.”
“You’ve certainly stopped by here often enough while seeking employment, a person might be tempted to think you uncannily swift when it comes to job-seeking.” The man laughed, but his laugh was gentle; he was incapable of harsh laughter. “What was your last place of employment, if I’m allowed to ask?”