Heidegger's Glasses: A Novel
Thaisa Frank
Language: English
Pages: 368
ISBN: 1582437696
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Into this covert compound comes a letter written by eminent philosopher Martin Heidegger to his optometrist, who is now lost in the dying thralls of Auschwitz. How will the scribes answer this letter? The presence of Heidegger’s words—one simple letter in a place filled with letters—sparks a series of events that will ultimately threaten the safety and well-being of the entire compound.
Part love story, part thriller, part meditation on how the dead are remembered and history presented, with threads of Heidegger’s philosophy woven throughout, the novel evocatively illustrates the Holocaust through an almost dreamlike state. Thaisa Frank deftly reconstructs the landscape of Nazi Germany from an entirely original vantage point.
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Her room with Lodenstein. He was drinking vodka and manhandling his game of solitaire by throwing cards on the floor. Elie stood at the door watching him. After a moment she said: So you’re not talking to me. Why should I? said Lodenstein. You went behind my back with Stumpf and brought two fugitives. I’m sorry, said Elie in a low voice. I didn’t have time. But time for me to tie your ribbon. I was good for that. Gerhardt, please. I rescued two children. That’s what matters. Then why was.
Troubled about the Compound’s mission. He also heard mumbling that sounded like a séance. Stumpf had told him he was going to invoke a button dealer from the 19th century: One of the respectable dead, as he’d put it. Mikhail debated when he came to the part of Heidegger’s letter that talked about the Being of machines. In Krakow he’d had an old Renault that was always breaking down. The car ran his life instead of him running it. But he couldn’t mention a car because he didn’t know if Asher.
Like vodka and cinnamon, which made the soup taste better, and Elie surprised them with sausage or extra cheese. And all at once, like a child too far from home, he missed the dank mineral smell and subterranean comfort of the Compound. He even missed the Scribes making fun of him and the word games he didn’t understand. At the very same time, he missed the increasingly imaginary Frieda, dishing out soup in a pleasant house with ordinary furniture. In other words—he missed everything at once, and.
Elie. They know your name. But Goebbels is crazy. You should have thought of that sooner. Lodenstein went to the mineshaft too quickly for Elie to get in, locked the door to their room, and played Imaginary Thirteen and Half & Half. A few Scribes were in the clearing, and he didn’t want to run into them in the SS uniform he had to wear for trips to Berlin. So he couldn’t leave and felt imprisoned, as if time was solid, and he was standing next to it. He played more solitaire and got perverse.
Stuff of purgatory. What was once obviously a mine now contained a cobblestone street, gas lamps, and wrought-iron benches. Even the sky was confused: The moon was always a crescent. The sun groaned when it rose and set. The stars were the same, night after night. At times it was hard for Asher to know whether the people here were alive, dead, or in a limbo. A woman with whom he’d once had an affair and hadn’t thought about in years had mysteriously reappeared and now left food outside his door.