By Alfred (Eugene Jolas, trans.) Doblin
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Extra resources for Berlin Alexanderplatz: The Story of Franz Biberkopf
Then his bad angel told Stefan Zannovich, take the letter and get a loan on it. Didn’t you have the letter from the minister with the address, To His Royal Highness the Prince of Albania on it? They loaned him money, and that was the end of the swindler. How old did he get to be? Thirty years, he didn’t get to be any older than that as a punishment for his evil-doing. He couldn’t pay the money back, they reported him to the authorities in Brussels and that’s how everything came out. Your hero, Nachum!
A fellow’s got to have air! ) “I just wanted to show you: Don’t you listen to everything my brother-in-law tells you. ” “That’s no justice to throw a fellow on the dungheap like a cur and then dump garbage on top of him, and that’s the justice they give a dead man. Ough, hell. But now I’ve got to leave you. Give me your paw. You mean well and you, too, (he pressed the red-haired fellow’s hand). My name’s Biberkopf, Franz. Was nice of you to take me in. My dicky-bird has already sung its bit in the courtyard.
It-did not-live! It had happy faces, it laughed, waited in twos and threes on the traffic islands opposite Aschinger’s, smoked cigarettes, turned the pages of newspapers. Thus it stood there like the street-lamps-and-became more and more rigid. They belonged with the houses, everything white, everything wooden. Terror struck him as he walked down Rosenthaler Strasse and saw a man and a woman Sitting in a little beer-shop right at the window: they poured beer down their gullets out of mugs, yes, what about it, they were drinking, they had forks and stuck pieces of meat into their mouths, then they pulled the forks out again and were not bleeding.
Berlin Alexanderplatz: The Story of Franz Biberkopf by Alfred (Eugene Jolas, trans.) Doblin