By Max Frisch
Arrested and imprisoned in a small Swiss city, a prisoner starts off this ebook with an exclamation: "I'm no longer Stiller!" He claims that his identify is Jim White, that he has been jailed below fake fees and less than the inaccurate identification. To turn out he's who he claims to be, he confesses to 3 unsolved murders and remembers in nice element an adventuresome existence in the USA and Mexico between cowboys and peasants, in again alleys and docks. he's ate up by means of "the morbid impulse to convince," yet not anyone believes him. it is a harrowing account--part Kafka, half Camus--of the ability of self-deception and the liberty that eventually lies in self-acceptance. concurrently haunting and funny, I'm no longer Stiller has end up famous as "one of the most important post-war works of fiction" and a masterpiece of German literature.
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Extra info for I'm Not Stiller
Claggy with human flesh. Who has made of the world a lie every word. When he woke again the snow had stopped and the grainy dawn was shaping out the naked woodlands beyond the bridge, the trees black against the snow. He was lying curled up with his hands between his knees and he sat up and got the fire going and he set a can of beets in the embers. The boy lay huddled on the ground watching him. The new snow lay in skifts all through the woods, along the limbs and cupped in the leaves, all of it already gray with ash.
I told you to stay put. Didnt I tell you? Now we've got to go. Come on. I just wanted to see him, Papa. I just wanted to see him. The man took him by the arm and they went back up through the yard. The boy would not stop crying and he would not stop looking back. Come on, the man said. We've got to go. I want to see him, Papa. There's no one to see. Do you want to die? Is that what you want? I dont care, the boy said, sobbing. I dont care. The man stopped. He stopped and squatted and held him. I'm sorry, he said.
He left the boy sitting on the stairs holding the coats while he went up. Everything smelled of damp and rot. In the first bedroom a dried corpse with the covers about its neck. Remnants of rotted hair on the pillow. He took hold of the lower hem of the blanket and towed it off the bed and shook it out and folded it under his arm. He went through the bureaus and the closets. A summer dress on a wire hanger. Nothing. He went back down the stairs. It was getting dark. He took the boy by the hand and they went out the front door to the street.