Great German Short Stories (Dover Thrift Editions)
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The unique boundaries of the short story have attracted a majority of the prominent writers in the German language since the genre attained its modern form and became widely read around the turn of the 19th century.
This collection, featuring stories by eight of the form's most successful practitioners, includes Arthur Schnitzler's "Lieutenant Gustl," considered to be the first purely interior monologue in European literature; Heinrich von Kleist's "Earthquake in Chile," a highly charged narrative in which nature and public opinion precipitate acts of incredible violence; as well as important works by Franz Kafka, Thomas Mann, Gerhart Hauptmann, Rainer Maria Rilke, E. T. A. Hoffmann, and Clemens Brentano.
Required reading for students of world literature, this volume will be a welcome addition to the collection of any literary connoisseur.
making a sound as such great solemn beasts will. After a moment or two it was joined by two younger and smaller dogs of the same breed which ran up prancing and growling. They were fine mastiff dogs and all three now stood there together and stared at me unwinkingly. After a while I heard footsteps and a man came up to the gate wearing the inevitable shaggy fur coat. In answer to his question as to my business I asked if this were Unwar and I mentioned my name. He obviously already had his
rested. The tree’s shadow passed over them with its scattered lights and the moon was already fading as the dawn grew red before they went to sleep. For they had endless matter for gossip, about the convent garden and the prisons, and what they had suffered for the other’s sake, and they were deeply moved at the thought of how much misery had to be brought into the world so that they might be happy! They planned to go to Concepción as soon as the tremors had ceased, for an intimate friend of
where the shadows of the trees lay thick, made a little bed of moss in it, and lived thenceforth apart from her companions as a penitent and a saint. She passed all her time in prayer, and often scourged herself. But her severest penance was to keep her limbs still and rigid. As soon as there was a single sound in the air, the twittering of a bird or the rustling of the leaves in the trees, her feet twitched and felt that they must dance. Because this involuntary twitching would not disappear and
right and left, and even every single one of the centipedes and wood-lice which housed in them, passed in slow and toilsome procession before his eyes, and it seemed to him that he had spent eternity riding through the hideous village. At that moment he heard a great rasping breath from his horse’s chest without at once realizing what it was. He looked above and beside him, and then ahead to see whence it came, and in doing so became aware of a man of his own regiment, a sergeant, riding a bay
crucifix on the high altar. Thus he stood awhile, then retreating he bent the knee again and left the church. He strode up the Ludwigstrasse, slowly, firmly, with bent head, in the center of the wide unpaved road, toward the mighty loggia with its statues. But arrived at the Odeons platz, he looked up, so that the folds came out on his peaked forehead, and checked his step, his attention being called to the crowd at the windows of the big art-shop of M. Bllithenzweig. People moved from window to