Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:


oder über den Online-Buchhandel

There it is again, our baby’s pure and noble sleep-face (how can we call it anything but holy, when that is so self-evident). It is immaculate, of exemplary composure, without desire (from outside – it is noon – the sounds of the city barge into the room, but in front of his face they abruptly come to a halt). We cannot take hold of this face. Our eyes try to do so first, then our memory: with equal futility (here, in this wanting, is its source). It is hard for us, and, we think, what else can we do but turn toward what is less pure, less holy, toward the unholy? A glance at our baby’s hand as it opens, releasing the tiny teddy bear (having held it for nearly an hour), keeps us, for now, from making that mistake. Turning back to his face (pure, noble, holy, unchanged), there is nothing more to regret. Maybe now would be a good time for that mistake (or we could confidently postpone it till later).










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