Das erste Jahr Babybuddha jetzt auf:
http://www.hanser-literaturverlage.de/verlage/hanser-box
So here I am on the morning of this twenty-fourth squatting on the floor (with the baby on my knee) looking at a crèche in the Christmas section of the department store (after buying something for dinner, taking it nice and slow). Mother, father, baby, ox and donkey, a few sheep in the stall (genuine wood), which opens up to us observers, a touchingly meager and yet sumptuously warming room, so it seems to us, as if it were the primordial room of our existence, which we cannot ever escape from. This familial concord, which includes the animals, the straw and the two stars, strikes me as so mysteriously unenigmatic that a tear (almost unnoticed by myself) steals from my eye. Suddenly the baby grabs the donkey and puts it in his mouth, a gesture confirmed by the saleswoman, whose face is aglow with the Christmas spirit. Or is she (and only she can know) confirming my involuntary remark, uttered with a movement of the head in the direction of the crèche: Where else should we wish to return?
BabyBuddha 