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Das erste Jahr jetzt auf:

http://www.hanser-literaturverlage.de/verlage/hanser-box

A clownish baby (the way he pulls your silk scarf over his head and now wildly waves his arms beneath this veil until he frees himself from his hiding place, tears the cloth off himself, lets out an exuberant laugh, and immediately does the same thing all over again. Or this: throwing things down from his high chair and following them with a look that says: Crazy things, why do they keep falling on the floor? But this too: banging his own head against your breast, drumming the sofa pillow with it, or deliberately bouncing it against the backboard of his crib. Standing in front of the second lowest drawer of the secretary, pulling out DVDs and flinging them to the ground and grinning at you, at me, after each throw. And then, holding on to the edge of the table, that hilarious, waggle-kneed dance with his behind swinging to and fro while we make a little music). A lot of what we call practice is really nothing but clowning! Just look at that droll sparkling glance, like a spray of tiny stars, the silvery gleam on his forehead, the redness of dawn on his cheeks. Our baby is off his rocker. Not: he used to be like this and like that and then he went off his rocker, but: he is off his rocker. He shows us his foolishness, isn’t just playing it for us, no: he is foolishness personified. This is amazing! And good for nothing – or? Do you feel the warmth? Amidst all his flinging and waving and fumbling and dancing, our baby glows. (Did we ever stop being off our rocker?)

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