Das erste Jahr jetzt auf:


Plagued by toothing pains once again, our baby becomes quiet. Soon we too stop our talking (you yours, I mine). For words increase pain, instead of diminishing it. Or they distract one from the pain, diminish it in this way, without any actual decrease in its strength. Our baby is les an artist of pain than a connoisseur of pain. That is the only way we can explain his quietness and his seriousness. It doesn’t seem to us that he is getting to know pain only now, but as if pain were catching up with him (as if pain had not come toward him but had approached him from behind, from before). But it is good that we are near the baby, we just need to be silent. Pain needs witnesses who will do it justice. (I have to do it. I place my hand on the baby’s belly, as a consolation, to assure him of my presence and my empathy. I hope the pain, his pain, might drain off a bit through my hand. But the baby merely pushes my hand slowly, but firmly, aside. He looks at me briefly as he does this: a small reprimand. At first I am disappointed, then delighted. Then I leave the two of you alone.)

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