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Illustration by Mahendra SinghRead about Monica Tornow at Writers No One Reads.
It Was a Beautiful Day
by Monica Tornow
Translated by Mahendra Singh
Eleven thousand burning chickens — Datari is horrified, burning plumage is devastating the land — Datari weeps. Datari burns. He calls his friend Helge. Helge has become an architect and can’t listen to him anymore. Datari is ablaze.
Before his death he wrote an essay about being tired. He was tired when he had to die. When they buried him, Helge could be seen amongst the mourners in the churchyard. She threw a Leghorn into the grave. The others threw flowers.
Later on there was a discussion about Datari, a discussion in which certain opinions were aired out. Opinions about this concept he had marked out as tiredness. Helge, a participant in this discussion for the sake of friendship, fell asleep clutching a Leghorn.
The leader of the discussion was on the side of the realists…they sleep if or when they are tired. Another said he’d seen better times in the discussion of the meaning of the tiredness-concept — he was from the older generation. Besides, the subject was thoroughly explosive.
One thought…thoughts of burning chickens (Wilhelm Busch was quoted). The younger people amongst them sensed the danger of those who play with fire — it could lead to misinterpretations whose consequences were unforeseeable.
The discussion’s protocols held firm. Now and then the air around them buzzed with concepts (comparable to burning plumage), many of them quite understandable but nothing that actually led further. It seemed that any hope for rescue must come through a profound, interdisciplinary approach between the older generation and the younger generation and the chickens of thinking.
“Good day.”
“What would you like?”
“A hat.”
“How must it be for a hat?”
“It was a beautiful day.”
“Yes.”
That’s how the slovenliness began, when Helge could not find his hat right away. He wanted to buy a new one.
The chickens are burning — eleven thousand — Datari, the last witness — was no more.
His essay on tiredness will never be published.
(The only known publication of this piece was in Manuskripte—literary magazine, #61, 1978, Graz, Austria.)
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Illustration by Mahendra Singh
Body Demons
by Monica Tornow
Translated by Malcolm Green
The green horns have gone again, and even the last of the empty-heads (O) was able to find the exit. I hope this time they'll stay away longer. I have hidden the spear.
I had to put on a coat. You can't imagine how cold it gets when a wind sneezes into the room.
I gave him two feathers as a parting gift (it's already very late), because he was dying to wear something on his head. Now he calls himself "Feather-wind-devil."
They're coming:
I already know them from past occasions. They normally stay for 24 hours and keep spinning round and round. They invite their friends, form a circle and flash through your body. The first one had a spear. Every time they come your hands and head turn completely white. Mirror-ears form and they are very hard to locate.
Here they are again. The last of them already has an empty head. That's good. A sign that it, the head, will soon drop off. Headless demons, i.e. pure body-demons, don't have much of a chance. Even the longest spear is little help then. On the contrary, the empty heads leave their bodies and run, or rather roll, onto the spear—but that is the state of affairs some 24 hours after they've first appeared. There's no saying whether complications will arise this time. After a thousand and a half days one of them says: he'd like to say something—simply something or other. He says: "Tudor cottage beams." After this his imagination fails him—nothing else comes to mind. The following Tuesday he grows restless again, and wonders whether he might say something else. He thinks, for even if he rarely speaks, he has always thought. This non-speaking cogitator is not a welcome sight among the body-demons. He thinks and says: WHEEL. But that's not enough for him. He quickly takes his word back, lets the spoken be unspoken, and thinks up a new word. A word which would be more fun for him. Because he believes that words—spoken words—have to be fun. Now he says: EXONERATE. That's got to be fun. He divides it into the two words EX and ONERATE (he's afraid of the spoken word ONERATE). He fetches the word back and now he divides it into three: EX ONE RATE—now everything's just fine. He likes EX, likes ONE, and he also likes RATE. He has startled himself. He only wanted to speak one word and now there are three. Three words in a single day. There's no end to it now. Suddenly he feels he's got to speak more and more words: mongoose, watercourse, prosperity, snowdrifts, pipestem, cockchafer. He grows very sad, after so many spoken words he has forgotten to think. He is completely beside himself and keeps speaking words. He is a body-demon.
(Published in Manuskripte, 1978; translation published in Malcolm Green's anthology Black Letters Unleashed: 300 Years of "Enthused" Writing in German (Atlas, 1989).Read about Monica Tornow at Writers No One Reads.
![]()
Illustration by Mahendra SinghRead about Monica Tornow at Writers No One Reads.
It Was a Beautiful Day
by Monica Tornow
Translated by Mahendra Singh
Eleven thousand burning chickens — Datari is horrified, burning plumage is devastating the land — Datari weeps. Datari burns. He calls his friend Helge. Helge has become an architect and can’t listen to him anymore. Datari is ablaze.
Before his death he wrote an essay about being tired. He was tired when he had to die. When they buried him, Helge could be seen amongst the mourners in the churchyard. She threw a Leghorn into the grave. The others threw flowers.
Later on there was a discussion about Datari, a discussion in which certain opinions were aired out. Opinions about this concept he had marked out as tiredness. Helge, a participant in this discussion for the sake of friendship, fell asleep clutching a Leghorn.
The leader of the discussion was on the side of the realists…they sleep if or when they are tired. Another said he’d seen better times in the discussion of the meaning of the tiredness-concept — he was from the older generation. Besides, the subject was thoroughly explosive.
One thought…thoughts of burning chickens (Wilhelm Busch was quoted). The younger people amongst them sensed the danger of those who play with fire — it could lead to misinterpretations whose consequences were unforeseeable.
The discussion’s protocols held firm. Now and then the air around them buzzed with concepts (comparable to burning plumage), many of them quite understandable but nothing that actually led further. It seemed that any hope for rescue must come through a profound, interdisciplinary approach between the older generation and the younger generation and the chickens of thinking.
“Good day.”
“What would you like?”
“A hat.”
“How must it be for a hat?”
“It was a beautiful day.”
“Yes.”
That’s how the slovenliness began, when Helge could not find his hat right away. He wanted to buy a new one.
The chickens are burning — eleven thousand — Datari, the last witness — was no more.
His essay on tiredness will never be published.
(The only known publication of this piece was in Manuskripte—literary magazine, #61, 1978, Graz, Austria.)
Illustration by Mahendra Singh
Body Demons
by Monica Tornow
Translated by Malcolm Green
The green horns have gone again, and even the last of the empty-heads (O) was able to find the exit. I hope this time they'll stay away longer. I have hidden the spear.
I had to put on a coat. You can't imagine how cold it gets when a wind sneezes into the room.
I gave him two feathers as a parting gift (it's already very late), because he was dying to wear something on his head. Now he calls himself "Feather-wind-devil."
They're coming:
I already know them from past occasions. They normally stay for 24 hours and keep spinning round and round. They invite their friends, form a circle and flash through your body. The first one had a spear. Every time they come your hands and head turn completely white. Mirror-ears form and they are very hard to locate.
Here they are again. The last of them already has an empty head. That's good. A sign that it, the head, will soon drop off. Headless demons, i.e. pure body-demons, don't have much of a chance. Even the longest spear is little help then. On the contrary, the empty heads leave their bodies and run, or rather roll, onto the spear—but that is the state of affairs some 24 hours after they've first appeared. There's no saying whether complications will arise this time. After a thousand and a half days one of them says: he'd like to say something—simply something or other. He says: "Tudor cottage beams." After this his imagination fails him—nothing else comes to mind. The following Tuesday he grows restless again, and wonders whether he might say something else. He thinks, for even if he rarely speaks, he has always thought. This non-speaking cogitator is not a welcome sight among the body-demons. He thinks and says: WHEEL. But that's not enough for him. He quickly takes his word back, lets the spoken be unspoken, and thinks up a new word. A word which would be more fun for him. Because he believes that words—spoken words—have to be fun. Now he says: EXONERATE. That's got to be fun. He divides it into the two words EX and ONERATE (he's afraid of the spoken word ONERATE). He fetches the word back and now he divides it into three: EX ONE RATE—now everything's just fine. He likes EX, likes ONE, and he also likes RATE. He has startled himself. He only wanted to speak one word and now there are three. Three words in a single day. There's no end to it now. Suddenly he feels he's got to speak more and more words: mongoose, watercourse, prosperity, snowdrifts, pipestem, cockchafer. He grows very sad, after so many spoken words he has forgotten to think. He is completely beside himself and keeps speaking words. He is a body-demon.
(Published in Manuskripte, 1978; translation published in Malcolm Green's anthology Black Letters Unleashed: 300 Years of "Enthused" Writing in German (Atlas, 1989).Read about Monica Tornow at Writers No One Reads.
