By Anna Funder
"Ruth Becker, defiant and cantankerous, resides out her days within the jap suburbs of Sydney. She has made an uneasy peace with the ghosts of her prior - and part of background that has been all yet forgotten. one other lifetime away, it is 1939 and the area goes to struggle. Ernst Toller, self-doubting innovative and poet, sits in a brand new York lodge room settling up the account of his lifestyles. while Toller's tale arrives on Ruth's doorstep their shared previous slips less than her defences, and she's correct again between them - these pals who expected the brutality of the Nazis and gave every little thing that they had to forestall them. those that have been validated - and often times came upon short of - within the face of hatred, of artwork, of affection, and of history."--Book disguise. Read more...
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Extra resources for All that I am
The WANTED poster of me was up on bollards and lampposts and train stations all over Bavaria, plastered over my proclamations. My supporters defaced it. I pitched in and defaced myself, growing a beard and dyeing my hair red with peroxide so I no longer matched it. When I caught myself reflected in a shop window I saw a crazed John the Baptist and averted my eyes. An artist offered me sanctuary. I spent three weeks in a cupboard behind a false wall at his house in Schwabing while the Berlin forces continued murdering our leaders.
He would fix you with those dark eyes, for slightly too long. His only mode, with everyone, was intimacy. Women loved him for it. He bypassed all the agonising repartee, the uncertain negotiations of flirtation, and spoke as if he knew them, had already been inside them. Who wouldn’t give themselves, wholly and fully, to a man who might at any minute sacrifice himself to save the world? He was still smiling, holding my hand. ’ I laughed. ’ It seemed unlikely to me. Dora was over at my lighttable, looking at some negatives.
Voices come back to me, or sometimes just injunctions. The mind is an interesting organ. Spooling and unspooling of its own accord. Or is the brain the organ, and the mind something else altogether, an effect of it, a Scheinbild? Professor Melnikoff tells me that Alzheimer’s patients regress in their memories until the first things they learnt are the last things they forget: ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, the residual civilities of the human, hardwired into the hippocampus. One will become un-toilet-trained, but politely.
All that I am by Anna Funder