„My clotted heart’s blood“, Siegfried Jacobsohn used to say when he looked at the rows of the red bi-annual editions of the Weltbühne, which he always had in front of him. They contained his work, his love and his whole life. For twenty-one years he dedicated every waking hour to the Blatt, and when he wasn’t dreaming of Mozart, he surely dreamt of finding new authors for it. He gave himself little birthday presents every week. „You little packages, I’m going to put you in the next edition“, and he tasted the quality of the contributions, whose existence was nearly always due to his initiative, his energy and his gentle persuasion, enjoying them in advance. And now we have fifty volumes in front of us. One needs to take two long strides to walk past the long row. It has been twenty-five years. Time to take a little look back.
Twenty years ago, I spent a few twilit days in a mountain village in central Italy – I will only mention its noble name to myself. It is a narrow village with dark alleys and a lot of wine bars, on whose ceilings sausages and horse cheeses hang, all mixed up. In front of the village gate there is a spring to which the girls came in the evening to get water.
One posed each other the question, is this life worth it? Or would it have been better to have never been born? To never have left the darkness down there?