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"Both mother and father were artictically gifted. Mother could-should- have been.
a tragedian, Father a poet. Two incompatible temperaments! Two desperately .
unhappy, imperfect human beings, either of whom, alone or with some other .
partner, could have perhaps been brought to some marvelous fruition; but whose.
talents were stunted, etiolated, watered down, and crushed by the mutually .
destructive lifestyle they created for themselves
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Should it ever cross my mind to send a folk song to the printer's, I should.
should first have to explain to the gentle reader how my father's days usually .
started in a state of incomprehensible gaiety. Splashing, whistling, jubilantly.
singing fragments of the seasons chorales. A rose from Jesse's rod has blossomed.
or Now in the lovely summer time as the case may be, he'd take an ice cold .
shower, shave, and brush his teeth with the same frenzy as other men in quite.
different social circles pass the early morning hours enjoying their wives or.
mistresses. Probably in comparison it isn't outrageous as it may seem. .
Because year in and year out poor father; clergyman of the State of the .
Lutheran Church he was, lived on a minimum exotic subsistence level.
But Mother she suffered from insomnia. After spending half the night .
indulging one of her few vices-reading-and having managed during.
with the aid of sleeping tablets to scrape together a few hours sleep;.
she'd come stumbling down in to breakfast only half awake and in a .
state of extreme nervous irritability, there to find her freshly washed,.
matitundally cheerful husband standing hungry as a hunter behind.
his chair at the breakfast table, gold watch in hand and waiting for .
porridge to be served up, followed by hash of ham and fried potatoes.
with fried eggs and pickled beetroot etc., to say nothing of Laela's .
witches bre wknown as coffee. Nine o'clock, on the dot! Set on so.