There is a bridge in Freiburg, in the city outskirts. What are the outskirts of the city? Are they near the city or far? Freiburg remains a small city. Anything close to it is in it. Anything far belongs to another city, or the outskirts of another city, bigger, more important. In any case, the bridge wasn’t near the center. One had to walk more than half an hour to reach it. It was very pretty. A palpitating, deep, river crossed underneath. Truthfully, it could only be like that: rivers exist to cross underneath bridges, not over them. Something that happens for a simple reason: bridges (that pretty metaphor for what should be the human condition) are built over rivers, with the generous intent of crossing them and reaching the other shore.And that's all he wrote.
I had with me the Luger.
I had it in the inside pocket of my overcoat.
I took it out.
I looked at it one last time.
And I threw it in the river.
It made a solemn noise. I dare say, a historic noise.
The river took it.
Now I walk back to the city. The sky is gray and heavy. How green Freiburg is still! At least in along the path I follow. Some sidewalks are made from a dark brick that appears to have been placed in distant times. A man passes on a bicycle. He greets me. I smile and nod my head. Where is the horror that was once here? I don’t see it, but I won’t forget it for that reason.
I near a church. It’s small, humble. So humble that perhaps some good god really lives in it. It has high gates, painted green, that meet in a sharp vertex, like an arrow indicating the sky, and powerfully saying: there’s the secret. They are solid wood and ancient too. But they are somewhat swollen, and some small drops, like a light perspiration, like a caress, run down them. They smell, strongly, of humidity. Tomorrow it will rain in Freiburg.
Labels: The Shadow of Heidegger