Crazy: A Novel (Vintage International) - Softcover

Lebert, Benjamin

 
9780375708312: Crazy: A Novel (Vintage International)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0375708316 ISBN 13: 9780375708312
Verlag: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2001

Inhaltsangabe

A smart, funny, poignant, very modern autobiographical coming-of-age novel, written when the author was sixteen years old. Like Catcher in the Rye, Crazy appeals to the teenager in us all.

Benni himself is partially paralyzed and a serial failure (he's been kicked out of four boarding schools in his short life and has just entered his fifth). So he's a little odd, but he's cool and he finds other strange boys to hang with. Together they set out to experience what they can: girls, booze, sex, philosophy, drugs, sex, books, music, sex–pretty much everything whatever. And Benni lets us in on "the crazy life" he figures is the only way to deal with the crazy world.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Benjamin Lebert was born in Freiburg in 1982 and has lived in Munich since he was eight. He writes articles for the young-adult supplement of the Süddeutsche Zeitung, Munich's leading newspaper.

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A smart, funny, poignant, very modern autobiographical coming-of-age novel, written when the author was sixteen years old. Like" Catcher in the Rye," Crazy appeals to the teenager in us all.
Benni himself is partially paralyzed and a serial failure (he's been kicked out of four boarding schools in his short life and has just entered his fifth). So he's a little odd, but he's cool and he finds other strange boys to hang with. Together they set out to experience what they can: girls, booze, sex, philosophy, drugs, sex, books, music, sex-pretty much everything whatever. And Benni lets us in on "the crazy life" he figures is the only way to deal with the crazy world.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Concerning my son, Benjamin Lebert's, partial paralysis, it says on it. How many times have I pushed this envelope into a teacher's hand? A dozen at least. Now I get to do it again. Jörg Richter reaches hastily for the envelope. His eyes glint with curiosity. He opens the letter. To my horror he reads it out loud. His voice is clear and full of understanding:Dear Mr. Richter,

My son Benjamin has had a partial paralysis of the left side of the body since birth. This means that the functioning of the left side of his body, particularly the arm and the leg, is limited. In practical terms, this means that he either cannot perform or has difficulty performing such fine motor tasks as tying his shoes, using a knife and fork, drawing geometrical figures, using a pair of scissors. In addition, he has problems with sports, cannot ride a bicycle, and has difficulty with any movement that involves a sense of balance. I hope you will give him your support by taking note of these things. Many thanks. Warm regards,

Jutta LebertAs the last word is read out, I shut my eyes. I want to be somewhere else, where explanations are superfluous. I slowly go back to my parents. They are standing by the wall, holding hands. You can see they're glad to have explained things. Jörg Richter looks up. He nods. "We will pay attention to Benjamin's handicap," he says. No questions.

We go up to my room. It's on the second floor, not far away. You go down a long wooden corridor that opens onto a long wooden staircase. The walls are snow white. We follow the headmaster upstairs. I hold my father's hand. Soon we reach another corridor.

"From now on you're at home here," says Jörg Richter. The walls are no longer white but yellow. It's meant to be an appealing yellow, but it misses. The floor is covered in gray linoleum. It doesn't go with the yellow walls. The corridor is empty. The other kids aren't back yet from winter vacation. Beside one of the windows is a plaque: THE TEACHER IN CHARGE OF THIS CORRIDOR IS LUKAS LANDORF, it says. ALL REQUESTS FOR MONEY FOR SHOPPING IN THE VILLAGE, ALL ISSUING OF POCKET MONEY, ALL REGULATION OF BEDTIMES AND AUTHORIZATIONS OF ANY KIND ARE HANDLED BY HIM. LUKAS LANDORF IS IN ROOM 219.

Mr. Richter points at the plaque. He twinkles. "Lukas Landorf will be your teacher, too. You'll like him. He's new here himself. Unfortunately, he won't be back from vacation for another couple of hours, but I know you'll have plenty of time to get to know him."

I look around for my father. He's standing behind me. He cuts a large figure. All strength. I don't want to see him go.

My mother is already inside. I follow her. It's a small room; it looked quite different in the brochure. The pale parquet floor is cracked and you can see holes in it. There's a bed squashed against each long wall. Both beds are old farmhouse style. In the middle there's a big flat desk with two chairs. One of them has a cushion with the eagle on it. Two cupboards for clothes against the wall. One of them's locked -- the other must be for me. In addition, two nightstands and two storage cupboards, which seem to be meant to function as bookcases. Walls white. The only posters are above the bed on the left. Most of them fall into the category of sports or computer games. My roommate, who presumably put them up, isn't here yet. My father and Mr. Richter follow us into the room. Three suitcases and a bag are put down on the floor. I think about the secretary, Mrs. Lerch. Thirty years in this dump. Richter pulls open a drawer in the desk and fishes out a little plaque, four thumbtacks, and a hammer. He leaves the room and fixes the plaque to the door. Later I read: ROOM 211, JANOSCH ALEXANDER SCHWARZE (10TH GRADE) AND BENJAMIN LEBERT (9TH GRADE).

So now it's official. I'm stuck here. Possibly till I graduate. My parents are leaving. We say goodbye. I watch them go back down the corridor. Hear the doors creak. The footsteps on the wooden floors. The staircase. Mr. Richter goes with them. He has promised to be back soon. He has to talk over finances with my parents. Not my place. Hope I see them again soon. I take a bag and begin to unpack. Underwear, sweatshirts, sweaters, jeans. Where the hell is my checked shirt?



Janosch says the food is lousy. As in lousy.

As in seven days in the week. He's standing in the bathroom, washing his feet. I'm waiting. All the washbasins are in use. It's a big bathroom. Six washbasins, four showers. All tiled. All in use. Another five kids are waiting with me. The rest are asleep.

The floor is awash. No shower curtains. My feet are getting wet. With luck it'll be my turn soon. But things drag on. Janosch squeezes a pimple. Then washes his hands. When I get to the front of the line, I can't see a thing. The mirror's all fogged up -- from the showers. Nice. Janosch waits for me. I decide I'd better be quick. I hastily brush my teeth and wash my face, then dry my hands. We leave the bathroom. It's only ten yards from our room. We go down the hall. Apparently it's known as Tarts' Alley, or Landorf Lane, after the teacher in charge. Sixteen kids live along here, all ages thirteen to nineteen. They're divided three to a room or two to a room, and there's one single room. This is for a particularly rough character called Troy -- I can't remember his last name. Janosch talks about him a lot. Apparently he's weird, and he's been here a long time. A long time.


Our teacher in charge, Lukas Landorf, comes down Tarts' Alley. Not exactly a standout. A mop of black hair hanging down into his eyes. Old-fashioned glasses. He's a little taller than I am but not much. Janosch says Landorf never changes his green sweater. Apparently he's cheap -- cheap as a Scot, according to Janosch -- but otherwise a nice guy. Not too strict. Notices nothing. Even lets girls into the rooms. Human Valium. Some of the other teachers in charge are a lot more wide awake.

Lukas Landorf comes over to us. Smiles. He's got a young face. Can't be much more than thirty.

"So? Has Janosch shown you everything?"

"Yes," I say, "everything."

"Except the library," says Janosch. "We missed that. Can I show it to him now?"

"No you can't. Heavy day tomorrow. You guys have to get to bed." As he says that, he moves on. Looks a little wobbly on his feet. Must be missing his vacation already. Me too. Just a couple of days in South Tirol this time -- that was it. Including a minor run-in with my older sister, Paula. But it was paradise, as I can see now.

We go into our room. Janosch wants to talk. It's this girl he's fallen in love with. Bonding seems to be a pretty quick process around this place. I've been here seven hours, and we're into girls already. Not my thing.

It's not just because I'm disabled. I've had about as much luck with girls thus far as I've had in school, i.e., zip. The only thing I've been good at is eyeing them while the other guys nailed the ones I'd fallen for. I really had that down. Janosch talks and talks. I really feel sorry for the guy. He talks about flowers, blinding lights, and big tits. I can picture the whole thing and I'm with him all the way. A girl like that is something else. I sit down on the bed. My left leg aches, the way it does in the evening. It's been doing it for sixteen years. My bad leg. I can't count the times I've just wanted to amputate it and throw it away, along with my left arm. Why do I need either of them anyway? All they tell me is what I can't do -- can't run, can't jump, can't be happy. But I've never actually done it -- amputation, I mean. Maybe I need them to figure out math.

Or to fuck. If I want to fuck, I probably need my fucking left leg. Janosch by now is on to another subject -- his childhood. He's saying...

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Verlag
Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2001
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0375708316
ISBN 13 
9780375708312
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
191
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
preigu
mail@preigu.de

Lengericher Landstr. 19
Osnabrück
49078
Deutschland

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