Home > story, Writing > Breitenstein is not an old man to me

Breitenstein is not an old man to me

Breitenstein is not an old man to me, because I knew him 50 years ago, when he was in his thirties, always in a hurry, always looking like a CIA agent with his conspicuous hat, long black coat and the brown leather briefcase. I like that he didn’t change his outfit one little bit in all these years – except that he is unable to take the briefcase as he walks with a walking frame now. His back hurts badly and he is unable to stand erect.

But Breitenstein is still in a hurry as he is a writer and eager to get back to his typewriter, yes: typewriter. I hear him hitting the keys as early as 6am when I pass his apartment walking the dog. Typing, typing, typing for decades without ever publishing anything, apparently without any reader on his mind, any reader but himself.

Breitenstein, a configuration of remarkable energy, always under pressure, receding into the haze of time, leaving an apartment with shelves of paper, paper, paper.

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Categories: story, Writing

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