Writing Samples

We are all the result of a catastrophe, and the only reason we are alive is that it happened so very long ago. It was followed by a time of steady cooling and drifting apart, now lasting sixteen billion years, perhaps more, perhaps less. We can forgo a bit of accuracy.
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Nebulae united to a ball, iron and nickel sank downward. For a long time, moon and earth were closely entwined, melting in two thousand degrees of glowing youth. Only when a foreign celestial body blasted between them, chin up, yet blinking in shame, the moon went on distance, not too far away at first, but soon in wider circles. Relieved, the Earth picked up speed. She wrapped herself in a hard shell. Seas came and went. Land masses migrated. Ice ages alternated with times of heat and deserts. Volcanoes glowed and algae sprouted. Fish crawled ashore. Jellyfish, sea feathers, and annelids died out or reproduced.
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Precambrian and Cambrian had long since passed, and the burgeoning nature sought happiness in giant growth. Life could not be tall enough. The longest necks stretched toward the highest peaks, the sharpest horns rammed against the hardest slabs. Giant turtles admired the echsian invention of volplane. But beneath the quivering feet of the lizards, the first mammals were already lurking. Waiting, waiting, they figured, was the secret of all success. And their days would come. The giants did not tolerate the climate or the fast pace of the Cainozoic. Or maybe a meteor extinguished them. Now the mammals crawled out, grew themselves to stately size, but without exaggeration, gathered horns or antlers and spread in the plains and steppes. Unnoticed and unmoaned, the Neanderthal disappeared.
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Then came man. He was cold. He was foot-sore. He was salty. He wanted to change the world. But he was pragmatic. He made fire, invented the wheel, built weapons. Only sometimes, when no one was watching, he laughed, painted cave walls or gave jewelry to his females. He experimented a lot, and that brought him safely through the ice age, making him the most successful species next to the mayfly.
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Above a lazily flowing stream, far from its mouth, where last sun rays still glowed on the water, a small spectacle of nature once again went completely unnoticed.

First there were three, then a dozen, then a whole cloud of mayflies. A second cloud merged with the first one, and in even shorter distance a third one joined. Males were all of them, flying in random or seemingly random fashion, mesmerizing each other in incomprehensible play, communally, even good-natured perhaps , yet ever keeping a distance of at least three wing spans. Their flight followed perhaps the rhythm of the sun's thrumming on the water, or perhaps it only seemed that way. To the human eye, they were just a chaotic waft of tiny dots. But to the cautiously approaching females grazing nearby on overgrown rocks, the cloud appeared like a dream image of glittering rainbow. A whirring, sparkling concert of sounds; chitin dance and oscillating swell, the irresistible choreography of love.

Seized by a fantastic impulse, they could not help but unfold their upright wings and fly right into the middle of the swarm. Immediately the spell of the males was broken. One after the other, in a never learned swoop and glide maneuver, they pounced on the females.

The males died shortly after mating, the females a few minutes later after laying their eggs. Those that came up empty for a while flew aimlessly up the river, and then they too, like a stray lost spark, faded out on the water.

In the winter of 1803, the then forty-year-old Madame Tussaud presented her now world-famous wax museum to the London public for the first time. Tussaud had come to London from Paris because business in France had dried up (and perhaps to escape her boring husband). She had experienced the turbulent years of the French Revolution at first hand. This aroused interest. The English ladies and gentlemen came by coach. The richer ones were carried to the entrance in sedan chairs.
Madame Tussaud knew how to tell a story. She talked about the King and Queen in Versailles, where she had been in and out for years, she talked about philosophers such as Rousseau and Benjamin Franklin, who had frequented her uncle's salon. She talked about Napoleon and his wife Josephine, whose face prints she had personally taken. And she told of the cruel and demonic leaders of the revolution, whose wax heads she displayed.

Her stories were colourful and gruesome, in keeping with the tastes of the time. They had therefore only one flaw, which to mention nowadays might seem a little pedantic:
Madame Tussaud had never actually met a single one of these famous people. 

[MUSIC]
Alternative Facts
[MUSIC FADEOUT]  

The term "alternative facts" dates back to 2017. At the time, the German Language Society voted the term "Unwort des Jahres" (bad word of the year).  What had happened?

Donald Trump, then US President, had claimed that the size of the audience that had attended his inauguration much exceeded that of his predecessor Obama. Press spokesman Sean Spicer then took on the thankless task of backing up Trump's statement with faked pictures. And Counsellor Kellyanne Conway had the even more thankless task of justifying those embellished images. When asked by the journalists why the press spokesperson had made refutably false claims, Conway said that Spicer had not lied, he had merely provided "alternative facts".
This concept still seemed somewhat unusual to journalists at the time and caused amusement and protests. But it wasn’t new. The openness and impertinence with which we were lied to perhaps seemed to have taken on a new quality at the time. But, of course, this wasn't anything new either. In the face of internet anonymity, AI-influencers and troll factories, it is easy to get the impression that we are living in an exceptionally dishonest time. But if we look back in history, to other times and other eras, we could just as easily come to the conclusion that no time has ever been as honest as ours. We have become more enlightened, more sceptical and more critical. Despite all the new opportunities to fake and falsify, it is much harder today to get away with a lie than it was a hundred years ago.
For that reason, in this podcast series, we want to do just that: Look back. We will take a journey through history and take a look: Where was lying done? When did people lie? Why did they lie? How successfully did they lie? Which of these lies do we perhaps still believe today?

Madame Tussaud had her reasons for telling Londoners tall tales. She wanted to promote her exhibition. And in monarchical England, she - the Frenchwoman - had to present herself as supportive of the king. Therefore, the king and queen were praised and the revolutionaries were made cruel tyrants. It was that simple.

History is written by the victors. Therfore, we have a lot to revise. And that’s what we are about to start.

AMSTERDAMPOLICE STATION; OPEN-PLAN OFFICE - DAY - INSIDE
The office is bustling with activity, but commissioner WILLEM FABER (mid-40s) turns listlessly on his chair. Small, ugly, almost a gnome, ears and eyes far too big, he doesn't fit in at all.

Faber is a man who has never quite made it. But also one who wouldn’t forgive himself if his big day never came.

He gazes gloomily at his colleague ROOS (around 30, tall, attractive), who is listening to another colleague, PIETER (around 30, also tall, athletic, likeable), boasting about his fishing successes with grand gestures. Pieter notices Faber's hostile stare.
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PIETER
What about you, Faber? Do you fish?

FABER
Not anymore.

PIETER
A trout dragged you into the water?

While the office partly laughs and partly protests the bad joke, Faber stands up and slowly approaches his rival. The office falls silent. The little man suddenly exudes an unexpected aura of danger.

FABER
Back then, on the Mediterranean. That fish - that fish - so, you know what a catfish is, Pieter?

PIETER
A big fish.

FABER
Good. But do you know what an Aristotle's catfish is? - Well, this fish was a beast. One and a half meters. At least.

PIETER
Almost as long as you.

Muted laughter.

FABER
And of course, I was just a novice with a simple fishing rod. No nets, no harpoon, nothing. After all, I just wanted something small for the frying pan. And then I see this beast. This Monstrosity. Slimy, bearded head. The body covered in black spots, like plague boils. And before I know it, this beast grabs the bait and I have it on the hook. Literally on the hook. And so, this thing is hanging on my line and staring - I swear it's staring at me with those pitch-black eyes!

PIETER
And a year later, you two got married.

Big laughter.

FABER
Yeah, yeah, yeah... And I know that if I pull now, if I pull now, then I've lost. It’s gone. Forever. So I wait, stay calm. And we stare at each other. Just like that. For minutes. An eternity. Aristotle and I...

OTHER POLICEMAN
Mediterranean, huh?

FABER
Corsica. Two thousand and two.

OTHER POLICEMAN
Catfish is a freshwater fish, you goof!

While the whole office laughs, a door opens and Chief Inspector SANDERS (mid-50s) pokes his head through.

SANDERS
Faber!

FABER
Would have been a great story, though.

SANDERS
Faber! Would you have a minute, please.

We follow Faber into the...

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POLICE CHIEF'S OFFICE - DAY - INSIDE
Faber sits, very small, with hunched shoulders, in the oversized chair opposite his boss. Sanders talks, but Faber's thoughts are elsewhere.

SANDERS
... Do you actually like it here, Faber?

FABER
Uh... Hm?

SANDERS
You see, at the moment... Let me start differently. The financial situation we're in right now - the police everywhere, it's not just us... And I'm not saying that our art theft department is in any way unimportant to us. It's actually very... Uh. But we need to be realistic here, too.

FABER
... Uh-huh?

Sanders has opened a file.

SANDERS
And when I look at this here. And this is not criticism of your work. Or of you personally. But: 1995 - three stolen impressionists. Unsolved. '97 - the Stedelijk case: Unsolved. '99 - the two Vermeers.

FABER
The Vermeers resurfaced.

SANDERS
After Scotland Yard got involved.

FABER
The leads came from me. - Us.

SANDERS
2001 - this "Viktor van Doom" story. Unsolved. 2004 - two Mirots, both destroyed, Roberto Matta, destroyed, 2005, some Ritschl?, missing, 2006, then... well, it goes on like that.

FABER
(during Sander's enumeration)
If I... may I... With such art works... sometimes it takes years to--

SANDERS
Faber.

FABER
And you must also consider...

SANDERS
Faber!

Faber falls silent.

SANDERS
I just want to say, Faber. Even if... I know, my predecessor hired you, but: you are - of course - one of us. And we want it to stay that way. -- But if this matter in Rotterdam, if that remains unresolved as well - that would be - well - not so good.
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AMSTERDAMPOLICE STATION; OPEN-PLAN OFFICE - DAY - INSIDE
Faber, angrily, pale as a sheet, makes his way through the suddenly much too crowded office, grabs his coat and bag and heads for the exit. His coat gets caught on one of the tables. Papers fall to the ground.

PIETER
What will you catch today, Faber? Plato plankton?
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Faber leaves the room.

ROOS
That guy…

[...]
When the cart finally stopped at the foot of the blood scaffold, the cheers in the square gave way to a tense silence. The Pan's gaze swept over the crowd, over the faces of the Dremeters, his people, for whom he had won a hundred victories, and over the haggard faces of the Kaeli, his defeated enemies. Ashamed, many bowed their heads. Others held theirs high, but their thoughts and their pulses began to race. Those who stood far in front had the impression that the Emporer was about to say something. Tensely they pricked up their ears. Some turned to the crowds behind them and called for silence.  

But the Pan did not speak. Instead, he swallowed twice with difficulty. His gaze went to the Scale of Thorns. Briefly only, then the great ruler straightened up. Led by the Executioner's henchmen, hands tied behind his back, he climbed off the cart. As he disappeared from the spectators' gaze, the spell was broken and the cheering revived. Insults were uttered. Strangled cats thrown onto the scaffold. The guardsmen raised their shields in protection. Chants demanded the repeal of the bread tax or the dismissal of the treasurer. Other demands followed the first until it all became a hymn of incomprehensible shouting.

But when the Pan appeared on the scaffold, silence fell again. As if sleep walking, the Emperor strode up the wooden stairs to the Scale of Thorns. His eyes were closed, as if he were silently counting each of the twenty steps.

The gait of the man who had once climbed the staircase of power with such grace now seemed unsteady. The henchmen almost cautiously grasped him by the arms, as if to support an old man. Thus, they escorted him to the Scale, the large board that was now tilted upright to tie the prisoner to it. With practiced hands, they flipped latches and tightened buckles until the tall man was belly-down and tied to the rocker. The Pan offered no resistance. Even when one of the henchmen placed a dead white cat on his head as mockery, his expression remained still. When even the crowd hardly applauded this humiliation, the executioner quickly ordered to remove the grotesque crown.
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What followed was a rapid sequence, practiced a thousand times. With one loud blow, board and man were tipped into a horizontal position. Another blow, and the wooden collar snapped shut. Screws were turned and fixed the head so it would remain face down, right below the looming spike.
At this moment, a last movement went through the Emperor's body, a last act of resistance. His feet and arms twitched, tensed in wild fury, and from his mouth immerged a direful, wordless scream.
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One morning, as I was once again strolling along Bertoldstrasse with my tricorn and my rapier, sorting my thoughts on the imitation of Greek works in painting and sculpture, or pondering inconclusively whether Max Piccolomini might rather be a hero or an idealistic fool, I was struck for the first time by an oversized banner that had recently been emblazoned on the retro façade of our Freiburg theater: "Europe must be cultural or it will seize to exist!"
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Startled by this grim warning, I immediately traveled to Paris to check its validity. Had I missed something? Had I not recognized the signs? Was our situation really that dire?
I hurried straight to the Louvre, jostled my way through a crowd of photographing Japanese, and was relieved to find the Mona Lisa still in its cabinet. She looked the same as always, a little jaundiced, with cracking skin. Everything was still fine.

Later that day, in the Latin Quarter, I met a twenty-year-old Italian girl. Giulia was just starting a business degree and was primarily interested in handbags by Dior. I didn't know much more about the Italians than that they beat us at soccer from time to time, but if European culture was really that lost, I thought, then it must be the fault of 20-year-old Italian girls.
However, with growing discomfort I learned that Giulia had already read not only all of Italian literature during school, but all of German literature and most recently all of Russian, French, and English literature as well. In Italy this was not unusual, she said. For her exam paper, she had initially wanted to choose Proust's "Search of Lost Time", but then had instead decided on Milton's Paradise Lost because of time constraints. Now she was reading the whole of Dostoyevsky, but in Italy, she said, this was not unusual.

I felt badly hurt in my book fair nation’s honor. What a rotten culture we have become, I exclaimed. The most rotten, bloated culture of all!
Giulia consoled me: "At least you Germans are still better in mathemetics and physics and stuff. Oh, look, I sooo much want to have this Dior-bag..."
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"When the Great French Revolution was succeeded by the European reaction which produced the Holy Alliance; when the counter-revolution exerted all its forces to put an end to the legacy of 1848 - each time the Oriental question came into play. Marx had already pointed this out at the time. And now, after the defeat of the revolution in Russia, as if to give the skeptics the right to affirm that history turns in a virtuous circle, the Oriental question was again put on the agenda." (Leon Trotsky, 1910) 

By June 1907, the first attempt at revolution in Russia had finally failed with the restoration of autocracy, and reaction for a long time dashed the hopes of socialists for rapid social change. The Russian revolutionary Leon Trotsky, one of the main protagonists of the 1905 revolution, was banished from Russia and took refuge in Vienna - carrying in his pocket the finished concept of his "permanent revolution."
From Vienna, he observed the current developments in the Balkans (which only a few years later would culminate in World War I) and maintained contact with Balkan social democracy. "The method of the proletariat," he wrote in 1910 in Sketches of a Political Bulgaria, "is not diplomatic moves, but is class struggle, is not Balkan wars, but Balkan revolutions." But what is meant by these class struggles? How did Trotsky imagine a revolution in the Balkans with its predominantly peasant population, on what theoretical foundations was it based?
As a starting point we wil the compare Trotskys ideas with the theories of Marx and Engels. The focus here will be on the Marx-Engelsian revolutionary concepts, as the complete social theory would go beyond the scope of this work. Also not covered will be the theories of other Marxists of the time, such as Kautsky, Plekhanov, or Lenin. Although these also had a great influence on Trockij's thinking, we will not focus on the genesis of his theories, but rather on their content.
With Marx's theories as a basis, we will then take a look at Trotsky's theory of the "permanent revolution," which he outlined in his theoretical paper Results and Prospects for Russia between 1904 and 1906. Finally, we will examine the extent to which this theory is also reflected in Trotsky's thoughts on the role of the proletariat in the Balkans, as he laid them out in various newspaper articles dating from 1908 to 1912.
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