I said: "Thats for me to worry about."

The gentleman said: "Youre wrong, Ive been thinking since youve been siting here how one might get rid of you. Do you think that a man without legs makes a sympathetic picture? Has the right to live? On the contrary, you create a terrible disturbance for the aesthetic feelings of your fellow human beings."

I said: "I am a full professor of ethics and aesthetics at the university. May I introduce myself?"

The gentleman said: "How are you going to do that? Clearly you cannot imagine how impossible you are, in your condition."

I looked sadly at my stumps.



II



Soon the lady opposite me said:

"To have no legs must be a very odd feeling."

I said: "Yes."

The lady said: "I would not like to touch a man who had no legs."

I said: "I am very clean."

The lady said: "I must overcome a great erotic disgust to speak with you, not to mention looking at you."

I said: "Really..."

The lady said: "I dont believe that you are a criminal. You might be a wise and, in your original condition, nice person. But I could not, with the best will in the world, have relations with you, because you have no legs."

I said: "One gets used to everything."

The lady said: "That a man has no legs causes a naturally sensitive woman to feel an inexplicable, profound terror. As though you had committed a disgusting sin."

I said: "But I am innocent. I lost one leg in the excitement of assuming my professorial chair for the first time, the other I lost when, sunk in thought, I found that important aesthetic law which led to basic changes in our discipline."

The lady said: "What is the name of that law?"

I said: "The law says: everything depends on the structure of the soul and the mind. If soul and mind are noble, a body must be considered beautiful, no matter how humped and misshapen it may be."

The lady ostentatiously lifted her dress and revealed, right up to the top of her thigh, sheathed sumptuously in silk, wonderful legs, that towered, like branches, from her ripe body.

At the same time the lady finally said: "You may be right, although one might as easily argue the opposite. In any case, a person with legs is totally different from one without them."

Then, striding proudly away, she left me sitting there.



Savior of the theater

Theaters should stop competing with the cinema. By doing so, they are thereby achieving —rejoice, friends of the theater the opposite of what they want: they are perishing.

The best way for these theaters to maintain themselves is to make concessions to the cinema; they make neither concessions in the selection of plays, nor in scope. This can be explained. What movies giving in to the instincts of the crowd offer can never be produced in the same dimensions and amount by theater, bound as it is by its limits. Shaking its head, the public notices the helpless effort. And runs to the movies. For what should bind the public most to the theater: art, is for the most part shamefully neglected. (As when makers of felt hats had the idea, when straw hats were worn by everyone, to bring to the market felt hats shaped and colored like straw hats.)

Before movies came along, the many second-class theaters were by far a much greater danger to the theater. Characteristically organizations of this kind are threatened most by movies. Some will remain for a while, because of the skill of their directors or through other accidents. Second-class theater undoubtedly will die out in a short time. The public, which found this sort of thing to their taste, has, in the movies, a much more luxurious substitute: death and homicide in abundance. Comedy until you burst. Juicy melodrama. And the movie actor with his heavy-handed emphases for example, in a tragic, many-colored story of adultery (in period costumes) surpasses the hammy Hamlet in heart-gripping effect.

Theaters that want to survive are compelled to think again about what they are doing. Directors must cultivate the pure art of theater. Actors in contrast to "filmers", or better still "ciners" or "cinekers" to maintain their reputations, must abandon all tricks and gimmicks. The public that goes to the theater in spite of movies is discriminating and cant be taken in.

There cannot be too many movies. As a member of the cultural police I would order that half a dozen be opened on every street.

The more people rush into the movies, the more a part of the fraud will become tiresome. Of the hundred thousands who throng the movies, a few hundred every year will return once more to the theater.

The number of theaters in the future will be smaller, but their average quality will be disproportionately better. The incompetent directors, dramatists, and other squabblers, who until now were parasites on the theater, will find in movie-making a place more suited to their capabilities. The many mediocre and bad actors who now help keep prices down and block the way will become wonderful cinikers. A talented shoemaker in the future will not go to theater schools but to film schools. Lispers, cripples, hunchbacks, mutes, and similar handicapped mimes will be able, more easily and more happily, to find relief in the movies.

(The cinema of boundless possibilities)

But the theater, thanks to the movies free of hindering ballast and harmful influences, will have to return to the sacred dramatic art.



CHAPTER FROM A FRAGMENTARY NOVEL translated by Harry Radford

Doctor Bryller did become a senior teacher after all. A furious enemy of his had predicted such a destiny years ago, in the out-of-date periodical "The Other A". At that time he was deeply distressed about this insight of his enemy, the truth of which, after thinking intensely about it, he could not deny. He wrote an intemperate article which was not accepted for publication anywhere. And one evening he got a little drunk on French sparkling wine, to kill the innate fear which prevented him from beating up his enemy. But his cowardice did not leave him, even in drunkenness. Unspeakably unhappy, he gave up the idea of taking revenge.

Now in earnest he began to live a solitary and transfigured life. He let this be known in an in flammatory manner, just as he had so often done when announcing the agenda of a new trend in art. And with the profoundest solemnity, as though he were at an important funeral. He even exploited his failure in order to feel superior. In point of fact, he lived hardly differently than before. The only change was that he had actually become more hopeless in an emotional sense. Now he had to calm himself with the thought: Even if I could achieve what I wanted to, I would achieve nothing. While previously his line of thinking ran: Unfortunately it is indeed true that I can achieve nothing, but what I can achieve is rather good.

Practically minded as Berthold Bryller was in certain ways, he was able to cast his weaknesses in common human terms, so that the despair, which at first had revealed itself in hysterical attacks of a special kind, soon gave way—except in rare conditions—to a feeling of lofty indifference. He still wrote his impudent and careless letters, which did him considerable harm; he published particularly clever, slightly demented essays in the few journals with whose editors he didn't happen to be quarreling with; he founded both clubs which then expelled him, and periodicals in which he was attacked. Everywhere, and in other ways, he continued to make himself impossible even by his very presence. The uninitiated might interpret his absence from the Caf Klchen as a sign of his inward transformation, if it were not for a poster fixed to the door of the Cafe:

No admittance to Bryller!

which suggested that an argument with the manager was the reason for his absence.

But gradually the hopelessness of his literary existence became inescapable to Doctor Bryller, who was certainly no idiot. In addition, his funds for the foreseeable future were exhausted. So, incapable of killing himself if it were to become necessary, he had to focus his energy on working to earn a living. His writing activity was financially unsuccessful. He would not have the heart to take a permanent literary job—something like an editorship—aside from the fact that no one would take him. What other option did he have but to use the rest of his money to continue his interrupted university training, take the necessary state examinations, and then find himself a secure and pleasant position as a senior teacher. In point of fact, this profession seemed thoroughly comfortable to him. Convinced of the incorrigibility of human imperfection, which he had experienced first hand, and utterly convinced of the complete uselessness of physical and intellectual striving, he gladly gave free rein to any and all base impulse. He could satisfy his cravings for power, his other ambitions, even his erotic needs, most readily as a senior teacher.

Despite his moodiness and frequent peculiar behaviour, Doctor Bryller was one of the most popular teachers at the Horror High School. The small pupils idolized him, the bigger ones clung to him passionately. Of course there also were pupils who didn't like him. For example, the second-year pupil Max Mechenmal whose face he had slapped a few times without obvious reason. This could have had the most unpleasant consequences for Doctor Berthold Bryller. On the occasion of the teacher meeting called by director Rudolf Richter after the highly indignant complaint of the pupil, a large majority of the colleagues, unlike the pupils, turned out to have unfriendly feelings for the Doctor. When he, questioned about why he had pupil, smilingly replied that Mechenmal displeased him, they wanted to recommend to the authorities, following the suggestion of the respected colleague Lothar Laaks, that he be removed for a considerable time for the purpose of mental recovery in a sanatorium. Only the happenstance that the aggrieved pupil Mechenmal was hated equally by teachers and pupils, because of his overfriendly awkwardness and his malicious secret rabble-rousing, impeded such a decision. Although colleague Laaks—the only one who found words of appreciation for Mechenmal—advocated it heatedly with the use of much dirty dialectic. The colleagues were content to warn Doktor Bryller of the inappropriateness of his behavior.

One day, about a half year before the final incarceration of Berthold Bryller for life, in an insane asylum subsidized by the state, a yelling arose in the schoolyard of the Horror High School. A crowd of mostly smaller pupils surged behind a dwarfish, care-worn, lop-sided boy whose back showed the slight beginnings of a hump. They teased him cheerfully and spitefully—the words were unintelligible because of the noise but surely malicious. He was pushed so that he stumbled. Many older high school pupils looked on, amused at the lively rough-housing. Even senior teacher Laaks, who was supervising, failed to suppress an amused smile. In a window was the motionless face of Doctor Bryller.

The malformed boy continued walking without defending himself. With bent head. Often he had to wipe his eyes with his hand. Only once, when one of most impudent youths who else but the second-year pupil Mechenmal—spat into his face while the others raucously clapped approval, did he throw himself sobbing deeply against the attacker, who immediately ran away. Through the middle of the shrieking crowd, which blocked his way in all directions, the crying humpback pursued his schoolmate. Perhaps he would have reached Mechenmal if the perennial fourth-year pupil Spinoza Spass hadn't suddenly grasped his hump as if with a hook. Spinoza Spass grinned comfortably and maliciously into the monkey-shaped, longingly apathetic face, as he propelled the little despairing Kohn like a weight slowly through the sunny spring air. By this heroic deed he became one of the most famous fourth-year pupils of the Horror High School.

Some sympathetic older high school pupils put an early end to the strange spectacle. The gaunt, pale senior Paulus snatched the tiny unfortunate boy from the venemously peering Spass and threatened to beat up anyone who annoyed the lop-sided little Kohn further. For fear of Paulus and some other like-minded boys, they left the flushed humpback in peace—at least for the time being. He walked along, pressing himself against the gray walls. And would have most happily sunk into the ground. When the school bell rang, he was glad to disappear into the classrooms.

The senior Peter Paulus was already walking along the somewhat dark corridor to the spacious room in which the parish priest Leopold Lehmann gave Hebrew lessons to the pupils in the upper classes, when the senior teacher Laaks caught up with him, called to him, and engaged him in a mysterious, very excited conversation. Laaks was apparently reprimanding Paulus. It was strange, however, that he didn't look like a teacher chastising a pupil, but rather like a mistrustful relative who believes himself taken advantage of in an inheritance matter. The behavior of the senior was also by no means the behavior of a subordinate...

The discussion between the two must have lasted a very long time. For when Peter Paulus entered more pale than usual and explained that his late arrival was caused by an official conversation, the priest Lehmann had long since concluded the topic of that days curriculum. He was engaged in a religious discussion which, following the modern trend, he linked regularly to the Hebrew lesson. They were speaking at the moment about God and the nature of student life, but came, after a few unimportant discussions, to the main topic: abortion and the inner life, which gave them pause. The discussion was triggered by a report in an art journal that someone had cut out and brought for the purpose of discussion. The priest read out loud:



Collapse of the famous dancer Lola Lal

A correspondent has wired us that the famed variety dancer Lola Lal, who also appears under the name Lo Llal and whose maiden name is Leni Levi, had to be taken to a lunatic asylum, which caused a tremendous sensation. The pitiful woman had been found toward morning in a wheat field, stark naked in her birthday suit, crying bitterly and smoking a large cigar. Mr Gottschalk Schulz, a poet of sensitivity, has published a moving poem about this in the "Newspaper for Enlightened Citizens". It has a piquant attraction because—so it is rumored and probably correctly—the poet maintained quite warm relations with the poor and charming dancer. Therefore this beautiful poem will not be withheld from our readers:-The poem had the heading: Smoke on the Field. The priest didn't read it out, however, because it was too smutty. Also it was not relevant. Instead he read:

As I learn further from a special, authentic source in the late evening, the cause of the mental collapse of the dancer is said to have been a fright caused by a burglary that happened after an abortion that was carried out successfully. A court-ordered investigation is underway.

After this the priest started to talk about abortion by saying: "Human knowledge reaches its pinnacle in the realization that he is the most highly developed earthly being. No one can deny this." He didn't notice the deliberately exaggerated and suppressed laughter of a few boys. And he slowly continued. He condemned abortion as disagreeable to God from a religious and socio-political point of view. In conclusion, he said: "We are modern. We don't shrink from treating offensive questions with moral seriousness."

The only one who contradicted him was Peter Paulus. He fell—outwardly calm—into such a rage that he said: "If I were a doctor, Father, I myself would—". In reply the priest said heatedly: "Do you believe in God, Paulus?" And Peter Paulus said only: "No". A few minutes before the end of the class, he was expelled from the Hebrew lesson because of social democratic leanings and godlessness.

He left defiantly. Slammed the door.

When the widowed prison chaplain Christian Kohn had to give his only child, who was mentally ill and had heart disease, to an institution, he adopted—nobody knows why—a little cripple. There was much gossip. The most obstinate rumor was that the cripple, Kuno, was a natural son of the chaplain. The mother was said to be the popular Trude, who had been convicted of manslaughter after shooting her disloyal pimp. Trude had been pardoned, with the rejoicing approval of the whole village, because it had turned out that she was pregnant. It was claimed that the sympathetic chaplain had caused Trude's pregnancy. But this was not proved.

Kuno Kohn spent the half-awake first part of his youth in the dreary stone rooms and yards of the penitentiary. His adoptive father had little concern for the boy. He was absent for weeks at a time. Left in the care of a morose servant, whose main occupation was to manage the miserable financial affairs of the chaplain, and lacking sufficient care, lacking playmates, lacking stimulation and love, the crippled child could not develop. Remained always dwarfish. He slunk around, pale and dreamy. Intimidated and timorous. Toward evening, bold shadows and horrific noises teemed on the twisty stairs with their grated windows, and in the great gloomy halls and passages. A more robust boy would have ignored such peripheral things, if he had noticed them at all. But on Kuno Kohn the most insignificant thing left a deep impression, the most minor thing had meaning, and horrified him. Everywhere and from everything he feared disaster. Nothing was familiar to him. The eternal fear made him into a little darting ghost himself, and gave his consumptive eyes a phosphorescent glow. If he was sent out late at night, perhaps to get milk or kerosene, he would pray in feverish fervor to dear God. He would come back breathless and white as chalk.

More than anything, Kuno Kohn was afraid of the thousand-fold darkness before falling asleep. In the past, a tiny lamp had been put into the room for him; the reddish melancholy glow calmed him a little. On the soft wall the strangest grimaces and battles appeared, but also tin soldiers marching and a delightful jumble of fairies and cake plates and queens, until sleep came. After a time, the chaplain decided not to allow any more such mollycoddling of the soul of his son. Kuno would have to live in the dark. Gone was the tiny bit of visibility. The innumerable incomprehensible events of chaos rolled about the little boy. More of the world pressed into the small bedroom of the humpback than the entire day had contained. Kuno Kohn had lost the body that was supposed to lie in the bed: only fright and helplessness and longing were left. The worst was when the desolate indistinctness took on the shape of visions or touches. The Kohn boy then cried out despairingly. Either the cry was not heard by anyone or it carried no clear meaning. In prisons there are always yells in the night from somewhere. Kuno often lay for a long time, until the unfathomable hole, which had so many incomprehensible contents, admitted the lively pictures that brought dreams and sleep: burglars, or perhaps a hackney cab journey in the sun, a visit to his little ill brother, a game with street children, the dear, sad angel eyes of Maria Mller, for whom he would gladly die.

The prisoners were Kuno Kohn's good acquaintances. Not the guards; these were indeed quite friendly to him but there was an instinctive suspicion underneath. On the other hand, the ruffians and gamblers, sex killers and robbers, the most famous burglars, and most of the other distinguished old-established residents welcomed the little humpback warmly, by a slight nod of the head or almost imperceptible grin, whenever he came to watch with wide-open dreamy eyes the silent gray work. Only the fences, profiteers, confidence men, defrauders, swindlers, most of the bankrupts and some of the pimps, remained indifferent. In the course of the year, Kuno Kohn had made friends particularly with the youthful burglar Benjamin. The two often sat for hours together. If the guards looked the other way... Benjamin spoke enthusiastically to the humpback. Of sun. And freedom. And of the redemption of mankind. Kuno Kohn arranged Benjamin's secret traffic with the outside world and did various favors for his friend; he provided him with cigarettes, books, small tools. When once a volume of Goethe and a little cigarette ash were found in Benjamin's cell, Kohn was suspected. After the escape of the burglar, which happened shortly afterwards, which could have happened only with outside help, a message was sent to the clergyman. He forbade his son the company of the prisoners. The guards were not allowed to let him in any more.

The great problems that tormented Kuno Kohn constantly, as soon as he was able to get his thoughts together to some degree, were mainly death and God. At the age of four or five he did not believe in death, at least not in his own. And he prayed to the dear God daily before he lay down to sleep. "I am small, my heart is pure, no one shall live there but God alone". But if he had done something during the day that seemed sinful to him—and that almost always happened—he would add (sitting in bed or standing if it was particularly bad) long and remorseful monologues until he fell asleep, overfatigued, with fingers still folded and tears in his eyes. If darkness and fear came, he always prayed. Gradually his doubts increased, to the point where he had to believe in his own death and abandon his faith in God. When he started school, there began the fullness of suffering which some children find there.



NOTES ABOUT THE NOVEL

Lunatic asylum: Bryller, Lola.

Drowning in the sea: Kohn, Maria.

Suicide: Schulz, Paulus.

Surviving: Spinoza Spass, Laaks, Mechenmal.

I. Appearance in the schoolyard. Peter Paulus for Kohn, Laaks against him (Kohn had filled his pants, Max Mechenmal). Later, Kohn joining Paulus against Laaks. Jealousy scenes. Because of Laaks' intrigues, Paulus fails the College Board Exam and shoots himself dead. Farewell letters (touching for Kohn, official funeral, Kohn runs away from it).

Senior teacher Dr. Bryller takes no action, even encourages Paulus, his favorite pupil, to kill himself: Kill yourself before it is too late (as long as you are still capable of it). It doesn't have any purpose, of course, but will give you something like satisfaction. (God is a temporal phenomenon.)

The corpse was carried well-packed in a box to the graveyard, where it was buried for eternity under a cloakroom marker.

II. Scene Kohn, Laaks in bathtub.

Laaks made an attack on Max's femininity.—Laaks and Kohn meet. Kohn greets him, Laaks catches up. Invites him to visit. "No, Mr Laaks". Kohn trembles—"Would you like to take a bath?"—"I have already bathed."—Moonlight shines on the two in the bathtub. In hairy nakedness—his hairy legs, like a woman's—a man's man.

III. Scene in homosexual bar.

(You see, my boy, that's life—he pinched him tenderly on the bottom.)

IV. Abortion scene.

The variety dancer Lola Lal: The clever woman said jokingly: When women break down, they remain standing for a long time.—Farewell, young lady. Lola Lal, alias Lene Levi, runs as though insane.

V. Burglary scene at Lola's: —The professional burglar Benjamin, lying under the bed, didn't know what to think. His head shook and his skull hit a senseless bedpost, which gave off a fixed tone. Benjamin was frightened. The lamp fell over. The curtains ignited immediately.

Suddenly she (Lola Lal) also became frightened. Everything slurped up by licking fire. Ran out. Shut the door. Locked it. Twice. Senseless. Suddenly, pitiful masculine shouts from behind the door: Help, help. She screamed: Murderer, murderer, murderer. Ran. Onto the street in the peace of the evening: People coming out of houses. Helpless. She ran by all of them. Murderer, murderer... A crazy woman came up behind her. A dog catcher was able to grasp her. Murderer, murderer. Took her in an open hackney cab and through the town. Murderer, murderer. Windows go up, cars stop. Running about. Into lunatic section of the hospital.

In the meantime, burning room. Burglar Benjamin thrashing at the window: Help. Forbidden action. Help. One shouldnt become a social democrat that way. Wailing: a police trap, to let decent people burn in a fire. Help, help. Fire department comes. Help. Water sprays him. From the frying pan into the fire. He can even jump right now into the river. Drowns.

When the half-decayed corpse was pulled from the water, the doctor, still drunk, began to make bad jokes. Dr. Bryller vomited.

All talking, thinking, writing is useless; a corpse pulled from the water, lying dead in front of you, ruins everything written with its terrible distortion. See how the face and the hands are rigid as though clamped in iron! As though they are screaming to get out of themselves!

VI. Lunatic asylum scene: the insane red-haired sister of Martin Mller (Maria).

"The earth is getting dark", said Maria, the insane red-haired sister of Martin Mller. (She loves her brother). She strokes little Kohn, but says: "I can love only saints". All around were the melodies of the evening, which conceal everything as with a silk veil: the green trees, the longing earth, the bench with the red-haired girl and the little humpback.

In the lunatic asylum: one inmate, a lady with hair already rather gray, said: "If one stops here too long, one stays."—A modern writer who imagines he is there only to study the milieu, but who has, in reality, a softening of the brain, etc.

VII. Kohn's first lover (on Laaks' order): Hysterical person, the bugs really crept around in the kitchen.

VIII. The end of Dr. Bryller.

IX. Schulz the writer and Kitty the cocotte.

(Kitty said "Not so loud" as Schulz was telling her about God.)

X. Lecture of the scholar Neumann:

Sensation: A barely sixteen year old scholar named Neumann speaks about maternity regulations and the bringing up of children—it doesn't seem to him the place to talk about fallen girls—women have understood that it is right and proper to stay where they belong—the misery of prostitution—posed gestures. Voice. Raise the eyebrows. I must express myself in extremes. I must decidedly condemn zionism as a special variety of prostitution. Maternity regulations: The mother must be protected against her children (new sensational concept), a lady said.—She, a German specialist, contributed to the debate: "In the place where you have left your faith, there you must fetch it".

XI. Kohns second lover: Teenager (in one hand she had an illustrated astronomy text).

He loved her in this way: He frequently made a note if she said something funny to use it later (literarily). But in a cafe on a pond—everywhere it was already evening, and haze hung like veil on the trees and tables and waiters—he took out his notebook from the torn inside pocket of his overcoat and read to her quietly... She laughed and he laughed—more quietly and sadly. Each thought: This isn't the right thing... she thought further: he isn't thoughtful... he thought further: the poor thing, how distant she is from me... then they went rowing.

XII. Bar scene in Nuremberg: Kunstmayer.

They are all blissfully drunk and can hardly speak clearly anymore. Slurring, someone says: "Dede do dad". What are these brutish sleepers worth?—"See how the gaze of this worker is turned inward like an ox's eye ", said Paulus.

"The upper-crust ten thousand rule the world", grumbled the waiter bitterly; then he played a wild variation of "Sweetie, You Are the Apple of My Eye" on a mouth organ. From time to time, he beat against the edge of a table. He rubbed his hand clean on his sleeve or trouser leg.

Karl Kunstmayer, a revue performer down on his luck: I like to tell dirty jokes... a great guy, philosophically tip-top, but is too ideal-They were in a melancholy mood. Kunstmayer sang quietly: "The girls like this so much".

XIII. Drowning in the sea.

I am afraid that the girl has also drowned. My rival had an accident at sea (drowned). "It is vulgar that you can at most only make a poem about this, or suddenly find the ending for a story", yelled the dead Kohn. While they walked along, they found white newspaper flyers about the event everywhere.—"That is a brutality", said another. "This is the correct expression".—"Finally!" sighed another, relieved. Kohn yelled: "But I don't want to have an ending for a story. That is vulgar. I'm losing my mind. I want to inflame you. I want to torment you, not satisfy you. You must moan and wail. You must dissolve in pain." The dead Kohn was not noticed.



Detective Daniel

A thunderstorm was making a racket. The detective Daniel woke with a start from his sleep. He said: "Damned disturbance of the peace". There was an agitated knock on the door. The dancer Lola Lal came in.

"There are much too few burglars", detective Daniel said. "There are fewer murderers than you think", Daniel said, calming the anxious woman.



Max Mechenmal

He took the young thing, after he had first inquired about her age, having in mind only erotic things, planning to speak words of love to her and privately making fun of it; in other words, he is a downright bad fellow. Somewhat proud of knowing just how bad a character he was, he calmed himself down and decided to rape the girl.



Berthold Bryller

"Kuno Kohn is the same in green as pupil Else Lasker is in blue", Bryller said.

If he wanted to get rid of a girl, he told her in a wonderfully touching way about his syphilis, presenting himself as a martyr who is making a sacrifice for the sake of her health. Most girls, crying, took him for an important and very noble man. Only one asked impudently one time why he didn't say that before.

Contrast between the devil-may-care skillful nihilism of Bryller and the pure despair of Paulus.



Senior teacher Laaks

I have longing, love and who knows what else for her.—Funny things could happen.

Lola Lal

She boasted about her now-and-then and piece-wise virginity.

She said: as already mentioned, I am visibly frightened.—I find this silly, with good reason.—These really short lines.—He loves me only erotically.—In fact, I always lie.—He was very fond of me.—As is well known, every dancer has a friend.—

THE END