The different part of it though is that the whole house was in shambles. In some parts the wallpaper would be peeling and some walls had holes through...and through. The couch was covered in glass and sawdust as well as the floor. Outside my room, the remains of a wooden chair lie in a neatly gather pile in the corner. A clean path was cleared from my room to the dining table, probably by Mother. That day or any other day that I ask her what really went on that night leaves me with no hope in. ”“I agree,” Wassermann said. “Yet there is a deep truth in the plays.”“That’s what Freud says, isn’t it?”“Yes. Did you read his sex-studies? Did he see the Schnitzler or did Arthur read Freud?”It was too empty for me. I soon excused myself and returned home. I began reading Wassermann’s stories about sisters, but it was too depressing. I didn’t need realism. Perhaps there was something lighter.*“Sir?”“Yes, Josef?”“There is a telephone call for you.”“And?”“It is Frau Anderson.”“Ah.”“She says she. More

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