The Architects (European Classics)
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East German uprising on June 17, 1953, he took on a high-profile role as an advocate of socialism and a castigator of those who were failing it. His regular newspaper column, in which he boldly exposed inadequacies in local and national government, may have won him wide acclaim, but it also brought him into dis-favor. The knowledge that he was writing a novel about the June uprising gave the authorities even greater cause for concern. Heym completed the novel in English in 1958 and then set about
projected center of town, with the Government and Party Building as it would tower cloudward, its Gothic conception appealing to the very emotions in man that the creators of the ancient cathedrals aroused in their contemporaries. And after Wollin thus was prepared to see today’s effort in its great context, he was to be shown today’s achievement: World Peace Road, both the completed parts and the sections under construction. “The big tour, in other words,” said Hiller, and thought: Why Julia?
stood about, struggling with the problem of how to hold their plates and simultaneously cut the roast beef. Arnold took a roundabout lane to one of the center tables. Dispensing greetings and smiles, he threaded his way past Karl-August Mischnick, the poet laureate, who combined the pompousness of a public figure with the dirty skin and noisy manners of a bohemian; past the internationally recognized physicist Professor Louis Kerr, who, slightly besotted, was followed about by his sad-lipped,
luck. I escaped being drenched by squeezing through the busted door into the ground floor of the lighthouse—it was dark and dusty, but at least dry. Well, and here I am.” “Here you are,” he repeated, as if it were a new discovery. He felt flattered; there’s no one so low-down, he thought, that some other creature won’t run after him. “You’re in a mess, John, aren’t you?” she asked, finally. “I am,” he confirmed. She stopped and faced him, her body almost touching his. “Why don’t you come to
Sundstrom, framed in the doorway. In the background, visible over his shoulder, the face of Mrs. Schloth, like that on an old Dutch genre painting: half curious, half knowing. Then the face disappeared, the door closed. “Daddy—Daddy—Daddy. . . .” Julian was near sobs. Sundstrom lifted him up and hugged him. “Now, now”—his voice clogged up—“everything will be all right now, son.” He set the boy down but held on to him. “You look fine, Julia—sun-tanned, clear-eyed, a little tired perhaps. . . .”