שלושה סיפורים
אלכס אפשטיין

הסופר המבריק
גם ספרו האחרון, "חשמל סטטי" שמו, נכשל כישלון חרוץ. אבל אז קיבל מקדמה של שש ספרות מחברות הטבק, כדי לנסוע ולכתוב מדריך לכל הברים ובתי הקפה שעוד מותר לעשן בהם בארצות הברית. כמובן, הוא עצמו עישן לא יותר משתיים-שלוש סיגריות בשבוע, כלל לא התכוון לעזוב את העיירה שבה התגורר עם אשתו ושני ילדיו, ומפעם לפעם, כשחיי המשפחה אפשרו, היה יושב בערב בחדר העבודה ומנסה, בינתיים בלא הצלחה יתרה, לחבר מסה קצרה על האור בסיפוריו של אנטון צ'כוב

טבע דומם
בסתיו 1890 התיישב זיגמונד פרויד בחורשה של עצים בשלכת והחל מקלף באולר תפוח. בתוך התפוח—הוא חתך מהצד חתיכה דקה והציץ פנימה—יה עוד תפוח, קטן יותר, אדמדם ועסיסי, עם כמה כתמים כהים יותר של ריקבון. אין דבר פלאי יותר (ומבעית יותר) ממטאפורה שאתה מחזיק בידך. פרויד מיהר להשליך את התפוח אל היער, ולא הזכירו אלא באחד הסיפורים שסיפר לפני השינה לבתו, אנה, שנולדה ב-1895—כמה חודשים אחרי שגילה את הלא-מודע. ייתכן מאוד שהפרי התגלגל גם לאחד מהחלומות שאנה פרויד סיפרה לאביה כשהיתה בת חמש עשרה, אבל גם אם כך, פרויד, שעדיין לא השלים באותה תקופה עם העובדה שבתו מגלה עניין בכתביו, השמיט את התפוח שבתוכו תפוח מדיווחיו על .טבע הנפש

על קין והבל
במדרחוב, בחלון ראווה של חנות יד-שניה, ראה רמינגטון שנראתה חדשה לגמרי. האדם האחרון בעולם ניפץ את החלון וסחב את מכונת הכתיבה כל הדרך בחזרה לקומה הרביעית של מלון החמישה כוכבים שגר בו. מיד כשנתקל באחד ממחסומי הכתיבה הרגילים שלו, השליך אותה מהחלון. פעם בשנה ביקר את עץ הלימון שליד גזעו קבר לפני כמה שנים את הקורא היחיד
שלו, האדם הלפני אחרון בעולם
 

The Brilliant Author

His latest book, Static Electricity was its title, failed miserably too. But then he received a six-figure advance from the tobacco companies, to travel and write a guide of all the U.S bars and cafes that you can still smoke in. Of course, he himself smoked no more than two or three cigarettes a week, had no intention of leaving the town where he lived with his wife and two children, and once in a while, when family life enabled it, he would sit in the evening in his study and try, so far with limited success, to put together a short essay on the role of light in Anton Chekhov’s stories.


Still Nature

In the fall of 1890 Sigmund Freud sat in a copse of trees shedding leaves in fall and started peeling an apple with a pocketknife. Inside the apple—he cut a piece off the side and peeked in—there was another apple, smaller, red and juicy, with some darker stains of decay. There is nothing as wondrous (and as terrifying) as a hand-held metaphor. Freud was quick to throw the apple into the forest, and didn't mention it except in one of the bedtime stories he told his daughter, Anna, who was born in 1895, a few months before he discovered the unconscious. It is indeed possible that the fruit rolled also into one of the dreams that Anna Freud told her father about when she was fifteen, but even if that is so, Freud, who did not yet recognize his daughter's interest in his writings, left the apple-within-an-apple out of his reports on the nature of the spirit.


On Kane and Abel

On the pedestrian mall, in the window of a second-hand shop, he saw a Remington that looked completely new. The last man on earth broke the window and carried the typewriter all the way back to the fourth floor of the five-star hotel where he stayed. As soon as he encountered one of his ordinary writer's blocks, he threw it out of the window. Once a year he visited the lemon tree, by the trunk of which he buried his only reader, the penultimate man on earth, a few years ago.

Translated by Assaf Gavron
 

The Brilliant Author

His last book, Static Electricity, also failed miserably. But then he got a six-figure advance from tobacco companies to travel and write a guide to all the bars and cafes in the US where you could still smoke. Of course, he himself smoked only two or three cigarettes a week, really didn’t intend to leave the town where he lived with his wife and two children, and now and then, when family life allowed, he would sit in his study in the evening and try, so far without much success, to compose a brief essay on light in the stories of Anton Chekhov.


Still Life

In the autumn of 1890, Sigmund Freud sat down in a grove of trees shedding their leaves and began peeling an apple with a pocket knife. Inside the apple—he cut a thin piece from the side and peeped inside—was another, smaller apple, reddish and juicy, with a few darker spots of rot. There’s nothing more wonderful (and more terrifying) than a metaphor you hold in your hand. Freud quickly threw the apple away into the forest, and didn’t mention it except in one of the bedtime stories he told his daughter, Anna, born in 1895—a few months after he discovered the unconscious. It may well be that the fruit also wound up in one of the dreams Anna Freud told her father when she was fifteen, but even if so, Freud, who hadn’t yet reconciled himself at that time with the fact that his daughter was interested in his writings, left the apple inside the apple out of his reports on the nature of the soul.


On Cain and Abel

On the street mall, in the display window of a second-hand store, he saw a Remington that looked brand new. The last person in the world smashed the window and dragged the typewriter all the way back to the fourth floor of the five-star hotel where he lived. As soon as he encountered one of his usual writers’ blocks, he threw it out the window. Once a year, he visited the lemon tree where, a few years before, he had buried his only reader, the next-to-the-last person in the world.

Translated by Barbara Harshav