Sample Translation by Anthea Bell From Mutter, Vater, ich und sie – by Jürg Schubiger When I came into the world the world was already there. Everything was there: our whole house, the table, the chairs, the beds, the kitchen sink, the tap, all the furniture. It was all properly thought out and everything fitted together. The birch tree in the garden was there too - so were all the trees. They might not have been, after all. Or there might have been just fir trees, no beeches, no apple or pear trees, no cherry trees, no plum trees, no damson trees. Or maybe no cats, only dogs. There'd have been only a strip of sunlight on the window sill where our cat's lying at this moment. Mum and Dad were there when I arrived too. Well, of course they were. I was the baby they'd had. I knew my Dad by his yellow moustache. I knew my Mum anyway. I didn't have to ask who this person in glasses was who kept carrying me about. Of course she knew I was her little boy, she knew my name and all that. She was well prepared for me. We were pleased to meet each other. One thing that wasn't there yet when I was born was the new hi-fi system. And my sister's bed wasn't there either, because she wasn't there herself. Her name is Anna. […] What else is still missing? My sister, who isn't even in Mum's tummy yet? When I stop to think about it I feel quite dizzy. I'll save my questions for Dad. He likes thinking about these difficult things. What trees and animals are still missing from the world? That's another question. And how will they ever get their names? You can't send people back where they came from. You have to wait till they die. When my sister dies I expect her bed will go too. Then everything will be the way it was before. Except for the hi-fi system. That will stay, of course. I've got nothing against my sister. But she does annoy me sometimes. Mum says she'd never give her away. I don't think Dad would give her away either. I wouldn't give her away myself. Besides, I shouldn't think anyone would take her. I was very small when I came into the world. Everything about me was small: my trousers, my pullover, my cap, my head, and specially my hands and feet. My big toe was the size of a little toe, and my little toe was the size of a very little toe. I had a lot of growing still to do. Mum and Dad were already their proper size. They'd once been small too, of course. Only you can't really tell by looking at them now. Everything in the world fits together. There aren't any gaps anywhere. Your glasses fit your nose, the spoon fits your mouth, your behind fits your chair. Fish are right for the water, birds are right for the air, the cow fits into her pasture, people fit into their clothes, their homes and their beds. The night is right for sleeping and the day for being awake. Words are right for things. I like thinking about all that. Mum says some things don't fit together properly. There are cows without pastures and people without clothes, homes and beds. I know she's right, but I can't quite imagine it. If I could I'd fall down dead on the spot out of pity or something. Dad's shoes don't fit my feet. The books she can't read yet aren't right for my sister. I'm not right for a razor. Grown-ups fit into the world, children don't quite fit into it yet. That's why children have to go to school and be taught things. Women are right for men and men are right for women. They suit each other. Sometimes the woman suits the man better than the man suits the woman, sometimes it's the other way around. Words are right for things. They're so right that you don't usually stop to think about it. The word 'eye', for instance. I can't think of a better one. 'Eye' is just right for a big, bright, open eye. Mum knows words in other languages that all mean 'eye' too. But when I hear them I can't imagine a proper eye, only a squinting eye, or a dull eye, or a swollen eye. What happens when we tell lies? Has something gone wrong with the language then? If there's a language you can't tell lies in, I'm going to learn it. If there's a language you can tell lies in so that no one notices, I'm going to learn that too. When I learned to talk it was winter. All of a sudden I could say 'bread' and 'bye-bye' and lots of other things. It was snowing outside. I didn't know about snow yet. Mum said: That's snow. Dad told me what sort of snow it was too: powdery snow. The word 'snow' was difficult enough. But it gave you a lovely feeling when you said it, a snowball feeling, a snow-white feeling. And saying it helped you get to know about something, in this case snow. We went out into the garden under the snowflake sky. Snow! Snow! I kept on shouting the word, the white, snowflake word, over and over again, as long as it went on snowing. I can see all that in my head. The snowman standing in the garden later, and the snow-woman, and how I felt so happy I got hiccups. I still know just what it was all really like. I even know it better than what it was really like.