Mirschenkeunsgarnix

In his latest Christmas mini "Mir schenke uns gar nix," Werner Puschner amusingly and thoughtfully illuminates the most expensive and contemplative days of the year in nineteen stories, poems, and scenes, all presented in the finest Baden dialect. Small and less small dramas unfold in the "Christmas trifles." Here’s a little sample:

The Crooked Tip of the Christmas Tree

Instead of the tea that stands fragrant before me, I would rather have a coffee. On the flat beach, I miss the mountains. In the art exhibition, which showcases masterpieces from all countries and eras, the lighting is not as dim-bright as I imagine. The smudge on the impeccably polished hood, the little piece in the most wonderful soup, the gap between the corner and molar teeth of the fibrous remnants of the tender beef fillet, the grain in the gearbox, the stone in the shoe, the bug that motionlessly adorns the white wall, the crooked tip of the tastefully decorated Christmas tree – all of them, who forgot to give me my life, all of them, who are responsible for my inability to be completely at peace with the world, I only move forward slowly and limping. If it weren't for them, it would be up to me.