Adolf Hitler was born in April of 1889. He was the monster everyone knows, but he was also an educated man and became a "superb whistler". Apparently, it was in fashion in the pre-war Vienna. I try to imagine the cold beast he was whistling his favorite piece. I get sick to the bone.
I have always found the dance balls of the high-aristocracy of Central Europe, as one finds them pictured in movies (whose epitome to the popular public is Romi Schneider's Sissi), cold and brutal, like the distance of a cruel and immensely ruthless and beautiful princess. The blue veins in a palid skin have been sickening to me; it cannot albergate anything warm, nothing remotely like the burning love.
Lehar's melody is as evil and cold to my ears as the dark night of the whole Universe. Underneath the sweet lament of the violin and the plain, artificial colors of the dresses of singers and musicians, there lies a tin-plate heart, the kiss of a mortal viper... I imagine the monster, cleaned and shaved, tidy and superhuman, whistling the melody, and I get the horrible thrill.
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To end the night, I have search for the Grimm Brother's story, Rumpelstiltskin. I have a volume with the complete Grim's fairy tales. Pure ice. A horror story.
Oh, my God!
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