In his long-awaited new novel, renowned German author Ingo Schulze provides a rich and nuanced panorama of a world in transition.

East Germany, January 1990. Enrico Türmer--man of the theater, aspiring novelist--has turned his back on the art world and joined a startup newspaper. Before long, the former aesthete and rebel becomes obsessed with personal gain, and in a series of letters to his sister, a friend, and a would-be lover, Enrico vividly muses on his capitalist ventures and latent worldly ambitions. As Schulze peels away the layers of Enrico's previous existence, his antihero's reinvention comes to embody all the questionable aspects not only of life in the old Germany, but of life in the Germany just taking form.

From the Trade Paperback edition.

[Saturday, Jan. 6. '90][To Vera]

. . . like that?" Instead of trotting along behind us as usual so that he could demand a reward for every step he took, Robert bounded ahead like a puppy. We had to cross a hollow, the snow had a bluish sparkle and came up to our calves. Suddenly Robert gave a yell and started up the opposite slope. The moldy soil beneath the snow had not frozen. Michaela and I were running now too. When we stopped there was only the white field up ahead and grayish pink sky above us. We kept climbing, crossed a dirt road, and made straight for the woods. The wind swept the snow from the winter planting. I had to work hard not to be left behind. But the two of them didn't turn back at the edge of the woods as we had agreed, but entered it. And so I also followed the sign pointing to Silver Lake.

The pond was frozen over. Before I could say anything Robert was skidding across the ice, with Michaela right behind. Robert, who is very proud that his voice is breaking, crowed something that I didn't understand. Michaela shouted that I was chicken. But I didn't want to risk it and stayed onshore. The snow hid most of the trash lying around, but there was a toy horse jutting up out of it. I was just bending down when I heard my name, turned around--and something struck me in the eye. It burned like hell.

I couldn't see anything. Michaela thought I was putting on a show. It was snow, she shouted, just snow, a snowball!

It took me a couple of seconds to pull myself together. I was happy to feel Robert take my hand and begin to lead me. Not until that moment did I finally seem to realize that your letter wasn't a dream, but that I had actually received it and that it was in my breast pocket. Yes, it was as if I had started to breathe again only now.

Plodding along behind us, Michaela told me not to carry on so. She probably thought I was going to cry. She thinks I'm a hypochondriac, even a malingerer, and was afraid I was just looking for some new excuse for calling in sick again.

She panicked in the middle of the field when a mutt from the village came racing toward us. He was barking and jumping around like crazy, but I was able to quickly quiet him down. Then I couldn't get rid of him. The mangy animal escorted us all the way to the road leading downhill into town. Robert waved, and right away a car stopped. The woman sat ramrod straight behind the wheel and gave me a nod in the rearview mirror. The throbbing pain in my eye felt like my heart pounding inside my head. But the pain, or so it seemed to me, was something external, not anything that could hurt me, anything that could upset me, no matter what happened with my eye--because I have you!

At the entrance to the polyclinic I ran right into Dr. Weiss, the physician who usually attests that I'm too sick to work. "You don't lose an eye that easily," he said, grabbing me by the shoulder. He told me that I normally wouldn't find anyone here at this time on a Friday, and that I should hold still--a doctor's a doctor. "Let's have a look," he ordered, and turned me to the light. People going in and out shoved past us, I blinked into the fluorescent fixture. "Just a little vein," he muttered, "just a burst vein. Nothing more than that!" Weiss left me standing there on the threshold as if he regretted he had even bothered with me. And called back that there was no need to be a crybaby, handing Michaela her triumph. By then it didn't even hurt anymore.

The snow has already thawed again. The grass under the clotheslines looks like muck garnished with spinach. I have to drive Michaela to her performance. How easy everything is when I can think of...

"Ingo Schulze is an epic storyteller!"

Ingo Schulze, born in Dresden in 1962, studied classical philology at the University of Jena. His first book, 33 Moments of Happiness, won two German literary awards, the prestigious Alfred Döblin Prize and the Ernst Willner Prize for Literature. He lives in Berlin.

From the Trade Paperback...