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It wasn't just the people of Dis who would die. It was something more personal." "Myself," Ihjel said, and behind this simple word were the repeated echoes of night that Brion had been made aware of with his newly recognized ability. "My own death, not too far away. This is the wonderfully terrible price you must pay for your talent. Angst is an inescapable part of empathy.
The little Swiss was standing between his packages with his back to the wall, searching for me with anxious eyes, and when I gave him the bad news tears trickled down his face. "Was kann ich thun? Mein armes Weib hat Angst fur mich."
George and Mark argued about Giacometti. George maintained that Giacometti was better than Picasso. Mark would have none of it. "All that angst! He never met a color he didn't like cuz the color was always black. My God! I mean, for an Italian!" "He was Swiss," Jennifer said. "That explains it," Mark said. "I love you," George said. "I took Modern Art at Bowdoin," Jennifer said.
One of the "neutrals" spoke to me in German, which was a dangerous tongue in Paris. He was a Swiss who had come to Paris on business for a few days, leaving his wife in a village near Basle. It was of his wife that he kept talking. "Ach, mein armes Weib! Sie hat Angst fur mich."
"...Wie entzückend Und süss es ist, in einer schönen Seele, Verherrlicht uns zu fühlen, es zu wissen, Das uns're Fruede fremde Wangen röthet, Und uns're Angst in fremdem Busen zittert, Das uns're Leiden fremde Augen nässen." "How pale!" said Wilhelm the next morning to Otto. "Do you see, that is what people get by night-wandering?" "How so?" inquired Otto. Wilhelm made a jest of it.
He had alighted at Bordighera station from the rapide from Paris, spent the night at a third-rate hotel in order not to be recognised at the Angst or any of the smarter houses, and had met him by appointment to explain the present situation. His remarks, however, were the reverse of reassuring. What did he suspect? "I don't quite follow you, Krail," Flockart said.
The man let loose an expletive at the top of his lungs that woke the downstairs neighbor who was napping in front of a hockey game. And with manic grin born of angst and momentary abandon, he struck out the last line and its corresponding box on the 12F. His pen capped with a momentary sense of triumph, the man disappeared.
"Sie sprach zu ihm behende, Wie lasst du mich so lang In der Obrigkeit Hande? Hilf mir aus ihren Zwang, Wie du mir hast verheissen, Ich bin ja eben dein, Thu mich aus der Angst entreissen O liebster Buhle mein? Him, when the witch saw, she thought he was her familiar. She said to him quickly, "Why hast thou left me so long in the magistrate's hands?
This ship carries a cover cargo so we can land at the spaceport. This is probably a change of plan and I don't like the smell of it." There was something behind Ihjel's grumbling this time, and without conscious effort Brion could sense the chilling touch of the other man's angst. Trouble was waiting for them on the planet below.
He felt discombobulated as though this dream were of more substance than dew over the eyes that he would eventually dry from, a sandstorm within the self where, were it not for his own angst, that same regret that he felt a dozen yesterdays ago and was a constancy that would commandeer a lifetime of perennial guilt- ridden tomorrows, he would not know reality if it were to swallow him.
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