Schreiben im britischen Exil

Do not look at the names, look beyond them, look deeper. I do not want to exaggerate but, believe me, there is a story behind each story, almost a book behind each book. Where has it been conceived and when? In burning homes, in the concentration camp? Where has it been written? In a railway station waiting room, shipping company waiting room, the passport control office waiting room, in how many waiting rooms, in how many rooms, in how long and sordid a series of boarding houses, changing as faces change yet remaining always diabolically equal? You know what I mean — the old paper, dull and tearing, the mirror blind, plugs blocked, the souls of past tennants lurking in all the cupboards, people squabbling next door, and someone having a piano lesson. There these books of ours have been typed, corrected, wrapped for posting, unwrapped again when returned accompanied by that polite little printed note. All this, and the waiting and the hope, and the frustration, if not worse, lies behind these books. I think it is because of this that they are such a scanty and puny lot, and they are the healthiest, the ones who survive. So many were stillbom, the authors having been pressed into a labour gang, beaten to death in Germany, starved to death in Poland, or committed suicide while of sound mind; the manuscripts having been lost, destroyed, confiscated, or returned, returned, and returned again.