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" 'Lange Nachmittage der Kindheit,' " Kittredge sang in my ear. " 'Long afternoons of childhood.' Aren't you impressed that I know that one, Nymph?"
"If it's the long phrases you're worried about, don't forget this one: 'Weder Kindheit noch Zukunft werden weniger--neither childhood nor future grows any smaller.' Remember that one?" I asked him.
"Fuck!" Kittredge cried. "I thought that was Goethe!"
"It's about childhood, right? It's Rilke," I told him. Dass ich dich fassen mocht--If only I could clasp you! I was thinking. (That was Goethe.) But all I said was " 'Schopfungskraft.' "
"Double-fuck!" Kittredge said. "I know that's Goethe."
"It doesn't mean 'double-fuck,' though," I told him. I don't know what he did with the arm-bar, but it started hurting. "It means 'creative power,' or something like that," I said, and the pain stopped; I had almost liked it. "I'll bet you don't know 'Stossgebet'--you missed it last year," I reminded him. The pain was back in the arm-bar; it felt pretty good.
"You're feeling dauntless tonight, aren't you, Nymph? The two libraries must have boosted your confidence," Kittredge told me.
"How's Delacorte doing with 'Lear's shadow'--and all the rest of it?" I asked him.
He let up on the arm-bar; he seemed to hold me almost soothingly. "What's a fucking 'Stossgebet,' Nymph?" he asked me.
"An 'ejaculatory prayer,' " I told him.
"Triple-fuck," he said, with uncharacteristic resignation. "Fucking Goethe."
"You had trouble with 'uberschlechter' last year, too--if Steiner gets sneaky and throws an adjective in. I'm just trying to help you," I told him.
Kittredge released me from the arm-bar. "I think I know this one--it means 'really bad,' right?" he asked me. (You must understand that the entire time we were not exactly wrestling--and not exactly conversing, either--the denizens of the Bancroft butt room were enthralled. Kittredge was ever the eye magnet, in any crowd, and here I was--at least appearing to hold my own with him.)
"Don't get fooled by 'Demut,' will you?" I asked him. "It's a short word, but it's still Goethe."
"I know that one, Nymph," Kittredge said, smiling. "It's 'humility,' isn't it?"
"Yes," I said; I was surprised he knew the word, even in English. "Just remember: If it sounds like a homily or a proverb, it's probably Goethe," I told him.
" 'Old age is a polite gentleman'--you mean that sort of bullshit." To my further surprise, Kittredge even knew the German, which he then recited: " 'Das Alter ist ein hoflich' Mann.' "
"There's one that sounds like Rilke, but it's Goethe," I warned him.
"It's the one about the fucking kiss," Kittredge said. "Say it in German, Nymph," he commanded me.
" 'Der Kuss, der letzte, grausam suss,' " I said to him, thinking of Miss Frost's frank kisses. I couldn't help but think of kissing Kittredge, too; I was starting to shake again.
" 'The kiss, the last one, cruelly sweet,' " Kittredge translated.
"That's right, or you could say 'the last kiss of all,' if you wanted to," I told him. " 'Die Leidenschaft bringt Leiden!' " I then said to him, taking every word to heart.
"Fucking Goethe!" Kittredge cried. I could tell he didn't know it--there was no guessing it, either.
" 'Passion brings pain,' " I translated for him.
"Oh, yeah," he said. "Lots of pain."
"You guys," one of the smokers said. "It's almost check-in time."
"Quadruple-fuck," Kittredge said. I knew he could sprint across the quadrangle of dorms to Tilley, or--if he was late--Kittredge could be counted on to make up a brilliant excuse.
" 'Ein jeder Engel ist schrecklich,' " I said to Kittredge, as he was leaving the butt room.
"Rilke, right?" he asked me.
"It's Rilke, all right. It's a famous one," I told him. " 'Every angel is terrifying.' "
