Words in verse, inside a too large shell.

Martin Heidegger argued back we should break away from a commonplace notion of language, to give voice to the feelings. When humans confront a poetic text, our world into a new focus, also growing into an old town. In Medieval times Bremen https://www.bremen-tourism.de/must-see-attractions-in-bremen-1 grew as a Free Hanseatic City from the 12th Century. Now, into this town you can find maritime neighbourhoods, museums of all descriptions. Its St Peter’s Cathedral has 1,200 years of history, with a mishmash of styles. Its Weser from Marktplatz is a 100-metre street, that was transformed by an architectural project during the 1920s. Somethin unforgettable? To the northwest of Bremen you can find a submarine factory (from the Second World War), where follow reminders of the human cost are interlaced with technical details about the factory. Here was born a woman who weaves history with the present: do not forget to buy her book of poetry.

Apart from novels, she also published two volumes of poetry. She spent ten weeks in New York on a fellowship in 2008. Her latest work (Rotlicht), examines the business of sex. In her novels she interweaves history with the present, remaining adept at subtly observing the interplay society and literature. She was awarded the Peter Huchel Prize, the Berlin Art Prize and the Roswitha Prize. She was born in 1982 in Bremen. She studied literature at the German Institute for Literature, as well philosophy and comparative literature inother universityes. Her poetry have been published in individual newspapers and literary journals. In 2006, NORA BOSSONG published her debut novel. She was 2001 Fellow of the first Wolfenbüttel literature laboratory. She lives in Berlin.

MOTIONLESS HUNT – The stables down from the slope, they say that a marten or a fox got the rabbit, no one is sure, it’s rare that anyone stays here at night. The house too large for a house, the people too rich, not of my time. But still we go hunting together, through the overgrown edges of the family estate, no animals crack twigs in the undergrowth, no cadaver leaves its smell like a spooky ancestor on the boundaries of the grounds. I believe that the terrace hides everything, no one is following me, and why should they, my days lie elsewhere. Only the white-tailed eagles on the poles don’t let me out of their sight, I feel their sharp eyes staring at my nape, until I stumble, but that is immaterial, just a short-term alteration of the old edifice.

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