A 1919 article by Kurt Tucholsky for the Berliner Tageblatt…
There’s no sky above this city. Whether the sun shines at all is questionable; it seems like you only ever see the sun when you’re crossing the main boulevard and it’s shining right in your eyes. People complain about the weather, but there really isn’t any weather in Berlin.
A Berliner doesn’t have time. A Berliner is usually from Posen or Breslau, and he doesn’t have time. He always has plans, and he makes phone calls and appointments, and he rushes to his appointments—usually running late—and he has such an awful lot to do.
People don’t work in this city—they slave away. (Even entertainment is work here; they spit in their hands at the start and expect to get something in return.) A Berliner isn’t really diligent, just constantly agitated. He has completely forgotten, unfortunately, why we’re here on this earth. Even in heaven—assuming a Berliner could make it to heaven—he would “have things to do” at four.
Sometimes you see Berlin women sitting on the balconies that are stuck to the stone boxes they call their homes. The Berlin women sit there, taking breaks. They might be between two phone conversations, or waiting for appointments, or they may have arrived early— which rarely happens—so they sit there and wait. Then suddenly they spring, like arrows launched from bowstrings, to the telephone or to their next appointments.
This city is forever hauling its cart around the same track, brow furrowed—sit venia verbo! It doesn’t notice it’s going in circles and getting nowhere.
A Berliner can’t have a normal conversation. Sometimes you see two people talking, but they’re not having a conversation, they’re just reciting their own monologues to each other. Berliners can’t listen either. They just wait anxiously until the other person stops talking and then jump right in. That’s how Berliners converse.
A Berlin woman is practical and clear. Even in love. She doesn’t have any secrets. She’s a good, sweet girl, a type much celebrated by gallant town poets.
A Berliner doesn’t get much out of life unless he’s earning money. He doesn’t cultivate social skills, because he can’t be bothered; he gets together with friends, gossips a little, and gets sleepy at ten o’clock.
A Berliner is a slave to the machine—passenger, theatergoer, restaurant patron, and employee. Not quite human. The machine picks and pulls at his nerve endings, and a Berliner submits without reservation. He does everything the city requires—except maybe live.
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