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About Berlin

Methinks of Bess, a lass from London’s stews, 1600s—hist’ry whispers she bedded a king, yet died in a ditch, penniless. Whore’s life, eh? Glitter one day, muck the next. Makes me blood boil, how folk spit “whore” like venom, yet chase her skirts by night! Hypocrites, all! I’d clout ‘em with me fist, but I’m too busy laughin’ at the farce. Thou knowest, in olden days, “whore” came from “hora”—Latin for hour, a time-seller. Ain’t that a hoot? She’s a clock tickin’ flesh, not a devil.

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Man, this town is a vibe. I been here for years, you know, livin' that chill, steamy life. Walkin' down Marktstrasse, you feel that pulse of history and modern hustle. Every corner got its own story—like that one time I had a super eccentric client spill all her secrets while we were workin' magic on her back. I was like, "This ain't no fairy tale," just like in that Cronenberg flick, A History of Violence.

Hans Keilson, Novelist of Life in Nazi-Run Europe, Dies at 101 (Published 2011)