As children, we did not need comic-book superheroes. We had our own. In our corner of the Zürcher Oberland, the ultimate name was Max Wolfensberger, a figure of almost mythical strength, borrowed from the adult world and transformed into childhood legend. Only many years later did I discover the real man behind the name, and with that discovery came not disillusionment, but a deeper tenderness for both him and the beautiful innocence of those early years.
Tag: writing
A mostly warm Christmas Note
December has that strange effect on people. Suddenly we are all reflective, forgiving, and emotionally available. At least on the outside. Inside, most of us are just tired, overfed, and quietly hoping nobody brings up politics at the dinner table.…
alexreusch 