Look Who's Back
Authors: Timur VermesNarrator: Julian Rhind-Tutt
Duration: 11h 10m
My Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
Tags: comedy
Great book, great movie. It puts Hitler in a modern society.
Very interesting from a cultural standpoint, how a person with a world view and skills would end up now.
Quotes:
Over the course of my life I have learned to observe, to reflect, to pick up on even the smallest detail to which many learned people pay scant heed, or simply ignore. Thanks to years of iron discipline, I can say with a clear conscience that in a crisis I become more composed, more level-headed, my senses are sharpened. I work calmly, with precision, like a machine. Methodically, I synthesise the information at my disposal.
“Wasn’t really working out towards the end, eh?” That would be an accurate assessment of the situation. I nodded. Steiner’s army group offensive never got off the ground. Inexcusable.
I refused to allow myself to be rushed. The true Führer senses at once when others attempt to seize control of a situation. When others say, “Quick, quick,” the true Führer always endeavours to forestall an acceleration of proceedings and avoids being hurried into an error. How does he achieve this? By displaying prudence while others scuttle around like headless chickens. Of course, there are moments in which speed is necessary, for example when caught inside a blazing house, or when essaying a pincer movement to encircle a large number of English and French divisions and grind them down to the last man. But these situations are rarer than one might imagine, and in everyday life prudence – always closely allied with keen resolve – holds the upper hand in the overwhelming majority of cases, just as in the horror of the trenches the survivor is often the man who strolls along the line with a cool head.
What irritates me most of all about these morning people is their horribly good temper, as if they had been up for three hours and already conquered France. Particularly since the vast majority of them, in spite of rising so appallingly early, have performed anything but great deeds. In Berlin I have time and again met people who make no secret of the fact that their only reason for stirring at such an ungodly hour of the morning is so that they can leave the office earlier in the afternoon. I have suggested to several of these eight-hour logicians that they ought to start work at ten o’clock at night, thereby allowing them to leave at six in the morning and perhaps even arrive home before it is time to get up. Some even took this for a serious suggestion. In my opinion, only bakers need to work early in the morning.
It is a popular misconception that a Führer needs to know everything. He does not have to know everything. He does not even have to know most things; indeed it can be the case that he need not know anything at all. He can be the most ignorant of the ignorant. Yes, and blind and deaf too in the tragic wake of an enemy bomb blast. On a wooden leg. Or even without arms and legs, rendering the Nazi salute impossible at parades, and when the German anthem is sung only a bitter tear runs from a lifeless eye. I will even postulate that a Führer can be without memory. A total amnesiac. For a Führer’s unique talent is not the accumulation of dry facts – his unique talent is rapid decision-making, and assuming responsibility for those decisions.
When for the first time I observed the man I was indignant. I had been woken that morning – it may have been around nine-thirty – by an infernal din, as if my pillow were nestling against a Soviet rocket launcher… that very man busily operating his blowing device… But I thought better of it. For I was in the wrong. … The man had been issued with an order. And he was executing the order. With a fanatical loyalty my leading generals would have done well to imitate. A man was following orders – it was as simple as that. Was he complaining? Was he moaning that it was a pointless task in this wind? No, he was performing his ear-splitting duty bravely and stoically. Like a loyal S.S. man.
I do not expect perfection from any comrade. All I expect is for him to try his best, each in his own way. And you seem to be very much on the right track.
It is in times of crisis that the true Führer is revealed. When he shows his nerve, persistence and sheer determination, though the world be set against him.
You must be bold and go all out for total victory. You are not shy otherwise. Women’s hearts are like battles. They are not won through hesitation. One must concentrate all one’s forces and deploy them gallantly
If you’re not going to write it down, I will. If you go on in this vein you really should think about writing a book. Hitler’s how-to book. How to have a happy relationship. … But that doesn’t matter. We’ll call it Mein Kampf – With My Wife. With a title like that it would sell like hot cakes.
ersonally I consider short lederhosen to be the most masculine trousers a man can wear. And when, one day, I am once again commander-in-chief of the Wehrmacht, I will supply an entire division with these short trousers. And woollen stockings. … But – and now I am coming to the point – on my path to power I was forced to acknowledge that industrialists and statesman do not take politicians in these trousers seriously. It is one of my greatest regrets to have abandoned the short trousers, but I did it because it served my cause and thus the cause of the German Volk.
Now, I do not place undue faith in statistics. I have had sufficient experience of party comrades and industrialists to know that careerists and other shady characters lurk everywhere, always happy to lend a hand when they can present “figures” in a positive light. They embellish them, or compare them with another figure which makes their own look very attractive, while suppressing a dozen other statistics which would reveal a far less favourable reality. For this reason I decided to address the task myself, and I checked the figures of some Jewish submissions.
The simple, innocent woman from the Volk dared not speak openly in my presence when I approached her in my plain soldier’s uniform.
The Führer is nothing without his Volk. That is to say, the Führer is of course something, even without his Volk, but nobody can see what he is. Any person sound of mind can be made to understand this; it is as if you had sat Mozart down and not given him a piano – how would anyone have noticed that he was a genius? He would not even have been the performing Wunderkind alongside his sister. … The Führer’s violin, however, is the Volk.
It is always exhilarating to watch our business leaders take fright. When the deal appears sufficiently tantalising, they hurry over with beaming smiles, scarcely able to throw enough money at you. When everything goes well, they are at the front of the queue to increase their share, suggesting that they would have borne the whole risk. But the moment something looks perilous, they are the first to foist this lucrative risk onto others.
I shook my head energetically. “Sawatzki, Sawatzki, what do you know about the Führer? This uptight Germanness is the worst attitude one can have. You must not confuse racial purity with cultural isolation. Don’t be ridiculous; a homepage is a homepage! One doesn’t call R.A.D.A.R. Funkortung undabstandsmessung just because the English invented it.”
In 1933 the Volk was not overwhelmed by a massive propaganda campaign. A Führer was elected in a manner which must be regarded as democratic, even in today’s understanding of the word. A Führer was elected who had laid bare his plans with irrefutable clarity. The Germans elected him. Yes, including Jews. And maybe even your grandmother’s parents. In 1933 the party could boast four million members, after which time we accepted no more. By 1934 the figure might otherwise have been eight million, twelve million. I do not believe that any of today’s parties enjoy anything approaching this support. … “What are you trying to say?” … “Either there was a whole Volk full of bastards. Or what happened was not the act of bastards, but the will of the Volk.”
The last time I had properly gone shopping was back in 1924 or 1925. In those days one would go to a haberdashery or soap shop. To purchase a razor nowadays, one had to frequent the chemist’s; Fräulein Krömeier had told me how to get there, Rossmann was the name. Upon arrival I realised that the appearance of the chemist’s had changed out of all recognition. Once upon a time there was a counter, and behind this counter were the goods. Although there was still a counter, now it was situated close to the entrance. Behind it was nothing but a window display. The actual goods were stacked on an endless succession of shelves, for every man to help himself. My initial supposition was that there were dozens of sales assistants, all in informal dress. But it turned out that these were the customers, who wandered about collecting their items and then took these to the counter. It was most disconcerting. Rarely had I felt so impolitely treated. It was as if I had been told on the way in to look for the paltry razor blades myself, as the chemist had better things to do. Gradually, however, I grasped the logistics inherent here. There were indeed a number of advantages to this system. First of all the chemist could make large sections of his sales depot accessible, thus affording him greater selling space. Furthermore, it was obvious that one hundred customers would serve themselves quicker than ten or even twenty shop assistants could have done. And, last but not least, one could save money by dispensing with these shop assistants. The benefits were crystal clear. I made a swift estimate that by introducing this principle across the board, 100,000 to 200,000 troops could be freed up for immediate deployment at the front. This was so impressive that I intended to congratulate the ingenious chemist straight away. I hurried over to one of the counters and asked for Herr Rossmann.