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Robert Walser  (born 15 April, 1878; died 25 December, 1956) pictured above in May 1942, while on one of his beloved walks around the Herisau asylum, where Walser was institionalized from 1933 until his death The Job Application
'Esteemed Gentlemen,I am a poor, young, unemployed person in the business field, my name is Wenzel, I am seeking a suitable position, and I take the liberty of asking you, nicely and politely, if perhaps in your airy, bright, amiable rooms such a position might be free.  I know that your good firm is large, proud, old, and rich, thus I may yield to the pleasing supposition that a nice, easy, pretty little place would be available, into which, as into a kind of warm cubbyhole, I can slip.  I am excellently suited, you should know, to occupy just such a modest haven, for my nature is altogether delicate, and I am essentially a quiet, polite, and dreamy child, who is made to feel cheerful by people thinking of him that he does not ask for much, and allowing him to take possession of a very, very small patch of existence, where he can be useful in his own way and thus feel at ease.  A quiet, sweet, small place in the shade has always been the tender substance of all my dreams, and if now the illusions I have about you grow so intense as to make me hope that my dream, young and old, might be transformed into delicious, vivid reality, then you have, in me, the most zealous and most loyal servitor, who will take it as a matter of conscience to discharge precisely and punctually all his duties.  Large and difficult tasks I cannot perform, and obligations of a far-reaching sort are too strenuous for my mind.  I am not particularly clever, and first and foremost I do not like to strain my intelligence overmuch.  I am a dreamer rather than a thinker, a zero rather than a force, dim rather than sharp.  Assuredly there exists in your extensive institution, which I imagine to be overflowing with main and subsidiary functions and offices, work of the kind that one can do as in a dream?  —I am, to put it frankly, a Chinese, that is to say, a person who deems everything small and modest to be beautiful and pleasing, and to whom all that is big and exacting is fearsome and horrid.  I know only the need to feel at my ease, so that each day I can thank God for life’s boon, with all its blessings.  The passion to go far in the world is not known to me.  Africa with its deserts is to me not more foreign.  Well, so now you know what sort of a person I am. — I write, as you see, a graceful and fluent hand, and you need not imagine me to be entirely without intelligence.  My mind is clear, but it refuses to grasp things that are many, or too many by far, shunning them.  I am sincere and honest, and I am aware that this signifies precious little in the world in which we live, so I shall be waiting, esteemed gentlemen, to see what it will be your pleasure to reply to your respectful servant, positively drowning in obedience.WENZEL’
(1914; translated from the German by Christopher Middleton; collected in Selected Stories)

An example of the peculiar ‘microscript’ in which Walser wrote his last works

Robert Walser  (born 15 April, 1878; died 25 December, 1956) pictured above in May 1942, while on one of his beloved walks around the Herisau asylum, where Walser was institionalized from 1933 until his death

The Job Application

'Esteemed Gentlemen,

I am a poor, young, unemployed person in the business field, my name is Wenzel, I am seeking a suitable position, and I take the liberty of asking you, nicely and politely, if perhaps in your airy, bright, amiable rooms such a position might be free.  I know that your good firm is large, proud, old, and rich, thus I may yield to the pleasing supposition that a nice, easy, pretty little place would be available, into which, as into a kind of warm cubbyhole, I can slip.  I am excellently suited, you should know, to occupy just such a modest haven, for my nature is altogether delicate, and I am essentially a quiet, polite, and dreamy child, who is made to feel cheerful by people thinking of him that he does not ask for much, and allowing him to take possession of a very, very small patch of existence, where he can be useful in his own way and thus feel at ease.  A quiet, sweet, small place in the shade has always been the tender substance of all my dreams, and if now the illusions I have about you grow so intense as to make me hope that my dream, young and old, might be transformed into delicious, vivid reality, then you have, in me, the most zealous and most loyal servitor, who will take it as a matter of conscience to discharge precisely and punctually all his duties.  Large and difficult tasks I cannot perform, and obligations of a far-reaching sort are too strenuous for my mind.  I am not particularly clever, and first and foremost I do not like to strain my intelligence overmuch.  I am a dreamer rather than a thinker, a zero rather than a force, dim rather than sharp.  Assuredly there exists in your extensive institution, which I imagine to be overflowing with main and subsidiary functions and offices, work of the kind that one can do as in a dream?  —I am, to put it frankly, a Chinese, that is to say, a person who deems everything small and modest to be beautiful and pleasing, and to whom all that is big and exacting is fearsome and horrid.  I know only the need to feel at my ease, so that each day I can thank God for life’s boon, with all its blessings.  The passion to go far in the world is not known to me.  Africa with its deserts is to me not more foreign.  Well, so now you know what sort of a person I am. — I write, as you see, a graceful and fluent hand, and you need not imagine me to be entirely without intelligence.  My mind is clear, but it refuses to grasp things that are many, or too many by far, shunning them.  I am sincere and honest, and I am aware that this signifies precious little in the world in which we live, so I shall be waiting, esteemed gentlemen, to see what it will be your pleasure to reply to your respectful servant, positively drowning in obedience.

WENZEL’

(1914; translated from the German by Christopher Middleton; collected in Selected Stories)

An example of the peculiar ‘microscript’ in which Walser wrote his last works