Summary Of The Parody By Joh Fredersen

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But at the same moment the being lost its balance. It fell, tipping forward, towards Joh Fredersen. He stretched out his hands to catch it, feeling them, in the moment of contact, to be burnt by an unbearable coldness, the brutality of which brought up in him a feeling of anger and disgust. He pushed the being away from him and towards Rotwang, who was standing near him as though fallen from the air. Rotwang took the being by the arm. He shook his head. “Too violent,” he said. “Too violent. My beautiful Parody, I fear your temperament will get you into much more trouble.” “What is that?” asked Joh Fredersen, leaning his hands against the edge of the tabletop, which he felt behind him. Rotwang turned his face towards him, his glorious eyes…show more content…
Shall Futura dance to you? Shall my beautiful Parody play the affectionate? Or the sulky? Cleopatra of Damayanti? Shall she have the gestures of the Gothic Madonnas? Or the love gestures of an asiatic dancer? What hair shall I plant upon the skull of your tool? Shall she be modest or impudent? Excuse me my many words, you man of few. I am drunk, you see, drunk with being a creator. Your astonished face intoxicates me. I have surpassed your expectations, Joh Fredersen, haven 't I? And you do not know everything yet. My beautiful Parody can sing, too. She can also read. The mechanism of her brain is as infallible as that of your own, Joh…show more content…
During the whole time not a sound was perceptible in the room but the breath that gushed in heaves from Rotwang 's breast as though from a boiling, poisoned source. “Where did you get the plan?” the great inventor asked at last. Though it was less a question than an expression of astonished anger. “That is not the point,” answered Joh Fredersen. “It is about this that I have come to you. There does not seem to be a soul in Metropolis who can make anything of it and—” Rotwang 's laughter interrupted Joh Fredersen. “Your poor scholars,” cried the laughter. “What a task you have set them, Joh Fredersen. How many hundredweights of paper have you forced them to heave over? I am sure there is no town on the globe, from the construction of the old Tower of Babel onward, which they have not snuffled through from north to south. Oh, if you could only smile, Parody! If only you already had eyes to wink at me. But laugh, at least, Parody! Laugh, at the great scholars to whom the ground under their feet is
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