Read The World of Yesterday Online

Authors: Stefan Zweig

The World of Yesterday (9 page)

BOOK: The World of Yesterday
12.52Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

I remember, from my earliest childhood, the day that brought the decisive change in the rise of the Social Democratic Party in Austria. By way of a visible demonstration of their power and their numbers, the workers had declared the first of May a holiday for the working class, and were going to march in close formation to the Prater
8
and down the Hauptallee itself, where only the horses and carriages of the aristocracy and the rich middle class usually went that day for their own traditional parade down the wide, handsome avenue lined with chestnut trees. This announcement paralysed the liberal middle classes with horror. Socialists—at the time, in Germany and Austria, the word had something of a bloodstained, terrorist aura about it, like the terms Jacobin before and Bolshevik after it. At first no one thought it possible that the red horde from the city suburbs would march without setting fire to houses, looting shops, and
committing every imaginable act of violence. A kind of panic spread. The police of the entire city and its surroundings were stationed on Praterstrasse, with the army in reserve ready to open fire. No carriage or cab ventured near the Prater, shopkeepers rolled down the iron shutters over their windows, and I remember my parents strictly forbidding us children to go out into the street on that terrible day when Vienna might go up in flames. The workers, with their wives and children, marched to the Prater with exemplary discipline in ranks four abreast, all of them wearing red carnations, the party symbol, in their buttonholes. As they marched along they sang
The Internationale
, but then, in the beautiful green of the handsome avenue where they had never set foot before, the children struck up their carefree school songs. No one was abused, no blows were exchanged, no fists were clenched; the police officers and soldiers smiled at the workers in a comradely manner. Thanks to this blameless behaviour on the part of the workers, it was no longer possible for the bourgeoisie to brand them red revolutionaries, concessions were made on both sides—as usual in the wise old country of Austria. No one had yet devised the present system of eradicating demonstrators by clubbing them to the ground, and though the humanitarian ideal was already fading, it was still alive even among the party leaders.

No sooner did the red carnation emerge as a party symbol than another flower suddenly appeared in buttonholes, the white carnation, denoting membership of the Christian Socialist Party (how touching to think that, at that time, political symbols were flowers rather than jackboots, daggers and death’s heads). The Christian Socialist party, drawn from the lower middle class, was really just the organic counter-movement to the proletarian workers, and basically was just as much a product of the victory of machinery over craftsmanship as they were. For while machinery, by bringing together large numbers in the factories, gave the workers power and social advancement,
at the same time it threatened small crafts. Huge department stores and mass production were the ruin of the lower middle class and the small master craftsmen who were still plying their old trades. A clever and popular leader, Dr Karl Lueger, exploited this discontent and anxiety and, with the slogan, ‘We must help the little man’, united the discontented lower middle class, whose envy of those more prosperous than themselves was considerably lesser than their fear of sinking from bourgeois status into the proletariat. This was exactly the same kind of social group living in a state of anxiety that Adolf Hitler later gathered around him to provide his first large body of followers. Karl Lueger was also his model in another sense by teaching him the usefulness of anti-Semitic slogans, thus showing the disgruntled lower middle classes a visible enemy and at the same time imperceptibly diverting their hatred from the great landowners and feudal wealth. But the far greater vulgarisation and brutality of today’s politics, the terrible relapse we have seen in our own century, is obvious if we compare the two men. Karl Lueger, an imposing figure with his soft, blond beard—he was known in Vienna as ‘Handsome Karl’—had an academic education, and not for nothing had he been to school in an age that set the highest value on intellectual culture. He could speak in a way that appealed to the common man, he was vehement and witty, but even when speaking with his utmost ferocity—or what was taken as ferocity at the time—he never stepped beyond the bounds of decency, and while he had his equivalent of Julius Streicher,
9
he kept him carefully under control. This equivalent was a certain mechanic called Schneider whose anti-Semitic propaganda consisted of such vulgar nonsense as fairy tales about ritual murders. Lueger, whose private life was beyond reproach, always maintained a certain dignity towards his opponents, and his official anti-Semitism never kept him from helping his former Jewish friends and showing them goodwill. When his movement finally took control of the Viennese city
council, and he was appointed Mayor—an appointment that Emperor Franz Joseph, who loathed the anti-Semitic trend, had twice refused to sanction—his administration of the city was blamelessly just and in fact a model of democracy, and the Jews, who had been terrified by the triumph of the anti-Semitic party, continued to enjoy respect and equal rights. Venomous hatred and an urge towards mutual annihilation had not yet entered the bloodstream of that time.

But now a third symbolic flower appeared—the blue cornflower, Bismarck’s favourite and the symbol of the German National party, which—not that anyone realised it at the time—was deliberately revolutionary, and worked with brute force for the destruction of the Austrian Monarchy, anticipating Hitler’s dreams by aiming to set up a Greater Germany under Prussian and Protestant leadership. While the Christian Socialist party had its roots in Vienna and the country, and the Socialists in the industrial centres, the German Nationalists had their adherents almost solely in the Bohemian and Alpenland border areas; they were weak in numbers, but made up for their insignificance by ferocious aggression and mass brutality. Their few deputies became the terror and—in the old sense of the word—the shame of the Austrian parliament; Hitler, himself an Austrian from the border of the country, adopted their ideas and methods as his point of departure. He took on board the clarion cry, “Away from Rome!” thought up by Georg von Schönerer,
10
whom thousands of nationalist Germans had followed obediently in his time, infuriating the Emperor and the clergy by converting from Catholicism to Protestantism. Hitler also adopted his anti-Semitic theory of race—
In der Rass’ liegt die Schweinerei,
11
said a famous example—and above all, he took over Schönerer’s use of ruthless storm troopers to strike out at random, and with it the principle where by a small group intimidates a numerically superior but humane and passive majority through terrorism. What the SA men did for National
Socialism, breaking up gatherings with rubber truncheons, attacking opponents by night and striking them down, was done for the German Nationalists in Austria at this time by the student groups which established a unparalleled, violently terrorist regime, under cover of academic immunity, and were ready to march with military organisation in any political action when they were called upon to do so. Grouped in so-called fraternities, their faces battered, drunk and brutal, they dominated the university hall because they did not just wear bands and caps like the other students, but were also armed with hard, heavy sticks. Ever provocative, they struck out now at Slavonic students, now at Jews, now at Catholics and now at Italians, driving the defenceless out of the university. During every ‘casual stroll’, as the student parades on Saturdays were called, blood was shed. The police, who thanks to the old privilege of the university could not enter its hall, watched helplessly from the sidelines as these cowardly thugs went on the rampage. Police officers had to confine themselves to carrying away the injured and bleeding who were flung down the steps and into the street by the violent nationalists. Whenever the tiny but loud-mouthed party of German Nationalists wanted to do something by force, it sent in this student storm troop; when Count Badeni,
12
with the consent of the Emperor and parliament had decided on the Language Ordinance that was intended to make peace between the nations of Austria, and would probably have extended the life of the monarchy itself by decades, this handful of young thugs moved in to occupy the Ringstrasse. The cavalry were sent in, swords were drawn, guns were fired. But in that tragically weak if touchingly humane and liberal era, so great was the horror of any violent tumult and bloodshed that the government gave way in the face of the German Nationalist terrorists. The Prime Minister resigned, and the Language Ordinance, a measure which had been backed by true loyalists, was annulled. The advent of brutality
into politics chalked up its first success. When the underlying rifts between races and classes, mended so laboriously during the age of conciliation, broke open they widened into ravines and clefts. In fact, in that last decade before the new century, war waged by everyone against everyone else in Austria had already begun.

We young men, however, wholly absorbed in our literary ambitions, noticed little of these dangerous changes in our native land; our eyes were bent entirely on books and pictures. We took not the slightest interest in political and social problems; what did all this shrill squabbling mean in our lives? The city was in a state of agitation at election time; we went to the libraries. The masses rose up; we wrote and discussed poetry. We failed to see the writing on the wall in letters of fire. Like King Belshazzar before us, we dined on the delicious dishes of the arts and never looked apprehensively ahead. Only decades later, when the roof and walls of the building fell in on us, did we realise that the foundations had been undermined long before, and the downfall of individual freedom in Europe had begun with the new century.

NOTES

1
The World in Pictures
—this was the title of a seventeenth-century educational work with illustrations by the Czech John Commenius, and came to be used for educational picture books in general.

2
To me, famous people were like gods who did not talk, walk or eat like other human beings.

3
Eduard Hanslick, an influential nineteenth-century Austrian writer on music. Zweig is alluding to, but slightly misquoting, the title of his best-known work,
Vom Musikalich-Schönen
—On the Musically Beautiful.

4
Latin tag meaning, roughly speaking—
Our business is involved
. Or as Zweig paraphrases—
It’s our turn now.

5
A note to the original German of Zweig’s text reads: “Where August Oehler, who died young, is concerned, Stefan Zweig’s memory is at fault.”

6
Thou sacred art, in many a dismal hour
: the opening of the words of Schubert’s famous song
An die Musik
—To Music. The text was by Schubert’s friend Franz von Schober.

7
Victor Adler, 1852-1918, founded the Austrian Social Democratic Party in 1889.

8
The Prater: the large and famous public park in Vienna; the Hauptallee is the main avenue through it.

9
Julius Streicher, 1885-1945, was editor and founder of the notoriously anti-Semitic Nazi newspaper
Der Stürmer.

10
Georg von Schönerer, 1842-1921, founder of the Austrian Pan-German Party. It lasted little more than two decades, but Hitler and German National Socialism were influenced by its anti-Semitic and anti-Catholic stance.

11
In the race lies the disgrace
. The general sense here is that the Jew’s racial origin makes him a swine, a disgrace.

12
Count Kasimir Badeni, 1846-1909, Austrian politician and Prime Minister in 1895-1897, tried to bring in a ‘Language Ordinance’ giving equal status to German and Czech as languages in the affairs of Bohemia, part of the Austro-Hungarian empire at the time. German was generally the preferred language of the educated, and his proposed measure encountered violent opposition.

EROS MATUTINUS

D
URING THOSE EIGHT YEARS
at grammar school, one very personal fact affected us all—starting as children of ten, we gradually became sexually mature young people of sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Nature began to assert its rights. These days, the awakening of puberty seems to be an entirely private matter, to be dealt with for themselves by all young people as they grow up, and it does not at first glance appear at all suitable for public discussion. For our generation, however, the crisis of puberty reached beyond its own real sphere. At the same time, it brought an awakening in another sense—it taught us to look more critically, for the first time, at the world of the society in which we had grown up and its conventions. Children and even adolescents are generally inclined to conform respectfully to the laws of their environment at first. But they submit to the conventions enjoined upon them only as long as they see everyone else genuinely observing them. A single instance of mendacity in teachers or parents will inevitably make the young turn a distrustful and thus a sharper eye on their surroundings as a whole. And it did not take us long to discover that all those authorities whom we had so far trusted—school, the family, public morality—were remarkably insincere on one point—the subject of sexuality. Worse than that, they wanted us, too, to dissimulate and cover up anything we did in that respect.

The fact is that thirty or forty years ago, thinking on such subjects was not what it is in the world of today. Perhaps there has never been such a total transformation in any area
of public life within a single human generation as here, in the relationship between the sexes, and it was brought about by a whole series of factors—the emancipation of women, Freudian psychoanalysis, cultivation of physical fitness through sport, the way in which the young have claimed independence. If we try to pin down the difference between the bourgeois morality of the nineteenth century, which was essentially Victorian, and the more liberal uninhibited attitudes of the present, we come closest, perhaps, to the heart of the matter by saying that in the nineteenth century the question of sexuality was anxiously avoided because of a sense of inner insecurity. Previous eras which were still openly religious, in particular the strict puritanical period, had an easier time of it. Imbued by a genuine conviction that the demands of the flesh were the Devil’s work, and physical desire was sinful and licentious, the authorities of the Middle Ages tackled the problem with a stern ban on most sexual activity, and enforced their harsh morality, especially in Calvinist Geneva, by exacting cruel punishments. Our own century, however, a tolerant epoch that long ago stopped believing in the Devil and hardly believed in God any more, could not quite summon up the courage for such outright condemnation, but viewed sexuality as an anarchic and therefore disruptive force, something that could not be fitted into its ethical system and must not move into the light of day, because any form of extramarital free love offended bourgeois ‘decency’. A curious compromise was found to resolve this dilemma. While not actually forbidding a young man to engage in sexual activity, morality confined itself to insisting that he must deal with that embarrassing business by hushing it up. Perhaps sexuality could not be eradicated from the polite world, but at least it should not be visible. By tacit agreement, therefore, the whole difficult complex of problems was not to be mentioned in public, at school, or at home, and everything that could remind anyone of its existence was to be suppressed.

We, who have known since Freud that those who try to suppress natural instincts from the conscious mind are not eradicating them but only, and dangerously, shifting them into the unconscious, find it easy to smile at the ignorance of that naive policy of keeping mum. But the entire nineteenth century suffered from the delusion that all conflicts could be resolved by reason, and the more you hid your natural instincts the more you tempered your anarchic forces, so that if young people were not enlightened about the existence of their own sexuality they would forget it. In this deluded belief that you could moderate something by ignoring it, all the authorities agreed on a joint boycott imposed by means of hermetic silence. The churches offering pastoral care, schools, salons and the law courts, books and newspapers, fashion and custom all on principle avoided any mention of the matter, and to its discredit even science, which should have taken on the task of confronting all problems directly, also agreed to consider that what was natural was dirty,
naturalia sunt turpia
.
1
Science capitulated on the pretext that it was beneath its dignity to study such indecent subjects. Wherever you look in the books of the period—philosophical, legal, even medical—you find that by common consent every mention of the subject is anxiously avoided. When experts on criminal law met at conferences to discuss the introduction of humane practices to prisons and the moral damage done to inmates by life in jail, they scurried timidly past the real central problem. Although in many cases neurologists were perfectly well acquainted with the causes of a number of hysterical disorders, they were equally unwilling to tackle the subject, and we read in Freud how even his revered teacher Charcot admitted to him privately that he knew the real cause of these cases but could never say so publicly. Least of all might any writer of belles-lettres venture to give an honest account of such subjects, because that branch of literature was concerned only with the aesthetically beautiful. While in earlier centuries authors did
not shrink from presenting an honest and all-inclusive picture of the culture of their time, so that in Defoe, the Abbé Prévost, Fielding and Rétif de la Bretonne we can still read unvarnished descriptions of the true state of affairs, the nineteenth century saw fit only to show the ‘sensitive’ and sublime, nothing embarrassing but true. Consequently you will find scarcely a fleeting mention in the literature of that era of all the perils and dark confusions of young city-dwellers of the time. Even when a writer boldly mentioned prostitution, he felt he should refine the subject, presenting a perfumed heroine as the Lady of the Camellias.
2
So we are faced with the strange fact that if young people today, wanting to know how their counterparts of the last couple of generations made their way through life, open the novels of even the great writers of that time, the works of Dickens and Thackeray, Gottfried Keller and Bjørnson,
3
they will find—except in Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, who as Russians stood outside the pseudo-idealism of Europe—accounts of nothing but sublimated, toned-down love affairs because the pressures of the time inhibited that whole generation in its freedom of expression. And nothing more clearly illustrates the almost hysterical over-sensitivity of our forebears’ moral sense and the atmosphere in which they lived, unimaginable today, than the fact that even this literary restraint was not enough. Can anyone now understand how such a down-to-earth novel as
Madame Bovary
could be banned by a French court on the grounds of indecency? Or how Zola’s novels, in my own youth, could be considered pornographic, or so well-balanced a writer of neoclassical epic works as Thomas Hardy could arouse indignation in England and America? Reserved as they were on the subject, these books had given away too much of the truth.

But we grew up in this unhealthily musty air, drenched with sultry perfumes. The dishonest and psychologically unrealistic morality of covering up sexuality and keeping it quiet weighed down on us in our youth, and as, thanks to the solidarity
maintained in this policy of hushing things up, there were no proper accounts available in literature and cultural history, it may not be easy for my readers to reconstruct what had actually happened, incredible as it might seem. However, there is one good point of reference; we need only look at fashion, because the fashions of a period, visibly expressing its tastes, betray its morality. It can be no coincidence that as I write now, in 1940, the entire audience in every town and village all over Europe or America bursts into wholehearted merriment when society men and women of 1900 appear on the cinema screen in the costumes of the time. The most naive of us today will smile at those strange figures of the past, seeing them as caricatures, idiots decked out in unnatural, uncomfortable, unhygienic and impractical clothing. Even we, who saw our mothers, aunts and girlfriends wearing those absurd gowns and thought them equally ridiculous when we were boys, feel it is like a strange dream for a whole generation to have submitted to such stupid costumes without protest. The men’s fashions of the time—high, stiff collars, one of them known as the ‘patricide’, so stiff that they ruled out any ease of movement, the black frock coats with their flowing tails, top hats resembling chimney pipes, also provoke laughter. But most ridiculous of all is a lady of the past in her dress, difficult to put on and hard to wear, every detail of it doing violence to nature. Her body is cut in two at a wasp-waist obtained by a whalebone corset, her skirts billow out in an enormous bell, her throat is enclosed right up to the chin, her feet covered to the toes, her hair piled up into countless little curls and rolls and braids, worn under a majestically swaying monster of a hat, her hands carefully gloved even in the hottest summer—this creature, long ago consigned to history, gives the impression of pitiable helplessness, despite the perfume wafting around her, the jewellery weighing her down and all the costly lace, frills and trimmings. You see at first glance that once inside such garments and invulnerable as a knight in his armour, a
woman was no longer free, could not move fast and gracefully, but every movement, every gesture and indeed her whole bearing in such a costume was bound to be artificial and literally unnatural. Merely dressing to look like a lady—never mind all the etiquette of high society—just putting on such gowns and taking them off was a complicated procedure, and impossible without someone else’s help. First there were countless little hooks and eyes to be done up behind a lady’s back from waist to neck, a maid had to exert all her strength to tight-lace her mistress’s corset, her long hair—and let me remind the young that thirty years ago all European women, with the exception of a handful of Russian women students, had hair that fell to their waists when they unpinned it—had to be curled, set, brushed and combed and piled up by a hairdresser called in daily and using a large quantity of hairpins, combs and slides, curling tongs and hair curlers, all this before she could put on her petticoats, camisoles, little bodices and jackets like a set of onion skins, turning and adjusting until the last remnant of her own female form had entirely disappeared. But there was a secret sense in this nonsense. A woman’s real figure was to be so entirely concealed by all this manipulation that even at the wedding breakfast her bridegroom had not the faintest idea whether his future companion for life was straight or crooked, plump or thin, had short legs or long legs. That ‘moral’ age thought it perfectly permissible to add artificial reinforcements to the hair, the bosom and other parts of the body, for the purposes of deception and to conform to the general ideal of female beauty. The more a woman was expected to look like a lady, the less of her natural shape might be shown; in reality the guiding principle behind this fashion was only to obey the general moral tendency of the time, which was chiefly concerned with concealment and covering up.

But that wise morality quite forgot that when you bar the door to the Devil, he usually forces his way in down the chimney
or through a back entrance. What strikes our uninhibited gaze today about those costumes, garments so desperately trying to cover every inch of bare skin and hide the natural figure, is not their moral propriety but its opposite, the way that those fashions, provocative to the point of embarrassment, emphasised the polarity of the sexes. While the modern young man and young woman, both of them tall and slim, both beardless and short-haired, conform to each other in easy comradeship even in their outward appearance, in that earlier epoch the sexes distanced themselves from each other as far as possible. The men sported long beards, or at least twirled the ends of a mighty moustache, a clearly recognisable sign of their masculinity, while a woman’s breasts, essentially feminine sexual attributes, were made ostentatiously visible by her corset. The extreme emphasis on difference between the so-called stronger sex and the weaker sex was also evident in the attitudes expected of them—a man was supposed to be forthright, chivalrous and aggressive, a woman shy, timid and defensive. They were not equals but hunters and prey. This unnatural tension separating them in their outward behaviour was bound to heighten the inner tension between the two poles, the factor of eroticism, and so thanks to its technique—which knew nothing of psychology, of concealing sexuality and hushing it up—the society of the time achieved exactly the opposite. In its constant prudish anxiety, it was always sniffing out immorality in all aspects of life—literature, art and fashion—with a view to preventing any stimulation, with the result that it was in fact forced to keep dwelling on the immoral. As it was always studying what might be unsuitable, it found itself constantly on the alert; to the world of that time, ‘decency’ always appeared to be in deadly danger from every gesture, every word. Perhaps we can understand how it still seemed criminal, at that time, for a woman to wear any form of trousers for games or sports. But how can we explain the hysterical prudery that made it improper for a lady even
to utter the word ‘trousers’? If she mentioned such a sensually dangerous object as a man’s trousers at all, she had to resort to the coy euphemism of ‘his unmentionables’. It would have been absolutely out of the question for a couple of young people, from the same social class but of different sexes, to go out together by themselves—or rather, everyone’s first thought at the mere idea would have been that ‘something might happen’. Such an encounter was permissible only if some supervising person, a mother or a governess, accompanied every step that the young people took. Even in the hottest summer, it would have been considered scandalous for young girls to play tennis in ankle-length skirts or even with bare arms, and it was terribly improper for a well-brought-up woman to cross one foot over the other in public, because she might reveal a glimpse of her ankles under the hem of her dress. The natural elements of sunlight, water and air were not permitted to touch a woman’s bare skin. At the seaside, women made their laborious way through the water in heavy bathing costumes, covered from neck to ankles. Young girls in boarding schools and convents even had to take baths in long white garments, forgetting that they had bodies at all. It is no legend or exaggeration to say that when women died in old age, their bodies had sometimes never been seen, not even their shoulders or their knees, by anyone except the midwife, their husbands, and the woman who came to lay out the corpse. Today, forty years on, all that seems like a fairy tale or humorous exaggeration. But this fear of the physical and natural really did permeate society, from the upper classes down, with the force of a true neurosis. It is hard to imagine today that at the turn of the century, when the first women rode bicycles or actually ventured to sit astride a horse instead of riding side-saddle, people would throw stones at those bold hussies. Or that, when I was still at school, the Viennese newspapers filled columns with discussions of the shocking innovation proposed at the Opera for the ballerinas to dance without wearing tights. Or that it
was an unparalleled sensation when Isadora Duncan, although her style of dancing was extremely classical, was the first to dance barefoot instead of wearing the usual silk shoes under her tunic—which fortunately was long and full. And now think of young people growing up in such an age of watchfulness, and imagine how ridiculous these fears of the constant threat to decency must have appeared to them as soon as they realised that the cloak of morality mysteriously draped over these things was in fact very threadbare, torn and full of holes. After all, there was no getting around the fact that out of fifty grammar school boys, one would come upon his teacher lurking in a dark alley some day, or you heard in the family circle of someone who appeared particularly respectable in front of us, but had various little falls from grace to his account. The fact was that nothing increased and heightened our curiosity so much as this clumsy technique of concealment, and as it was undesirable for natural inclinations to run their course freely and openly, curiosity in a big city created its underground and usually not very salubrious outlets. In all classes of society, this suppression of sexuality led to the stealthy overstimulation of young people, and it was expressed in a childish, inexpert way. There was hardly a fence or a remote shed that was not scrawled with indecent words and graffiti, hardly a swimming pool where the wooden partition marking off the ladies’ pool was not full of so-called knotholes through which a peeping Tom might look. Whole industries flourished in secret—industries that have now disappeared because morals and manners are more natural—in particular the trade in nude photographs offered for sale under the counter in bars to adolescent boys. Or the pornographic literature
sous le manteau—
since serious literature was bound to be idealistic and cautious—which consisted of books of the very worst sort, printed on poor-quality paper, badly written, and yet sure to sell well, like the ‘titillating’ magazines of a kind no longer available today, or not in such a repulsive and lecherous form.
As well as the court theatre, which paid homage to the ideals of the time with its noble sentiments and snow-white purity, there were theatres and cabarets with programmes entirely comprising the smuttiest of dirty jokes. What was suppressed found outlets everywhere, found ways around obstacles, ways out of difficulties. So ultimately the generation that was prudishly denied any sexual enlightenment, any form of easy social encounter with the opposite sex, was a thousand times more erotically obsessed than young people today, who have so much more freedom in love. Forbidden fruit excites a craving, only what is forbidden stimulates desire, and the less the eyes saw and the ears heard the more minds dreamt. The less air, light and sun was allowed to fall on the body, the more heated did the senses become. To sum up, the social pressure put on us as young people, instead of improving our morals, merely made us embittered and distrustful of those in authority. From the first day of our sexual awakening we instinctively felt that this dishonest morality, with its silence and concealment, wanted to take from us something that was rightfully ours in our youth, and was sacrificing our desire for honesty to a convention that had long ago ceased to have any real meaning.

BOOK: The World of Yesterday
12.52Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Flesh Guitar by Geoff Nicholson
Up All Night by Faye Avalon
Midnight Sex Shop by Grey, T. A.
Blindman's Bluff by Faye Kellerman
Secrets and Seductions by Francine Pascal
Sorority Sisters by Claudia Welch
Stars Always Shine by Rick Rivera