In the barbarously cold February of this year, a few people are sitting in a small room in the Huchel house in Wilhelmshorst. One of them, the writer Lutz Seiler, has a small apartment there because, as program director, he makes sure that in this beautiful house near Potsdam, which once belonged to the sad poet Peter Huchel, who was sorely plagued by the Stasi and finally disposed of in the West , regular readings and discussions take place. Unfortunately, the talks that evening are less about Huchel than about the unlyrical Putin, whose war is raging in everyone’s mind, except – perhaps – in the head of Lutz Seiler.
Büchner Prize for Lutz Seiler: tell, don’t talk – culture
