Herbert Achternbusch, who transformed Bavaria into the America of our childhood, is dead. Memoirs of the writer Albert Ostermeier.
He was always a warrior and on the warpath, absorbed everything in order to then embody it as he, who was always different from who he was thought to be, always incomprehensible because he could never be grasped. Whoever wanted to nail him to the cross had his cross with him, because he had long been a ghost, walked on water, disappeared in the fog of horror at this horror at this Bavarian gray, against which not even the Grant could help. Maybe the beer, if you fought with him, measure for measure without measure, which everyone would have, but never him. Achternbusch took everything that was wanted from him, appropriated whatever he wanted to have as his own before he lost it, threw it away, released it.