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Biography

Dieterich had been curious about everything since the first day he could walk, and he walked toward whatever was dangerous. His nurses and his mother moved him again and again away from knives, stairs, and hot stoves; and he never learned to move himself. When he first learned to fire a gun, he wrote to his uncle in Austria-Hungary that his heart had sung no other song since. He had taken the phrase from a French poem that someone had badly translated into German.

He learned, though he did not want to know it, that administrative life was more fun than his family had given it credit for. They spoke to him constantly of its bane, as though it were dangerous, when it was really the laziest hunt in the forest. It carried a different thrill, though plainly not as high a one, since it involved other people, which had never been his interest. Dieterich had been handed books all his life, but prose never held his interest. He kept searching for the one that would break through his indifference, and so far only Herodotus’ Histories had managed it. “You’ll find more variety of thought, and of everything else, in a graveyard than in the cheeriest book Schopenhauer ever wrote!” he once said.

Dieterich collected furs with such devotion that his sisters always knew where to find one they meant to wash. They had only to leave it in his bedchamber at night, and by morning he would have stashed it atop the others or, worse, taken it to bed himself, even when fever had his body burning hot. He had also been an avid collector of jokes built on puns and clever wordplay; he lifted them from poems and combed the newspaper columns for them, always hunting for the funniest line to borrow during land meetings and charm the room. His nasally voice sometimes dulled the effect, but the jokes were clever all the same.