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The world war was lost, and everything seemed permitted: the metropolis mutated into the experimental capital of Europe. Posters on house walls warned in shrill Expressionist script: “Berlin, take a breath / bear in mind your dance partner is death!” The police couldn’t keep up: order collapsed first sporadically, then chronically, and the culture of pleasure filled the vacuum as best it could, as illustrated in a song of the times: Once not so very long ago Sweet alcohol, that beast, Brought warmth and sweetness to our lives, But then the price increased. And so cocaine and morphine Berliners now select. Let lightning flashes rage outside We snort and we inject! . . . At dinner in the restaurant The waiter brings the tin Of coke for us to feast upon— Forget whisky and gin! Let drowsy morphine take its Subcutaneous effect Upon our nervous system— We snort and we inject! These medications aren’t allowed, Of course, they’re quite forbidden. But even such illicit treats Are very seldom hidden. Euphoria awaits us And though, as we suspect, Our foes can’t wait to shoot us down, We snort and we inject! And if we snort ourselves to death Or into the asylum, Our days are going downhill fast— How better to beguile ’em? Europe’s a madhouse anyway, No need for genuflecting; The only way to Paradise Is snorting and injecting!14
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