I have been entirely convinced he was a fake and entirely convinced his story was real, and am currently somewhere in the middle.

Kaspar Hauser is an entertaining case -- lots of details, but still not quite enough for definitive answers about what afflicted him. (Which is why I like to make him all articulate, and also because letters from someone with a major language disorder can be kind of hard to follow.) As Deb noted, it's now been reasonably established, via DNA, that he was the heir of the house of Baden, and a lot of the activity of his benefactors implies that plenty of people knew it at the time.

it's now been reasonably established, via DNA, that he was the heir of the house of Baden

Ah, I hadn't read that. Off to Google...

Okay, I'll admit it. I have no idea who Kaspar Hauser is.

Don't tell me, though. I'm going to Google. I want to find out on my own, and then I'll come strolling back to say "Oh, yes, the implications of the Kasper Hauser dialectic are even today affecting international detente."

Or something.

I don't think he deserves his own dialectic. He was basically The Man in the Iron Mask, except no mask and serious neurological deficits due to neglect. Also, Germany instead of France.

Okay, he was nothing like The Man in the Iron Mask.

Wasn't he Kevin Spacey? No, that was Keyser Soze.

Come the revolution, everyone will have their own dialectic. Rise up, my brothers and sisters! You have nothing to lose but, um, your non-dialectic thingies.

This is longer than 100 words - I remembered a dream I have, a little too often for my own comfort. I had it again last night. It fits the theme, weirdly enough, but I'm not word counting here. It hurts.

Often

He's gone again.

Last night I dreamed of him, as I often do. He was young again, fingers on the keyboard, smiling, the fragile charm shining, as it often did, through enormous brown eyes, set like beacons in a fragile face, calling me home again.

Then, in the way of dreams, the air between us thickened, a red-tinted mist. Here was the old jeopardy, regret turning tragic, loss beyond regaining. The door opened and shut behind him, as it often did.

I wonder, as I often do, what would have happened if I had stayed. I wonder if love would have survived between us. I wonder if he would be alive today.

I wonder, and I fight down the taste of tears, bile, salt. I often do.

She looks around again. She's alone here, unless you count it, and she's wont to.

It wasn't here yesterday, or any of the times she's been here before. But she's never been at the knollside at sunset. Red light bleeds over the horizon and sends every shadow reaching towards the new (or perhaps old) door.

She lets her fingers brush against it - they want to, and she doesn't feel able to stop them. It's warm - warmer than dead wood should be, on an evening where the chill creeps in with the shadow.

She didn't push it. Why is it opening?

I posted some "Crip Noir" in lj. It's at [link] Thoughtfully cut-tagged for your protection. pauses to aim "Cut tag, this, bitch," look at New Mod on Thursday100, but that's another story, for Another Day. Just one life-affirming story after another. Nobody has ever seen this. Keep that in mind as you read, and not in a "If I don't get feedback, I'll quit writing," ff.net sense.

More, erika. Damn, woman.