Why It Appears on EarthwormExpress

EarthwormExpress is a platform devoted to life’s core matters, namely, meat, labour, preservation, and the unseen stories beneath visible systems. We publish articles on bacon formulation, African meat plant strategy, curing tunnels beneath monasteries – and now, Tucholsky.

Why?

Because “The Ideal” speaks directly to our work. In the food industry, as in life, we often chase perfection: the perfect formulation, the best emulsifier, the seamless process. We pursue ideals. But like in Tucholsky’s poem, there is always something. One batch fails. A delivery is delayed. A machine breaks. A customer changes their mind. And yet, we continue – not despite the imperfection, but because of it. That is where craft begins.

We share this poem today as a quiet nod to all who chase excellence, but never forget to laugh at their own hunger. Tucholsky reminds us that everything we seek carries a flaw – and that this is no reason to stop seeking.

The Ideal

by Kurt Tucholsky (1927)
Translated and adapted for EarthwormExpress by Eben van Tonder

Yes, that’s what you’d probably want:
A little house in the green, with a broad, sunlit porch,
facing the Baltic Sea, but the city’s hum behind –
a rural touch, yet stylish, chic and fine.
And from the bath, as foam surrounds your dreams,
you see the Alps – sharp, white, serene.
And at night? A short walk to the movie screen.
Simplicity, of course. The kind that only riches bring.

Nine rooms… wait – better make it ten.
On the roof: a garden of oaks, lush and strong.
A radio plays Bach or jazz, calm and long,
the house stays warm – no dust, no mess.
Servants that bow, well-bred and still –
and if you fancy, a woman with spark and thrill –
plus one for the weekend, casually reserved.
A library rich – and all around: just solitude and hope,
and bumblebees humming where silence roams.

In the stables? Two ponies and four thoroughbreds.
Eight cars – and of course, you drive yourself. That’s key.
And come the fall, you hunt the high-born game –
for trophies, for pleasure, for glory, for name.

Ah yes, and then the kitchen –
the food exquisite, the wine well-aged, the glasses fine.
And though you eat like a Roman king,
you stay lean – like an eel, no shame in your thing.
With jewels, money, millions and flights,
with cheerfulness flooding through your life’s lights.
Children that sparkle, loving and bright,
and health eternal, always in sight.

Yes… that’s the dream.

But here on earth, things bend and twist:
Happiness comes not in a single fist,
but drip by drip – slowly and slight.
Got the cash? The girls are gone.
Got the girl? The money’s done.
Got the Geisha? The fan now annoys –
something or other always destroys.
First we miss wine, then the cup disappears.
The world never grants it all – just scraps and smears.

There’s always something.
But console yourself now:
Even joy sometimes pricks like a thorn.
We want so much: to have, to be, to be known.
But that one person gets it all?
That’s a thing rare in this world.

Here is the original, in German:

Das Ideal

Kurt Tucholsky (1927)
Eingeleitet und veröffentlicht auf EarthwormExpress von Eben van Tonder

Ja, das möchste:
Eine Villa im Grünen mit großer Terrasse,
vorn die Ostsee, hinten die Friedrichstraße;
mit schöner Aussicht, ländlich‑mondän,
vom Badezimmer ist die Zugspitze zu sehn –
aber abends zum Kino hast dus nicht weit.

Das Ganze schlicht, voller Bescheidenheit:

Neun Zimmer – nein, doch lieber zehn!
Ein Dachgarten, wo die Eichen drauf stehn,
Radio, Zentralheizung, Vakuum,
eine Dienerschaft, gut gezogen und stumm,
eine süße Frau voller Rasse und Verve –
(und eine fürs Wochenend, zur Reserve) –
eine Bibliothek und drumherum
Einsamkeit und Hummelgesumm.

Im Stall: Zwei Ponies, vier Vollbluthengste,
acht Autos, Motorrad – alles lenkste
natürlich selber – das wär ja gelacht!
Und zwischendurch gehst du auf Hochwildjagd.

Ja, und das hab ich ganz vergessen:
Prima Küche – erstes Essen –
alte Weine aus schönem Pokal –
und egalweg bleibst du dünn wie ein Aal.
Und Geld. Und an Schmuck eine richtige Portion.
Und noch ne Million und noch ne Million.
Und Reisen. Und fröhliche Lebensbuntheit.
Und famose Kinder. Und ewige Gesundheit.

Ja, das möchste!

Aber, wie das so ist hienieden:
manchmal scheints so, als sei es beschieden
nur pöapö, das irdische Glück.
Immer fehlt dir irgendein Stück.
Hast du Geld, dann hast du nicht Käten;
hast du die Frau, dann fehln dir Moneten –
hast du die Geisha, dann stört dich der Fächer:
bald fehlt uns der Wein, bald fehlt uns der Becher.

Etwas ist immer.
Tröste dich.
Jedes Glück hat einen kleinen Stich.
Wir möchten so viel: Haben. Sein. Und gelten.
Daß einer alles hat: das ist selten.

The Man Who Wrote It: Kurt Tucholsky and the Dream That Breaks

Kurt Tucholsky (1890–1935) was one of Germany’s most razor-sharp minds – a satirist, journalist, lawyer, pacifist, and a restless critic of military and bourgeois hypocrisy. He belonged to that brilliant but doomed generation of Weimar intellectuals who believed in democracy while watching it collapse under the weight of fear, nostalgia, and fanaticism.

His poem “Das Ideal” – “The Ideal” – is as humorous as it is tragic. It paints the picture of the perfect life with whimsical extravagance:

A villa with views of both the Baltic Sea and the Alps,
Ponies and sports cars, a library and servants,
Good food, brilliant children, sparkling health,
…and a second lover for the weekend.

But just when the reader is lost in luxury, the poem swerves:

“There’s always something.
Even joy sometimes pricks like a thorn.”

The truth, Tucholsky says, is that no life is ever complete. Something is always missing – love when you have wealth, wealth when you have love, meaning when you have abundance. And even if you get close to having everything, the price of it may be laughterless comfort.

Banned, Burned – But Never Silenced

In 1933, the Nazis blacklisted Tucholsky’s work. His books were thrown into the flames during the infamous book burnings of May that year. He was a Jew, a pacifist, and a writer whose pen had poked holes in every nationalistic illusion the rising regime needed to sell. He had fled to Sweden years earlier, disillusioned, isolated, and finally dying there in 1935 – likely by suicide.

But Tucholsky never vanished. He survived in whispers, in banned books, in the sentences of every postwar German who dared speak with irony and doubt.

“The Ideal” remains not only as a poem, but as a mirror held up to our dreams – mocking, but never cruel. Its power lies in the way it allows us to laugh at ourselves, even as it gently reminds us: we are creatures of hunger, not just for food, but for perfection, for legacy, for love.