The Guardian profiles Hans Magnus Enzensberger:
Born in 1929 in small-town Swabia, the eldest of four boys, Enzensberger is part of the last generation of intellectuals whose writing was shaped by first-hand experience of the Third Reich. Contemporaries include Günter Grass (born in 1927), Martin Walser (1927) and Jürgen Habermas (1929). The Enzensbergers moved to Nuremberg, the ceremonial birthplace of National Socialism, in 1931. Julius Streicher, the founder and publisher of Der Stürmer, was their next-door neighbour. Hans Magnus joined the Hitler Youth in his teens, but was chucked out soon afterwards. "I have always been incapable of being a good comrade. I can't stay in line. It's not in my character. It may be a defect, but I can't help it."
...At the start of his career, Enzensberger was frequently compared to Britain's "angry young men", Osborne and Pinter – misleadingly so, because playwriting was never a particular strong point. He was always more convincing when he channelled his anger into poetry. His first two collections, verteidigung der wölfe gegen die lämmer (Defence of the Wolves Against the Lambs) and landessprache (Native Language), railed against Germans' instinctive submission to authorities ("you'd love / to be torn limb from limb. you / won't change the world"), and wrestled violently with the language he had inherited.
Looking back on his early poems now, Enzensberger admits they sound "shrill". "But when you are 18 or 19, you can't stomach silence. Immediately after the war, there was one priority for us: we had to get rid of the bastards. And that was a great nuisance, because you can't change an entire population. Fifty per cent were followers of Hitler, 35% were opportunists and a few others didn't agree. You had all these professors, judges and chiefs of police who were old Nazis, and you had to get rid of them, and a certain violence was necessary to clear up the mess. For a few years we worked in an intellectual sanitation department."
And speaking of Defence of the Wolves, here is Jerome Rothenberg's translation:
The wolves defended against the lambs
should the vultures eat forget-me-nots?
what do you want the jackal to do,
cut loose from his skin, or the wolf? should
he pull his own teeth out of his head?
what upsets you so much
about commissars and popes?
why do you gape at the fraudulent TV screen
as if someone just slipped you the shaft?
and tell me who sews the ribbons
over the general's chest? who
carves the capon up for the usurer?
who proudly dangles an iron cross
over his rumbling navel? who
rakes in the tip, the thirty pieces
of silver, the hush money? listen: there
are plenty of victims, very few thieves: who's
the first to applaud them, who
pins on the merit badge, who's
crazy for lies?
look in the mirror : squirming,
scared blind by the burden of truthfulness,
skipping the trouble of learning, abandoning
thought to the wolves,
a nose ring your favorite trinket,
no deception too stupid, no comfort
too cheap, every new blackmail
still seems too mild for you.
you lambs, why crows would be
nuns stacked up against you:
all of you hoodwink each other.
fraternity's the rule
among wolves :
they travel in packs.
blessed are the thieves: you
ask them up for a rape, then
throw yourself down on the mouldy bed
of submission. moaning
you stick to your lies. you'd love
to be torn limb from limb. you
won't change the world.