When Mary Shelley makes a choice regarding the place on which Doctor Frankenstein will finally render to our memory the creature which he procreated, she opts for an icy wasteland.

The place that looks like a perfect description of eternity, where everything is motionless, out of the senses, like a frozen image in which only a wind might be giving a promise of itself – a breath of death, something which remains at the very end, yet testifying that we are still here, on this side of the life.

It is as if The Berlin Requiem deals with what can scarcely be discerned by the senses, be heard, in the realm of the gelid nothingness.

This belonging is indicated through Berthold Brecht's poem and through Berlin itself – it is designated by the name of the world in which the death really occurs.

In order to perceive this, one needs not travel afar to the end of the world nor to climb high to mountain peaks.