Robert Musil

The Man Without Qualities, Volume 2

From the Posthumous Papers
1961

FROM THE
POSTHUMOUS
PAPERS
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY
BURTON PIKE

PREFACE

Musil did not finish The Man Without Qualities, although he often said he intended to.
There is no way of telling from either the
parts published in his lifetime or his
posthumous papers how he would have done
so, or indeed whether he could have done so
to his own satisfaction. This is because of the
novels rigorously experimental structure,
consisting of an open architecture that
could be developed in many directions from
any given point. The novel does contain coherent individual threads and incidents, but
Musil firmly rejected the idea of a plotted
narrative whole. Therefore, while the drafts
of the twenty chapters in Part 1 of From the
Posthumous Papers carry on from where
Into the Millennium left off, the material in

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Part 2 is not preliminary to a final version in

the usual sense, but consists rather of notes,
sketches, and drafts that Musil was keeping
in suspension for possible use in some form
at some place in the ultimate text, a version
he never decided upon and that must forever
remain the object of tantalizing speculation.
We have a fortuitous, if unhappy,
benchmark for this posthumous material:
When Musil had to leave Vienna in 1938, he
took with him into exile in Switzerland material that he considered most useful for his
further work on The Man Without Qualities.
Everything left behind in Vienna was destroyed during the war. (A further loss was
suffered when two of Musils surviving notebooks were stolen from an editors car in Italy
in 1970, before they could be transcribed.)
The extent to which Musil regarded this
novel as experimental was extraordinary. He
had begun work on it in earnest in 1924 and
was most reluctant when the urging of

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publishers and worsening external conditions forced him to publish parts of it in 1931
and 1933 (pages 1-1130 in this edition). From
his point of view, the entire text oughtto have
remained open from the beginning until it
had all been written and he could then revise
the text as a whole. He complained that partial publication removed those parts of the
novel from the possibility of further alteration, as well as distorting the shape (again, a
never defined, open shape) he had in mind
for the whole work. As it was, in 1938, in less
than robust health and apparently apprehensive that he would again be forced into
premature publication, he withdrew the first
twenty chapters that appear in From the
Posthumous Papers when they were already
set in galleys, in order to rework them still
further. These chapters were intended not to
conclude the novel but to continue Into the
Millennium. like Goethe, Musil had a
strange sense of having infinite time

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stretching out before him in which to complete his task. One is tempted to see in his
solitary and stubborn pursuit of his ideal
more than a little of Kafkas Hunger Artist.
Musils purpose in writing The Man
Without Qualities was a moral one. He had
set out to explore possibilities for the right
life in a culture that had lost both its center
and its bearings but could not tear itself
away from its outworn forms and habits of
thought, even while they were dissolving.
Musil equated ethics and aesthetics, and was
convinced that a union of precision and
soul, the language and discoveries of science
with ones inner life of perceptions and feelings, could be, and must be, achieved. He
meant this novel to be experienced as a moral lever to move the world, as Emerson and
Nietzsche intended their writing to be experienced, in such a way that (in Rilkes words)
you must change your life. Musils anguish
becomes palpable as he pursues this search

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for the right life using the tools of scientific

skepticism, while remaining all too aware of
the apparently inherent limitations of human
societies and, especially, of human nature.
Fortunately, this anguish is leavened by a
sparkling wit of language and situation, as
when a character is described as wearing a
wig of split hairs.
The search for the right life leads to an
increasing inwardness in the novel. Musil intended to have Ulrich and Agathe somehow
rejoin the world after the failure of their attempt to achieve a unio mystica, but as the
reader will see, this was left completely up in
the air among a welter of conflicting possibilities. Much of the material in Part 2 consists
of startlingly dramatic or even melodramatic
nuclei that Musil weighed using at some
point. He frequently inserts identical or
slightly varied material in different places,
obviously to try it out in alternative contexts,
but without committing himself. Always an

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analytical thinker and a methodical worker,

Musil used an elaborate and cryptic system
of referencing and cross-referencing codes
and notations, some of them still undeciphered, to remind himself of the many
interconnections. These markings are ubiquitous, indicating how thoroughly the different parts of the work were simultaneously
present in his mind. These codes are to be
found in the German edition but have been
suppressed here in the interest of readability.
Among the experiments Musil tries out,
for example, are the possibilities of Ulrich
having sexual relations, sometimes aggressive and perverse, with his sister, Agathe, his
cousin Diotima, and Clarisse, his friend Walters wife. Moosbrugger, the sex murderer
who haunts the entire novel, is somehow
freed by Clarisse in one version, while
Ulrichs attempt to free him himself, together
with some hired criminals, fails in another.
Moosbrugger is executed, and Hans Sepp

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commits suicide (under a train in one place,

by gunshot in another). Ulrichs escape to
the idyllic Italian island is now with Agathe,
now with Clarisse; the idyll fails with Agathe,
fails with Clarisse. Clarisse looms much larger in these drafts than in the main text; here
the stages of her growing insanity are carefully detailed. Ulrich appears crueler, more
morally indolent, as his successive failures
are recorded. (Musil should not be identified
with Ulrich; as is made quite clear here, in
his role as narrator Musil is usually critical of
Ulrich.) These posthumous papers also shed
a great deal of light on Musils concept of
mysticism and the Other Condition.
Musil had suffered a stroke in 1936, and
the tone of Part 1 of From the Posthumous
Papers, written after that, is markedly different from the earlier sections of the novel;
quieter, strikingly inward, more difficult, the
writing often of a rare beauty. In the selection of drafts, notes, and sketches presented

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in Part 2, which cover the span of time

between 1920 and 1942, Musil makes clear
how the faults of his characters are intended
to mirror the larger faults of the age; as he
says, these figures live on an arc without being able to close the circle. As the age comes
unglued and spirals toward war, so do the
characters spiral more clearly toward failure,
helplessness, madness, and suicide, even as
they press forward in their firm belief in a
better future, if only they could find the key.
The Man Without Qualities is not a pessimistic work.
The contents of From the Posthumous
Papers have riot been previously translated
into English. Much of what is presented here
became available in German for the first time
only with the publication of the 1978 German
edition of Musils collected works. This new
German edition is not definitive, but it completely supersedes the edition of the 1950s
on which the first, incomplete, English

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translation was based. The guiding principle

in selecting the material for translation in
From the Posthumous Papers was to
present to the English-speaking public in
readable form the major narrative portions
of the posthumous material in the 1978 German edition, as well as selections that illuminate Musils methods of thinking and
working. Scholarly completeness could not
be the goal in any case, since the 1978 German edition offers only a major selection
from the extant posthumous papers, together with some scholarly apparatus. There exists in manuscript even more material relating to The Man Without Qualities than is in
the German edition: The various Musil research centers finished the painstaking process of transcribing these papers only in
1990, and this transcription, 34 megabytes of
data (not all of it relating to the novel), has
been made available in German on a CDROM disk. Omitted in what follows, aside

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from the cross-referencing codes, are (1)

longer repetitive variations of chapters or
sections in which the changes are
slightMusil was an obsessive rewriter and
polisher; and (2) many brief notes, jottings,
and indications that are too sketchy to be informative except to the specialist.
Except for the galley drafts of the first
twenty chapters, this material is for the most
part not polished or written up in final
form; some of it is quite sketchy, some
merely jotted notes. Over the years, Musil
changed the names of some of his characters
and switched others, and this can be confusing. The essence of the characters, however,
seems to have been fixed from the early
stages, so these name changes are purely
verbal. Ulrich was originally called Anders,
then called Achilles; the names, but not the
characters, of Lindner and Meingast were reversed. Clarisses brother is called Siegmund
in the main text, Siegfried and Wotan here.

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In the interest of readability the names, with

one or two obvious exceptions, have been
changed to be consistent with those used
previously in the novel and are spelled
outMusil usually refers to them by their
initialsas are most of the numerous other
abbreviations. Given the fragmentary nature
of the texts in Part 2, and for the sake of
readability, elisions have not been indicated;
with very minor exceptions they are between
selections, not within selections. Items
between slashes or in parentheses are
Musils; material in square brackets is mine.
Double and triple ellipsis points in the text
reproduce those in the German edition.
The only major departure from the 1978
German edition in how this material appears
has to do with the ordering of the contents of
Part 2. The German edition presents this material in reverse chronology, beginning with
what Musil was working on at his death and
proceeding backward to the earliest sketches.

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It seemed to me that since Musil was thinking about this material experimentally and
not chronologically, such an ordering is not
necessarily indicated, especially in the absence of the authors ultimate intentions
about the work as a whole.
A further problem was that in chronological order, whether forward or backward,
the random mixture of elements in Part 2 of
From the Posthumous Papers would put
off the general reader, for whom this edition
is intended. That would be unfortunate,
since these pages contain some of Musils
most powerful and evocative writing. Rearranging the contents of Part 2 according to
character groupings, narrative sections, and
Musils notes about the novel makes this material much more accessible, and given the
authors experimental attitude toward these
fragments this rearrangement seems not unreasonable. Readers who wish to see this material presented in roughly chronological

16/1856

reverse ordersome of it can be dated only

approximatelyshould consult the German
edition.
The original choice of material to include here was made in extensive consultation with Professor Philip Payne of the
University of Lancaster, England, to whom I
would like to express my appreciation. I owe
a profound debt of gratitude to Professor
Adolf Frise, editor of the German edition, for
his constant friendly encouragement and advice. Without his work, and without the unflagging patience and skill with which he and
the various Musil research teams in Vienna,
Klagenfurt, Saarbriicken, and Reading deciphered Musils difficult manuscripts, no
Musil edition would have been possible. And
without the determination, persistence, fine
German, and ear and eye for quality of Carol
Janeway, Sophie Wilkinss and my editor at
Knopf, this translation would never have
come to fruition.

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BURTON PIKE

PART 1
Musil had given chapters 39 through 58
to the printer. He revised them in galley
proofs in 1937-1938, then withdrew them
to work on them further. They were intended to continue Into the Millennium,
of 1932-1933, but not conclude it.

39
AFTER THE ENCOUNTER
As the man who had entered Agathes life at
the poets grave, Professor August Lindner,
climbed down toward the valley, what he saw
opening before him were visions of salvation.
If she had looked around at him after
they parted she would have been struck by
the mans ramrod-stiff walk dancing down
the stony path, for it was a peculiarly cheerful, assertive, and yet nervous walk. Lindner
carried his hat in one hand and occasionally
passed the other hand through his hair, so
free and happy did he feel.
How few people, he said to himself,
have a truly empathic soul! He depicted to

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himself a soul able to immerse itself completely in a fellow human being, feeling his
inmost sorrows and lowering itself to his innermost weaknesses. What a prospect! he
exclaimed to himself. What a miraculous
proximity of divine mercy, what consolation,
and what a day for celebration! But then he
recalled how few people were even able to
listen attentively to their fellow creatures; for
he was one of those right-minded people
who descend from the unimportant to the
trivial without noticing the difference. How
rarely, for instance, is the question How are
you? meant seriously, he thought. You
need only answer in detail how you really
feel, and soon enough you find yourself looking into a bored and distracted face!
Well, he had not been guilty of this error! According to his principles the particular and indispensable doctrine of health for
the strong was to protect the weak; without
such a benevolent, self-imposed limitation,

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the strong were all too easily susceptible to

brutality; and culture, too, needed its acts of
charity against the dangers inherent within
itself. Whoever tries to tell us what universal education is supposed to be, he affirmed
for himself through inner exclamation,
mightily refreshed by a sudden lightning bolt
loosed against his fellow pedagogue
Hagauer, should truly first be advised: experience what another person feels like!
Knowing through empathy means a thousand times more than knowing through
books! He was evidently giving vent to an
old difference of opinion, aimed on the one
hand at the liberal concept of education and
on the other at the wife of his professional
brother, for Lindners glasses gazed around
like two shields of a doubly potent warrior.
He had been self-conscious in Agathes presence, but if she were to see him now he
would have seemed to her like a commander,
but a commander of troops that were by no

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means frivolous. For a truly manly soul is

ready to assist, and it is ready to assist because it is manly. He raised the question
whether he had acted correctly toward the
lovely woman, and answered himself: It
would be a mistake if the proud demand for
subordination to the law were to be left to
those who are too weak for it; and it would
be a depressing prospect if only mindless
pedants were permitted to be the shapers
and protectors of manners and morals; that
is why the obligation is imposed upon the vital and strong to require discipline and limits
from their instincts of energy and health:
they must support the weak, shake up the
thoughtless, and rein in the licentious! He
had the impression he had done so.
As the pious soul of the Salvation Army
employs military uniform and customs, so
had Lindner taken certain soldierly ways of
thinking into his service; indeed, he did not
even flinch from concessions to the man of

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power Nietzsche, who was for middle-class

minds of that time still a stumbling block,
but for Lindner a whetstone as well. He was
accustomed to say of Nietzsche that it could
not be maintained that he was a bad person,
but his doctrines were surely exaggerated
and ill equipped for life, the reason for this
being that he rejected empathy; for Nietzsche had not recognized the marvelous counterbalancing gift of the weak person, which
was to make the strong person gentle. And
opposing to this his own experience, he
thought with joyful purpose: Truly great
people do not pay homage to a sterile cult of
the self, but call forth in others the feeling of
their sublimity by bending down to them and
indeed, if it comes to that, sacrificing themselves for them! Sure of victory and with an
expression of amicable censure that was
meant to encourage them, he looked into the
eyes of a pair of young lovers who, intricately
intertwined, were coming up toward him.

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But it was a quite ordinary couple, and the

young idler who formed its male component
squeezed his eyelids shut as he responded to
this look of Lindners, abruptly stuck out his
tongue, and said: Nyaa! Lindner, unprepared for this mockery and vulgar menace,
was taken aback; but he acted as if he did not
notice. He loved action, and his glance
sought a policeman, who ought to have been
in the vicinity to guarantee honors public
safety; but as he did so his foot struck a
stone, and the sudden stumbling motion
scared off a swarm of sparrows that had been
regaling themselves at Gods table over a pile
of horse manure. The explosion of wings was
like a warning shot, and he was just able at
the last moment, before falling ignominiously, to hop over the double obstacle with a
balletically disguised jump. He did not look
back, and after a while was quite satisfied
with himself. One must be hard as a diamond and tender as a mother! he thought,

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using an old precept from the seventeenth

century.
Since he also esteemed the virtue of
modesty, at no other time would he have asserted anything like this in regard to himself;
but there was something in Agathe that so
excited his blood! Then again, it formed the
negative pole of his emotions that this divinely tender female whom he had found in
tears, as the angel had found the maiden in
the dewoh, he did not want to be presumptuous, and yet how presumptuous yielding to
the spirit of poetry does make one! And so he
continued in a more restrained manner: that
this wretched woman was on the point of
breaking an oath placed in the hands of
Godfor that is how he regarded her desire
for a divorce. Unfortunately, he had not
made this forcefully clear when they had
stood face-to-faceGod, what nearness
again in these words!unfortunately, he had
not presented this idea with sufficient

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firmness; he merely remembered having

spoken to her in general about loose morals
and ways of protecting oneself against them.
Besides, the name of God had certainly not
passed his lips, unless as a rhetorical flourish; and the spontaneity, the dispassionate,
one might even say the irreverent, seriousness with which Agathe had asked him
whether he believed in God offended him
even now as he remembered it. For the truly
pious soul does not permit himself to simply
follow a whim and think of God with crude
directness. Indeed, the moment Lindner
thought of this unreasonable question he
despised Agathe as if he had stepped on a
snake. He resolved that if he should ever be
in the situation of repeating his admonitions
to her, he would follow only the dictates of
that powerful logic which is in keeping with
earthly matters and which has been placed
on earth for that purpose, because not every
ill-bred person can be permitted to ask God

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to trouble Himself on behalf of his long-established confusions; and so he began to

make use of this logic straightaway, and
many expressions occurred to him that it
would be appropriate to use to a person who
has stumbled. For instance, that marriage is
not a private affair but a public institution;
that it has the sublime mission of evolving
feelings of responsibility and empathy, and
the task (which hardens a people) of exercising mankind in the bearing of difficult
burdens; perhaps indeed, although it could
only be adduced with the greatest tact, that
precisely by lasting over a fairly long period
of time, marriage constituted the best protection against the excesses of desire. He had
an image of the human being, perhaps not
wrongly, as a sack full of devils that had to be
kept firmly tied shut, and he saw unshakable
principles as the tie.
How this dutiful man, whose corporeal
part could not be said to project in any

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direction but height, had acquired the conviction that one had to rein oneself in at
every step was indeed a riddle, which could
only be solved, though then quite easily,
when one knew its benefit. When he had
reached the foot of the hill a procession of
soldiers crossed his path, and he looked with
tender compassion at the sweaty young men,
who had shoved their caps back on their
heads, and with faces dulled from exhaustion
looked like a procession of dusty caterpillars.
At the sight of these soldiers, his horror at
the frivolity with which Agathe had dealt
with the problem of divorce was dreamily
softened by a joyful feeling that such a thing
should be happening to his free-thinking colleague Hagauer; and this stirring in any
event served to remind him again of how indispensable it was to mistrust human nature.
He therefore resolved to make ruthlessly
plain to Agatheshould the occasion actually, and through no fault of his own,

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arisethat selfish energies could in the last

analysis have only a destructive effect, and
that she should subordinate her personal
despair, however great it might be, to moral
insight, and that the true basic touchstone of
life is living together.
But whether the occasion was once
again to offer itself was evidently just the
point toward which Lindners mental powers
were so excitedly urging him. There are
many people with noble qualities, which are
just not yet gathered into an unshakable conviction, he thought of saying to Agathe; but
how should he do so if he did not see her
again; and yet the thought that she might
pay him a visit offended all his ideas about
tender and chaste femininity. It simply has
to be put before her as strongly as possible,
and immediately! he resolved, and because
he had arrived at this resolution he also no
longer doubted that she really would appear.
He strongly admonished himself to selflessly

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work through with her the reasons she would

advance to excuse her behavior before he
went on to convince her of her errors. With
unwavering patience he would strike her to
the heart, and after he had imagined that to
himself too, a noble feeling of fraternal attention and solicitude came over his own
heart, a consecration as between brother and
sister, which, he noted, was to rest entirely
on those relations that the sexes maintain
with each other. Hardly any men, he cried
out, edified, have the slightest notion how
deep a need noble feminine natures have for
the noble man, who simply deals with the
human being in the woman without being
immediately distracted by her exaggerated
desire to please him sexually! These ideas
must have given him wings, for he had no
idea how he had got to the terminus of the
trolley line, but suddenly there he was; and
before getting in he took off his glasses in order to wipe them free of the condensation

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with which his heated inner processes had

coated them. Then he swung himself into a
corner, glanced around in the empty car, got
his fare ready, looked into the conductors
face, and felt himself entirely at his post,
ready to begin the return journey in that admirable communal institution called the municipal trolley. He discharged the fatigue of
his walk with a contented yawn, in order to
stiffen himself for new duties, and summed
up the astonishing digressions to which he
had surrendered himself in the sentence:
Forgetting oneself is the healthiest thing a
human being can do!

40
THE DO-GOODER
Against the unpredictable stirrings of a passionate heart there is only one reliable remedy: strict and absolutely unremitting planning; and it was to this, which he had acquired early, that Lindner owed the successes of his life as well as the belief that he
was by nature a man of strong passions and
hard to discipline. He got up early in the
morning, at the same hour summer and
winter, and at a washbasin on a small iron
table washed his face, neck, hands, and one
seventh of his bodyevery day a different
seventh, of courseafter which he rubbed
the rest with a wet towel, so that the bath,
that time-consuming and voluptuous

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procedure, could be limited to one evening

every two weeks. There was in this a clever
victory over matter, and whoever has had occasion to consider the inadequate washing
facilities and uncomfortable beds that famous people who have entered history have
had to endure will hardly be able to dismiss
the conjecture that there must be a connection between iron beds and iron people, even
if we ought not exaggerate it, since otherwise
we might soon be sleeping on beds of nails.
So here, moreover, was an additional task for
reflection, and after Lindner had washed
himself in the glow of stimulating examples
he also took advantage of drying himself off
to do a few exercises by skillful manipulation
of his towel, but only in moderation. It is,
after all, a fateful mistake to base health on
the animal part of ones person; it is, rather,
intellectual and moral nobility that produce
the bodys capacity for resistance; and even if
this does not always apply to the individual,

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it most certainly applies on a larger scale, for

the power of a people is the consequence of
the proper spirit, and not the other way
around. Therefore Lindner had also bestowed upon his rubbings-down a special
and careful training, which avoided all the
uncouth grabbing that constitutes the usual
male idolatry but on the contrary involved
the whole personality, by combining the
movements of his body with uplifting inner
tasks. He especially abhorred the perilous
worship of smartness that, coming from
abroad, was already hovering as an ideal before many in his fatherland; and distancing
himself from this was an integral part of his
morning exercises. He substituted for it, with
great care, a statesmanlike attitude in the
calisthenic application of his limbs, combining the tensing of his willpower with timely
yielding, the overcoming of pain with commonsense humanity, and if perchance, in a
concluding burst of courage, he jumped over

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an upside-down chair, he did so with as

much reserve as self-confidence. Such an unfolding of the whole wealth of human talents
made his calisthenics, in the few years since
he had taken them up, true exercises in virtue for him.
That much can also be said in passing
against the bane of transitory self-assertion
that, under the slogan of body care, has
taken possession of the healthy idea of
sports, and there is even more to be said
against the peculiarly feminine form of this
bane, beauty care. Lindner flattered himself
that in this, too, he was one of the few who
knew how to properly apportion light and
shadow, and thus, as he was ever ready to remove from the spirit of the times an unblemished kernel, he also recognized the moral
obligation of appearing as healthy and agreeable as he possibly could. For his part, he
carefully groomed his beard and hair every
morning, kept his nails short and

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meticulously clean, put lotion on his skin

and a little protective ointment on the feet
that in the course of the day had to endure so
much: given all this, who would care to deny
that it is lavishing too much attention on the
body when a worldly woman spends her
whole day at it? But if it really could not be
otherwisehe gladly approached women
tenderly, because among them might be
wives of very wealthy menthan that
bathwaters and facials, ointments and packs,
ingenious treatments of hands and feet, masseurs and friseurs, succeed one another in almost unbroken sequence, he advocated as a
counterweight to such one-sided care of the
body the concept of inner beauty careinner
care, for shortwhich he had formulated in a
public speech. May cleanliness thus serve as
an example to remind us of inner purity;
rubbing with ointment, of obligations toward
the soul; hand massage, of that fate by which
we are bound; and pedicure, that even in

37/1856

that which is more deeply concealed we

should offer a fair aspect. Thus he transferred his image to women, but left it to them
to adapt the details to the needs of their sex.
Of course it might have happened that
someone who was unprepared for the sight
Lindner offered during his health and beauty
worship and, even more, while he was washing and drying himself, might have been
moved to laughter: for seen merely as physical gestures, his movements evoked the image of a multifariously turning and twisting
swans neck, which, moreover, consisted not
of curves but of the sharp element of knees
and elbows; the shortsighted eyes, freed
from their spectacles, looked with a martyred
expression into the distance, as if their gaze
had been snipped off close to the eye, and
beneath his beard his soft lips pouted with
the pain of exertion. But whoever understood how to see spiritually might well experience the spectacle of seeing inner and

38/1856

outer forces begetting each other in ripely

considered counterpoint; and if Lindner was
thinking meanwhile of those poor women
who spend hours in their bathrooms and
dressing rooms and solipsistically inflame
their imaginations through a cult of the
body, he could seldom refrain from reflecting
on how much good it would do them if they
could once watch him. Harmless and pure,
they welcome the modern care of the body
and go along with it because in their ignorance they do not suspect that such exaggerated attention devoted to their animal part
might all too easily awaken in it claims that
could destroy life unless strictly reined in!
Indeed, Lindner transformed absolutely
everything he came in contact with into a
moral imperative; and whether he was in
clothes or not, every hour of the day until he
entered dreamless sleep was filled with some
momentous content for which that hour had
been permanently reserved. He slept for

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seven hours; his teaching obligations, which

the Ministry had limited in consideration of
his well-regarded writing activity, claimed
three to five hours a day, in which was included the lecture on pedagogy he held twice
weekly at the university; five consecutive
hoursalmost twenty thousand in a decade!were reserved for reading; two and a
half served for the setting down on paper of
his own articles, which flowed without pause
like a clear spring from the inner rocks of his
personality; mealtimes claimed an hour
every day; an hour was dedicated to a walk
and simultaneously to the elucidation of major questions of life and profession, while another was dedicated to the traveling back and
forth determined by his profession and consecrated also to what Lindner called his
little musings, concentrating the mind on
the content of an activity that had recently
transpired or that was to come; while other
fragments of time were reserved, in part

40/1856

permanently, in part alternating within the

framework of the week, for dressing and undressing, gymnastics, letters, household affairs, official business, and profitable socializing. And it was only natural that this planning of his life not only was carried out along
its more general disciplinary lines but also
involved all sorts of particular anomalies,
such as Sunday with its nondaily obligations,
the longer cross-country hike that took place
every two weeks, or the bathtub soak, and it
was natural, too, for the plan to contain the
doubling of daily activities that there has not
yet been room to mention, to which belonged, by way of example, Lindners association with his son at mealtimes, or the character training involved in patiently surmounting unforeseen difficulties while getting dressed at speed.
Such calisthenics for the character are
not only possible but also extremely useful,
and Lindner had a spontaneous preference

41/1856

for them. In the small things I do right I see

an image of all the big things that are done
right in the world could already be read in
Goethe, and in this sense a mealtime can
serve as well as a task set by fate as the place
for the fostering of self-control and for the
victory over covetousness; indeed, in the resistance of a collar button, inaccessible to all
reflection, the mind that probes more deeply
could even learn how to handle children.
Lindner of course did not by any means regard Goethe as a model in everything; but
what exquisite humility had he not derived
from driving a nail into a wall with hammer
blows, undertaking to mend a torn glove
himself, or repair a bell that was out of order: if in doing these things he smashed his
fingers or stuck himself, the resulting pain
was outweighed, if not immediately then
after a few horrible seconds, by joy at the industrious spirit of mankind that resides even
in such trifling dexterities and their

42/1856

acquisition, although the cultivated person

today imagines himself (to his general disadvantage) as above all that. He felt with pleasure the Goethean spirit resurrected in him,
and enjoyed it all the more in that thanks to
the methods of a more advanced age he also
felt superior to the great classic master s
practical dilettantism and his occasional delight in discreet dexterity. Lindner was in
fact free of idolatry of the old writer, who had
lived in a world that was only halfway enlightened and therefore overestimated the
Enlightenment, and he took Goethe as a
model more in charming small things than in
serious and great things, quite apart from the
seductive Ministers notorious sensuality.
His admiration was therefore carefully
meted out. There had nevertheless been
evident in it for some time a remarkable
peevishness that often stimulated Lindner to
reflection. He had always believed that his
view of what was heroic was more proper

43/1856

than Goethes. Lindner did not think much

of Scaevolas who stick their hands in the fire,
Lucretias who run themselves through, or
Judiths who chop the heads off the oppressors of their honorthemes that Goethe
would have found meaningful anytime, although he had never treated them; indeed,
Lindner was convinced, in spite of the authority of the classics, that those men and
women, who had committed crimes for their
personal convictions, would nowadays belong not on a pedestal but rather in the
courtroom. To their inclination to inflict
severe bodily injury he opposed an internalized and social concept of courage. In
thought and discourse he even went so far as
to place a duly pondered entry on the subject
into his classbook, or the responsible reflection on how his housekeeper was to be
blamed for precipitate eagerness, because in
that state one should not be permitted to follow ones own passions only, but also had to

44/1856

take the other persons motives into account.

And when he said such things he had the impression of looking back, in the well-fitting
plain clothes of a later century, on the bombastic moral costume of an earlier one.
He was by no means oblivious to the
aura of absurdity that hovered around such
examples, but he called it the laughter of the
spiritual rabble, and he had two solid reasons for this. First, not only did he maintain
that every occasion could be equally well exploited for the strengthening or weakening of
human nature, but it seemed to him that occasions of the smaller kind were better suited
for strengthening it than the large ones,
since the human inclination to arrogance
and vanity is involuntarily encouraged by the
shining exercise of virtue, while its inconspicuous everyday exercise consists simply of
pure, unsalted virtue. And second, systematic management of the peoples moral good
(an expression Lindner loved, along with the

45/1856

military expression breeding and discipline, with its overtones of both peasantry
and being fresh from the factory) would also
not despise the small occasions, for the
reason that the godless belief advanced by
liberals and Freemasons that great human
accomplishments arise so to speak out of
nothing, even if it is called Genius, was
already at that time going out of fashion. The
sharpened focus of public attention had
already caused the hero, whom earlier
times had made into a phenomenon of arrogance, to be recognized as a tireless toiler
over details who prepares himself to be a discoverer through unremitting diligence in
learning, as an athlete who must handle his
body as cautiously as an opera singer his
voice, and who as political rejuvenator of the
people must always repeat the same thing at
countless meetings. And of this Goethe, who
all his life had remained a comfortable
citizen-aristocrat, had had no idea, while he,

46/1856

Lindner, saw it coming! So it was comprehensible, too, that Lindner thought he was
protecting Goethes better part against the
ephemeral part when he preferred the considerate and companionable, which Goethe
had possessed in such gratifying measure, to
the tragic Goethe; it might also be argued
that it did not happen without reflection
when, for no other reason than that he was a
pedant, he considered himself a person
threatened by dangerous passions.
Truly, it shortly afterward became one
of the most popular human possibilities to
subject oneself to a regimen, which may be
applied with the same success to overweight
as it is to politics and intellectual life. In a regimen, patience, obedience, regularity,
equanimity, and other highly respectable
qualities become the major components of
the individual in his private, personal capacity, while everything that is unbridled, violent, addictive, and dangerous, which he, as a

47/1856

crazy romantic, cannot dispense with either,

has its admirable center in the regimen.
Apparently this remarkable inclination to
submit oneself to a regimen, or lead a fatiguing, unpleasant, and sorry life according
to the prescription of a doctor, athletic
coach, or some other tyrant (although one
could just as well ignore it with the same failure rate), is a result of the movement toward
the worker-warrior-anthill state toward
which the world is moving: but here lay the
boundary that Lindner was not able to cross,
nor could he see that far, because his Goethean heritage blocked it.
To be sure, his piety was not of a sort
that could not have been reconciled to this
movement; he did leave the divine to God,
and undiluted saintliness to the saints; but
he could not grasp the thought of renouncing
his personality, and there hovered before
him as an ideal for the world a community of
fully responsible moral personalities, which

48/1856

as Gods civil army would certainly have to

struggle against the inconstancy of baser
nature and make everyday life a shrine, but
would also decorate this shrine with the
masterpieces of art and science. Had
someone counted Lindners division of the
day, it would have struck him that whatever
the version, it added up to only twenty-three
hours; sixty minutes of a full day were lacking, and of these sixty minutes, forty were invariably set aside for conversation and kindly
investigation into the striving and nature of
other people, as part of which he also counted visits to art exhibitions, concerts, and entertainments. He hated these events. Almost
every time, their content affronted his mind;
as he saw it, it was the infamous overwrought nerves of the age that were letting
off steam in these overblown and aimless
constructions, with their superfluous stimulants and genuine suffering, with their insatiability and inconstancy, their inquisitiveness

49/1856

and unavoidable moral decay. He even

smiled dis-concertedly into his scanty beard
when on such occasions he saw ordinary
men and women idolize culture with
flushed cheeks. They did not know that the
life force is enhanced by being circumscribed, not by being fragmented. They all
suffered from the fear of not having time for
everything, not knowing that having time
means nothing more than not having any
time for everything. Lindner had realized
that the bad nerves did not come from work
and its pressure, which in our age are
blamed for them, but that on the contrary
they came from culture and humanitarianism, from breaks in routine, the interruption
of work, the free minutes in which the individual would like to live for himself and seek
out something he can regard as beautiful, or
fun, or important: these are the moments out
of which the miasmas of impatience, unhappiness, and meaninglessness arise. This was

50/1856

what he felt, and if he had had his waythat

is, according to the visions he had at such
momentshe would sweep away all these art
workshops with an iron broom, and festivals
of labor and edification, tightly tied to daily
activity, would take the place of such socalled spiritual events; it really would require
no more than excising from an entire age
those few minutes a day that owed their
pathological existence to a falsely understood
liberality. But beyond making a few allusions, he had never summoned up the decisiveness to stand up for this seriously and in
public.
Lindner suddenly looked up, for during
these dreamy thoughts he had still been riding in the trolley; he felt irritated and depressed, as one does from being irresolute
and blocked, and for a moment he had the
confused impression that he had been thinking about Agathe the entire time. She was accorded the additional honor that an

51/1856

annoyance that had begun innocently as

pleasure in Goethe now fused with her, although no reason for this could be discerned.
From habit, Lindner now admonished himself. Dedicate part of your isolation to quiet
reflection about your fellowman, especially if
you should not be in accord with him; perhaps you will then learn to better understand
and utilize what repels you, and will know
how to be indulgent toward his weaknesses
and encourage his virtue, which may simply
be overawed, he whispered with mute lips.
This was one of the formulas he had coined
against the dubious activities of so-called
culture and in which he usually found the
composure to bear them; but this did not
happen, and this time it was apparently not
righteousness that was missing. He pulled
out his watch, which confirmed that he had
accorded Agathe more time than was allotted. But he would not have been able to do so
if in his daily schedule there had not been

52/1856

those twenty leftover minutes set aside for

unavoidable slippage. He discovered that
this Loss Account, this emergency supply of
time, whose precious drops were the oil that
lubricated his daily works, even on this unusual day, would still hold ten spare minutes
when he walked into his house. Did this
cause his courage to grow? Another of his
bits of wisdom occurred to him, for the
second time this day: The more unshakable
your patience becomes, said Lindner to
Lindner, the more surely you will strike
your opponent to the heart! And to strike to
the heart was a pleasurable sensation, which
also corresponded to the heroic in his
nature; that those so struck never strike back
was of no importance.

41
BROTHER AND SISTER THE NEXT
MORNING
Ulrich and his sister came to speak of this
man once more when they saw each other
again the morning after Agathes sudden disappearance from their cousins party. On the
previous day Ulrich had left the excited and
quarrelsome gathering soon after she had,
but had not got around to asking her why she
had up and left him; for she had locked herself in, and was either already sleeping or
purposely ignoring the listener with his soft
inquiry as to whether she was still awake.
Thus the day she had met the curious
stranger had closed just as capriciously as it
had begun. Nor was any information to be

54/1856

had from her this morning. She herself did

not know what her real feelings were. When
she thought of her husbands letter, which
had forced its way to her and which she had
not been able to bring herself to read again,
although from time to time she noticed it lying beside her, it seemed to her incredible
that not even a day had passed since she had
received it; so often had her condition
changed in the meantime. Sometimes she
thought the letter deserved the horror tag
ghosts from the past; still, it really
frightened her, too. And at times it aroused
in her merely a slight unease of the kind that
can be aroused by the unexpected sight of a
clock that has stopped; at other times, she
was plunged into futile brooding that the
world from which this letter came was claiming to be the real world for her. That which
inwardly did not so much as touch her surrounded her outwardly in an invisible web
that was not yet broken. She involuntarily

55/1856

compared this with the things that had

happened between her and her brother since
the arrival of this letter. Above all they had
been conversations, and despite the fact that
one of them had even brought her to think of
suicide, its contents had been forgotten,
though they were evidently still ready to
reawaken, and not surmounted. So it really
did not matter much what the subject of a
conversation was, and pondering her heartstopping present life against the letter, she
had the impression of a profound, constant,
incomparable, but powerless movement.
From all this she felt this morning partly exhausted and disillusioned, and partly tender
and restless, like a fever patient after his
temperature has gone down.
In this state of animated helplessness
she said suddenly: To empathize in such a
way that one truly experiences another persons mood must be indescribably difficult!
To her surprise, Ulrich replied immediately:

56/1856

There are people who imagine they can do

it. He said this ill-humoredly and offensively, having only half understood her. Her
words caused something to move aside and
make room for an annoyance that had been
left behind the day before, although he ought
to find it contemptible. And so this conversation came to an end for the time being.
The morning had brought a day of rain
and confined brother and sister to their
house. The leaves of the trees in front of the
windows glistened desolately, like wet linoleum; the roadway behind the gaps in the foliage was as shiny as a rubber boot. The eyes
could hardly get a hold on the wet view.
Agathe was sorry for her remark, and no
longer knew why she had made it. She sighed
and began again: Today the world reminds
me of our nursery. She was alluding to the
bare upper rooms in their father s house and
the astonishing reunion they had both celebrated with them. That might be farfetched;

57/1856

but she added: Its a persons first sadness,

surrounded by his toys, that always keeps
coming back! After the recent stretch of
good weather, expectations had automatically been directed toward a lovely day, and
this filled the mind with frustrated desire
and impatient melancholy. Ulrich, too, now
looked out the window. Behind the gray,
streaming wall of water, will-o-the-wisps of
outings never taken, open green, and an endless world beckoned; and perhaps, too, the
ghost of a desire to be alone once more and
free again to move in any direction, the sweet
pain of which is the story of the Passion and
also the Resurrection of love. He turned to
his sister with something of this still in the
expression on his face, and asked her almost
vehemently: Im surely not one of those
people who can respond empathically to
others?
No, you really arent! she responded,
and smiled at him.

58/1856

But just what such people presume,

he went on, for it was only now that he understood how seriously her words had been
meant, namely, that people can suffer together, is as impossible for them as it is for
anyone else. At most they have a nursing
skill in guessing what someone in need likes
to hear
In which case they must know what
would help him, Agathe objected.
Not at all! Ulrich asserted more stubbornly. Apparently the only comfort they
give is by talking: whoever talks a lot discharges another persons sorrow drop by
drop, the way rain discharges the electricity
in a cloud. Thats die well-known alleviation
of every grief through talking!
Agathe was silent.
People like your new friend, Ulrich
now said provocatively, perhaps work the
way many cough remedies do: they dont get

59/1856

rid of the sore throat but soothe its irritation,

and then it often heals by itself!
In any other situation he could have expected his sisters assent, but Agathe, who
since yesterday had been in a peculiar frame
of mind because of her sudden weakness for
a man whose worth Ulrich doubted, smiled
unyieldingly and played with her fingers. Ulrich jumped up and said urgently: But I
know him, even if only fleetingly; Ive heard
him speak several times!
You even called him a Vacuous fool,
Agathe interjected.
And why not? Ulrich defended it.
People like him know less than anyone
about how to empathize with another person! They dont even know what it means.
They simply dont feel the difficulty, the terrible equivocation, of this demand!
Agathe then asked: Why do you think
the demand is equivocal?

60/1856

Now Ulrich was silent. He even lit a cigarette to underline that he was not going to
answer; they had, after all, talked about it
enough yesterday. Agathe knew this too. She
did not want to provoke any new explanations. These explanations were as enchanting
and as devastating as looking at the sky when
it forms gray, pink, and yellow cities of
marble cloud. She thought, How fine it
would be if he would only say: 1 want to love
you as myself, and I can love you that way
better than any other woman because you
are my sister! But because he was not
about to say it, she took a small pair of scissors and carefully cut off a thread that was
sticking out somewhere, as if this were at
that moment the only thing in the entire
world that deserved her full attention. Ulrich
observed this with the same attention. She
was at this instant more seductively present
to all his senses than ever, and he guessed
something of what she was hiding, even if

61/1856

not everything. For she meanwhile had had

time to resolve: if Ulrich could forget that
she herself was laughing at the stranger who
presumed he could be of help here, he was
not going to find it out from her now.
Moreover, she had a happy presentiment
about Lindner. She did not know him. But
that he had offered his assistance selflessly
and wholeheartedly must have inspired confidence in her, for a joyous melody of the
heart, a hard trumpet blast of will, confidence, and pride, which were in salutary opposition to her own state, now seemed to be
playing for her and refreshing her beyond all
the comedy of the situation. No matter how
great difficulties may be, they mean nothing
if one seriously wills oneself to deal with
them! she thought, and was unexpectedly
overcome by remorse, so that she now broke
the silence in something of the way a flower
is broken off so that two heads can bend over
it, and added as a second question to her

62/1856

first: Do you still remember that you always

said that love thy neighbor is as different
from an obligation as a cloudburst of bliss is
from a drop of satisfaction?
She was astonished at the vehemence
with which Ulrich answered her: Im not
unaware of the irony of my situation. Since
yesterday, and apparently always, I have
done nothing but raise an army of reasons
why this love for ones neighbor is no joy but
a terribly magnificent, half-impossible task!
So nothing could be more understandable
than that youre seeking protection with a
person who has no idea about any of this,
and in your position Id do the same!
But its not true at all that Im doing
that! Agathe replied curtly.
Ulrich could not keep himself from
throwing her a glance that held as much
gratitude as mistrust. Its hardly worth the
bother of talking about, he assured her. I

63/1856

really didnt want to either. He hesitated a

moment and then went on: But look, if you
do have to love someone else the way you
love yourself, however much you love him it
really remains a self-deceiving lie, because
you simply cant feel along with him how his
head or his finger hurts. It is absolutely unbearable that one really cant be part of a
person one loves, and its an absolutely
simple thing. Thats the way the world is organized. We wear our animal skin with the
hair inside and cannot shake it out. And this
horror within the tenderness, this nightmare
of coming to a standstill in getting close to
one another, is something that the people
who are conventionally correct, the lets be
precise people, never experience. What they
call their empathy is actually a substitute for
it, which they use to make sure they didnt
miss anything!
Agathe forgot that she had just said
something that was as close to a lie as a non-

64/1856

lie. She saw illuminated in Ulrichs words the

disillusion over the vision of sharing in each
other, before which the usual proofs of love,
goodness, and sympathy lost their meaning;
and she understood that this was the reason
he spoke of the world more often than of
himself, for if it was to be more than idle
dreaming, one must remove oneself along
with reality like a door from its hinges. At
this moment she was far away from the man
with the sparse beard and timid severity who
wanted to do her good. But she couldnt say
it. She merely looked at Ulrich and then
looked away, without speaking. Then she did
something or other, then they looked at each
other again. After the shortest time the silence gave the impression of having lasted
for hours.
The dream of being two people and one:
in truth the effect of this fabrication was at
many moments not unlike that of a dream
that has stepped outside the boundaries of

65/1856

night, and now it was hovering in such a

state of feeling between faith and denial, in
which reason had nothing more to say. It was
precisely the bodys unalterable constitution
by which feeling was referred back to reality.
These bodies, since they loved each other,
displayed their existence before the inquiring
gaze, for surprises and delights that renewed
themselves like a peacocks tail sweeping
back and forth in currents of desire; but as
soon as ones glance no longer lingered on
the hundred eyes of the spectacle that love
offers to love, but attempted to penetrate into the thinking and feeling being behind it,
these bodies transformed themselves into
horrible prisons. One found oneself again
separated from the other, as so often before,
not knowing what to say, because for
everything that desire still had to say or repeat a far too remote, protective, covering
gesture was needed, for which there was no
solid foundation.

66/1856

And it was not long before the bodily

motions, too, involuntarily grew slower and
congealed. The rain beyond the windows was
still filling the air with its twitching curtain
of drops and the lullaby of sounds through
whose monotony the sky-high desolation
flowed downward. It seemed to Agathe that
her body had been alone for centuries, and
time flowed as if it were flowing with the water from the sky. The light in the room now
was like that of a hollowed-out silver die.
Blue, sweetish scarves of smoke from heedlessly burning cigarettes coiled around the
two of them. She no longer knew whether
she was tender and sensitive to the core of
her being or impatient and out of sorts with
her brother, whose stamina she admired.
She sought out his eyes and found them hovering in this uncertain atmosphere like two
dead moons. At the same instant something
happened to her that seemed to come not
from her will but from outside: the surging

67/1856

water beyond the windows suddenly became

fleshy, like a fruit that has been sliced, and
its swelling softness pressed between herself
and Ulrich. Perhaps she was ashamed or
even hated herself a little for it, but a completely sensual wantonnessand not at all
only what one calls an unleashing of the
senses but also, and far more, a voluntary
and unconstrained draining of the senses
away from the worldbegan to gain control
over her; she was just able to anticipate it
and even hide it from Ulrich by telling him
with the speediest of all excuses that she had
forgotten to take care of something, jumped
up, and left the room.

42
UP JACOBS LADDER INTO A
STRANGERS DWELLING
Hardly had that been done when she resolved to look up the odd man who had
offered her his help, and immediately carried
out her resolution. She wanted to confess to
him that she no longer had any idea what to
do with herself. She had no clear picture of
him; a person one has seen through tears
that dried up in his company will not easily
appear to someone the way he actually is. So
on the way, she thought about him. She
thought she was thinking clearheadedly, but
actually it was fantasy. She hastened through
the streets, bearing before her eyes the light
from her brothers room. It had not been a

69/1856

proper kind of light at all, she considered;

she should rather say that all the objects in
the room had suddenly lost their composure,
or a kind of understanding that they must
certainly have otherwise had. But if it were
the case that it was only she herself who had
lost her composure, or her understanding, it
would not have been limited just to her, for
there had also been awakened in the objects
a liberation that was astir with miracles.
The next moment it would have peeled us
out of our clothes like a silver knife, without
our having moved a finger! she thought.
She gradually let herself be calmed by
the rain, whose harmless gray water bounced
off her hat and down her coat, and her
thoughts became more measured. This was
perhaps helped, too, by the simple clothes
she had hastily thrown on, for they directed
her memory back to schoolgirl walks without
an umbrella, and to guiltless states. As she
walked she even thought unexpectedly of an

70/1856

innocent summer she had spent with a girlfriend and the friends parents on a small island in the north: there, between the harsh
splendors of sea and sky, she had discovered
a seabirds nesting place, a hollow filled with
white, soft bird feathers. And now she knew:
the man to whom she was being drawn reminded her of this nesting place. The idea
cheered her. At that time, to be sure, in view
of the strict sincerity that is part of youths
need for experience, she would have hardly
let it pass that at the thought of the softness
and whiteness she would be abandoning herself to an unearthly shudder, as illogically,
indeed as youthfully and immaturely, as she
was now allowing to happen with such assiduity. This shudder was for Professor Lindner; but the unearthly was also for him.
The intimation, amounting to certainty,
that everything that happened to her was
connected as in a fairy tale with something
hidden was familiar to her from all the

71/1856

agitated periods of her life; she sensed it as a

nearness, felt it behind her, and was inclined
to wait for the hour of the miracle, when she
would have nothing to do but close her eyes
and lean back. But Ulrich did not see any
help in unearthly dreaminess, and his attention seemed claimed mostly by transforming,
with infinite slowness, unearthly content into an earthly one. In this Agathe recognized
the reason why she had now left him for the
third time within twenty-four hours, fleeing
in the confused expectation of something
that she had to take into her keeping and allow to rest from the afflictions, or perhaps
just from the impatience, of her passions.
But then as soon as she calmed down she
was herself again, standing by his side and
seeing in what he was teaching her all the
possibilities for healing; and even now this
lasted for a while. But as the memory of what
had almost happened at homeand yet not
happened!reasserted itself more vividly,

72/1856

she was again profoundly at a loss. First she

wanted to convince herself that the infinite
realm of the unimaginable would have come
to their aid if they had stuck it out for another instant; then she reproached herself that
she had not waited to see what Ulrich would
do; finally, however, she dreamed that the
truest thing would have been simply to yield
to love and make room for a place for overtaxed nature to rest on the dizzying Jacobs
ladder they were climbing. But hardly had
she made this concession than she thought of
herself as one of those incompetent fairytale
creatures who cannot restrain themselves,
and in their womanly weakness prematurely
break silence or some other oath, causing
everything to collapse amid thunderclaps.
If her expectation now directed itself
again toward the man who was to help her
find counsel, he not only enjoyed the great
advantage bestowed on order, certainty,
kindly strictness, and composed behavior by

73/1856

an undisciplined and desperate mode of conduct, but this stranger also had the particular
quality of speaking about God with certainty
and without feeling, as if he visited Gods
house daily and could announce that
everything there that was mere passion and
imagining was despised. So what might be
awaiting her at Lindners? While she was
asking herself this she set her feet more
firmly on the ground as she walked, and
breathed in the coldness of the rain so that
she would become quite clearheaded; and
then it started to seem highly probable to her
that Ulrich, even though he judged Lindner
one-sidedly, still judged him more correctly
than she did, for before her conversations
with Ulrich, when her impression of Lindner
was still vivid, she herself had thought quite
scornfully of this good man. She was amazed
at her feet, which were taking her to him
anyway, and she even took a bus going in the

74/1856

same direction so she would get there

sooner.
Shaken about among people who were
like rough, wet pieces of laundry, she found
it hard to hold on to her inner fantasy completely, but with an exasperated expression
on her face she persevered, and protected it
from being torn to shreds. She wanted to
bring it whole to Lindner. She even disparaged it. Her whole relation to God, if that
name was to be applied to such adventurousness at all, was limited to a twilight that
opened up before her every time life became
too oppressive and repulsive or, which was
new, too beautiful. Then she ran into it, seeking. That was all she could honestly say
about it. And it had never led to anything, as
she told herself with a sigh. But she noticed
that she was now really curious about how
her unknown man would extricate himself
from this affair that was being confided to
him, so to speak, as Gods representative; for

75/1856

such a purpose, after all, some omniscience

must have rubbed off on him from the great
Inaccessible One, because she had meanwhile firmly resolved, squeezed between all
kinds of people, on no account to deliver a
complete confession to him right away. But
as she got out she discovered in herself, remarkably enough, the deeply concealed conviction that this time it would be different
from before, and that she had also made up
her mind to bring this whole incomprehensible fantasy out of the twilight and into the
light on her own. Perhaps she would have
quickly extinguished this overblown expression again if it had entered her consciousness
at all; but all that was present there was not a
word, but merely a surprised feeling that
whirled her blood around as if it were fire.
The man toward whom such passionate
emotions and fantasies were en route was
meanwhile sitting in the company of his son,
Peter, at lunch, which he still ate, following a

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good rule of former times, at the actual hour

of noon. There was no luxury in his surroundings, or, as it would be better to say in
the German tongue, no excess[Oberfluss, literally,
overflow]; for the German word reveals the
sense that the alien word obscures. Luxury
also has the meaning of the superfluous and
dispensable that idle wealth might accumulate; excess, on the other hand, is not so
much superfluousto which extent it is synonymous with luxuryas it is overflowing,
thus signifying a padding of existence that
gently swells beyond its frame, or that surplus ease and magnanimity of European life
which is lacking only for the extremely poor.
Lindner discriminated between these two
senses of luxury, and just as luxury in the
first sense was absent from his home, it was
present in the second. One already had this
peculiar impression, although it could not be
said where it came from, when the entry
door opened and revealed the moderately

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large foyer. If one then looked around, none

of the arrangements created to serve mankind through useful invention was lacking:
an umbrella stand, soldered from sheet metal and painted with enamel, took care of umbrellas. A runner with a coarse weave removed from shoes the dirt that the mud
brush might not have caught. Two clothes
brushes hung in a pouch on the wall, and the
stand for hanging up outer garments was not
missing either. A bulb illuminated the space;
even a mirror was present, and all these
utensils were lovingly maintained and
promptly replaced when they were damaged.
But the lamp had the lowest wattage by
which one could just barely make things out;
the clothes stand had only three hooks; the
mirror encompassed only four fifths of an
adult face; and the thickness as well as the
quality of the carpet was just great enough
that one could feel the floor through it
without sinking into softness: even if it was

78/1856

futile to describe the spirit of the place

through such details, one only needed to
enter to feel overcome by a peculiar general
atmosphere that was not strict and not lax,
not prosperous and not poor, not spiced and
not bland, but just something like a positive
produced by two negatives, which might best
be expressed in the term absence of prodigality. This by no means excluded, upon
ones entering the inner rooms, a feeling for
beauty, or indeed of coziness, which was
everywhere in evidence. Choice prints hung
framed on the walls; the window beside
Lindners desk was adorned with a colorful
showpiece of glass representing a knight
who, with a prim gesture, was liberating a
maiden from a dragon; and in the choice of
several painted vases that held lovely paper
flowers, in the provision of an ashtray by the
nonsmoker, as well as in the many trifling
details through which, as it were, a ray of
sunshine falls into the serious circle of duty

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represented by the preservation and care of a

household, Lindner had gladly allowed a liberal taste to prevail. Still, the twelve-edged
severity of the rooms shape emerged everywhere as a reminder of the hardness of life,
which one should not forget even in amenity;
and wherever something stemming from
earlier times that was undisciplined in a feminine way managed to break through this
unitya little cross-stitch table scarf, a pillow with roses, or the petticoat of a lampshadethe unity was strong enough to prevent the voluptuous element from being excessively obtrusive. Nevertheless, on this
day, and not for the first time since the day
before, Lindner appeared at mealtime nearly
a quarter of an hour late. The table was set;
the plates, three high at each place, looked at
him with the frank glance of reproach; the
little glass knife rests, from which knife,
spoon, and fork stared like barrels from gun
carriages, and the rolled-up napkins in their

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rings, were deployed like an army left in the

lurch by its general. Lindner had hastily
stuffed the mail, which he usually opened before the meal, in his pocket, and with a bad
conscience hastened into the dining room,
not knowing in his confusion what he was
meeting with thereit might well have been
something like mistrust, since at the same
moment, from the other side, and just as
hastily as he, his son, Peter, entered as if he
had only been waiting for his father to come
in.

43
THE DO-GOODER AND THE DO-NOGOODER; BUT AGATHE TOO
Peter was a quite presentable fellow of about
seventeen, in whom Lindners precipitous
height had been infused and curtailed by a
broadened body; he came up only as far as
his fathers shoulders, but his head, which
was like a large, squarish-round bowling
ball, sat on a neck of taut flesh whose circumference would have served for one of
Papas thighs. Peter had tarried on the soccer
field instead of in school and had on the way
home unfortunately got into conversation
with a girl, from whom his manly beauty had
wrung a half-promise to see him again: thus
late, he had secretly slunk into the house and

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to the door of the dining room, uncertain to

the last minute how he was going to excuse
himself; but to his surprise he had heard no
one in the room, had rushed in, and, just on
the point of assuming the bored expression
of long waiting, was extremely embarrassed
when he collided with his father. His red face
flushed with still redder spots, and he immediately let loose an enormous flood of words,
casting sidelong glances at his father when
he thought he wasnt noticing, while looking
him fearlessly in the eye when he felt his
fathers eyes on him. This was calculated behavior, and often called upon: its purpose
was to fulfill the mission of arousing the impression of a young man who was vacant and
slack to the point of idiocy and who would be
capable of anything with the one exception of
hiding something. But if that wasnt enough,
Peter did not recoil from letting slip, apparently inadvertently, words disrespectful of
his father or otherwise displeasing to him,

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which then had the effect of lightning rods

attracting electricity and diverting it from
dangerous paths. For Peter feared his father
the way hell fears heaven, with the awe of
stewing flesh upon which the spirit gazes
down. He loved soccer, but even there he
preferred to watch it with an expert expression and make portentous comments than to
strain himself by playing. He wanted to become a pilot and achieve heroic feats
someday; he did not, however, imagine this
as a goal to be worked toward but as a personal disposition, like creatures whose natural attribute it is that they will one day be
able to fly. Nor did it influence him that his
lack of inclination for work was in contradiction to the teachings of school: this son of a
well-known pedagogue was not in the least
interested in being respected by his teachers;
it was enough for him to be physically the
strongest in his class, and if one of his fellow
pupils seemed to him too clever, he was

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ready to restore the balance of the relationship by a punch in the nose or stomach. As
we know, one can lead a respected existence
this way; but his behavior had the one disadvantage that he could not use it at home
against his father; indeed, that his father
should find out as little about it as possible.
For faced with this spiritual authority that
had brought him up and held him in gentle
embrace, Peters vehemence collapsed into
wailing attempts at rebellion, which Lindner
senior called the pitiable cries of the desires.
Intimately exposed since childhood to the
best principles, Peter had a hard time denying their truth to himself and was able to satisfy his honor and valor only with the cunning of an Indian in avoiding open verbal
warfare. He too, of course, used lots of words
in order to adapt to his opponent, but he
never descended to the need to speak the
truth, which in his view was unmanly and
garrulous.

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So this time, too, his assurances and

grimaces bubbled forth at once, but they met
with no reaction from his master. Professor
Lindner had hastily made the sign of the
cross over the soup and begun to eat, silent
and rushed. At times, his eye rested briefly
and distractedly on the part in his sons hair.
On this day the part had been drawn through
the thick, reddish-brown hair with comb,
water, and a good deal of pomade, like a
narrow-gauge railroad track through a reluctantly yielding forest thicket. Whenever
Peter felt his fathers glance resting on it he
lowered his head so as to cover with his chin
the red, screamingly beautiful tie with which
his tutor was not yet acquainted. For an instant later the eye could gently widen upon
making such a discovery and the mouth follow it, and words would emerge about subjection to the slogans of clowns and fops or
social toadiness and servile vanity, which
offended Peter. But this time nothing

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happened, and it was only a while later,

when the plates were being changed, that
Lindner said kindly and vaguelyit was not
even at all certain whether he was referring
to the tie or whether his admonition was
brought about by some unconsciously perceived sightPeople who still have to
struggle a lot with their vanity should avoid
anything striking in their outward
appearance.
Peter took advantage of his fathers unexpected absentmindedness of character to
produce a story about a poor grade he was
chivalrously supposed to have received because, tested after a fellow pupil, he had deliberately made himself look unprepared in
order not to outshine his comrade by demonstrating the incredible demands that were
simply beyond the grasp of weaker pupils.
Professor Lindner merely shook his
head at this.

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But when the middle course had been

taken away and dessert came on the table, he
began cautiously and ruminatively: Look,
its precisely in those years when the appetites are greatest that one can win the most
momentous victories over oneself, not for instance by starving oneself in an unhealthy
way but through occasionally renouncing a
favorite dish after one has eaten enough.
Peter was silent and showed no understanding of this, but his head was again
vividly suffused with red up to his ears.
It would be wrong, his father continued, troubled, if I wanted to punish you for
this poor grade, because aside from the fact
that you are lying childishly, you demonstrate such a lack of the concept of moral
honor that one must first make the soil
tillable in order for the punishment to have
an effect on it. So Im not asking anything of
you except that you understand this yourself,

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and Im sure that then youll punish

yourself!
This was the moment for Peter to point
animatedly to his weak health and also to the
overwork that could have caused his recent
failures in school and that rendered it impossible for him to steel his character by renouncing dessert.
The French philosopher Comte, Professor Lindner replied calmly, was accustomed after dining, without particular inducement, to chew on a crust of dry bread instead of dessert, just to remember those who
do not have even dry bread. It is an admirable trait, which reminds us that every exercise of abstemiousness and plainness has
profound social significance!
Peter had long had a most unfavorable
impression of philosophy, but now his father
added literature to his bad associations by
continuing: The writer Tolstoy, too, says

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that abstemiousness is the first step toward

freedom. Man has many slavish desires, and
in order for the struggle against all of them
to be successful, one must begin with the
most elemental: the craving for food, idleness, and sensual desires. Professor Lindner
was accustomed to pronounce any of these
three terms, which occurred often in his admonitions, as impersonally as the others;
and long before Peter had been able to connect anything specific with the expression
sensual desires he had already been introduced to the struggle against them, alongside
the struggles against idleness and the craving
for food, without thinking about them any
more than his father, who had no need to
think further about them because he was certain that basic instruction in these struggles
begins with self-determination. In this fashion it came about that on a day when Peter
did not yet know sensual longing in its most
desired form but was already slinking about

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its skirts, he was surprised for the first time

by a sudden feeling of angry revulsion
against the loveless connection between it
and idleness and the craving for food that his
father was accustomed to make; he was not
allowed to come straight out with this but
had to lie, and cried: Im a plain and simple
person and cant compare myself with
writers and philosophers!whereby, in
spite of his agitation, he did not choose his
words without reflection.
His tutor did not respond.
Im hungry! Peter added, still more
passionately.
Lindner put on a pained and scornful
smile.
Ill die if I dont get enough to eat!
Peter was almost blubbering.
The first response of the individual to
all interventions and attacks from without

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occurs through the instrument of the voice!

his father instructed him.
And the pitiable cries of the desires,
as Lindner called them, died away. On this
particularly manly day Peter did not want to
cry, but the necessity of developing the spirit
for voluble verbal defense was a terrible burden to him. He could not think of anything
more at all to say, and at this moment he
even hated the lie because one had to speak
in order to use it. Eagerness for murder alternated in his eyes with howls of complaint.
When it had got to this point, Professor
Lindner said to him kindly: You must impose on yourself serious exercises in being silent, so that it is not the careless and ignorant person in you who speaks but the reflective and well-brought-up one, who utters
words that bring joy and firmness! And
then, with a friendly expression, he lapsed
into reflection. I have no better advice, if
one wants to make others goodhe finally

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revealed to his son the conclusion he had

come tothan to be good oneself; Matthias
Claudius says too: I cant think of any other
way except by being oneself the way one
wants children to be! And with these words
Professor Lindner amiably but decisively
pushed away the dessert, although it was his
favoriterice pudding with sugar and
chocolatewithout touching it, through such
loving inexorability forcing his son, who was
gnashing his teeth, to do the same.
At this moment the housekeeper came
in to report that Agathe was there. August
Lindner straightened up in confusion. So
she did come! a horribly distinct mute voice
said to him. He was prepared to feel indignant, but he was also ready to feel a fraternal
gentleness that combined in sympathetic understanding with a delicate sense of moral
action, and these two countercurrents, with
an enormous train of principles, staged a
wild chase through his entire body before he

93/1856

was able to utter the simple command to

show the lady into the living room. You wait
for me here! he said to Peter severely, and
hastily left. But Peter had noticed something
unusual about his fathers behavior, he just
didnt know what; in any event, it gave him
so much rash courage that after the latters
departure, and a brief hesitation, he scooped
into his mouth a spoonful of the chocolate
that was standing ready to be sprinkled, then
a spoonful of sugar, and finally a big spoonful of pudding, chocolate, and sugar, a procedure he repeated several times before
smoothing out all the dishes to cover his
tracks. And Agathe sat for a while alone in
the strange house and waited for Professor
Lindner; for he was pacing back and forth in
another room, collecting his thoughts before
going to encounter the lovely and perilous female. She looked around and suddenly felt
anxious, as if she had lost her way climbing
among the branches of a dream tree and had

94/1856

to fear not being able to escape in one piece

from its world of contorted wood and myriad
leaves. A profusion of details confused her,
and in the paltry taste they evinced there was
a repellent acerbity intertwined in the most
remarkable way with an opposite quality, for
which, in her agitation, she could not immediately find words. The repulsion was perhaps reminiscent of the frozen stiffness of
chalk drawings, but the room also looked as
if it might smell in a grandmotherly, cloying
way of medicines and ointments; and oldfashioned and unmanly ghosts, fixated with
unpleasant maliciousness upon human suffering, were hovering within its walls. Agathe
sniffed. And although the air held nothing
more than her imaginings, she gradually
found herself being led further and further
backward by her feelings, until she remembered the rather anxious smell of heaven, that aroma of incense half aired and
emptied of its spices which clung to the

95/1856

scarves of the habits her teachers had once

worn when she was a girl being brought up
together with little friends in a pious convent
school without at all succumbing to piety
herself. For as edifying as this odor may be
for people who associate it with what is right,
its effect on the hearts of growing, worldlyoriented, and resistant girls consisted in a
vivid memory of smells of protest, just as
ideas and first experiences were associated
with a mans mustache or with his energetic
cheeks, pungent with cologne and dusted
with talc. God knows, even that odor does
not deliver what it promises! And as Agathe
sat on one of Lindners renunciative upholstered chairs and waited, the empty smell
of the world closed inescapably about her
with the empty smell of heaven like two hollow hemispheres, and an intimation came
over her that she was about to make up for a
negligently endured class in the school of
life.

96/1856

She knew now where she was. Afraid

yet ready, she tried to adapt to these surroundings and think of the teachings from
which she had perhaps let herself be diverted
too soon. But her heart reared up at this docility like a horse that refuses to respond to
encouragement, and began to run wild with
terror, as happens in the presence of feelings
that would like to warn the understanding
but cant find any words. Nevertheless, after
a while she tried again, and in support
thought of her father, who had been a liberal
man and had always exhibited a somewhat
superficial Enlightenment style and yet, in
total contradiction, had made up his mind to
send her to a convent school for her education. She was inclined to regard this as a kind
of conciliatory sacrifice, an attempt, propelled by a secret insecurity, to do for once
the opposite of what one thinks is ones firm
conviction: and because she felt a kinship
with any kind of inconsistency, the situation

97/1856

into which she had got herself seemed to her

for an instant like a daughters secret, unconscious act of repetition. But even this second,
voluntarily encouraged shudder of piety did
not last; apparently she had definitively lost
her ability to anchor her animated imaginings in a creed when she had been placed under that all-too-clerical care: for all she had
to do was inspect her present surroundings
again, and with that cruel instinct youth has
for the distance separating the infinitude of a
teaching from the finiteness of the teacher,
which indeed easily leads one to deduce the
master from the servant, the sight of the
home surrounding her, in which she had imprisoned herself and settled full of expectation, suddenly and irresistibly impelled her
to laughter.
Yet she unconsciously dug her nails into
the wood of the chair, for she was ashamed
of her lack of resolution. What she most
wanted to do was suddenly and as quickly as

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possible fling into the face of this unknown

man everything that was oppressing her, if
he would only finally deign to show himself:
The criminal trafficking with her fathers
willabsolutely unpardonable, if one regarded it undefiantly. Hagauers letters, distorting her image as horribly as a bad mirror
without her being quite able to deny the likeness. Then, too, that she wanted to destroy
this husband without actually killing him;
that she had indeed once married him, but
not really, only blinded by self-contempt.
There were in her life nothing but unusual
incompletions;
and
finally,
bringing
everything together, she would also have to
talk about the presentiment that hovered
between herself and Ulrich, and this she
could never betray, under any circumstances! She felt as churlish as a child who is
constantly expected to perform a task that is
too difficult. Why was the light she sometimes
glimpsed
always
immediately

99/1856

extinguished again, like a lantern bobbing

through a vast darkness, its gleam alternately swallowed up and exposed? She was
robbed of all resolution, and superfluously
remembered that Ulrich had once said that
whoever seeks this light has to cross an abyss
that has no bottom and no bridge. Did he
himself, therefore, in his inmost soul, not believe in the possibility of what it was they
were seeking together? This was what she
was thinking, and although she did not really
dare to doubt, she still felt herself deeply
shaken. So no one could help her except the
abyss itself! This abyss was God: oh, what
did she know! With aversion and contempt
she examined the tiny bridge that was supposed to lead across, the humility of the
room, the pictures hung piously on the walls,
everything feigning a confidential relationship with Him. She was just as close to abasing herself as she was to turning away in horror. What she would probably most have

100/1856

liked to do was run away once more; but

when she remembered that she always ran
away she thought of Ulrich again and seemed
to herself a terrible coward. The silence at
home had been like the calm before a storm,
and the pressure of what was approaching
had catapulted her here. This was the way
she saw it now, not without quite suppressing a smile; and it was also natural that
something else Ulrich had said should occur
to her, for he had said at some time or other:
A person never finds himself a total coward,
because if something frightens him he runs
just far enough away to consider himself a
hero again! And so here she sat!

44
A MIGHTY DISCUSSION
At this moment Lindner entered, having
made up his mind to say as much as his visitor would; but once they found themselves
face-to-face, things turned out differently.
Agathe immediately went on the verbal attack, which to her surprise turned out to be
far more ordinary than what led up to it
would have indicated.
You will of course recall that I asked
you to explain some things to me, she
began. Now Im here. I still remember quite
well what you said against my getting a divorce. Perhaps Ive understood it even better
since!

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They were sitting at a large round table,

separated from each other by the entire span
of its diameter. In relation to her final moments alone Agathe first felt herself, at the
very beginning of this encounter, deep under
water, but then on solid ground; she laid out
the word divorce like a bait, although her
curiosity to learn Lindners opinion was
genuine too.
And Lindner actually answered at almost the same instant: I know quite well
why you are asking me for this explanation.
People will have been murmuring to you
your whole life long that a belief in the
supra-human, and obeying commandments
that have their origin in this belief, belong to
the Middle Ages! You have discovered that
such fairy tales have been disposed of by science! But are you certain thats really the
way it is?
Agathe noticed to her astonishment
that at every third word or so, his lips puffed

103/1856

out like two assailants beneath his scanty

beard. She gave no answer.
Have you thought about it? Lindner
continued severely. Do you know the vast
number of problems it involves? Its clear
you dont! But you have a magnificent way of
dismissing this with a wave of your hand,
and you apparently dont even realize that
youre simply acting under the influence of
an external compulsion!
He had plunged into danger. It was not
clear what murmurers he had in mind. He
felt himself carried away. His speech was a
long tunnel he had bored right through a
mountain in order to fall upon an idea, lies
of freethinking men, which was sparkling
on the other side in a cocksure light. He was
not thinking of either Ulrich or Hagauer but
meant both of them, meant everyone. And
even if you had thought about ithe exclaimed in an assertively rising voice and
were to be convinced of these mistaken

104/1856

doctrines that the body is nothing but a system of dead corpuscles, and the soul an interplay of glands, and society a ragbag of
mechano-economic laws; and even if that
were correctwhich it is far from beingI
would still deny that such a way of thinking
knows anything about the truth of life! For
what calls itself science doesnt have the
slightest qualification to explicate by externals what lives within a human being as spiritual inner certainty. Lifes truth is a knowledge with no beginning, and the facts of true
life are not communicated by rational proof:
whoever lives and suffers has them within
himself as the secret power of higher claims
and as the living explanation of his self!
Lindner had stood up. His eyes
sparkled like two preachers in the high pulpit
formed by his long legs. He looked down on
Agathe omnipotently.
Why is he talking so much right
away? she thought. And what does he have

105/1856

against Ulrich? He hardly knows him, and

yet he speaks against him openly. Then her
feminine experience in the arousal of feelings told her more quickly and certainly than
reflection would have done that Lindner was
speaking this way only because, in some ridiculous fashion, he was jealous. She looked
up at him with an enchanting smile.
He stood before her tall, waveringly
supple, and armed, and seemed to her like a
bellicose giant grasshopper from some past
geologic age. Good heavens! she thought.
Now Im going to say something that will
annoy him all over again, and hell chase
after me again with his Where am I? What
game am I playing? It confused her that
Lindner irritated her to the point of laughter
and yet that she was not able to shrug off
some of his individual expressions, like
knowledge with no beginning or living explanation; such strange terms at present,
but secretly familiar to her, as if she had

106/1856

always used them herself without being able

to remember ever having heard them before.
She thought: Its gruesome, but hes already
planted some of his words in my heart like
children!
Lindner was aware of having made an
impression on her, and this satisfaction conciliated him somewhat. He saw before him a
young woman in whom agitation seemed to
alternate precariously with feigned indifference, even boldness; since he took himself
for a scrupulous expert on the female soul,
he did not allow himself to be put off by this,
knowing as he did that in beautiful women
there was an inordinately great temptation to
be arrogant and vain. He could hardly ever
observe a beautiful face without an admixture of pity. People so marked were, he was
convinced, almost always martyrs to their
shining outward aspect, which seduced them
to self-conceit and its dragging train of
cold-heartedness and superficiality. Still, it

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can also happen that a soul dwells behind a

beautiful countenance, and how often has insecurity not taken refuge behind arrogance,
or despair beneath frivolity! Often, indeed,
this is true of particularly noble people, who
are merely lacking the support of proper and
unshakable convictions. And now Lindner
was gradually and completely overcome once
more with how the successful person has to
put himself in the frame of mind of the
slighted one; and as he did this he became
aware that the form of Agathes face and
body possessed that delightful repose unique
to the great and noble; even her knee seemed
to him, in the folds of its covering envelope,
like the knee of Niobe. He was astonished
that this specific image should force itself on
him, since so far as he knew there was nothing in the least appropriate about it; but apparently the nobility of his moral pain had
unilaterally come together in this image with
the suspiciousness many children have, for

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he felt no less attracted than alarmed. He

now noticed her breast too, which was
breathing in small, rapid waves. He felt hot
and bothered, and if his knowledge of the
world had not come to his aid again he would
even have felt at a loss; but at this moment of
greatest captiousness it whispered to him
that this bosom must enclose something unspoken, and that according to all he knew,
this secret might well be connected with the
divorce from his colleague Hagauer; and this
saved him from embarrassing foolishness by
instantaneously offering the possibility of desiring the revelation of this secret instead of
the bosom. He desired this with all his
might, while the union of sin with the chivalric slaying of the dragon of sin hovered before his eyes in glowing colors, much as they
glowed in the stained glass in his study.
Agathe interrupted this rumination
with a question she addressed to him in a
temperate, even restrained tone, after she

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had regained her composure. You claimed

that I was acting on insinuations, on external
compulsion; what did you mean by that?
Disconcerted, Lindner raised the glance
that had been resting on her heart to her
eyes. This had never happened to him before: he could no longer remember the last
thing he had said. He had seen in this young
woman a victim of the free-minded spirit
that was confusing the age, and in his victorious joy had forgotten it.
Agathe repeated her question slightly
differently: I confided to you that I want a
divorce from Professor Hagauer, and you
replied that I was acting under insinuating
influences. It might be useful to me to find
out what you understand by them. I repeat,
none of the customary reasons is entirely
apt; even my aversion has not been insurmountable, as the standards of the world go.
I am merely convinced that they may not be

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surmounted but are to be immeasurably

enlarged!
By whom?
Thats just the problem youre supposed to help me solve. She again looked at
him with a gentle smile that was a kind of
horribly deep dcollet and that exposed her
inner bosom as if it were covered by a mere
wisp of black lace.
Lindner involuntarily protected his eyes
from the sight with a motion of his hand
feigning some adjustment to his glasses. The
truth was that courage played the same timid
role in his view of the world as it did in the
feelings he harbored toward Agathe. He was
one of those people who have recognized
that it greatly facilitates the victory of humility if one first flattens arrogance with a blow
of ones fist, and his learned nature bade him
fear no arrogance so bitterly as that of openminded science, which reproaches faith with

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being unscientific. Had someone told him

that the saints, with their empty and beseeching raised hands, were outmoded and
in todays world would have to be portrayed
grasping sabers, pistols, or even newer instruments in their fists, he would no doubt
have been appalled; but he did not want to
see the arms of knowledge withheld from
faith. This was almost entirely an error, but
he was not alone in committing it; and that
was why he had assailed Agathe with words
that would have merited an honorable place
in his writingsand presumably did but
were out of place directed to the woman who
was confiding in him. Since he now saw sitting modestly and reflectively before him the
emissary of quarters of the world hostile to
him, delivered into his hands by a benevolent or demonic fate, he felt this himself and
was embarrassed how to respond. Ah! he
said, as generally and disparagingly as possible, and accidentally hitting not far from

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the mark: I meant the spirit that runs

everything today and makes young people
afraid they might look stupid, even unscientific, if they dont go along with every
modem superstition. How should I know
what slogans are in their minds: Live life to
the full! Say yes to life! Cultivate your personality! Freedom of thought and art! In
any case, everything but the commandments
of simple and eternal morality.
The happy intensification stupid, even
unscientific gladdened him with its subtlety
and reinvigorated his combative spirit. You
will be surprised, he continued, that in
conversing with you I am placing such emphasis on science, without knowing whether
you have occupied yourself with it a little or a
lot
Not at all! Agathe interrupted him.
Im just an ignorant woman. She emphasized it and seemed to be pleased with it, perhaps with a kind of non-sanctimoniousness.

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But its the world you move in! Lindner corrected her emphatically. And whether its freedom in values or freedom in science, they both express the same thing: spirit
that has been detached from morality.
Agathe again felt these words as sober
shadows that were, however, cast by
something still darker in their vicinity. She
was not minded to conceal her disappointment, but revealed it with a laugh: Last
time, you advised me not to think about myself, and now youre the one who is talking
about me incessantly, she mockingly offered
for the man standing before her to think
about.
He repeated: Youre afraid of seeming
old-fashioned to yourself!
Something in Agathes eyes twitched
angrily. You leave me speechless: this certainly doesnt apply to me!

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And I say to you: You have been

bought dear; do not become the servants of
man! The way he said this, which was in
total contrast to his entire physical appearance, like a too-heavy blossom on a weak
stem, made Agathe brighten. She asked urgently and almost coarsely: So what should
I do? I was hoping you would give me a definite answer!
Lindner swallowed and turned gloomy
with earnestness. Do what is your duty!
I dont know what my duty is!
Then you must seek duties out!
I dont know what duties are!
Lindner smiled grimly. There we have
it! Thats the liberation of the personality!
he exclaimed. Vain reflection! You can see it
in yourself: when a person is free he is unhappy! When a person is free hes a
phantom! he added, raising his voice

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somewhat more, out of embarrassment. But

then he lowered it again, and concluded with
conviction: Duty is what mankind in proper
self-awareness has erected against its own
weakness. Duty is one and the same truth
that all great personalities have acknowledged or pointed to. Duty is the work of the
experience of centuries and the result of the
visionary glance of the blessed. But what
even the simplest person knows with precision in his inmost being, if only he lives an
upright life, is duty too!
That was a hymn with quivering
candles! Agathe noted appreciatively.
It was disagreeable that Lindner, too,
felt that he had sung falsely. He ought to
have said something else but didnt trust
himself to recognize in what the deviation
from the genuine voice of his heart consisted. He merely allowed himself the
thought that this young creature must be
deeply disappointed by her husband, since

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she was raging so impudently and bitterly

against herself, and that in spite of all the
censure she provoked, she would have been
worthy of a stronger man; but he had the impression that a far more dangerous idea was
on the point of succeeding this one. Agathe,
meanwhile, slowly and very decisively shook
her head; and with the spontaneous assurance with which an excited person is seduced
by another into doing something that unbalances an already precarious situation completely, she continued: But were talking
about my divorce! And why arent you saying
anything more about God today? Why dont
you simply say to me: God orders you to stay
with Professor Hagauer! I cant honestly
imagine that He would command such a
thing!
Lindner shrugged his tall shoulders indignantly; indeed, as they rose he himself actually seemed to hover in the air. I have
never said a word to you about it; youre the

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only one who has tried to! He defended

himself gruffly. And for the rest, dont believe for a minute that God bothers Himself
with the tiny egoistic antics of our emotions!
Thats what His law is for, which we must
follow! Or doesnt that seem heroic enough
for you, since people today are always looking for whats personal? Well, in that case
Ill set a higher heroism against your claims:
heroic submission!
Every word of this carried significantly
more weight than a layperson really ought to
permit himself, were it only in his thoughts;
Agathe, in return, could only go on smiling in
the face of such coarse derision if she did not
want to be forced to stand up and break off
the visit; and she smiled, of course, with such
assured adroitness that Lindner felt himself
goaded into ever-greater confusion. He became aware that his inspirations were ominously rising and increasingly reinforcing a
glowing intoxication that was robbing him of

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reflection and resounded with the will to

break the obstinate mind and perhaps save
the soul he saw facing him. Our duty is
painful! he exclaimed. Our duty may be repulsive and disgusting! Dont think I have
any intention of becoming your husbands
lawyer, or that my nature is to stand by his
side. But you must obey the law, because it is
the only thing that bestows lasting peace on
us and protects us from ourselves!
Agathe now laughed at him; she had
guessed at the weapon, stemming from her
divorce, that these effects put in her hand,
and she turned the knife in the wound. I understand so little about all that, she said.
But may I honestly confess an impression I
have? When youre angry you get a little
slippery!
Oh, come on! Lindner retorted. He recoiled, his one desire not to concede such a
thing at any price. He raised his voice defensively and entreated the sinning phantom

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sitting before him: The spirit must not submit itself to the flesh and all its charms and
horrors! Not even in the form of disgust! And
I say to you: Even though you might find it
painful to control the reluctance of the flesh,
as the school of marriage has apparently
asked of you, you are not simply permitted to
run away from it. For there lives in man a desire for liberation, and we can no more be
the slaves of our fleshly disgust than the
slaves of our lust! This is obviously what you
wanted to hear, since otherwise you would
not have come to me! he concluded, no less
grandiloquently than spitefully. He stood
towering before Agathe; the strands of his
beard moved around his lips. He had never
spoken such words to a woman before, with
the exception of his own deceased wife, and
his feelings toward her had been different.
But now these feelings were intermingled
with desire, as if he were swinging a whip in
his fist to chastise the whole earth; yet they

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were simultaneously timid, as if he were being lofted like an escaped hat on the crest of
the tornado of the sermon of repentance that
had taken hold of him.
There you go again, saying such remarkable things! Agathe noted without passion, intending to shut off his insolence with
a few dry words; but then she measured the
enormous crash looming up before him and
preferred to humble herself gently by holding back, so she continued, in a voice that
had apparently suddenly been darkened by
repentance: I came only because I wanted
you to lead me.
Lindner went on swinging his whip of
words with confused zeal; he had some sense
that Agathe was deliberately leading him on,
but he could not find a way out, and entrusted himself to the future. To be chained to a
man for a lifetime without feeling any physical attraction is certainly a heavy sentence,
he exclaimed. But hasnt one brought this

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on oneself, especially if the partner is unworthy, by not having paid enough attention
to the signs of the inner life? There are many
women who allow themselves to be deluded
by external circumstances, and who knows if
one is not being punished in order to be
shaken up? Suddenly his voice cracked.
Agathe had been accompanying his words
with assenting nods of her head; but imagining Hagauer as a bewitching seducer was too
much for her, and her merry eyes betrayed it.
Lindner, driven crazy by this, blared in falsetto: Tor he that spares the rod hates his
child, but whosoever loves it chastises it!
His victims resistance had now transformed this philosopher of life, dwelling in
his lofty watchtower, into a poet of chastisement and the exciting conditions that went
with it. He was intoxicated by a feeling he
did not recognize, which emanated from an
inner fusion of the moral reprimand with
which he was goading his visitor and a

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provocation of all his manliness, a fusion

that one might symbolically characterize, as
he himself now saw, as lustful.
But the arrogant conquering female,
who was finally to have been driven from the
empty vanity of her worldly beauty to despair, matter-of-factly picked up on his
threats about the rod and quietly asked:
Who is going to punish me? Whom are you
thinking of? Are you thinking of God?
But it was unthinkable to say such a
thing! Lindner suddenly lost his courage. His
scalp prickled with sweat. It was absolutely
impossible that the name of God should be
uttered in such a context. His glance, extended like a two-tined fork, slowly withdrew
from Agathe. Agathe felt it. So he cant do it
either! she thought. She felt a reckless desire to go on tugging at this man until she
heard from his mouth what he did not want
to yield to her. But for now it was enough:
the conversation had reached its outer limit.

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Agathe understood that it had only been a

passionate rhetorical subterfuge, heated to
the point where it became transparent, and
all to avoid mentioning the decisive point.
Besides, Lindner, too, now knew that
everything he had said, indeed everything
that had got him worked up, even the excess
itself, was only the product of his fear of excesses; the most dissolute aspect of which he
considered to be the approach with the prying tools of mind and feeling to what ought
to remain veiled in lofty abstractions, toward
which this excessive young woman was obviously pushing him. He now named this to
himself as an offense against die decency of
faith. For in these moments the blood
drained back out of Lindners head and resumed its normal course; he awoke like a
person who finds himself standing naked far
from his front door, and remembered that he
could not send Agathe away without consolation and instruction. Breathing deeply, he

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stood back from her, stroked his beard, and

said reproachfully: You have a restless and
over-imaginative nature!
And you have a peculiar idea of gallantry! Agathe responded coolly, for she had
no desire to go on any longer.
Lindner found it necessary to repair his
standing by saying something more: You
should learn in the school of reality to take
your subjectivity mercilessly in hand, for
whoever is incapable of it will be overtaken
by imagination and fantasy, and dragged to
the ground! He paused, for this strange
woman was still drawing the voice from his
breast quite against his will. Woe to him
who abandons morality; he is abandoning
reality! he added softly.
Agathe shrugged her shoulders. I hope
next time you will come to us! she proposed.
To that I must respond: Never! Lindner protested, suddenly and now totally

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down to earth. Tour brother and I have differences of opinion about life that make it
preferable for us to avoid contact, he added
as excuse.
So Im the one who will have to come
studiously to the school of reality, Agathe
replied quietly.
No! Lindner insisted, but then in a remarkable fashion, almost menacingly, he
blocked her path; for with those words she
had got up to go. That cannot be! You cannot put me in the ambiguous position toward
my colleague Hagauer of receiving your visits
without his knowledge!
Are you always as passionate as you
are today? Agathe asked mockingly, thereby
forcing him to make way for her. She now
felt, at the end, spiritless but strengthened.
The fear Lindner had betrayed drew her toward actions alien to her true condition; but
while the demands her brother made

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demoralized her easily, this man gave her

back the freedom to animate her inner self
however she wanted, and it comforted her to
confuse him.
Did I perhaps compromise myself a
little? Lindner asked himself after she had
left. He stiffened his shoulders and marched
up and down the room a few times. Finally
he decided to continue seeing her, containing
his malaise, which was quite pronounced, in
the soldierly words: One must set oneself to
remain gallant in the face of every
embarrassment!
When Agathe got up to leave, Peter had
slipped hurriedly away from the keyhole,
where he had been listening, not without astonishment, to what his father had been up
to with the big goose.

45
BEGINNING OF A SERIES OF
WONDROUS EXPERIENCES
Shortly after this visit there was a repetition
of the impossible that was already hovering
almost physically around Agathe and Ulrich,
and it truly came to pass without anything at
all actually happening.
Brother and sister were changing to go
out for the evening. There was no one in the
house to help Agathe aside from Ulrich; they
had started late and had thus been in the
greatest haste for a quarter of an hour, when
a short pause intervened. Piece by piece,
nearly all the ornaments of war a woman
puts on for such occasions were strewn on
the chair backs and surfaces of the room, and

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Agathe was in the act of bending over her

foot with all the concentration that pulling
on a thin silk stocking demands. Ulrich was
standing at her back. He saw her head, her
neck, her shoulders, and this nearly naked
back; her body was curved over her raised
knee, slightly to one side, and the tension of
this process rounded three folds on her neck,
which shot slender and merry through her
clear skin like three arrows: the charming
physicality of this painting, born of the momentarily spreading stillness, seemed to
have lost its frame and passed so abruptly
and directly into Ulrichs body that he moved
from the spot and, neither with the involuntariness of a banner being unfurled by the
wind nor exactly with deliberate reflection,
crept closer on tiptoe, surprised the bentover figure, and with gentle ferocity bit into
one of these arrows, while his arm closed
tightly around his sister. Then Ulrichs teeth
just as cautiously released his overpowered

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victim; his right hand had grabbed her knee,

and while with his left arm he pressed her
body to his, he pulled her upright with him
on upward-bounding tendons. Agathe cried
out in fright.
Up to this point everything had taken
place as playfully and jokingly as much that
had gone on before, and even if it was tinged
with the colors of love, it was only with the
actually shy intention of concealing loves
unwonted dangerous nature beneath such
cheerfully intimate dress. But when Agathe
got over her fright, and felt herself not so
much flying through the air as rather resting
in it, suddenly liberated into weightlessness
and directed instead by the gentle force of
the gradually decelerating motion, it brought
about one of those accidents beyond human
control, in which she seemed to herself
strangely soothed, indeed carried away from
all earthly unrest; with a movement changing the balance of her body that she could

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never have repeated, she also brushed away

the last silken thread of compulsion, turned
in falling to her brother, continued, so to
speak, her rise as she fell, until she lay, sinking down, as a cloud of happiness in his
arms. Ulrich bore her, gently pressing her
body to his, through the darkening room to
the window and placed her beside him in the
mellow light of the evening, which flowed
over her face like tears. Despite the energy
everything demanded, and the force Ulrich
had exercised on his sister, what they were
doing seemed to them remarkably remote
from energy and force; one might perhaps
have been able, again, to compare it with the
wondrous ardor of a painting, which for the
hand that invades the frame to grasp it is
nothing but a ridiculous painted surface. So,
too, they had nothing in mind beyond what
was taking place physically, which totally
filled their consciousness; and yet, alongside
its nature as a harmless, indeed, at the

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beginning, even coarse joke, which called all

their muscles into play, this physical action
possessed a second nature, which, with the
greatest tenderness, paralyzed their limbs
and at the same time ensnared them with an
inexpressible sensitivity. Questioningly they
flung their arms around each others
shoulders. The fraternal stature of their bodies communicated itself to them as if they
were rising up from a single root. They
looked into each others eyes with as much
curiosity as if they were seeing such things
for the first time. And although they would
not have been able to articulate what had
really happened, since their part in it had
been too pressing, they still believed they
knew that they had just unexpectedly found
themselves for an instant in the midst of that
shared condition at whose border they had
long been hesitating, which they had already
described to each other so often but had so
far only gazed at from outside.

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If they tested it soberly (and surreptitiously they both did), it signified hardly
more than a bewitching accident and ought
to have dissolved the next moment, or at
least with the return of activity, into nothingness; and yet this did not happen. On the
contrary, they left the window, turned on the
lights, and resumed their preparations, only
soon to relinquish them again, and without
their having to say anything to each other,
Ulrich went to the telephone and informed
the house where they were expected that
they were not coming. He was already
dressed for the evening, but Agathes gown
was still hanging unfastened around her
shoulders and she was just striving to impart
some well-bred order to her hair. The technical resonance of his voice in the instrument and the connection to the world that
had been established had not sobered Ulrich
in the slightest: he sat down opposite his sister, who paused in what she was doing, and

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when their glances met, nothing was so certain as that the decision had been made and
all prohibitions were now a matter of indifference to them. Their understanding announced itself to them with every breath; it
was a defiantly endured agreement to finally
redeem themselves from the ill humor of
longing, and it was an agreement so sweetly
suffered that the notions of making it a reality nearly tore themselves loose from them
and united them already in imagination, as a
storm whips a veil of foam on ahead of the
waves: but a still greater desire bade them be
calm, and they were incapable of touching
each other again. They wanted to begin, but
the gestures of the flesh had become impossible for them, and they felt an ineffable
warning that had nothing to do with the
commandments of morality. It seemed that
from a more perfect, if still shadowy, union,
of which they had already had a foretaste as
in an ecstatic metaphor, a higher

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commandment had marked them out, a

higher intimation, curiosity, or expectation
had breathed upon them.
Brother and sister now remained perplexed and thoughtful, and after they had
calmed their feelings they hesitantly began to
speak.
Ulrich said, without thinking, the way
one talks into thin air: You are the moon
Agathe understood.
Ulrich said: You have flown to the
moon and it has given you back to me
again
Agathe said nothing: moon conversations so consume ones whole heart.
Ulrich said: Its a figure of speech. We
were beside ourselves. We exchanged bodies without even touching each other are
metaphors too! But what does a metaphor
signify? A little something true with a good

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deal of exaggeration. And yet I was about to

swear, impossible as it may be, that the exaggeration was quite small and the reality was
becoming quite large!
He said no more. He was thinking:
What reality am I talking about? Is there a
second one?
If one here leaves the conversation
between brother and sister in order to follow
the possibilities of a comparison that had at
least some part in determining their talk, it
might well be said that this reality was truly
most closely related to the quixotically
altered reality of moonlit nights. But if one
does not comprehend this reality either, if
one sees in it merely an opportunity for some
ecstatic foolishness that by day were better
suppressed, then if one wanted to picture accurately what was actually happening one
would have to summon up the totally incredible idea that theres a piece of earth where
all feelings really do change like magic as

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soon as the empty busyness of day plunges

into the all-experiencing corporeality of
night! Not only do external relationships
melt away and re-form in the whispering enclosures of light and shadow, but the inner
relationships, too, move closer together in a
new way: the spoken word loses its self-will
and acquires fraternal will. All affirmations
express only a single surging experience. The
night embraces all contradictions in its shimmering maternal arms, and in its bosom no
word is false and no word true, but each is
that incomparable birth of the spirit out of
darkness that a person experiences in a new
thought. In this way, every process on moonlit nights partakes of the nature of the unrepeatable. Of the nature of the intensified. Of
the nature of selfless generosity and a stripping away of the self. Every imparting is a
parting without envy. Every giving a receiving. Every conception multifariously interwoven in the excitement of the night. To be

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this way is the only access to the knowledge

of what is unfolding. For in these nights the
self holds nothing back; there is no condensation of possession on the selfs surface,
hardly a memory; the intensified self radiates into an unbounded selflessness. And
these nights are filled with the insane feeling
that something is about to happen that has
never happened before, indeed that the impoverished reason of day cannot even conceive of. And it is not the mouth that pours
out its adoration but the body, which, from
head to foot, is stretched taut in exaltation
above the darkness of the earth and beneath
the light of the heavens, oscillating between
two stars. And the whispering with ones
companion is full of a quite unknown sensuality, which is not the sensuality of an individual human being but of all that is earthly,
of all that penetrates perception and sensation, the suddenly revealed tenderness of the

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world that incessantly touches all our senses

and is touched by them.
Ulrich had indeed never been aware in
himself of a particular preference for mouthing adorations in the moonlight; but as one
ordinarily gulps life down without feeling,
one sometimes has, much later, its ghostly
taste on ones tongue: and in this way he
suddenly felt everything he had missed in
that effusiveness, all those nights he had
spent heedless and lonely before he had
known his sister, as silver poured over an
endless thicket, as moon flecks in the grass,
as laden apple trees, singing frost, and gilded
black waters. These were only details, which
did not coalesce and had never found an association, but which now arose like the commingled fragrance of many herbs from an intoxicating potion. And when he said this to
Agathe she felt it too.
Ulrich finally summed up everything he
had said with the assertion: What made us

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turn to each other from the very beginning

can really be called a life of moonlit nights!
And Agathe breathed a deep sigh of relief. It
did not matter what it meant; evidently it
meant: and why dont you know a magic
charm against its separating us at the last
moment? She sighed so naturally and confidingly that she was not even aware of it
herself.
And this again led to a movement that
inclined them toward each other and kept
them apart. Every strong excitement that
two people have shared to the end leaves behind in them the naked intimacy of exhaustion; if even arguing does this, then it is infinitely more true of tender feelings that
ream out the very marrow to form a flute! So
Ulrich, touched, would have almost embraced Agathe when he heard her wordless
complaint, as enchanted as a lover on the
morning after the first tempests. His hand
was already touching her shoulder, which

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was still bare, and at this touch she started,

smiling; but in her eyes there reappeared immediately the unwished-for dissuasion.
Strange images now arose in his mind:
Agathe behind bars. Or fearfully motioning
to him from a growing distance, torn from
him by the sundering power of alien fists.
Then again he was not only the one who was
powerless and dismissed, but also the one
who did this.Perhaps these were the eternal images of the doubts of love, merely consumed in the average life; then again, perhaps not. He would have liked to speak to
her about this, but Agathe now looked away
from him and toward the open window, and
hesitantly stood up. The fever of love was in
their bodies, but their bodies dared no repetition, and what was beyond the window,
whose drapes stood almost open, had stolen
away their imagination, without which the
flesh is only brutal or despondent. When
Agathe took the first steps in this direction,

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Ulrich, guessing her assent, turned out the

light in order to free their gaze into the night.
The moon had come up behind the tops of
the spruce trees, whose greenly glimmering
black stood out phlegmatically against the
blue-gold heights and the palely twinkling
distance. Agathe resentfully inspected this
meaningful sliver of the world.
So nothing more than moonshine?
she asked.
Ulrich looked at her without answering.
Her blond hair flamed in the semidarkness
against the whitish night, her lips were parted by shadows, her beauty was painful and
irresistible.
But evidently he was standing there in
similar fashion before her gaze, with blue eye
sockets in his white face, for she went on:
Do you know what you look like now? Like
Tierrot Lunairel, it calls for prudence! She
wanted to wrong him a little in her

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excitement, which almost made her weep.

Ages ago, all useless young people had appeared to each other, painfully and peevishly, in the pale mask of the lunarly lonely
Pierrot, powdered chalk-white except for the
drop-of-blood-red lips and abandoned by a
Columbine they had never possessed; this
trivialized rather considerably the love for
moonlit nights. But to his sisters initially
growing grief, Ulrich willingly joined in.
Even Laugh, clown, laugh has already sent
a chill of total recognition down the spines of
thousands of philistines when they hear it
sung, he affirmed bitterly. But then he added softly, whispering: This whole area of
feeling really is highly questionable! And yet
I would give all the memories of my life for
the way you look right now. Agathes hand
had found Ulrichs. Ulrich continued softly
and passionately: To our time, the bliss of
feeling means only the gluttony of feelings
and has profaned being swept away by the

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moon into a sentimental debauch. It does

not even begin to understand that this bliss
must be either an incomprehensible mental
disturbance or the fragment of another life!
These wordsprecisely because they
were perhaps an exaggerationhad the faith,
and with it the wings, of adventure. Good
night! Agathe said unexpectedly, and took
them with her. She had released herself and
closed the drapes so hastily that the picture
of the two of them standing in the moonlight
disappeared as if at one blow; and before Ulrich could turn on the light she succeeded in
finding her way out of the room.
And Ulrich gave her yet more time. Tonight youll sleep as impatiently as before the
start of a great outing! he called after her.
I hope so too! was what resounded by
way of an answer in the closing of the door.

46
MOONBEAMS BY SUNLIGHT
When they saw each other again the next
morning it was, from a distance, the way one
stumbles on an out-of-the-ordinary picture
in an ordinary house, or even the way one
catches sight of an important outdoor sculpture in the full haphazardness of nature: an
island of meaning unexpectedly materializes
in the senses, an elevation and condensing of
the spirit from the watery fens of existence!
But when they came up to each other they
were embarrassed, and all that was to be felt
in their glances, shading them with tender
warmth, was the exhaustion of the previous
night.

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Who knows, besides, whether love

would be so admired if it did not cause fatigue! When they became aware of the unpleasant aftereffects of the previous day s excitement it made them happy again, as lovers
are proud of having almost died from desire.
Still, the joy they found in each other was not
only such a feeling but also an arousal of the
eye. Colors and shapes presented themselves
as dissolved and unfathomable, and yet were
sharply displayed, like a bouquet of flowers
drifting on dark water: their boundaries were
more emphatically marked than usual, but in
a way that made it impossible to say whether
this lay in the clarity of their appearance or
in the underlying agitation. The impression
was as much part of the concise sphere of
perception and attention as it was of the imprecise sphere of emotion; and this is just
what caused this impression to hover
between the internal and the external, the
way a held breath hovers between inhalation

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and exhalation, and made it hard to discern,

in peculiar opposition to its strength, whether it was part of the physical world or merely
owed its origin to the heightening of inner
empathy. Nor did either of them wish to
make this distinction, for a kind of shame of
reason held them back; and through the
longish period that followed it also still
forced them to keep their distance from each
other, although their sensitivity was lasting
and might well give rise to the belief that
suddenly the course of the boundaries
between them, as well as those between
them and the world, had changed slightly.
The weather had turned summery
again, and they spent a lot of time outdoors:
flowers and shrubs were blooming in the
garden. When Ulrich looked at a blossomwhich was not exactly an ingrained
habit of this once-impatient manhe now
sometimes found no end to contemplation
and, to say it all, no beginning either. If by

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chance he could name it, it was a redemption

from the sea of infinity. Then the little
golden stars on a bare cane signified
forsythia, and those early leaves and umbels lilacs. But if he did not know the name
he would call the gardener over, for then this
old man would name an unknown name and
everything was all right again, and the primordial magic by which possession of the correct name bestows protection from the untamed wildness of things demonstrated its
calming power as it had ten thousand years
ago. Still, it could happen differently: Ulrich
could find himself abandoned and without a
helper as he confronted such a little twig or
flower, without even Agathe around to share
his ignorance: then it suddenly seemed to
him quite impossible to understand the
bright green of a young leaf, and the mysteriously outlined fullness of the form of a tiny
flower cup became a circle of infinite diversion that nothing could interrupt. In

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addition, it was hardly possible for a man

like him, unless he were lying to himself,
which on Agathes account could not be allowed to happen, to believe in an abashed
rendezvous with nature, whose whisperings
and upward glances, piety and mute music
making, are more the privilege of a special
simplicity which imagines that hardly has it
laid its head in the grass than God is already
tickling its neck, although it has nothing
against nature being bought and sold on the
fruit exchange on weekdays. Ulrich despised
this cut-rate mysticism of the cheapest price
and praise, whose constant preoccupation
with God is at bottom exceedingly immoral;
he preferred instead to continue abandoning
himself to the dizziness of finding the words
to characterize a color distinct enough to
reach out and take hold of, or to describe one
of the shapes that had taken to speaking for
themselves with such mindless compellingness. For in such a condition the word does

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not cut and the fruit remains on the branch,

although one thinks it already in ones
mouth: that is probably the first mystery of
day-bright mysticism. And Ulrich tried to explain this to his sister, even if his ulterior
motive was that it should not, someday, disappear like a delusion.
But as he did so, the passionate condition was succeeded by another-of a calmer,
indeed sometimes almost absentminded
conversationwhich came to permeate their
exchange and served each of them as a
screen from the other, although they both
saw through it completely. They usually lay
in the garden on two large deck chairs, which
they were constantly dragging around to follow the sun; this early-summer sun was
shining for the millionth time on the magic it
works every year; and Ulrich said many
things that just happened to pass through his
mind and rounded themselves off cautiously
like the moon, which was now quite pale and

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a little dirty, or like a soap bubble: and so it

happened, and quite soon, that he came
round to speaking of the confounded and
frequently cursed absurdity that all understanding presupposes a kind of superficiality,
a penchant for the surface, which is,
moreover, expressed in the root of the word
comprehend to lay hold of, and has to do
with primordial experiences having been understood not singly but one by the next and
thereby unavoidably connected with one another more on the surface than in depth. He
then continued: So if I maintain that this
grass in front of us is green, it sounds quite
definite, but I havent actually said much. In
truth no more than if Id told you that some
man passing by was a member of the Green
family. And for heavens sake, theres no end
of greens! It would be a lot better if I contented myself with recognizing that this grass is
grass-green, or even green like a lawn on
which it has just rained a little. He

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squinted languidly across the fresh plot of

grass illuminated by the sun and thought:
At least this is how you would probably describe it, since youre good at making visual
distinctions from judging dress materials.
But I, on the other hand, could perhaps
measure the color as well: I might guess it
had a wavelength of five hundred forty millionths of a millimeter; and then this green
would apparently be captured and nailed to a
specific point! But then it gets away from me
again, because this ground color also has
something material about it that cant be expressed in words of color at all, since its different from the same green in silk or wool.
And now were back at the profound discovery that green grass is just grass green!
Called as a witness, Agathe found it
quite understandable that one could not understand anything, and responded: I suggest you try looking at a mirror in the night:
its dark, its black, you see almost nothing at

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all; and yet this nothing is something quite

distinctly different from the nothing of the
rest of the darkness. You sense the glass, the
doubling of depth, some kind of remnant of
the ability to shimmerand yet you perceive
nothing at all!
Ulrich laughed at his sisters immediate
readiness to cut knowledges reputation
down to size; he was far from thinking that
concepts have no value, and knew quite well
what they accomplish, even if he did not act
accordingly. What he wanted to bring out
was the inability to get hold of individual experiences, those experiences that for obvious
reasons one has to go through alone and
lonely, even when one is with another person. He repeated: The self never grasps its
impressions and utterances singly, but always in context, in real or imagined, similar
or dissimilar, harmony with something else;
and so everything that has a name leans on
everything else in regular rows, as a link in

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large and incalculable unities, one relying on

another and all penetrated by a common tension. But for that reason, he suddenly went
on, differently, if for some reason these associations fail and none of them addresses
the internal series of orders, one is immediately left again to face an indescribable and
inhuman creation, indeed a disavowed and
formless one. With this they were back at
their point of departure; but Agathe felt the
dark creation above it, the abyss that was the
universe, the God who was to help her!
Her brother said: Understanding gives
way to irrepressible astonishment, and the
smallest experienceof this tiny blade of
grass, or the gentle sounds when your lips
over there utter a wordbecomes something
incomparable, lonely as the world, possessed
of an unfathomable selfishness and radiating
a profound narcosis!
He fell silent, irresolutely twisting a
blade of grass in his hand, and at first

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listened with pleasure as Agathe, apparently

as unplagued by introspection as she was by
an intellectual education, restored some concreteness to the conversation. For she now
responded: If it werent so damp, Id love to
lie on the grass! Lets go away! It would be so
nice to lie on a meadow and get back to
nature as simply as a discarded shoe!
But all that means is being released
from all feelings, Ulrich objected. And God
alone knows what would become of us if feelings did not appear in swarms, these loves
and hates and sufferings and goodnesses
that give the illusion of being unique to every
individual. We would be bereft of all capacity
to think and act, because our soul was created for whatever repeats itself over and
over, and not for
what lies outside the order of things
He was oppressed, thought

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he had stumbled into emptiness, and

with an uneasy frown looked questioningly
at his sisters face.
But Agathes face was even clearer than
the air that enveloped it and played with her
hair, as she gave a response from memory.
1 know not where I am, nor do I seek myself,
nor do I want to know of it, nor will I have
tidings. I am as immersed in the flowing
spring of His love as if I were under the surface of the sea and could not feel or see from
any side any thing except water.
Wheres that from? Ulrich asked curiously, and only then discovered that she was
holding in her hands a book she had taken
from his own library.
Agathe opened it for him and read
aloud, without answering: 1 have transcended all my faculties up to the dark power.
There I heard without sound, saw without
light. Then my heart became bottomless, my

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soul loveless, my mind formless, and my

nature without being.
Ulrich now recognized the volume and
smiled, and only then did
Agathe say: Its one of your books.
Then, closing the book, she concluded from
memory: Are you yourself, or are you not?
I know nothing of this, I am unaware of it,
and I am unaware of myself. I am in love, but
I know not with whom; I am neither faithful
nor unfaithful. Therefore what am I? I am
even unaware of my love; my heart is at the
same time full of love and empty of love!
Even in ordinary circumstances her excellent memory did not easily rework its recollections into ideas but preserved them in
sensory isolation, the way one memorizes
poems; for which reason there was always in
her words an indescribable blending of body
and soul, no matter how unobtrusively she
uttered them. Ulrich called to mind the scene

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before his fathers funeral, when she had

spoken the incredibly beautiful lines of
Shakespeare to him. How wild her nature is
compared to mine! he thought. I havent let
myself say much today. He thought over the
explanation of day-bright mysticism he
had given her: All things considered, it was
nothing more than his having conceded the
possibility of transitory deviations from the
accustomed and verified order of experience;
and looked at this way, her experiences were
merely following a basic principle somewhat
richer in feelings than that of ordinary experience and resembled small middle-class children who have stumbled into a troupe of actors. So he had not dared say any more, although for days every bit of space between
himself and his sister had been filled with
uncompleted happenings! And he slowly
began to concern himself with the problem
of whether there might not be more things

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that could be believed than he had admitted

to himself.
After the lively climax of their dialogue
he and Agathe had let themselves fall back
into their chairs, and the stillness of the
garden closed over their fading words. Insofar as it has been said that Ulrich had begun
to be preoccupied by a question, the correction must be made that many answers precede their questions, the way a person
hastening along precedes his open, fluttering
coat. What preoccupied Ulrich was a surprising notion, one that did not require belief but
whose very appearance created astonishment and the impression that such an inspiration must never be allowed to be forgotten,
which, considering the claims it asserted,
was rather disquieting. Ulrich was accustomed to thinking not so much godlessly as
God-free, which in the manner of science
means to leave every possible turning to God
to the emotions, because such a turning is

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not capable of furthering knowledge but can

only seduce it into the impracticable. And
even at this moment he did not in the least
doubt that the way of science was the only
correct way, since the most palpable successes of the human spirit had managed to
come into being only since this spirit had got
out of Gods way. But the notion that had
come upon him said: What if this selfsame
ungodliness turned out to be nothing but the
contemporary path to God? Every age has
had its own pathway of thought to Him, corresponding to the energies of its most powerful minds; would it not also be our destiny,
the fate of an age of clever and entrepreneurial experience, to deny all dreams, legends,
and ingeniously reasoned notions only because we, at the pinnacle of exploring and
discovering the world, again turn to Him and
will begin to derive a relationship to Him
from a kind of experience that is just
beginning?

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This conclusion was quite undemonstrable, Ulrich knew that; indeed, to most
people it would appear as perverse, but that
did not bother him. He himself really ought
not to have thought it either: the scientific
procedurewhich he had just finished explaining as legitimateconsists, aside from
logic, in immersing the concepts it has
gained from the surface, from experience,
into the depths of phenomena and explaining the phenomena by the concepts, the
depths by the surface; everything on earth is
laid waste and leveled in order to gain mastery over it, and the objection came to mind
that one ought not extend this to the metaphysical. But Ulrich now contested this objection: the desert is not an objection, it has
always been the birthplace of heavenly visions; and besides, prospects that have not yet
been attained cannot be predicted either!
But it escaped him that he perhaps found
himself in a second kind of opposition to

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himself, or had stumbled on a direction leading away from his own: Paul calls faith the
expectation of things hoped for and belief in
things not seen, a statement thought out to
the point of radiant clarity; and Ulrichs opposition to the Pauline statement, which is
one of the basic tenets of the educated person, was among the strongest he bore in his
heart. Faith as a diminished form of knowing
was abhorrent to his being, it is always
against ones better knowledge; on the other hand, it had been given to him to recognize in the intimation to the best of ones
knowledge a special condition and an area
in which exploring minds could roam. That
his opposition had now weakened was later
to cost him much effort, but for the moment
he did not even notice it, for he was preoccupied and charmed by a swarm of incidental
considerations.
He singled out examples. life was becoming more and more homogeneous and

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impersonal. Something mechanical, stereotypical, statistical, and serial was insinuating

itself into every entertainment, excitement,
recreation, even into the passions. The life
will was spreading out and becoming shallow, like a river hesitating before its delta.
The will to art had already become more or
less suspicious, even to itself. It seemed as
though the age was beginning to devalue individual life without being able to make up
the loss through new collective achievements. This was the face it wore. And this
face, which was so hard to understand;
which he had once loved and had attempted
to remold in the muddy crater of a deeply
rumbling volcano, because he felt himself
young, like a thousand others; and from
which he had turned away like these thousands because he could not gain control over
this horribly contorted sightthis face was
transfigured, becoming peaceful, deceptively
beautiful, and radiant, by a single thought!

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For what if it were God Himself who was devaluing the world? Would it not then again
suddenly acquire meaning and desire? And
would He not be forced to devalue it, if He
were to come closer to it by the tiniest step?
And would not perceiving even the anticipatory shadow of this already be the one real adventure? These considerations had the unreasonable consistency of a series of adventures and were so exotic in Ulrichs head that
he thought he was dreaming. Now and then
he cast a cautiously reconnoitering glance at
his sister, as if apprehensive that she would
perceive what he was up to, and several
times he caught sight of her blond head like
light on light against the sky, and saw the air
that was toying with her hair also playing
with the clouds.
When that happened, she too, raising
herself up slightly, looked around in astonishment. She tried to imagine how it would
be to be set free from all lifes emotions.

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Even space, she thought, this always uniform, empty cube, now seemed changed. If
she kept her eyes closed for a while and then
opened them again, so that the garden met
her glance untouched, as if it had just that
moment been created, she noticed as clearly
and disembodiedly as in a vision that the
course that bound her to her brother was
marked out among all the others: the garden
stood around this line, and without anything having changed about the trees, walks,
and other elements of the actual environmentabout this she could easily reassure
herselfeverything had been related to this
connection to make an axis and was thereby
invisibly changed in a visible way. It may
sound paradoxical; but she could just as well
have said that the world was sweeter here;
perhaps, too, more sorrowful: what was remarkable was that one thought one was seeing it with ones eyes. There was, moreover,
something striking in the way all the

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surrounding shapes stood there eerily abandoned but also, in an eerily ravishing way,
full of life, so that they were like a gentle
death, or a passionate swoon, as if something
unnameable had just left them, and this lent
them a distinctly human sensuality and
openness. And as with this impression of
space, something similar had happened with
the feelings of time: that flowing ribbon, the
rolling staircase with its uncanny incidental
association with death, seemed at many moments to stand still and at many others to
flow on without any associations at all. In the
space of one single outward instant it might
have disappeared into itself, without a trace
of whether it had stopped for an hour or a
minute.
Once, Ulrich surprised his sister during
these experiments, and probably had an inking of them, for he said softly, smiling:
There is a prophecy that a millennium is to
the gods no longer than a blink of the eye!

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Then they both leaned back and continued

listening to the dream discourse of the
silence.
Agathe was thinking: Having brought
all this about is all his doing; and yet he
doubts every time he smiles! But the sun
was falling in a constant stream of warmth as
tenderly as a sleeping potion on his parted
lips. Agathe felt it falling on her own, and
knew herself at one with him. She tried to
put herself in his place and guess his
thoughts, which they had really decided they
would not do because it was something that
came from outside and not from their own
creative participation; but as a deviation it
was that much more secret. He doesnt want
this to become just another love story, she
thought, and added: Thats not my inclination either. And immediately thereafter she
thought: He will love no other woman after
me, for this is no longer a love story; it is the
very last love story there can be! And she

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added: We will be something like the Last

Mohicans of love! At the moment she was
also capable of this tone toward herself, for if
she summed things up quite honestly, this
enchanted garden in which she found herself
together with Ulrich was also, of course,
more desire than reality. She did not really
believe that the Millennium could have begun, in spite of this name Ulrich had once
bestowed on it, which had the sound of
standing on solid ground. She even felt quite
deserted by her powers of desire, and,
wherever her dreams might have sprung
from, she didnt know where it was, bitterly
sobered. She remembered that before Ulrich,
she really had more easily been able to imagine a waking sleep, like the one in which her
soul was now rocking, which was able to conduct her behind life, into a wakefulness after
death, into the nearness of God, to powers
that came to fetch her, or merely alongside
life to a cessation of ideas and a transition

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into forests and meadows of imaginings: it

had never become clear what that was! So
now she made an effort to call up these old
representations. But all she could remember
was a hammock, stretched between two
enormous fingers and rocked with an infinite
patience; then a calm feeling of being
towered over, as if by high trees, between
which she felt raised up and removed from
sight; and finally a nothingness, which in
some incomprehensible way had a tangible
content: All these were probably transitory
images of suggestion and imagination in
which her longing had found solace. But had
they really been only passing and half
formed? To her astonishment, something
quite remarkable slowly began to occur to
Agathe. Truly, she thought, its as one
says: a light dawns! And it spreads the longer
it lasts! For what she had once imagined
seemed to be in almost everything that was
now standing around her, calm and

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enduring, as often as she dispatched her

glance to look! What she had imagined had
soundlessly entered the world. God, to be
suredifferently from the way a literally
credulous person might have experienced
itstayed away from her adventure, but to
make up for this she was, in this adventure,
no longer alone: these were the only two
changes that distinguished the fulfillment
from the presentiment, and they were
changes in favor of earthly naturalness.

47
WANDERINGS AMONG PEOPLE
In the time that followed they withdrew from
their circle of acquaintances, astonishing
them by turning down every invitation and
not allowing themselves to be contacted in
any way. They stayed at home a great deal,
and when they went out they avoided places
in which they might meet people of their social set, visiting places of entertainment and
small theaters where they felt secure from
such encounters; and whenever they left the
house they generally simply followed the
currents of the metropolis, which are an image of peoples needs and, with the precision
of tide tables, pile them up in specific places
or suck them away, depending on the hour.

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It amused them to participate in a style of

living that differed from their own and relieved them for a time of responsibility for
their usual way of life. Never had the city in
which they lived seemed to them at once so
lovely and so strange. In their totality the
houses presented a grand picture, even if
singly or in particular they were not handsome at all; diluted by the heat, noise
streamed through the air like a river reaching to the rooftops; in the strong light, attenuated by the depths of the streets, people
looked more passionate and mysterious than
they presumably deserved. Everything sounded, looked, and smelled irreplaceable and
unforgettable, as if it were signaling how it
appeared to itself in all its momentariness;
and brother and sister not unwillingly accepted this invitation to turn toward the world.
In doing so, they came upon an extraordinary discord. The experiences that
they had not shared openly with each other

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separated them from other people; but the

same problematic passion, which they continued to feel undiminished and which had
come to grief not because of a taboo but because of some higher promise, had also
transported them to a state that shared a
similarity with the sultry intermissions of a
physical union. The desire that could not
find expression had again sunk back within
the body, filling it with a tenderness as indefinable as one of the last days of autumn or
first days of spring. It was, nonetheless, not
at all as if they loved every person they saw,
or everything that was going on: they merely
felt the lovely shadow of how it would be
falling on their hearts, and their hearts could
neither fully believe in the mild delusion nor
quite escape its pull. It seemed that through
their conversations and their continence,
through their expectation and its provisional
limits, they had become sensitive to the barriers reality places before the emotions, and

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now perceived together the peculiarly

double-sided nature of life, which dampens
every higher aspiration with a lower one.
This two-sided nature combines a retreat
with every advance, a weakness with every
strength, and gives no one a right that it does
not take away from others, straightens out
no tangle without creating new disorder, and
even appears to evoke the sublime only in order to mistake it, an hour later, for the stale
and trite. An absolutely indissoluble and profoundly necessary connection apparently
combines all happy and cheerful human endeavors with the materialization of their opposites and makes life for intellectual people,
beyond all dissension, hard to bear.
The way the plus and minus sides of life
adhere to each other has been judged in
quite different ways. Pious misanthropists
see in it an effluence of earthly decrepitude,
bulldog types lifes juiciest filet; the man in
the street feels as comfortable within this

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contradiction as he does between his left and

right hands, and people who are proper say
that the world was not created in order to
correspond to human expectations but it is
the other way round: these ideas were created in order to correspond to the world, and
why is it that they never bring it to pass in
the sphere of the just and the beautiful? As
mentioned, Ulrich was of the opinion that
this state of affairs served the production
and preservation of a middling condition of
life, which more or less leaves it up to chance
to mix human genius with human stupidity,
as this condition itself also emerges from
such a mixture; a long time ago he had expressed this by saying that the mind has no
mind, and just recently, at Diotimas soire,
he had again talked about it at length as the
great confusion of the emotions. But whether
it had been recently or long ago, and no matter how obvious it might have been to continue the same thought, as soon as Ulrich

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began to do so he had the feeling that such

words were coming from his mouth a few
days too late. This time, he frequently found
himself lacking in desire to occupy himself
with things that did not directly concern
him, for his soul was prepared to submit to
the world with all its senses, however this
might turn out. His judgment was as good as
disconnected from this altogether. Even
whether something pleased him or not
hardly mattered, for everything simply
seized hold of him in a way that surpassed
his capacity for understanding. This was as
true for every general state of mind as for
every particular and individual one; indeed,
at times it was entirely without thought, and
corporeal; but when it had lasted awhile and
reached full measure, it became unpleasant
or seemed ridiculous to him, and he was
then ready, in a manner just as unfounded as
the one in which he had first submitted, to
retract that submission.

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And Agathe in her fashion was experiencing pretty much the same thing. At times,
her conscience was oppressed, and expected
or made for itself new oppressions from the
world she had left behind but that nonetheless proclaimed itself in all its power all
around her. In the manifold bustle that fills
day and night there was probably not a
single task in which she could participate
with all her heart, and her failure to venture
into anything should not be regarded with
the certainty of blame or disdain, or even
contempt. There was in this a remarkable
peace! It might perhaps be said, to alter a
proverb, that a bad conscience, as long as it
is bad enough, may almost provide a better
pillow on which to rest than a good one: the
incessant ancillary activity in which the mind
engages with a view to acquiring a good individual conscience as the final outcome of all
the injustice in which it is embroiled is then
abolished, leaving behind in mind and

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emotions a hectic independence. A tender

loneliness, a sky-high arrogance, sometimes
poured their splendor over these holidays
from the world. Alongside ones own feelings
the world could then appear clumsily
bloated, like a captive balloon circled by
swallows, or, mutatis mutandis, humbled to
a background as small as a forest at the periphery of ones field of vision. The offended
civic obligations echoed like a distant and
crudely intrusive noise; they were insignificant, if not unreal. A monstrous order, which
is in the last analysis nothing but a monstrous absurdity: that was the world. And yet
every detail Agathe encountered also had the
tensed, high-wire-act nature of the onceand-never-again, the nature of discovery,
which is magical and admits of no repetition;
and whenever she wanted to speak of this,
she did so in the awareness that no word can
be uttered twice without changing its
meaning.

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So the attitude of brother and sister toward the world at this time was a not entirely
irreproachable expression of confident benevolence, containing its own brand of parallel
attraction and repulsion in a state of feeling
that hovered like a rainbow, instead of these
opposites combining in the stasis that corresponds to the self-confident state of every
day. And something else was connected with
this: in the days following that strange night,
the tone of their conversations changed too;
the echo of destiny faded, and the progression became freer and looser; indeed, it
sometimes volatilized in a playful fluttering
of words. Still, this did not indicate a temporizing born of despondency as much as it
indicated an unregulated broadening of the
living foundations of their own adventure.
They sought support in observing the ordinary ways in which life was carried on, and
were secretly convinced that the equilibrium
of this usual form of living was also a

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pretense. In this way it happened one day

that their conversation took a direction in
which, despite some fluctuation, it persisted.
Ulrich asked: What does the commandment
Love thy neighbor as thyself really mean?
Love the person farthest away like thyself is what it means! Agathe responded
with the tenderest forbearance, to which her
brother had a right in questions of loving
ones fellowmen.
But Ulrich was not satisfied. And what
does it mean to say Love what you do not
know? To love someone you dont know, although you might well be convinced that
after you got acquainted you wouldnt like
each other? So, in the last analysis: to love
him although you know him? he insisted
more explicitly.
Thats clearly the situation most people
are in, but they dont let it bother them!

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Agathe replied. They put doubt and confidence inside each other!
They foresee nothing more in the commandment of love than the reasonable prohibition against hurting each other so long as
it serves no purpose, Ulrich offered.
But Agathe said that that would be the
insipid rule of thumb What you dont want
someone to do to you, dont do to anyone
else, and it was impossible that the entire
purpose of this high-mindedly passionate,
cheerfully generous task could be to love a
stranger without even asking who he was!
Perhaps the word love here is only an
expression that has taken far too great a
swing to overcome the obstacles? Ulrich reflected. But Agathe insisted that it really did
mean love him! and without any particular reason, and that it was not to be haggled
over, so Ulrich yielded. What it means is:
Love him in spite of what you know! he

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objected. And before you know him!

Agathe repeated and underlined it once
again: At least, without knowing him!
But she stopped abruptly and looked at
her brother, bewildered. But what is it you
really love in a person if you dont know him
at all? she asked impatiently.
Thus the playful questions took on various forms as they sped back and forth. But
Ulrich did not hasten to his sisters aid. He
was of the opinion that to love something
means to prefer it over other things, and that
surely assumed a certain knowing.
Almost everybody loves himself best,
and knows himself least! Agathe threw in.
True love is independent of merit and
reward, Ulrich confirmed, mimicking a
moralizing tone and shrugging his shoulders.
Somethings wrong here!
A lots wrong! he ventured.

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And if you love everything? If youre

supposed to love the whole world, the way
you are today? What is it then that youre
loving? You would say: Nothing special!
Agathe laughed.
Havent you noticed, too, that today its
downright disturbing if you happen to meet
a person who is so beautiful that you have to
say something personal about it? he asked
her.
Then its not a feeling about the real
world and the real person! she said firmly.
So then we have to tackle the question
as to what part of this person its true of, or
what metamorphosis and transformation of
the real person and the real world, Ulrich
said, softly but emphatically.
After a short pause, Agathe answered,
with a timid conscience: Perhaps that is the
real person? But Ulrich hesitantly resisted
this, shaking his head.

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Shining through the content of this inquiring assertion there was, no doubt, a profound obviousness. The breezes and delights
of these days were so tender and merry that
the impression arose spontaneously that
man and world must be showing themselves
as they really were: this transparency harbored a small, odd, supra-sensory shudder,
such as is glimpsed in the flowing transparency of a brook, a transparency that allows
the glance to see to the bottom but, when it
arrives there, wavering, makes the mysterious colored stones look like fish scales, and
beneath them what the glance had thought it
was experiencing is truly concealed, without
possibility of access. Agathe, surrounded by
sunshine, needed only to disengage her
glance a little to have the feeling of having
stumbled into a supernatural domain; for the
shortest interval she could easily imagine
that she had come in contact with a higher
truth and reality, or at least had come upon

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an aspect of existence where a little door behind the earth mysteriously indicated the
way from the earthly garden into the beyond.
But when she again limited the range of her
glance to an ordinary span and let lifes glare
stream in on her once more, she saw
whatever might actually happen to be there:
perhaps a little flag being waved to and fro
by a childs hand, merrily and without any
kind of puzzled thought; a police wagon with
prisoners, its black-green paint sparkling in
the light; or a man with a colorful cap contentedly turning a pile of manure; or finally a
company of soldiers, whose shouldered rifles
were pointing their barrels at the sky. All this
seemed to have had poured over it
something related to love, and everyone also
seemed more ready to open themselves to
this feeling than usual: but to believe that the
empire of love was now really happening
would be just as difficult, Ulrich said, as

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imagining that at this moment no dog could

bite or no person do anything evil.
The same happened with all the other
attempts at explanation, which had in common with this one that they opposed some
land of person who was far off and true to
people who were everyday, earth-bound, and
bad and good, but at all events people as we
know them. Brother and sister examined
these ideal types one after the other, and
could not believe in any of them. There was
the feeling that on such festive days nature
brought forth in her creatures all their hidden goodness and beauty. Then there were
the more psychological explanations, that
people in this transparent, nuptial air did not
show themselves as different in some magical way, but still displayed themselves so as to
be as lovable as they would like to be and
saw themselves as being: sweating their
egotism and inward-turned indulgence, as it
were, out through their pores. And finally

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there is also the variation that people were

showing their goodwill; to be sure, this cannot prevent them from doing evil, but
emerges miraculously and unscathed on
days like these from the evil will that usually
governs them, like Jonah from the belly of
the whale. But the most succinct explanation
one heard was that this is the immortal part
of man, which shimmers through the mortal
part. All these imputations had in common
that they located the real person in a part of
him that, among the insubstantial remainder, does not come into play; and if the
promising contact with this real self was a
process clearly directed upward, there was
also a second, no less abundant group of explanations, which directed this process just
as clearly downward: these were all those according to which man is supposed to have
lost his natural innocence through intellectual arrogance and all lands of misfortune
brought upon him by civilization. There are,

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therefore, two genuine people, who appear to

the mind with the greatest punctuality in the
same, constantly recurring situations, yet
both these typesthe one a divine superman, the other an animal-like inframanwere on opposite sides of the person
as he really is. Finally, Ulrich remarked
dryly: The only trait that remains as common, and also very characteristic, is that
even when he is being good, a person does
not seek the true person in himself but takes
himself to be something else plus or
minus*!
But here brother and sister had arrived
at a borderline case of that love for another
that is so problematic and so gently entwines
everything within it, and Agathe sighed in
vexation, but not without charm. Then all
that remains of all this is just a mood! she
said, disappointed. The sun is shining. You
get into a frame of mind!

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Ulrich added to this: The social instincts stretch themselves out in the sun like
mercury in the thermometer tube, at the expense of the egotistic instincts, which otherwise hold them more or less in balance. Perhaps nothing else.
So an unconscious craving like a
schoolgirls or schoolboys! Agathe continued. They would like to kiss the whole world
and have no idea why! So we cant say any
more than that either?
They had suddenly become tired of feeling; and it sometimes happened that in such
a conversation, dealing only with their capacity for feeling, they neglected to use it. Also,
because the surfeit of emotions that could
nowhere find an outlet actually hurt, they
sometimes got back at it with a little ingratitude. But when they had both spoken in this
fashion, Agathe quickly looked sidelong at
her brother. That would, she protested, be
saying too little!

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The moment she said this, they both felt

once more that they were not just relying on
some subjective fantasy but were facing an
invisible reality. Truth was hovering in the
mood inundating them, reality was under the
appearance, transformation of the world
gazed out of the world like a shadow! The
reality about which they felt so expectant
was, to be sure, remarkably lacking a nucleus
and only half comprehensible, and it was a
long-intimate half-truth, familiar and unfulfillable, that wooed credibility: not an everyday reality and truth for everyone, but a
secret one for lovers. Obviously, it was not
just caprice or delusion either, and its most
mysterious insinuation whispered: Just
leave yourself to me without mistrust, and
youll discover the whole truth! Giving an
account of this was so difficult because the
language of love is a secret language and in
its highest perfection is as silent as an
embrace.

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The thought secret language had the

effect of making Agathe dimly recall that it
was written somewhere: Whosoever abides
in love abides in God, and God in him. He
who has not love does not know God. She
did not know where.
Ulrich on the other hand, because she
had said before that it was just a mood,
was considering an idea as sweetly temperate
as the sound of a flute. One had only to assume that such a mood of being in love was
not always just a transitory special state but
was also, beyond its immediate occasion,
capable of enduring and spreading; in other
words, all you had to assume was that a person could be a lover alone and in accordance
with his enduring being, in exactly the same
way that he can be indifferent, and this
would lead him to a totally changed way of
life: indeed, presumably it would take him to
an entirely unfamiliar world that would be
present in his mind without his having to be

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considered mentally ill. This thought, that

everything could be made different by one
small step, indeed just by a movement that
the mind merely had to let happen, was extremely seductive. And suddenly Ulrich
asked his sister with curiosity: What do you
think would happen if we were to stop one of
these people and say to him: Brother, stay
with us! or Stop, O hastening soul?
He would look at us flabbergasted,
Agathe replied.
And then unobtrusively double his
pace, or call a policeman, Ulrich finished.
He would probably think hed fallen in
with good-natured madmen, Agathe added.
But if we were to yell at him: You
criminal, you piece of nothing! he probably
wouldnt consider us crazy, Ulrich noted
with amusement, but would merely take us
to be people who think differently, or

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members of a different party, who had

turned angry at him.
Agathe frowned, smiling, and then they
both again gazed into the human current
that was pulling them along and flowing
against them. Together they felt again the
self-forgetfulness and power, the happiness
and goodness, the deep and elevated constraint, that predominate inside a vital human community, even if it is only the contingent community of a busy street, so that one
does not believe that there could also be anything bad or divisive; and their own sense of
existence, that sharply bounded and difficult
having-been-placed-here, that basic happiness and basic hostility, stood in marvelous
contrast to this communal scene. They both
thought the same; but they also thought differently, without its being obvious. They
guessed each others meaning; but sometimes they guessed wrongly. And gradually
an indolence, indeed a paralysis of thinking,

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emanated from this double-pearled juxtaposition on the oyster shell of the world, as
Ulrich called it rather scornfully, and they
then parried it by laughing at each other, or
about something.
But when this happened again Agathe
said: It always makes me so sad when were
forced to laugh at ourselves; and I dont
know why I have to.
Ulrich replied: Nothing is funnier than
opening ones eyes to reality when theyre
still filled with the inner soul!
But Agathe did not pick up on this; she
repeated: Everything remains so uncertain.
It seems to draw itself together and then extend itself again, without any shape. It permits no activity, and the inactivity becomes
unbearable. I cant even say that I really love
these people, or that I love these real people,
as they are when we look at them. Im afraid
our own feelings are pretty unreal!

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But these people respond to each other

in exactly the same way! Ulrich retorted.
They want to love each other, yet at the decisive moment they think antipathy is more
natural and healthier! So its the same for
everyone: We feel that real life has snapped
off a possible life!
But then tell me, Agathe retorted angrily, why love always needs a church or a
bed!
For heavens sakeUlrich soothed his
companion with a laughdont speak so
openly! He touched her hand with his fingertips and went on, joking mysteriously:
All these people can also be called in public
what you and I are in private: the unseparated but not united!
It was not an assertion, merely a cajoling constellation of words, a joke, a candid
little cloud of words; and they knew that feeling oneself chosen was the cheapest of all

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magic formulas and quite adolescent. Nevertheless, Ulrichs fraternal words slowly rose
from the ground to a position above their
heads. Agathe, too, now whispered jokingly:
Sometimes you feel your breath blow back
from your veil still hot, like a pair of strange
lips: thats how it sometimes seems to
mecall it illusion or realitythat Im you!
was her response, and her gentle smile drew
silence closed like a curtain after it as it died
away.
In such back-and-forth fashion they
came to reproach the millions of loving
couples who in their serious desire for certainty ask themselves a hundred times a day
whether they really and truly love each other,
and how long it can last: who, however, dont
have to fear conjuring up similar oddities.

48
LOVE BLINDS. OR DIFFICULTIES
WHERE
THEY ARE NOT LOOKED FOR
Another of these world-oriented discussions
went like this: Then how would things stand
when a love occurs between two so-called
persons of different gentler, which is as famous as it is gladly experienced? Ulrich objected. You probably are really partly in love
with the person you think youre loving.
But what youre mostly doing is simply
making a puppet of him! Agathe interjected
resentfully.
In any event, what he says and thinks
in the process also has its charm!

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As long as you love him! Because you

love him! But not the other way round! If
youve once understood how the other person means it, its not only anger thats disarmed, as one always says, but for the most
part love as well!
Again it was Agathe who gave this passionate answer. Ulrich smiled. She must
have banged her head pretty hard against
this wall more than once.
But at first you can like the other persons opinions, thats often involved in the
beginning: the well-known marvelous agreeing about everything; later, of course, you no
longer understand it at all, he said placatingly, and asked: But deeds? Does love depend on deeds?
Only insofar as they embody a persons
sentiments. Or turn the imagination into a
sort of monument!

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But didnt we just decide it wasnt so

much a matter of sentiments? Ulrich recalled teasingly.
It doesnt depend on anything at all!
Agathe cried. Not on what the other person
is, not on what he thinks, not on what he
wants, and not on what he does! There are
times when you despise a person but love
him all the same. And there are times when
you love a personand have the secret feeling
that this person with the beard (or breasts),
whom you think youve known for a long
time andtreasure, and who talks about
himself incessantly, is really only visiting
love. You could leave aside his sentiments
and merits, you could change his destiny,
you could give him a new beard or different
legsyou could leave aside almost the whole
person, and still love him! As far as you happen to love him at all, she added, mitigating
her statement.

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Her voice had a deep ring, with a restless glitter buried in its depths like a flame.
She sat down guiltily, having involuntarily
jumped up from her chair in her zeal.
Ulrich summed up the result in balanced fashion: Both contradictions are always present and form a team of four horses:
you love a person because you know him and
because you dont know him; and you know
him because you love him and dont know
him because you love him. And sometimes
that grows strong enough to become quite
palpable. Those are the well-known moments when Venus gazes through Apollo and
Apollo through Venus at an empty scarecrow, and each is mightily surprised at having seen something there before. If, furthermore, love is stronger than astonishment, it
comes to a struggle between them, and
sometimes out of this struggle love
emergeseven if it is despairing, exhausted,
and mortally woundedas the victor. But if

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love is not that strong, it leads to a battle

between the people involved, to insults intended to make up for having been played
for a simpletonto terrible incursions of
realityto utter degradation. He had participated in this stormy weather of love often
enough to be at ease describing it.
Agathe interrupted him. But I find that
these marital and extramarital affairs of honor are usually greatly overrated! she
objected.
Love as a whole is overrated! The maniac who in his delusion pulls a knife and
stabs some innocent person who just happens to be standing in for his hallucinationin love hes the normal one! Ulrich
said, and laughed.
Agathe, too, smiled as she looked at
him.
Ulrich became serious. Its odd enough
to have to think that there really are no two

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people who can agree spontaneously,

without their opinions and convictions being
more or less powerfully influenced, he
noted thoughtfully, and for a while this gave
the conversation a somewhat different turn.
Brother and sister were sitting in Ulrichs room, on either side of the long, darkly
shining desk of heavy wood, whose center
was now empty because apparently Ulrich
was not working on anything. Each of them
had lazily posed an arm on the desk and was
looking at a small papier-mch horse standing in the vacant middle ground between
them.
Even in rational thinking, where
everything has logical and objective connections, Ulrich went on, its usually the case
that you unreservedly recognize the superior
conviction of someone else only if you have
submitted to him in some way, whether as a
model and guide, or as a friend or teacher.
But without such a feeling, which has

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nothing to do with the case, every time you

make someone elses opinion your own, it
will only be with the silent reservation that
you can do more with it than its originator; if
indeed you werent already out to show this
fellow what unsuspected importance his idea
really contained! Especially in art, most of us
certainly know it would be impossible for us
to do ourselves what we read, see, and hear;
but we still have the patronizing awareness
that if we were able to do any of these things,
we could of course do them better! And perhaps it has to be that way, and lies in the active nature of the mind, which doesnt allow
itself be filled up like an empty pot, Ulrich
concluded, but actively appropriates
everything, and literally has to make it part
of itself.
He would gladly have added something
more that occurred to him, and it would not
let him rest, so he was already giving vent to
his scruple before Agathe had any chance to

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respond. But we should also ask ourselves,

he suggested, what sort of life would arise if
all this were not so unfavorable. Our feelings
ultimately want to be handled quite roughly,
it appears, but in the other borderline case
when we assimilate someone elses sentiments without resistance, when we submit
completely to someone elses feelings, indeed, when we reach a pure agreement with
a second understandingis there not a happiness that is pathologically tender, in fact
almost anti-intellectual? And how could this
light be produced without the shadow? This
thought made him want to linger over the
conversation; but although the idea was not
entirely alien to Agathe either, she was occupied at the moment with smaller concerns.
She looked at her brother for a while without
speaking, struggling against what was coming over her, but then made up her mind to
ask the offensive question, as casually as possible, whether that meant he had arrived at

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the considered conviction that even only

two people could never be of one mind, and
lovers under no circumstances whatever?
Ulrich was almost at the point of expressing through a gesture that this was
neither to be taken as real nor worth talking
about, when he was struck by his sisters misplaced warmth; he had to suppress a smile at
this suspicious inquisitiveness, but in doing
so lost his own more serious inquisitiveness
and fell back again into the interrupted
merry flow of his initial joking way of talking. You yourself began by belittling love!
he replied.
Lets leave it at that! Agathe decreed
magnanimously. Lets leave it at people not
agreeing, when theyre in love. But in ordinary life, which is certainly nothing less than
loving, you must admit that all lands of
people have similar convictions and that that
plays an enormous role!

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They only think they have them! Ulrich broke in.

They agree with each other!
The agreement is imposed on them!
People are like a fire that immediately shoots
out in all directions unless theres a stone on
top!
But arent there, for instance, generally
prevailing opinions? Agathe asked, intending to keep up with her brother.
Now youre saying it yourself! he
countered. Prevailing! Since its necessary
that we agree, innumerable arrangements of
course exist to take care of the externals and
delude us inwardly into thinking it so. In
making us people of one mind, these arrangements arent exactly subtle. Hypnotic
suggestion, violence, intimidation, thoughtlessness, cowardice, and such things play a
not inconsiderable role. The exercise of these
arrangements is mostly alloyed with

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something base and corrupting. But if their

influence stops for just a single moment, allowing reason to take over their affairs, you
will very shortly see mankind start gabbling
and fall to quarreling, the way the insane
start running around when their warders
arent looking!
Agathe recalled the walks in lovely
weather where everything had been in unqualified harmony with everything else, and
the people, even if they were apparently mistaken in believing that they loved each other,
were at least very attentive to one another
and filled with an almost solemn amiability
and curiosity. It seemed appropriate to mention that love was, after all, the only tiling in
the world that made people of one mind, and
that in every one of its varieties it did so from
both sides voluntarily.
But love is precisely one of the agreement machines. It has the lucky effect of
making people blind! Ulrich objected. Love

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blinds: half the riddles about loving ones

neighbor weve been trying to solve are
already contained in this proposition!
The most one might add is that love
also enables one to see what isnt there,
Agathe maintained, concluding reflectively:
So really these two propositions contain
everything you need in the world, in order to
be happy despite it!
In direct connection with this point,
however, it was the tiny papier-mch horse,
standing between them all alone in the
middle of the desk, that bore the sole responsibility for their conversation. It was
hardly a hands breadth high; its neck was
daintily curved; the brown of its coat was as
tender and full as the stomach of a fifteenyear-old girl who has almost, but not yet
quite, eaten too much cake, and its mane and
tail, its hooves and reins, were of one single,
deepest black. It was a horse belonging to a
court carriage, but as in legend two gods

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often grow into one, it was also a candy box

in the form of a horse. Ulrich had discovered
this little horse in a suburban confectioners
window and had immediately acquired it, for
he knew it from his childhood and had loved
it so intensely back then that he could hardly
recall whether he had ever owned it. Fortunately, such mercantile poems are sometimes preserved over several generations and
merely wander with time from the centers of
commerce to display windows in more modest parts of the city. So Ulrich had reverently
installed this find on his desk, having already
explained the significance of the species to
his sister. The candy horse was a close relative of those circus animalslions, tigers,
horses, and dogsthat had lived at the same
time, the time of Ulrichs childhood, on the
posters of traveling circuses, and could no
more be summoned from the raging expressions of their palpable but one-dimensional
existence into fully developed life than this

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little horse could jump through the glass

pane of the shop window. Agathe had quickly
understood this, for the confectioners horse
constituted part of the large family of childrens fancies which are always chasing their
desires with the zigzag flight of a butterfly,
until at last they reach their goal only to find
a lifeless object. And wandering back along
childhoods paths of love, brother and sister
had even opened the horse and, with the
mixed feelings attending the unsealing of a
crypt, found inside a variety of round, flat
little tents strewn with grains of sugar, which
they thought they had not seen for decades,
and which they enjoyed with the cautious
courage of explorers.
In a distracted and pensive way, during
the pause that had followed the last exchange with Ulrich, Agathe had been observing this small object with the magnetic
soul that stood before them. In the far distances of this daydreaming, perhaps there

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also emerged from the river of words about

similarities and differences in thinking, that
idea of the unseparated but not united, and
now this joined in a peculiar way with their
companionship as children. Agathe finally
landed on times other shore of silence
without knowing how long the interruption
had lasted, and she picked up the conversation where it had left off by asking with direct vehemence, as if something had been forgotten: But not every love has to blind!
Ulrich, too, was immediately ready to
be pressed into service again in pursuit of the
exchange of words that had rushed away, as
if he were not sure how long he had been
standing there distracted. Lets go on! he
suggested, and led with a random example:
Maternal love!
Doting, its called, Agathe replied.
In any case, it loves blindly, loves in
advance. Wont let anything distract it,

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Ulrich stated, immediately continuing: And

its opposite, a childs love?
Is that love at all? Agathe asked.
Theres a lot of selfishness and instinctive need for protection and such things
in it, Ulrich ventured, but added that it
could also be, at least at certain stages, a real
passion. Next, he asked about the love of
friends.
They were again agreed: youth was the
only time for passionate friendships.
Love of honor? Ulrich asked.
Agathe shrugged her shoulders.
Love of virtue?
She repeated the gesture, then thought
it over and said: Saints or martyrs might
call it love.
But then its obviously a passion for
overcoming the world, or something like

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that, as well, Ulrich interjected. An oppositional passion, but in any case something
containing a lot of complications.
But there can also be a lot of complications in love of honor, Agathe added.
Love of power? Ulrich went on, assenting to her objection with only a nod of
his head.
Thats probably a contradiction in
terms.
Perhaps, Ulrich agreed. You might
think that force and love are mutually
exclusive.
But they arent! Agathe exclaimed,
having changed her mind in the meantime.
Look: to be compelled! For women especially, being loved and being compelled is no
contradiction at all!
Ulrich responded in contradictory ways
to this reminder of the possibility of such

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experiences in his sisters past; on the one

hand he desired an informed explanation; on
the other, the primordial ignorance of the
gods. Frowning, he thought over what his response should be, and finally said, clearly but
hesitating involuntarily: In that case the association of the words is indeed ambivalent.
All power is laid low before love, and if it humiliates love, then
Lets not dwell on it, Agathe interrupted, and offered a new question: Love of
truth?
Since he hesitated, You should know
all about that! she added in jesting reproach; his long-drawn-out efforts to be accurate sometimes made her impatient.
But the conversation was already inhibited, and slowly it became diffuse. There,
too, its not easy to separate out the right
concepts, Ulrich decided. You can love
truth in many different ways: as honor, as

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power, as virtue, or also like pure spring water and the air you breathe, or like
Is that love? Agathe interrupted him
again. That way you could love spinach
too!
And why not? Even being partial to
something is a form of love.
There are many transitions, Ulrich
countered. And love of truth especially is
one of the most contradictory terms: If the
concept of truth is stronger, love is correspondingly less, and in the last analysis you
can hardly call the honorable or even the
utilitarian need for truth love; but if the
concept of love is strong, what you might call
the purest, highest love, then truth ceases to
exist.
Truth, unfortunately, arises in cold
blood, Agathe remarked pointedly.

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To demand truth from love is just as

mistaken as demanding justice from anger,
Ulrich agreed. Emotion is injurious there.
Oh perhaps thats only mens talk!
Agathe protested.
Thats the way it is: Love tolerates
truth, but truth does not tolerate love, Ulrich confirmed. Love dissolves truth.
But if it dissolves the truth, then it has
no truth? Agathe asked this with the seriousness of the ignorant child who knows by
heart the story it wants to hear repeated for
the twentieth time.
A new truth begins, Ulrich said. As
soon as a person encounters love not as some
kind of experience but as life itself, or at least
as a land of life, he knows a swarm of truths.
Whoever judges without love calls this opinions, personal views, subjectivity, whim; and
for him thats all it is. But the one who loves
knows about himself that he is not

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insensitive to truth, but oversensitive. He

finds himself in a kind of ecstasy of thinking,
where the words open up to their very centers. He understands in everyway more than
is necessary. He can hardly save himself
from an inexhaustible flood. And he feels
that every rational desire to understand can
only banish it. I dont want to claim that this
really is a different truthfor there is only
one and the same truthbut it is a hundred
possibilities that are more important than
truth; it is, to say it more clearly, something
by means of which all truth loses the importance attributed to it. Perhaps one might say:
truth is the unequivocal result of an attitude
to life which we by no means feel unequivocally to be the true attitude! Ulrich, happy
because he had finally achieved a more exact
description, drew the conclusion: So apparently to be surrounded by a swarm of truths
means nothing other than that the lover is
open to everything that has been loved, and

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also willed, thought, and put down in words;

open to all contradictions, which are after all
those of sentient beings; open even to every
shared experience, if a word exists that can
lift it tenderly to the point of articulation.
The distinctive signs of truth and morality
have been suppressed for him by the gentle
power of life stirring all around him; they remain present, but fruitfulness and fullness
have out- and overgrown them. For the lover, truth and deception are equally trivial,
and yet this does not strike him as caprice:
Now, this is probably no more than a
changed personal attitude, but I would say
that it still finally depends on countless possibilities underlying whatever reality has
conquered them, possibilities that could also
have become realities. The lover awakens
them. Everything suddenly appears different
to him from what you think. Instead of a citizen of this world, he becomes a creature of
countless worlds

218/1856

But that is another reality! Agathe

exclaimed.
No! said Ulrich hesitantly. At least I
dont know. Its merely the age-old opposition between knowledge and love, which has
always been supposed to exist.
Agathe gave him a confused but encouraging smile.
No! Ulrich repeated. Thats still not
the right one.
Her smile disappeared. So we have to
pick up our business once again, otherwise
we wont get to the end this way either,
Agathe suggested with comic distress, and
with a sigh she began anew: What is love of
money?
You said things like that werent love at
all, Ulrich interjected.
But you said there were transitions,
Agathe countered.

219/1856

Love of beauty? Ulrich asked, ignoring this.

Love is also supposed to make an ugly
person beautiful, Agathe replied, following a
sudden inspiration. Do you love something
because its beautiful or is it beautiful because its loved?
Ulrich found this question important
but unpleasant. So he responded: Perhaps
beauty is nothing other than having been
loved. If something was once loved, its ability
to be beautiful is directed outward. And
beauty presumably arises in no other way
but this: that something pleases a person
who also has the power to give other people a
land of set of directions for repetition. Then
he added sharply: Nevertheless, men who,
like friend Lindner, waylay beauty are simply
funny!
Love ones enemy? Agathe asked,
smiling.

220/1856

Difficult! said Ulrich. Perhaps a

leftover from magical-religious cannibalism.
Compared to that, loving life is
simple, Agathe stated. No idea at all is connected with it; its simply a blind instinct.
Passion for hunting?
Love of fatherland? Love of home?
Necrophilia? Love of nature? Love of ponies?
Idolatry? Puppy love? Hate-love? Agathe
shook them all out together, raising her arms
in a circle and letting them fall to her lap
with a gesture of discouragement.
Ulrich answered with a shrug of the
shoulders and a smile. Love becomes real in
many ways and in the most varied connections. But what is the common denominator?
What in all these loves is the essential fluid
and what merely its crystallization? And
what, especially, is that love! that can also
occur spontaneously and fill the whole
world? he asked, showing little hope of an

221/1856

answer. Even if someone were to compare

the various forms more seriously, he went
on, he would presumably find only as many
emotions as there are external conditions
and attitudes. Under all these circumstances
one can love; but only because one can also
despise or remain indifferent: in this way
whatever is shared in common surfaces as
something vaguely like love.
But doesnt that just mean that full
love doesnt correspond to experience?
Agathe interrupted. But who questions
that? Thats the decisive point! If love exists,
in order to become manifest it will be entirely different from everything it is alloyed
with!
Now Ulrich interrupted. What would
that prove? As feeling and action, this love
would have no limits, and therefore there is
no attitude or behavior that would correspond to it.

222/1856

Agathe listened eagerly. She was waiting for a final word. And what do you do if
there is no attitude or behavior? she asked.
Ulrich understood her artless question.
But he showed himself prepared for these reconnaissance expeditions to last even longer;
he merely shrugged his shoulders resignedly
and answered with a jest: It doesnt seem
nearly so simple to love as nature would have
us believe, just because shes provided every
bungler with the tools!

49
GENERAL VON STUMM DROPS A
BOMB.
CONGRESS FOR WORLD PEACE
A soldier must not let anything deter him. So
General Stumm von Bordwehr was the only
person to push his way through to Ulrich and
Agathe; but then he was perhaps the only
person for whom they did not make it absolutely impossible, since even refugees from
the world can see to it that their mail is forwarded to them periodically. And as he burst
in to interrupt their continuing their conversation, he crowed: It wasnt easy to penetrate all the perimeter defenses and fight my
way into the fortress!, gallantly kissed
Agathes hand, and, addressing himself to

224/1856

her in particular, said: Ill be a famous man,

just because Ive seen you! Everyone is asking what event could have swallowed up the
Inseparables, and is asking after you; and in
a certain sense I am the emissary of society,
indeed of the Fatherland, sent to discover the
cause of your disappearance! Please excuse
me if I appear importunate!
Agathe bade him a polite welcome, but
neither she nor her brother was immediately
able to conceal their distractedness from
their visitor, who stood before them as the
embodiment of the weakness and imperfection of their dreams; and as General Stumm
again stepped back from Agathe, a remarkable silence ensued. Agathe was standing on
one long side of the desk, Ulrich on the other, and the General, like a suddenly becalmed sailing vessel, was at a point approximately halfway between them. Ulrich meant
to come forward to meet his visitor, but
could not stir from the spot. Stumm now

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noticed that he really had butted in, and considered how he might save the situation. The
twisted beginnings of a friendly smile lay on
all three faces. This stiff silence lasted barely
a fraction of a second; it was just then that
Stumms glance fell on the small papiermch horse standing isolated among them,
like a monument, in the center of the empty
desk.
Clicking his heels together, he pointed
to it solemnly with the flat of his hand and
exclaimed with relief: But whats this? Do I
perceive in this house the great animal idol,
the holy animal, the revered deity of the
cavalry?
At Stumms remark, Ulrichs inhibition,
too, dissolved, and moving quickly over to
Stumm but at the same time turning toward
his sister, he said animatedly: Admittedly
its just a coach horse, but you have wonderfully guessed the rest! We were really just
talking about idols and how they originate.

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Now tell me: What is it one loves, which part,

what reshaping and transformation does one
love, when one loves ones neighbor without
knowing him? In other words, to what extent
is love dependent on the world and reality,
and to what extent is it the other way
round?
Stumm von Bordwehr had directed his
glance questioningly to Agathe.
Ulrich is talking about this little thing,
she assured him, somewhat disconcerted,
pointing to the candy horse. He used to
have a passion for it.
That was, I hope, quite a long time
ago, Stumm said in astonishment. For if
Im not mistaken, its a candy jar?
It is not a candy jar! Friend Stumm!
Ulrich implored, seized by the disgraceful
desire to chat with him about it. If you fall
in love with a saddle and harness that are too
expensive for you, or a uniform or a pair of

227/1856

riding boots you see in a shop window: what

are you in love with?
Youre being outrageous! I dont love
things like that! the General protested.
Dont deny it! Ulrich replied. There
are people who can dream day and night of a
suit fabric or a piece of luggage they have
seen in a shop; everyones known something
like that; and the same thing will have
happened to you, at least with your first lieutenants uniform! And youll have to admit
that you might have no use for this material
or this suitcase, and that you dont even have
to be in the position of being able to really
desire it: so nothing is easier than loving
something before you know it and without
knowing it. May I, moreover, remind you
that you loved Diotima at first sight?
This time, the General looked up cunningly. Agathe had in the meantime asked
him to sit down and also procured a cigar for

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him, since her brother had forgotten his

duty. Stumm, fringed with blue clouds, said
innocently: Since then shes become a textbook of love, and I didnt much like textbooks in school, either. But I still admire and
respect this woman, he added with a dignified composure that was new to him.
Ulrich, unfortunately, didnt notice it
immediately. All those things are idols, he
went on, pursuing the questions he had directed at Stumm. And now you see where
they came from. The instincts embedded in
our nature need only a minimum of external
motivation and justification; they are enormous machines set in motion by a tiny switch.
But they equip the object they are applied to
with only as many ideas that can bear investigation as perhaps correspond to the flickering of light and shadow in the light of an
emergency lamp

229/1856

Stop! Stumm begged from his cloud

of smoke. What is object? Are you talking
about the boots and that suitcase again?
Im speaking of passion. Of longing for
Diotima, just as much as longing for a forbidden cigarette. I want to make clear to you
that every emotional relationship had the
groundwork laid for it by preliminary perceptions and ideas that belong to reality; but
that such a relationship also immediately
conjures up perceptions and ideas that it fits
out in its own way. In short, affect sets up the
object the way it needs it to be, indeed it creates it so that the affect finally applies to an
object that, having come about in such a way,
is no longer recognizable. But affect isnt
destined for knowledge, either, but really for
passion! This object that is born of passion
and hovers in it, Ulrich concluded, returning to his starting point, is of course
something different from the object on which
it is outwardly fastened and which it can

230/1856

reach out to grasp, and this is therefore also

true of love. 1 love you is mistaken; for you,
this person who has evoked the passion and
whom you can seize in your arms, is the one
you think you love; the person evoked by
passion, this wildly religious invention, is the
one you really love, but it is a different
person.
Listening to youAgathe interrupted
her brother with a reproach that betrayed
her inner sympathiesyou might think you
dont really love the real person, but really
love an unreal person!
Thats precisely what I meant to say,
and Ive also heard you saying much the
same.
But in reality both are ultimately one
person!
Thats exactly the major complication,
that the hovering image of the person you
love has to be represented in every outward

231/1856

connection by the person himself and is indeed one and the same. Thats what leads to
all the confusions that give the simple business of love such an excitingly ghostly
quality!
But perhaps its only love that makes
the real person entirely real? Perhaps hes
not complete before then?
But the boot or the suitcase you dream
about is in reality none other than the one
you could actually buy!
Perhaps the suitcase only becomes
completely real if you love it!
In a word, we come to the question of
what is real. Loves old question! Ulrich exclaimed impatiently, yet somehow satisfied.
Oh, lets forget the suitcase! To the astonishment of both, it was the Generals
voice that interrupted their sparring. Stumm
had comfortably squeezed one leg over the

232/1856

other, which, once achieved, lent him great

security. Lets stay with the person, he
went on, and praised Ulrich: So far youve
said some things terrifically well! People always believe that nothing is easier than loving each other, and then you have to remind
them every day: Dearest, its not as easy as it
is for the apple woman! In explanation of
this more military than civilian expression,
he turned politely to Agathe. The apple woman, dear lady, is an army expression for
when someone thinks something is easier
than it is: in higher mathematics, for example, when youre doing short division so
short that, willy-nilly, you come up with a
false result! Then the apple woman is held
up to you, and its applied the same way in
other places as well, where an ordinary person might just say: thats not so simple!
Now he turned back to Ulrich and continued:
Your doctrine of the two persons interests
me a good deal, because Im also always

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telling people that you can love people only

in two parts: in theory, or, as you put it, as a
hovering person, is the way you ought to love
someone, as I see it; but in practice, you have
to treat a person strictly and, in the last analysis, harshly too! Thats the way it is
between man and woman, and thats the way
it is in life in general! The pacifists, for instance, with their love that has no soles on its
shoes, havent the slightest notion of this; a
lieutenant knows ten times as much about
love as these dilettantes!
Through his earnestness, through his
carefully weighed manner of speaking, and
not least through the boldness with which,
despite Agathes presence, he had condemned woman to obedience, Stumm von
Bordwehr gave the impression of a man to
whom something important had happened
and who had striven, not without success, to
master it. But Ulrich still had not grasped
this, and proposed: Well, you decide which

234/1856

person is truly worth loving and which has

the walk-on part!
Thats too deep for me! Stumm stated
calmly, and, inhaling from his cigar, added
with the same composure: Its a pleasure to
hear again how well you speak; but on the
whole you speak in such a way that one really
must ask oneself whether its your only occupation. I must confess that after you disappeared I expected to find you, God knows,
busy with more important matters!
Stumm, this is important! Ulrich exclaimed. Because at least half the history of
the world is a love story! Of course you have
to take all the varieties of love together!
The General nodded his resistance.
That may well be. He barricaded himself
behind the busyness of cutting and lighting a
fresh cigar, and grumbled: But then the other half is a story of anger. And one shouldnt

235/1856

underestimate anger! I have been a specialist

in love for some time, and I know!
Now at last Ulrich understood that his
friend had changed and, curious, asked him
to tell what had befallen him.
Stumm von Bordwehr looked at him for
a while without answering, then looked at
Agathe, and finally replied in a way that
made it impossible to distinguish whether he
was hesitating from irritation or enjoyment:
Oh, it will hardly seem worth mentioning in
comparison with your occupations. Just one
thing has happened: the Parallel Campaign
has found a goal!
This news about something to which so
much sympathy, even if counterfeit, had
been accorded would have broken through
even a fully guarded state of seclusion, and
when Stumm saw the effect he had achieved
he was reconciled with fortune, and found
again for quite a while his old, guileless joy in

236/1856

spreading news. If youd rather, I could just

as well say: the Parallel Campaign has come
to an end! he offered obligingly.
It had happened quite incidentally: We
all of us had got so used to nothing happening, while thinking that something ought to
happen, Stumm related. And then all of a
sudden, instead of a new proposal, someone
brought the news that this coming autumn a
Congress for World Peace is to meet, and
here in Austria!
Thats odd! Ulrich said.
Whats odd? We didnt know the least
thing about it!
Thats just what I mean.
Well, there youre not entirely off the
track, Stumm von Bordwehr agreed. Its
even being asserted that the news was a
plant from abroad. Leinsdorf and Tuzzi went
so far as to suspect that it might be a Russian

237/1856

plot against our patriotic campaign, if not ultimately even a German plot. For you must
consider that we have four years before we
have to be ready, so its entirely possible that
someone wants to rush us into something we
hadnt planned. Beyond that, the different
versions part company; but its no longer
possible to find out what the truth of the
matter is, although of course we immediately
wrote off everywhere to learn more. Remarkably enough, it seems that people all over
already knew about this pacifistic CongressI assure you: in the whole world! And
private individuals as well as newspaper and
government offices! But it was assumed, or
bandied about, that it emanated from us and
was part of our great world campaign, and
people were merely surprised because they
couldnt get any kind of rational response
from us to their questions and queries.
Maybe someone was playing a joke on us;
Tuzzi was discreetly able to get hold of a few

238/1856

invitations to this Peace Congress; the signatures were quite naive forgeries, but the letter paper and the style were good as gold! Of
course we then called in the police, who
quickly discovered that the whole manner of
execution pointed to a domestic origin, and
in the course of this it emerged that there
really are people here who would like to convene a World Peace Congress here in the autumn because some woman who has written a pacifist novel is going to celebrate her
umpteenth birthday or, in case shes died,
would have: But it quickly became clear that
these people quite evidently had not the least
connection with disseminating the material
that was aimed at us, and so the origin of the
affair has remained in the dark, Stumm said
resignedly, but with the satisfaction that
every well-told tale provides. The effortful
exposition of the difficulties had drawn shadows over his face, but now the sun of his
smile burst through this perplexity, and with

239/1856

a trace of scorn that was as unconstrained as

it was candid, he added: Whats most remarkable is that everyone agreed that there
should be such a congress, or at least no one
wanted to say no! And now I ask you: what
are we to do, especially since we have already
announced that we are undertaking
something meant to serve as a model for the
whole world and have constantly been
spreading the slogan Action! around? For
two weeks weve simply had to work like savages, so that retroactively at least it looks the
way it would have looked prospectively, so to
speak, under other circumstances. And so we
showed ourselves equal to the organizational
superiority of the Prussiansassuming that
it was the Prussians! Were now calling it a
preliminary celebration. The government is
keeping an eye on the political part, and
those of us in the campaign are working
more on the ceremonial and cultural-human

240/1856

aspects, because that is simply too burdensome for a ministry

But what a strange story it is! Ulrich
asserted seriously, although he had to laugh
at this development.
A real accident of history, the General
said with satisfaction. Such mystifications
have often been important.
And
cautiously.

Diotima?

Ulrich

inquired

Well, she has speedily had to jettison

Amor and Psyche and is now, together with a
painter, designing the parade of regional costumes. It will be called: The clans of Austria
and Hungary pay homage to internal and external peace, Stumm reported, and now
turned pleadingly toward Agathe as he noticed that she, too, was parting her lips to
smile. I entreat you, dear lady, please dont
say anything against it, and dont permit any
objection to it either! he begged. For the

241/1856

parade of regional costumes, and apparently

a military parade, are all that is definite so
far about the festivities. The Tyrolean militia
will march down the Ringstrasse, because
they always look picturesque with their green
suspenders, the rooster feathers in their
hats, and their long beards; and then the
beers and wines of the Monarchy are to pay
tribute to the beers and wines of the rest of
the world. But even here there is still no unanimity on whether, for instance, only
Austro-Hungarian beers and wines shall pay
tribute to those of the rest of the world,
which would allow the charming Austrian
character to stand out more hospitably by renouncing a tribute from the other side, or
whether the foreign beers and wines should
be allowed to march along as well so that
they can pay homage to ours, and whether
they have to pay customs duties on them or
not. At any rate, one thing is certain: that
there never has been and never can be a

242/1856

parade in this country without people in Old

Germanic costumes sitting on carts with
casks and on beer wagons drawn by horses;
and I just cant imagine what it must have
been like in the actual Middle Ages, when the
Germanic costumes werent yet old and
wouldnt even have looked any older than a
tuxedo does today!
But after this question had been sufficiently appreciated, Ulrich asked a more delicate one. Id like to know what our nonGerman nationalities will say to the whole
thing!
Thats simple: theyll be in the parade!
Stumm assured him cheerfully. Because if
they wont, well commandeer a regiment of
Bohemian dragoons into the parade and
make Hussite warriors out of them, and well
drag in a regiment of Ulans as the Polish liberators of Vienna from the Turks.

243/1856

And what does Leinsdorf say to these

plans? Ulrich asked hesitantly.
Stumm placed his crossed leg beside
the other and turned serious. Hes not exactly delighted, he conceded, relating that
Count Leinsdorf never used the word
parade but, in the most stubborn way possible,
insisted
on
calling
it
a
demonstration. Hes apparently still
thinking of the demonstrations he experienced, Ulrich said, and Stumm agreed. He
has often said to me, he reported, ^Whoever brings the masses into the street is taking a heavy responsibility upon himself, General! As if I could do anything for or against
it! But you should also know that for some
time weve been getting together fairly often,
he and I.
Stumm paused, as if he wanted to leave
space for a question, but when neither
Agathe nor Ulrich asked it, he went on

244/1856

cautiously: You see, His Excellency ran into

another demonstration. Quite recently,
on a trip, he was nearly beaten up in B
by the Czechs as well as
the Germans.
But why? Agathe exclaimed, intrigued, and Ulrich, too, showed his
curiosity.
Because he is known as the bringer of
peace! Stumm proclaimed. Loving peace
and people is not so simple in reality
Like with the apple woman! Agathe
broke in, laughing.
I really wanted to say, like with a candy
jar, Stumm corrected her, adding to this
discreet reproach for Ulrich the observation
on Leinsdorf: Still, a man like him, once he
has made up his mind, will totally and completely exercise the office he has been given.
What office? Ulrich asked.

245/1856

Every office! the General stated. On

the festival reviewing stand he will sit beside
the Emperor, only in the event, of course,
that His Majesty sits on the reviewing stand;
and, moreover, he is drafting the address of
homage from our peoples, which he will
hand to the All-Highest Ruler. But even if
that should be all for the time being, Im convinced it wont stay that way, because if he
doesnt have any other worries, he creates
some: such an active nature! By the way, he
would like to speak with you, Stumm injected tentatively.
Ulrich seemed not to have heard this,
but had become alert. Leinsdorf is not
given an office! he said mistrustfully. Hes
been the knob on top of the flagstaff all his
life!
Well, the General said reservedly. I
really didnt mean to say anything; of course
he is and always was a high aristocrat. But
look, for example, not long ago Tuzzi took

246/1856

me aside and said to me confidentially: General! If a man brushes past me in a dark alley, I step aside; but if in the same situation
he asks me in a friendly way what time it is,
then I not only reach for my watch but grope
for my gun too! What do you say to that?
What should I say to that? I dont see
the connection.
Thats just the governments caution,
Stumm explained. In relation to a World
Peace Congress it thinks of all the possibilities, while Leinsdorf has always been one to
have his own ideas.
Ulrich suddenly understood. So in a
word: Leinsdorf is to be removed from leadership because people are afraid of him?
The General did not answer this directly. He asks you through me to please resume your friendly relations with your cousin Tuzzi, in order to find out whats going on.
Im saying it straight out; he, of course,

247/1856

expressed it in a more reserved fashion,

Stumm reported. And after a brief hesitation,
he added by way of excuse: Theyre not
telling him everything! But then thats the
habit of ministries: we dont tell each other
everything among ourselves either!
What relationship did my brother
really have with our cousin? Agathe wanted
to know.
Stumm, snared in the friendly delusion
that he was pleasantly joking, unsuspectingly
assured her: Hes one of her secret loves!
adding immediately to encourage Ulrich: I
have no idea what happened between you,
but she certainly regrets it! She says that you
are such an indispensable bad patriot that all
the enemies of the Fatherland, whom we are
trying to make feel at home here, must really
love you. Isnt that nice of her? But of course
she cant take the first step after you withdrew so willfully!

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From then on the leave-taking became

rather monosyllabic, and Stumm was mightily oppressed at such a dim sunset after he
had stood at the zenith.
Thus it was that Ulrich and Agathe got
to hear something that brightened their faces
again and also brought a friendly blush to
the Generals cheeks. Weve got rid of
Feuermaul! he reported, happy that he had
remembered it in time and adding, full of
scorn for that poets love of mankind: In any
event, its become meaningless. Even the
nauseating resolution from the last session,
that no one should be forced to die for other
peoples ideas, whereas on the other hand
everyone should die for his owneven this
resolution, which would fundamentally ensure peace, had, as was now apparent, been
dropped, along with everything belonging to
the past, and at the Generals instigation was
no longer even on the agenda. We suppressed a journal that printed it; no one

249/1856

believes such exaggerated rumors anymore!

Stumm added to this news, which seemed
not quite clear in view of the preparations
under way for a pacifistic congress. Agathe
then intervened a little on behalf of the
young people, and even Ulrich finally reminded his friend that the incident had not
been Feuermauls fault. Stumm made no difficulties about this, and admitted that Feuermaul, whom he had met at the house of his
patroness, was a charming person. So full of
sympathy with everything! And so spontaneously, absolutely, really good! he exclaimed
appreciatively.
But then he would most certainly be an
estimable addition to this Congress! Ulrich
again threw in.
But Stumm, who had meanwhile been
making serious preparations to leave, shook
his head animatedly. No! I cant explain so
briefly whats involved, he said resolutely,

250/1856

but this Congress ought not to be blown out

of proportion!

50
AGATHE FINDS ULRICHS DIARY
While Ulrich was personally escorting the
parting guest to the door, Agathe, defying an
inner self-reproach, carried out something
she had decided on with lightning speed.
Even before Stumms intrusion, and again a
second time in his presence, her eye had
been caught by a pile of loose papers lying in
one of the drawers of the desk, on both occasions through a suppressed motion of her
brothers, which had given the impression
that he would have liked to refer to these papers during the conversation but could not
make up his mindindeed, deliberately refrained from doing so. Her intimacy with
him had allowed her to sense this more than

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guess it on any substantive basis, and in the

same way she also understood that this concealment must be connected with the two of
them. So when he was barely out of the room
she opened the drawer, doing so, whether it
was justified or not, with that feeling which
furthers quick decisions and does not admit
moral scruples. But the notes that she took
up in her hands, with many things crossed
out, loosely connected and not always easily
decipherable, immediately imposed a slower
tempo on her passionate curiosity.
Is love an emotion? This question may
at first glance seem nonsensical, since it appears so certain that the entire nature of love
is a process of feeling; the correct answer is
the more surprising: for emotion is really the
least part of love! Looked at merely as emotion, love is hardly as intense and overwhelming, and in any event not as strongly
marked, as a toothache.

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The second, equally odd note ran: A

man may love his dog and his wife. A child
may love a dog more dearly than a man his
wife. One person loves his profession, another politics. Mostly, we seem to love general
conditions; I meanif we dont happen to
hate themtheir inscrutable way of working
in concert, which I might call their horsestall feeling: we are contentedly at home in
our life the way a horse is in its stall!
But what does it mean to bring all
these things that are so disparate together
under the same word, love? A primordial
idea has settled in my mind, alongside doubt
and derision: Everything in the world is love!
Love is the gentle, divine nature of the world,
covered by ashes but inextinguishable! I
wouldnt know how to express what I understand by nature; but if I abandon myself to
the idea as a whole without worrying about
it, I feel it with a remarkably natural certainty. At least at moments.

254/1856

Agathe blushed, for the following

entries began with her name. Agathe once
showed me places in the Bible; I still vaguely
remember how they ran and have decided to
write them down: Everything that happens
in love happens in God, for God is love. And
a second says: Love is from God, and whosoever loves God is born of God. Both these
places stand in obvious contradiction to each
other: in one, love comes from God; in the
other, it is God!
Therefore the attempts to express the
relationship of love to the world seem
fraught with difficulty even for the enlightened person; how should the uninstructed understanding not fail to grasp it? That I
called love the nature of the world was nothing but an excuse; it leaves the choice entirely open to say that the pen and inkpot I
am writing with consist of love in the moral
realm of truth, or in the empirical realm of
reality. But then how in reality? Would they

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then consist of love or would they be its consequences, the embodying phenomenon or
intimation? Are they already themselves
love, or is love only what they would be in
their totality? Are they love by nature, or are
we talking about a supranatural reality? And
what about this in truth? Is it a truth for the
more heightened understanding, or for the
blessedly ignorant? Is it the truth of thinking, or an incomplete symbolic connection
that will reveal its meaning completely only
in the universality of mental events assembled around God? What of this have I expressed? More or less everything and
nothing!
I could also just as well have said about
love that it is divine reason, the Neoplatonic
logos. Or just as well something else: Love is
the lap of the world: the gentle lap of unselfconscious happening. Or, again differently:
O sea of love, about which only the drowning
man, not the ship-borne traveler, knows! All

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these allusive exclamations can transmit

their meaning only because one is as untrustworthy as another.
Most honest is the feeling: how tiny
the earth is in space, and how man, mere
nothing compared with the merest child, is
thrown on the resources of love! But that is
nothing more than the naked cry for love,
without a trace of an answer!
Yet I might perhaps speak in this way
without exaggerating my words into emptiness: There is a condition in the world the
sight of which is barred to us, but that things
sometimes expose here or there when we
find ourselves in a state that is excited in a
particular way. And only in this state do we
glimpse that things are made of love. And
only in it, too, do we grasp what it signifies.
And only this state is then real, and we
would only then be true.

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That would be a description I would

not have to retract in any part. But then, I
also have nothing to add to it!
Agathe was astonished. In these secret
entries Ulrich was holding himself back
much less than usual. And although she understood that he allowed himself to do this,
even for himself, only under the reservation
of secrecy, she still imagined she could see
him before her, stirred and irresolute, in the
act of opening his arms toward something.
The notes went on: That, too, is a notion reason itself might almost chance upon,
although to be sure only reason that has to
some extent managed to get out of its passive
position: imagining the All-Loving as the
Eternal Artist. He loves creation as long as
he is creating it, but his love turns away from
the finished portions. For the artist must also
love what is most hateful in order to shape it,
but what he has already shaped, even if it is
good, cools him off; it becomes so bereft of

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love that he hardly still understands himself

in it, and the moments when his love returns
to delight in what it has done are rare and
unpredictable. And so one could also think:
What lords over us loves what it creates; but
this love approaches and withdraws from the
finished part of creation in a long ebbing
flow and a short returning swell. This idea
fits the fact that souls and things of the world
are like dead people who are sometimes
reawakened for seconds.
Then came a few other quick entries,
which looked as if they were only tentative.
A lion under the morning sky! A unicorn in the moonlight! You have the choice
between loves fire and rifle fire. Therefore
there are at least two basic conditions: love
and violence. And without doubt it is violence, not love, that keeps the world moving
and from going to sleep!

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Here the assumption might also, of

course, be woven in that the world has become sinful. Before, love and paradise. That
means: the world as it is, sin! The possible
world, love!
Another dubious question: The philosophers imagine God as a philosopher, as
pure spirit; wouldnt it make sense, then, for
officers to imagine Him as an officer? But I, a
mathematician, imagine the divine being as
love? How did I arrive at that?
And how are we to participate without
more ado in one of the Eternal Artists most
intimate experiences?
The writing broke off. But then Agathes
face was again suffused with a blush when,
without raising her eyes, she took up the next
page and read on:
Lately Agathe and I have frequently
had a remarkable experience! When we undertook our expeditions into town. When the

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weather is especially fine the world looks

quite cheerful and harmonious, so that you
really dont pay attention to how different all
its component parts are, according to their
age and nature. Everything stands and
moves with the greatest naturalness. And
yet, remarkably, there is in such an apparently incontrovertible condition of the
present something that leads into a desert;
something like an unsuccessful proposal of
love, or some similar exposure, the moment
one does not unreservedly participate in it.
Along our way we find ourselves walking through the narrow violet-blue streets of
the city, which above, where they open to the
light, burn like fire. Or we step out of this
tactile blue into a square over which the sun
freely pours its light; then the houses around
the square stand there looking taken back
and, as it were, placed against the wall, but
no less expressively, and as if someone had
scratched them with the fine lines of an

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engraving tool, lines that make everything

too distinct. And at such a moment we do not
know whether all this self-fulfilled beauty excites us profoundly or has nothing at all to do
with us. Both are the case. This beauty
stands on a razors edge between desire and
grief
But does not the sight of beauty always
have this effect of brightening the grief of ordinary life and darkening its gaiety? It seems
that beauty belongs to a world whose depths
hold neither grief nor gaiety. Perhaps in that
world even beauty itself does not exist, but
merely some kind of almost indescribable,
cheerful gravity, and its name arises only
through the refraction of its nameless
splendor in our ordinary atmosphere. We are
both seeking this world, Agathe and I,
without yet being able to make up our
minds; we move along its borders and cautiously enjoy the profound emanation at
those points where it is still mingled with the

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powerful lights of every day and is almost

invisible!,,
It seemed as if Ulrich, through his sudden idea of speaking of an Eternal Artist, had
been led to bring the question of beauty into
his observations, especially since, for its part,
beauty also expressed the oversensitivity that
had arisen between brother and sister. But at
the same time he had changed his manner of
thinking. In this new sequence of entries he
proceeded no longer from his dominant
ideas as they faded down to the vanishing
point of his experiences, but from the foreground, which was clearer but, in a few
places that he noted, really too clear, and
again almost permeable by the background.
Thus Ulrich went on. I said to Agathe:
Apparently beauty is nothing other than
having been loved. For to love something
and beautify it is one and the same. And to
propagate its love and make others see its

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beauty is also one and the same. Thats why

everything can appear beautiful, and
everything beautiful, ugly; in both cases it
will depend on us no less than it compels us
from outside, because love has no causality
and knows no fixed sequence. Im not certain
how much Ive said about that, but it also explains this other impression that we have so
vividly on our walks: We look at people and
want to share in the joy that is in their faces;
but these faces also radiate a discomfiture
and an almost uncanny repulsion. It emanates, too, from the houses, clothes, and
everything that they have created for themselves. When I considered what the explanation for this might be, I was led to a further
group of ideas, and through that back to my
first notes, which were apparently so
fantastic.
A city such as ours, lovely and old, with
its superb architectural stamp, which over
the course of ages has arisen from changing

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taste, is a single great witness to the capacity

for loving and the incapacity for loving long.
The proud sequence of this citys structures
represents not only a great history but also a
constant change in the direction of thought.
Looked at in this manner, the city is a mutability that has become a chain of stone and
that surveys itself differently every quarter
century in order to be right, in the end, for
eternal ages. Its mute eloquence is that of
dead lips, and the more enchantingly seductive it is, the more violently it must evoke, in
its most profound moment of pleasing and of
expropriation, blind resistance and horror.
Its ridiculous, but tempting, Agathe
responded to that. In that case the swallowtail coats of these dawdlers, or the funny
caps officers wear on their heads like pots,
would have to be beautiful, for they are most
decidedly loved by their owners and displayed for love, and enjoy the favor of
women!

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We made a game of it too. In a kind of

merry bad temper we enjoyed it to the utmost and for a while asked ourselves at every
step, in opposition to life: What, for example,
does the red on that dress over there mean
by being so red? Or what are these blues and
yellows and whites really doing on the collars
of those uniforms? And why in Gods name
are the ladies parasols round and not
square? We asked ourselves what the Greek
pediment of the Parliament building was
after, with its legs astraddle? Either doing a
split as only a dancer or a pair of compasses
can, or disseminating classical beauty? If you
put yourself back that way into a preliminary
state in which you are not touched by feelings, and where you do not infuse things
with the emotions that they complacently expect, you destroy the faith and loyalty of existence. Its like watching someone eat silently, without sharing his appetite: You

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suddenly perceive only swallowing movements, which look in no way enviable.

I call that cutting oneself off from the
meaning of life. To clarify this, I might begin with how we unquestionably seek the
firm and solid in life as urgently as a land animal that has fallen into the water. This
makes us overestimate the significance of
knowledge, justice, and reason, as well as the
necessity of compulsion and violence. Perhaps I shouldnt say overestimate; but in any
case, by far the greatest number of manifestations of our life rest on the minds insecurity. Faith, supposition, assumption, intimation, wish, doubt, inclination, demand, prejudice, persuasion, exemplification, personal
views, and other conditions of semi-certainty
predominate among them. And because
meaning, on this scale, lies roughly halfway
between reasoning and capriciousness, I am
applying its name to the whole. If what we
express with words, no matter how

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magnificent they are, is mostly just a meaning, an opinion, then what we express
without words is always one.
Therefore I say: Our reality, as far as it
is dependent on us, is for the most part only
an expression of opinion, although we
ascribe every imaginable kind of importance
to it. We may give our lives a specific manifestation in the stones of buildings: it is always done for the sake of a meaning we impute to it. We may kill or sacrifice ourselves:
we are acting only on the basis of a supposition. I might even say that all our passions
are mere suppositions; how often we err in
them; we can fall into them merely out of a
longing for decisiveness! And also, doing
something out of free will really assumes
that it is merely being done at the instigation
of an opinion. For some time Agathe and I
have been sensitive to a certain hauntedness
in the empirical world. Every detail in which
our surroundings manifest themselves

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speaks to us. It means something. It shows

that it has come into being with a purpose
that is by no means fleeting. It is, to be sure,
only an opinion, but it appears as a conviction. It is merely a sudden idea, but acts as if
it were an unshakable will. Ages and centuries stand upright with legs firmly planted,
but behind them a voice whispers: Rubbish!
Never has the Hour Struck, never has the
Time Come!
It seems to be willfulness, but it enables me to understand what I see if I note in
addition: This opposition between the selfobsession that puffs out the chest of
everything we have created in all its
splendor, and the secret trait of being given
up and abandoned, which likewise begins
with the first minute, is wholly and completely in agreement with my calling
everything merely an opinion. By this means
we recognize that we are in a peculiar situation. For every attribution of meaning

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shows the same double peculiarity: as long

as it is new it makes us impatient with every
opposing meaning (when red parasols are
having
their
day,
blue
ones
are
impossiblebut something similar is also
true of our convictions); yet it is the second
peculiarity of every meaning that it is nevertheless given up with time, entirely of its own
accord and just as surely, when it is no
longer new. I once said that reality does away
with itself. It could now be put like this: If
man is for the most part only proclaiming
meanings, he is never entirely and enduringly proclaiming himself; but even if he can
never completely express himself, he will try
it in the most various ways, and in doing so
acquires a history. So he has a history only
out of weakness, it seems to me, although the
historians understandably enough consider
the ability to make history a particular badge
of distinction!

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Here Ulrich seemed to have embarked

on a digression, but he continued in this direction: And this is apparently the reason
why I have to take note of this today: History
happens, events happen even art happensfrom a lack of happiness. But such a
lack does not lie in circumstancesin other
words, in their not allowing happiness to
reach usbut in our emotions. Our feeling
bears the cross of this double aspect: it suffers no other beside itself and itself does not
endure. By this means everything connected
with it acquires the aspect of being valid for
eternity, but we all nonetheless strive to
abandon the creations of our feelings and
change the meanings that are expressed in
them. For a feeling changes in the instant of
its existence; it has no duration or identity; it
must be consummated anew. Emotions are
not only changeable and inconstantas they
are well taken to bebut the instant they
werent, they would become so. They are not

271/1856

genuine when they last. They must always

arise anew if they are to endure, and even in
doing this they become different emotions.
An anger that lasted five days would no
longer be anger but be a mental disorder; it
transforms itself into either forgiveness or
preparations for revenge, and something
similar goes on with all the emotions.
Our emotions always seek a foothold in
what they form and shape, and always find it
for a while. But Agathe and I feel an imprisoned ghostliness in our surroundings,
the reverse magnetism of two connected
poles, the recall in the call, the mobility of
supposedly fixed walls; we see and hear it
suddenly. To have stumbled Into a time
seems to us like an adventure, and dubious
company. We find ourselves in the enchanted forest. And although we cannot encompass our own differently constituted
feeling, indeed hardly know what it is, we
suffer anxiety about it and would like to hold

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it fast. But how do you hold a feeling fast?

How could one linger at the highest stage of
rapture, if indeed there were any way of getting there at all? Basically this is the only
question that preoccupies us. We have
intimations of an emotion removed from the
entropy of the other emotions. It stands like
a miraculous, motionless shadow in the flow
before us. But would it not have to arrest the
world in its course in order to exist? I arrive
at the conclusion that it cannot be a feeling
in the same sense as the other feelings.
And suddenly Ulrich concluded: So I
come back to the question: Is love an emotion? I think not. Love is an ecstasy. And God
Himself, in order to be able to lastingly love
the world and, with the love of God-theArtist, also embrace what has already
happened, must be in a constant state of ecstasy. This is the only form in which he may
be imagined
Here he had broken off this entry.

51
GREAT CHANGES
Ulrich had personally escorted the General
out with the intention of discovering what he
might have to say in confidence. As he accompanied him down the stairs, he sought at
first to offer a harmless explanation for having distanced himself from Diotima and the
others, so that the real reason would remain
unstated. But Stumm was not satisfied, and
asked: Were you insulted?
Not in the least.
Then you had no right to! Stumm
replied firmly.
But the changes in the Parallel Campaign, about which in his withdrawal from

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the world Ulrich had not had the least inkling, now had an invigorating effect on him,
as if a window had suddenly been thrown
open in a stuffy hall, and he continued: I
would still like to find out whats really going
on. Since youve decided to open my eyes
halfway, please finish the job!
Stumm stopped, supporting his sword
on the stone of the step, and raised his
glance to his friends face; a broad gesture,
which lasted the longer in that Ulrich was
standing one step higher: Nothing Id like
better, he said. Thats the reason I came.
Ulrich calmly began to interrogate him.
Whos working against Leinsdorf ? Tnzzi
and Diotima? Or the Ministry of War with
you and Arnheim?
My dear friend, youre stumbling
through abysses! Stumm interrupted him.
And blindly walking past the simple truth,
the way all intellectuals seem to do! Above

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all, I beg you to be convinced that I have

passed on Leinsdorfs wish to have you visit
him and Diotima only as the most selfless
favor
Tour officers word of honor?
The Generals mood turned sunny. If
youre going to remind me of the spartan
honor of my profession, you conjure up the
danger that I really will start lying to you; for
there might be an order from above that
would obligate me to do so. So Id rather give
you my private word of honor, he said with
dignity, and continued by way of explanation: I was even intending to confide to you
that recently I have seen myself at times
compelled to reflect upon such difficulties; I
find myself lying often these days, with the
ease of a hog wallowing in garbage. Suddenly he turned completely toward his more
elevated friend and added the question:
How does it happen that lying is so agreeable, assuming you have an excuse? Just

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speaking the truth seems absolutely unproductive and frivolous by comparison! If you
could tell me that, it would be, straight out,
one of the reasons I came to hunt you up.
Then tell me honestly whats going
on, Ulrich asked, unyielding.
In total honesty, and also quite simply:
I dont know! Stumm protested.
But you have a mission! Ulrich
probed.
The General answered: In spite of your
truly unfriendly disappearance, I have
stepped over the corpse of my self-respect to
confide this mission to you. But it is a partial
mission. A teeny commission. I am now a
little wheel. A tiny thread. A little Cupid who
has been left with only a single arrow in his
quiver! Ulrich observed the portly figure
with the gold buttons. Stumm had definitely
become more self-reliant; he did not wait for
Ulrichs response but set himself in motion

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toward the door, his sword clanking on every

step. And as the entry hall, whose noble furnishings would otherwise have instilled in
him a reverence for the master of the house,
arched up over the two of them as they came
down, he said over his shoulder to this master: Its clear you still have not quite grasped
that the Parallel Campaign is now no longer
a private or family undertaking but a political process of international stature!
So now its being run by the Foreign
Minister? Ulrich volleyed.
Apparently.
And consequently Tuzzi?
Presumably; but I dont know, Stumm
quickly added. And of course he acts as if he
knows nothing at all! You know what hes
like: these diplomats pretend to be ignorant
even when they really are!

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They walked through the front door,

and the carriage drove up. Suddenly Stumm
turned, confidingly and comically pleading,
to Ulrich: But thats why you should really
start frequenting the house again, so that we
have a quasi-confidant there!
Ulrich smiled at this scheming, and laid
his arm around the Generals shoulder; he
felt reminded of Diotima. What is she up
to? he asked. Does she now recognize the
man in Tuzzi?
What shes up to? the General responded, vexed. She gives the impression of being irritated. And he added good-naturedly:
To the discriminating glance, perhaps even
a moving impression. The Ministry of Education gives her hardly any other assignments
than deciding whether the patriotic association Wiener Schnitzel should be allowed to
march in the parade, or a group called Roast
Beef with Dumplings as well

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Ulrich interrupted him suspiciously.

Now youre talking about the Ministry of
Education? Werent you just saying that the
Foreign Ministry had appropriated the
campaign?
But look, maybe the Schnitzels are
really the affair of the Interior Ministry. Or
the Ministry of Trade. Who can predict?
Stumm instructed him. But in any case, the
Congress for World Peace as a whole belongs
to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, to the extent that its not already owned by the two
Ministerial Presidiums.
Ulrich interrupted him again. And the
War Ministry is nowhere in your thoughts at
all?
Dont be so suspicious! Stumm said
calmly. Of course the War Ministry takes
the most active interest in a congress for
world peace; I would say no less an interest
than police headquarters would take in an

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international congress of anarchists. But you

know what these civilian ministries are like:
they wont grant even a toehold to the likes
of us!
And? Ulrich asked, for Stumms innocence still made him suspicious.
Theres no and! Stumm assured him.
Youre rushing things! If a dangerous business involves several ministries, then one of
them wants to either shove it off on, or take
it away from, one of the others; in both cases
the result of these efforts is the creation of an
inter-ministerial commission. You only need
to remind yourself how many committees
and subcommittees the Parallel Campaign
had to create at the beginning, when Diotima
was still in full command of its energies; and
I can assure you that our blessed council was
a still life compared with whats being
worked up today! The carriage was waiting,
the coachman sitting bolt upright on his
coach box, but Stumm gazed irresolutely

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through the open vehicle into the brightgreen garden that opened beyond. Perhaps
you can give me a little-known word with
Inter in it? he asked, and toted up with
prompting nods of his head: Interesting, interministerial, international, intercurrent,
intermediate, interpellation, interdicted, internal, and a few more; because now you
hear them at the General Staff mess more often than the word sausage. But if I were to
come up with an entirely new word, I could
create a sensation!
Ulrich steered the Generals thoughts
back to Diotima. It made sense to him that
the highest mandate came from the Ministry
of Foreign Affairs, from which it in all probability followed that the reins were in Tuzzis
hands: but then, how could another ministry
offend this powerful mans wife? At this
question Stumm disconsolately shrugged his
shoulders. You still havent got it through
your head that the Parallel Campaign is an

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affair of state! he responded, adding spontaneously: Tuzzi is slyer than we thought.

He himself would never have been able to
ascribe such a thing to it, but interministerial
technology has allowed him to hand over his
wife to another ministry!
Ulrich began to laugh softly. From the
message clothed in these rather odd words
he could vividly imagine both people: magnificent Diotimathe power station, as Agathe
called herand the smaller, spare Section
Chief, for whom he had an absolutely inexplicable sympathy, although he knew Tuzzi
looked down on him. It was fear of the
moon-nights of the soul that drew him to
this mans rational feelings, which were as
dryly masculine as an empty cigarette case.
And yet, when they had broken over the head
of this diplomat, the sufferings of the soul
had brought him to the point of seeing in
everyone and everything only pacifist intrigues; for pacifism was for Tuzzi the most

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intelligible representation of soulful tenderness! Ulrich recalled that Tuzzi had finally
come to regard Arnheims increasingly open
efforts concerning the Galician oil fieldsindeed, his efforts concerning his own wifeas
merely a divertissement whose purpose was
to deflect attention from a secret enterprise
of a pacifistic nature: so greatly had the
events in his house confused Tuzzi! He must
have suffered unbearably, and it was understandable: the spiritual passion that he
found himself unexpectedly confronting not
only offended his concept of honor, just as
physical adultery would have done, but
struck directly and contemptuously at his
very ability to form concepts, which in older
men is the true retirement home of manly
dignity.
And Ulrich cheerfully continued his
thought aloud: Apparently the moment his
wifes patriotic campaign became the object
of pub-he teasing, Tuzzi completely regained

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control over his lost mental faculties, as befits a high official. It must have been then at
the latest that he recognized all over again
that more things are going on in the lap of
world history than would find room in a womans lap, and your Congress for World
Peace, which turned up like a foundling, will
have woken him with a start! With coarse
satisfaction, Ulrich depicted to himself the
murky, ghost-ridden state that must have
come first, and then this awakening, which
perhaps did not even have to be associated
with a feeling of awakening; for the moment
the souls of Arnheim and Diotima, wandering around in veils, started to touch down in
reality, Tuzzi, freed from every haunting
spirit, again found himself in that realm of
necessity in which he had spent almost his
entire life. So now hes getting rid of all
those friends of his wifes who are saving the
world and uplifting the Fatherland? They always were a thorn in his side! Ulrich

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exclaimed with great satisfaction, and turned

queryingly to his companion.
Stumm, portly and lost in thought, was
still standing in the doorway. So far as I
know, he told his wife that she owed it to him
and his position, especially under these
changed conditions, to bring the Parallel
Campaign to an honorable conclusion. She
would get a decoration. But she had to entrust herself to the protection and insights of
the ministry he had selected for that purpose, he reported conscientiously.
And so hes made peace with youI
mean, with the Ministry of War and
Arnheim?
It looks that way. Because of the Peace
Congress, he seems to have argued with the
government for support of the rapid modernization of our artillery, and with the Minister of War concerning the political consequences. It is said that he wants to push

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the necessary laws through Parliament with

the help of the German parties, and for that
reason is now counseling a German line in
domestic politics. Diotima told me that
herself.
Wait a minute! Ulrich interrupted.
German line? Ive forgotten everything!
Quite simple! He always said that
everything German was a misfortune for us;
and now hes saying the opposite.
Ulrich objected that Section Chief Tuzzi
never expressed himself so unambiguously.
But he does to his wife, Stumm
replied. And between her and me theres a
kind of bond ordained by fate.
Well, how do things stand between her
and Arnheim? asked Ulrich, who was at the
moment more interested in Diotima than in
the concerns of the government. He no

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longer needs her; and I suppose thats making his soul suffer!
Stumm shook his head. Thats apparently not so simple either! he declared with
a sigh.
Up to now he had answered Ulrichs
questions conscientiously but without emotion, and perhaps for that very reason relatively sensibly. But since the mention of Diotima and Arnheim, he looked as if he
wanted to come out with a quite different
story, which seemed to him more important
than Tuzzis finding himself. You might
have long thought that Arnheim had had
enough of her, he now began. But theyre
Great Souls! It may be that you can understand something about such souls, but they
are them! You cant say, was there
something between them or was there nothing between them? Today they still talk the
way they used to, except that you have the
feeling: now there definitely isnt anything

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between them: Theyre always talking in

what you might call last words!
Ulrich, remembering what Bonadea, the
practitioner of love, had told him about its
theoretician, Diotima, held up to Stumms
own, more measured statement that Diotima
was a manual of love. The General smiled
thoughtfully at this. Perhaps we arent
judging it from a broad enough perspective,
he generalized discreetly. Let me preface
this by saying that before her I never heard a
woman talk that way; and when she starts
talking, its like having ice bags all over me.
Besides, shes doing this less often now; but
when it occurs to her even today she speaks,
for instance, of this World Peace Congress as
a pan-erotic human experience, and then I
feel myself all of a sudden unmanned by her
cleverness. Butand he intensified the significance of his words by a brief
pausethere must be something in
itsome need, some so-called characteristic

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of the age because even in the War Ministry theyre beginning to talk that way now.
Since this Congress has turned up, you can
hear officers of the General Staff talking
about love of peace and love of mankind the
way they talk about the Model 7 machine gun
or the Model 82 medical supply wagon! Its
absolutely nauseating!
Is that why you called yourself a disappointed specialist in love just now? Ulrich
interjected.
Yes, my friend. You have to excuse me:
I couldnt stand hearing you talk so onesidedly! But officially I derive great profit
from all these things.
And you no longer have any enthusiasm for the Parallel Campaign, for the celebration of great ideas, and such things? Ulrich probed out of curiosity.
Even such an experienced woman as
your cousin has had enough of culture, the

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General replied. I mean culture for its own

sake. Besides, even the greatest idea cant
stop your ears from getting boxed!
But it can cause someone elses getting
his ears boxed next time.
Thats right, Stumm conceded. But
only if you use the spirit/or something, not if
you serve it selflessly! Then he looked up at
Ulrich, curious to enjoy along with him the
effect of his next words, and lowering his
voice expectantly, certain of success, he added: But even if I would like to, I cant anymore: Ive been removed!
Im impressed! Ulrich exclaimed, instinctively acknowledging the insight of the
military authorities. But then he followed another sudden idea and said quickly: Tuzzi
got you into this mess!
Not a bit of it! Stumm protested, sure
of himself.

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Up to this point the conversation had

taken place in the vicinity of the door, and
besides the two men there was a third participant who was waiting for them to finish,
staring straight ahead so motionlessly that
for him the world stopped between the ears
of two pairs of horses. Only his fists in their
white cotton gloves, through which the reins
ran, surreptitiously moved in irregular,
soothing rhythms, because the horses, not
quite so accessible to military discipline as
people, were getting more and more bored
with waiting, and were pulling impatiently at
their harnesses. At last the General commanded this man to take the carriage to the
gate and exercise the horses there until he
got in; he then invited Ulrich to walk through
the garden on foot, so that he could fill him
in properly about what had gone on, without
being overheard.
But Ulrich thought he saw vividly what
it was all about, and at first didnt let Stumm

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get a word in. It makes no difference whether Tuzzi took you out of the game or not, he
said, for in this matter you are, if you will
excuse me, only a minor figure. Whats important is that almost at the very moment
when he began to get suspicious on account
of the Congress and began to face a difficult
and onerous test, he simplified his political
as well as his personal situation the quickest
way he could. He went to work like a sea captain who hears of a big storm coming and
doesnt let himself be influenced by the stilldreaming ocean. Tuzzi has now allied himself
with
what
repelled
him
beforeArnheim, your military policies, the
German lineand he would also have allied
himself with the efforts of his wife if, in the
circumstances, it had not been more useful
to wreck them. I dont know how I should
put it. Is it that life becomes easy if one
doesnt bother with emotions but merely
keeps to ones goal; or is it a murderous

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enjoyment to calculate with the emotions instead of suffering from them? It seems to me
I know what the devil felt when he threw a
fistful of salt into lifes ambrosia!
The General was all fired up. But thats
what I told you at the beginning! he exclaimed. I only happened to be talking
about lies, but genuine malice is, in all its
forms, an extraordinarily exciting thing!
Even Leinsdorf, for instance, has rediscovered a predilection for realpolitik and
says: Realpolitik is the opposite of what you
would like to do!
Ulrich went on: What makes the difference is that before, Tuzzi was always confused by what Diotima and Arnheim were
talking about together; but now it can only
make him happy, because the loquacity of
people who arent able to seal off their feelings always gives a third person all sorts of
footholds. He no longer needs to listen to it
with his inner ear, which he was never good

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at, but only with the outer, and thats roughly

the difference between swallowing a disgusting snake or beating it to death!
What? Stumm asked.
Swallowing it or beating it to death!
No, that bit about the ears!
I meant to say: it was fortunate for him
that he retreated from the inward side of
feeling to the outward side. But perhaps that
might still not make sense to you; its just an
idea I have.
No, you put it very well! Stumm protested. But why are we using others as examples? Diotima and Arnheim are Great
Souls, and for that reason alone itll never
work right! They were strolling along a path
but had not got very far; the General
stopped. And what happened to me isnt
just an army story! he informed his admired
friend.

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Ulrich realized he hadnt given him a

chance to speak, and apologized. So you
didnt fall on account of Tuzzi? he asked
politely.
A general may perhaps stumble over a
civilian minister, but not over a civilian section chief, Stumm reported proudly and
matter-of-factly. I believe I stumbled over
an idea! And he began to tell his story.

52
TO HER DISPLEASURE, AGATHE IS
CONFRONTED WITH A HISTORICAL
SYNOPSIS OF THE PSYCHOLOGY OF
THE EMOTIONS
Agathe, meanwhile, had come upon a new
group of pages, in which her brothers notes
continued in a quite different manner. It appeared that he had suddenly made up his
mind to ascertain what an emotion was, and
to do this conceptually and in a dry fashion.
He also must have called up all manner of
things from his memory, or read them specifically for this purpose, for the papers were
covered with notes relating in part to the history and in part to the analysis of the concept
of the emotions; altogether, it formed a

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collection of fragments whose inner coherence was not immediately apparent.

Agathe first found a hint about what
had moved him to do this in the phrase a
matter of emotion! which was written in the
margin at the beginning; for she now remembered the conversation, with its profound oscillations that bared the foundations
of the soul, which she and her brother had
had on this subject in their cousins house.
And she could see that if one wanted to find
out what a matter of emotions was, one had
to ask oneself, whether one liked it or not,
what emotion was.
This served her as a guide, for the
entries began by saying that everything that
happens among people has its origin either
in feelings or in the privation of feelings; but
without regard to that, an answer to the
question of what an emotion was could not
be gained with certainty from the entire immense literature that had grappled with the

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issue, for even the most recent accomplishments, which Ulrich really did think were advances, called for an act of trust of no small
degree. As far as Agathe could see, he had
not taken psychoanalysis into account, and
this surprised her at first, for like all people
stimulated by literature, she had heard it
spoken of more than other lands of psychology. Ulrich said he was leaving it out not because he didnt recognize the considerable
merits of this significant theory, which was
full of new concepts and had been the first to
teach how many things could be brought together that in all earlier periods had been anarchic private experience, but because its
method was not really appropriate to his
present purpose in a way that would be
worthy of its quite demanding self-awareness. He laid out as his task, first, to compare
the existing major answers to the question of
what emotion is, and went on to note that on
the whole, only three answers could be

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ascertained, none of which stood out so

clearly as to entirely negate the others.
Then followed sketches that were meant
to work this out: The oldest but today still
quite prevalent way of representing feeling
proceeds from the conviction that clear distinctions can be made among the state of
feeling, its causes, and its effects. This method understands by the emotions a variety of
inner experiences that are fundamentally
distinct from other landsand these are, according to this view, sensation, thinking, and
willing. This view is popular and has long
been traditional, and it is natural for it to regard emotion as a state. This is not necessary, but it comes about under the vague impression of the perception that at every moment of an emotion, and in the middle of its
dynamic changes, we can not only distinguish that we are feeling but also experience,
as something apparently static, that we are
persisting in a state of feeling.

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The more modern way of representing

emotion, on the other hand, proceeds from
the observation that it is most intimately associated with action and expression; and it
follows both that this view is inclined to consider emotion as a process and that it does
not direct its attention to emotion alone but
sees it as a whole, together with its origin
and forms of expression. This approach originated in physiology and biology, and its efforts were first directed at a physiological explanation of spiritual processes or, more emphatically, at the physical totality in which
spiritual manifestations are also involved.
The results of this can be summarized as the
second main answer to the problem of the
nature of emotion.
But directing the thirst for knowledge
toward the whole instead of its constituent
elements, and toward reality instead of a
preconceived notion, also distinguishes the
more recent psychological investigations of

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emotion from the older kinds, except that its

aims and leading ideas are naturally derived
from its own discipline. This leads these recent investigations to yield a third answer to
the problem of what emotion is, an answer
that builds on the others as well as standing
on its own. This third answer, however, is no
longer in any way part of a retrospective
view, because it marks the beginning of insight into the concept formation currently
under way or regarded as possible.
I wish to add, since I mentioned earlier
the question of whether emotion is a state or
a process, that this question actually plays
just about no role at all in the developments
I have outlined, unless it be that of a weakness common to all views, which is perhaps
not entirely unfounded. If I imagine an emotion, as seems natural in the older manner,
as something constant that has an effect both
inwardly and outwardly, and also receives
input from both directions, then I am

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obviously faced with not just one emotion

but an indeterminate number of alternating
emotions. For these subcategories of emotion, language rarely has a plural at its disposal: it knows no envies, angers, or spites.
For language these are internal variations of
an emotion, or emotion in various stages of
development; but without question a sequence of stages points just as much toward
a process as does a sequence of emotions. If,
on the other handwhich would accord with
this and also seem to be closer to the contemporary viewone believes that one is
looking at a process, then the doubt as to
what emotion really* is, and where
something stops belonging to itself and becomes part of its causes, consequences, or
accompanying circumstances, is not to be
solved so easily. In a later place I shall come
back to this, for such a divided answer customarily indicates a fault in the way the
question is put; and it will, I think, become

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clear that the question of whether emotion is

a state or a process is really an illusory one,
behind which another question is lurking.
For the sake of this possibility, about which I
cant make up my mind, I will let this question stand.
I will now continue following the original doctrine of emotion, which distinguishes four major actions or basic states of
the soul. It goes back to classical antiquity
and is presumably a dignified remnant of antiquitys belief that the world consists of the
four elements earth, air, fire, and water. In
any event, one often hears mention even
today of four particular classes of elements of
consciousness that cannot be reduced to
each other, and in the class of emotion the
two feelings pleasure* and lack of pleasure
usually occupy a privileged position; for they
are supposed to be either the only ones, or at
least the only ones involving emotions that
are not in any way alloyed with anything

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else. In truth they are perhaps not emotions

at all but only a coloration and shading of
feelings in which have been preserved the
original distinction between attraction and
flight, and probably also the opposition
between succeeding and failing, and other
contrasts of the originally so symmetrical
conduct of life as well. life, when it succeeds,
is pleasurable: Aristotle said it long before
Nietzsche and our time. Kant, too, said that
pleasure is the feeling of furthering life, pain
that of hindering it. And Spinoza called
pleasure the transition in man from lesser to
greater perfection. Pleasure has always had
this somewhat exaggerated reputation of being an ultimate explanation (not least on the
part of those who have suspected it of
deception!).
But it can really arouse laughter in the
case of thinkers who are not quite major and
yet are suspiciously passionate. Here let me
cite from a contemporary manual a lovely

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passage of which I would not like to lose a

single word: What appears to be more different in kind than, for example, joy over an elegant solution to a mathematical problem
and joy over a good lunch! And yet both are,
as pure emotion, one and the same, namely
pleasure! Also let me add a passage from a
court decision that was actually handed
down just a few days ago: The purpose of
compensation is to bestow upon the injured
party the possibility of acquiring the feelings
of pleasure corresponding to his usual circumstances, which balance the absence of
pleasure caused by the injury and its consequences. Applied to the present case, it
already follows from the limited choice of
feelings of pleasure that correspond to the
age of two and a quarter years, and the ease
of providing means for them, that the compensation sought is too high. The penetrating clarity expressed in both these examples
permits the respectful observation that

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pleasure and the absence of pleasure will

long remain as the hee and the haw of the
doctrine of feeling.
If I look around further, I discover that
this doctrine that carefully weighs pleasure
and the absence of pleasure understands by
mixed feelings the connection of the elements of pleasure and lack of pleasure with
the other elements of consciousness, meaning by these grief, composure, anger, and
other things upon which lay people place
such high value that they would gladly find
out more about them beyond the mere name.
General states of feeling such as liveliness
or depression, in which mixed feelings of the
same kind predominate, are called unity of
an emotional situation. Affect is what this
connection calls an emotional situation that
occurs suddenly and violendy, and such a
situation that is, moreover, chronic it calls
passion. Were theories to have a moral, the
moral of this doctrine would be more or less

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contained in the words: If you take small

steps at the beginning, you can take big leaps
later on!
But in distinctions such as these, whether
there is just one pleasure and lack of pleasure or perhaps several; whether beside pleasure and the absence of pleasure there are not
also other basic oppositions, for instance
whether relaxation and tension are not such
(this bears the majestic title of singularistic
and pluralistic theory); whether an emotion
might change and whether, if it changes, it
then becomes a different emotion; whether
an emotion, should it consist of a sequence
of feelings, stands in relation to these the
way genus stands in relation to species, or
the caused to its causes; whether the stages
an emotion passes through, assuming it is itself a state, are conditions of a single state or
different states, and therefore different emotions; whether an emotion can bring about a

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change in itself through the actions and

thoughts it produces, or whether in this talk
about the effect of an emotion something as
figurative and barely real is meant as if one
were to say that the rolling out of a sheet of
steel effects its thinning, or a spreading out
of clouds the overcasting of the sky: in such
distinctions traditional psychology has
achieved much that ought not to be underestimated. Of course one might then ask
whether love is a substance or a quality
and what is involved with regard to love in
terms of haeccity and quiddity; but is one
ever certain of not having to raise this question yet again?
All such questions contain a highly useful
sense of ordering, although considering the
unconstrained nature of emotions, this
seems slightly ridiculous and is not able to
help us much with regard to how emotions
determine our actions. This logical-

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grammatical sense of order, like a pharmacy

equipped with its hundred little drawers and
labels, is a remnant of the medieval,
Aristotelian-scholastic observation of nature,
whose magnificent logic came to grief not so
much on account of the experiences people
had with it as on account of those they had
without it. It is particularly the fault of the
developing natural sciences and their new
kind of understanding, which placed the
question of what is real ahead of the question
of what is logical; yet no less, too, the misfortune that nature appears to have been waiting for just such a lack of philosophy in order
to let itself be discovered, and responded
with an alacrity that is by no means yet exhausted. Nevertheless, so long as this development has not brought forth the new cosmic philosophical egg, it is still useful even
today to feed it occasionally from the old
bowl, as one does with laying hens. And this
is especially true for the psychology of the

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emotions. For in its buttoned-up logical investiture it was, ultimately, completely unproductive, but the opposite is only too true
for the psychologists of emotion who came
after; for in regard to this relation between
logical raiment and productivity, they have
been, at least in the fine years of their youth,
well-nigh sans-culottes!
What should I call to mind from these beginnings for more general advantage? Above
all that this more recent psychology began
with the beneficent sympathy that the medical faculty has always had for the philosophical faculty, and it cleared away the older
psychology of emotion by totally ceasing to
speak of emotions and beginning to talk instead about instincts, instinctive acts, and
affects. (Not that talk of man as a being
ruled by his instincts and affects was new; it
became the new medicine because from then
on man was exclusively to be so regarded.)

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The advantage consisted in the prospect of reducing the higher human attitude
of inspiration to the general invigorated attitude constructed on the basis of the powerful
natural constraints of hunger, sex, persecution, and other fundamental conditions of
life to which the soul is adapted. The sequences of actions these determine are called
instinctive drives and these arise without
thinking or purpose whenever a stimulus
brings the relevant group of stimuli into
play, and these are similarly activated in all
animals of the same species; often, too, in
both animal and man. The individual but almost invariable hereditary dispositions for
this are called drives; and the term affect is
usually associated in this connection with a
rather vague notion according to which the
affect is supposed to be the experience or
the experienced aspect of the instinctive action and of drives stimulated to action.

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This also mostly assumes, either emphatically or discreetly, that all human actions are instinctive actions, or combinations
from among such actions, and that all our
emotions are affects or parts or combinations of affects. Today I leafed through several textbooks of medical psychology in order
to refresh my memory, but not one of their
thematic indexes had a mention of the word
emotion, and it is really no mean accomplishment for a psychology of the emotions
not to contain any emotions!
This is the extent to which, even now, a
more or less emphatic intention dominates
in many circles to substitute scientific concepts meant to be as concrete as possible for
the useless spiritual observation of the soul.
And however one would originally have liked
emotions to be nothing more than sensations
in the bowels or wrists (which led to such assertions as that fear consists of an

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accelerated heartbeat and shallow breathing,

or that thinking is an inner speaking and
thus really a stimulation of the larynx), what
is honored and esteemed today is the purified concept that reduces all inner life to
chains of reflexes and the like, and this
serves a large and successful school by way
of example as the only permissible task of explaining the soul.
So if the scientific goal may be said to
be a broad and wherever possible ironclad
anchoring in the realm of nature, there is
still blended with it a peculiar exuberance,
which can be roughly expressed in the proposition: What stands low stands firm. In the
overcoming of a theological philosophy of
nature, this was once an exuberance of denial, a bearish speculation in human values.
Man preferred to see himself as a thread in
the weave of the worlds carpet rather than
as someone standing on this carpet; and it is
easy to understand how a devilish, degrading

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desire for soullessness also rubbed off on the

emptiness of the soul when it straggled noisily into its materialistic adolescence. This
was later held against it in religiously straitlaced fashion by all the pious enemies of scientific thinking, but its innermost essence
was nothing more than a good-natured
gloomy romanticism, an offended childs
love for God, and therefore also for his image, a love that in the abuse of this image still
has unconscious aftereffects today.
But it is always dangerous when a
source of ideas is forgotten without this being noticed, and thus many things that had
merely derived their unabashed certainty
from it were preserved in just as unabashed a
state in medical psychology. This gave rise in
places to a condition of neglect involving
precisely the basic concepts, and not least
the concepts of instinct, affect, and instinctive action. Even the question of what a drive
is, and which or how many there are, is

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answered not only quite disparately but

without any kind of trepidation. I had an exposition before me that distinguished among
the drive groups of taking in food, sexuality,
and protection against danger; another,
which I compared with it, adduced a life
drive, an assertion drive, and five more. For
a long time psychoanalysis, which incidentally is also a psychology of drives, seemed to
recognize only a single drive. And so it continues: Even the relationship between instinctive action and affect has been determined with equally great disparities: everybody does seem to be in agreement that affect is the experience of instinctive action,
but as to whether in this process the entire
instinctive action is experienced as affect, including external behavior, or only the internal event, or parts of it, or parts of the external
and internal process in a particular combination: sometimes one of these claims is advanced, sometimes the other, and sometimes

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both simultaneously. Not even what I wrote

before from memory without protest, that an
instinctive action happens without intention
or reflection, is correct all the time.
Is it then surprising if what comes to
light behind the physiological explanations
of our behavior is ultimately, quite often,
nothing but the familiar idea that we let our
behavior be steered by chain reflexes, secretions, and the mysteries of the body simply
because we were seeking pleasure and avoiding its opposite? And not only in psychology,
also in biology and even in political economyin short, wherever a basis is sought
for an attitude or a behaviorpleasure and
its lack are still playing this role; in other
words, two feelings so paltry that it is hard to
think of anything more simpleminded. The
far more diversified idea of satisfying a drive
would indeed be capable of offering a more
colorful picture, but the old habit is so strong
that one can sometimes even read that the

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drives strive for satisfaction because this fulfillment is pleasure, which is about the same
as considering the exhaust pipe the operative
part of a motor!
And so at the end Ulrich had also come
to mention the problem of simplicity, although it was doubtless a digression.
What is so attractive, so specially
tempting to the mind, that it finds it necessary to reduce the world of emotions to
pleasure and its lack, or to the simplest psychological processes? Why does it grant a
higher explanatory value to something psychological, the simpler it is? Why a greater
value to something physiological-chemical
than to something psychological, and finally,
why does it assign the highest value of all to
reducing things to the movement of physical
atoms? This seldom happens for logical reasons, rather it happens half consciously, but
in some way or other this prejudice is usually
operating. Upon what, in other words, rests

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this faith that natures mystery has to be

simple?
There are, first, two distinctions to be
made. The splitting up of the complex into
the simple and the minuscule is a habit in
everyday life justified by utilitarian experience: it teaches us to dance by imparting the
steps, and it teaches that we understand a
thing better after we have taken it apart and
screwed it together again. Science, on the
other hand, uses simplicity really only as an
intermediate step; even what appears as an
exception subordinates itself to this. For ultimately science does not reduce the complex
to the simple but reduces the particularity of
the individual case to the generally valid laws
that are its goal, and which are not so much
simple as they are general and summarizing.
It is only through their application, that is to
say at second hand, that they simplify the
variety of events.

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And so everywhere in life two simplicities contrast with each other: what it is beforehand and what it becomes afterward are
simple in different senses. What it is beforehand, whatever that may be, is mostly simple
because it lacks content and form, and therefore is generally foolish, or it has not yet
been grasped. But what becomes simple,
whether it be an idea or a knack or even will,
both entails and participates in the power of
truth and capability that compel what is confusingly varied. These simplicities are usually
confused with each other: it happens in the
pious talk of the simplicity and innocence of
nature; it happens in the belief that a simple
morality is closer in all circumstances to the
eternal than a complicated one; it happens,
too, in the confusion between raw will and a
strong will.
When Agathe had read this far she
thought she heard Ulrichs returning steps
on the garden gravel and hastily shoved all

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the papers back into the drawer. But when

she was sure that her hearing had deceived
her, and ascertained that her brother was
still lingering in the garden, she took the papers out again and read on a bit further.

53
THE D AND L REPORTS
When General Stumm von Bordwehr began
expounding in the garden why he thought he
had stumbled over an idea, it soon became
evident that he was talking with the joy that
a well-rehearsed subject provides. It began,
he reported, with his receiving the expected
rebuke on account of the hasty resolution
that had forced the Minister of War to flee
Diotimas house. I predicted the whole
thing! Stumm protested confidently, adding
more modestly: except for what came afterward. For in spite of all countermeasures, a
whiff of the distressing incident had got
through to the newspapers, and had surfaced
again during the riots of which Leinsdorf

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became the sacrificial lamb. But on Count

Leinsdorfs way back from his Bohemian
landholdings, in a city where he was trying to
catch the train Stumm now spelled out
what he had already indicated in Agathes
presencehis carriage had happened to get
caught between the two fronts of a political
encounter, and Stumm described what
happened next in the following manner: Of
course their demonstrations were about
something entirely different: some regulation or other concerning the use of local national languages in the state agencies, or an
issue like that, something people have got so
upset about so often that its hard to get excited about it anymore. So all that was going
on was that the German-speaking inhabitants were standing on one side of the street
shouting Shame! at those across the way,
who wanted other languages and were shouting Disgrace! at the Germans, and nothing
further might have happened. But Leinsdorf

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is famous as a peacemaker; he wants the national minorities living under the Monarchy
to be a national people, as hes always saying.
And you know, too, if I may say so here
where no one can hear us, that two dogs often growl around each other in a general
way, but the moment someone tries to calm
them they jump at each others throats. So as
soon as Leinsdorf was recognized, it gave a
tremendous impetus to everyones emotions.
They began asking in chorus, in two languages: Whats going on with the Commission to Establish the Desires of the Concerned Sections of the Populace, Your Excellency? And then they shouted: You fake
peace abroad, and in your own house youre
a murderer! Do you remember the story
thats told about him that once, a hundred
years ago, when he was much younger, a
coquette he was with died during the night?
This was what they were alluding to, people
are saying now. And all this happened on

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account of that stupid resolution that you

should let yourself be killed for your own
ideas but not for other peoples, a stupid resolution that doesnt even exist because I kept
it out of the minutes! But obviously word got
around, and because we had refused to allow
it, now all of us are suspected of being murderers of the people! Its totally irrational,
but ultimately logical!
Ulrich was struck by this distinction.
The General shrugged his shoulders. It
originated with the Minister of War himself.
Because when he had me called in after the
row at Tuzzis, he said to me: My dear
Stumm, you shouldnt have let it get so far! I
responded as well as I could about the spirit
of the times, and that this spirit needs a form
of expression and, on the other hand, a footing too: in a word, I tried to prove to him
how important it is to look for an idea in the
times and get excited about it, even if just
now it happens to be two ideas that

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contradict each other and give each other

apoplexy, so that at any given moment its
impossible to know whats going to develop.
But he said to me: My dear Stumm, youre a
philosopher! But its a generals job to know!
If you lead a brigade into a skirmish, the enemy doesnt confide in you what his intentions are and how strong he is! Whereupon
he ordered me once and for all to keep my
mouth shut. Stumm interrupted his tale to
draw breath, and went on: Thats why, as
soon as the Leinsdorf business came up on
top of that, I immediately asked to speak to
the Minister; because I could see that the
Parallel Campaign would be blamed again,
and I wanted to forestall it. Tour Excellency!
I began. *What the populace did was irrational, but that might have been expected,
because it always is. Thats why in such cases
I never regard it as reason, but as passion,
fantasies, slogans, and the like. But aside
from this, even that wouldnt have helped,

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because Count Leinsdorf is a stubborn old

fellow who wont listen to anything! This is
more or less what I said, and the Minister of
War listened the whole time, nodding but
not saying anything. But then he either forgot what he had just been chewing me out
about or must have been in a really bad temper, because he suddenly said: You are indeed a philosopher, Stumm! Im not in the
least interested in either His Excellency or
the people; but you say reason here and logic
there as if they were one and the same, and I
must point out to you that they are not one
and the same! Reason is something a civilian
can have but can get along without. But what
you have to confront reason withwhich I
must demand from my generalsis logic.
Ordinary people have no logic, but they have
to be made to feel it over them! And that was
the end of the discussion, Stumm von Bordwehr concluded.

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I cant say I understand that at all, Ulrich remarked, but it seems to me that on
the whole, your Second-Highest Generalissimo was treating you not ungraciously.
They were strolling up and down the
garden paths, and Stumm now walked a few
paces without replying, but then stopped so
violently that the gravel crunched beneath
his boots. You dont understand? he exclaimed, and added: At first I didnt understand either. But little by little the whole
range of just how right His Excellency the
Minister of War was dawned on me! And
why is he right? Because the Minister of War
is always right! If there should be a scandal
at Diotimas, I cant leave before he does, and
I cant divine the future of Mars either; its
an unreasonable thing to ask of me. Nor can
I fall into disgrace, as in Leinsdorfs case, for
something with which I have as little connection as I do with the birth of my blessed
grandmother! But still, the Minister of War

328/1856

is right when he imputes all that to me, because ones superior is always right: that
both is and isnt a banality! Now do you
understand?
No, Ulrich said.
But look, Stumm implored. Youre
just trying to make things difficult for me because you dont feel involved, or because you
have a feeling for justice, or for some such
reason, and you wont admit that this is
something a lot more serious! But really you
remember quite well, because when you
were in the army, people said to you all the
time that an officer must be able to think logically! In our eyes, logic is what distinguishes the military from the civilian mind.
But does logic mean reason? No. Reason is
what the army rabbi or chaplain or the fellow
from the military archives has. But logic is
not reason. Logic means acting honorably in
all circumstances, but consistently, ruthlessly, and without emotion; and dont let

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anything confuse you! Because the world

isnt ruled by reason but must be dominated
by iron logic, even if the world has been full
of idle chatter since it began! Thats what the
Minister of War was giving me to understand. You will object that in me it didnt fall
upon the most barren ground, because its
nothing more than the old tried-and-true
mentality of the military mind. Since then
Ive got more of that back, and you cant
deny it: we must be prepared to strike before
we all start talking about eternal peace; we
must first repair our omissions and weaknesses so as not to be at a disadvantage when
we join the universal brotherhood. And our
spirit is not ready to strike! Its never ready!
The civilian mind is a highly significant backand-forth, an up-and-down, and you once
called it the millennial war of faith: but we
cant let that destroy us! Somebody has to be
there who, as we say in the military, has initiative and takes over the leadership, and

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thats the vocation of ones superior. I see

that now myself, and Im not entirely certain
whether before, in my sympathy for every
spiritual endeavor, I wasnt sometimes carried away.
Ulrich asked: And what would have
happened if you hadnt realized that? Would
you have been discharged?
No, that wouldnt have happened,
Stumm corrected him. Presuming, of
course, that I still showed no deficiency in
military feeling toward power relationships.
But they would have given me an infantry
brigade in Wladisschmirschowitz or Knobljoluka, instead of letting me continue at the
crossroads of military power and civilian enlightenment and still be of some use to the
culture we all share!
They had now gone back and forth several times on the path between the house
and the gate, near which the carriage was

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waiting, and this time, too, the General

turned around before they reached the gate.
You mistrust me, he complained. You
havent even asked me what actually
happened when the Peace Congress suddenly
materialized!
Well, what did happen? The Minister
of War called you in again, and what did he
say?
No! He didnt say anything! I waited a
week, but he said nothing more, Stumm
replied. And after a moment of silence he
couldnt restrain himself any longer and proclaimed: But they took Report D away
from me!
What is Report D? Ulrich asked, although he had some idea.
Report Diotima, of course, Stumm
responded with pained pleasure. In a ministry, a report is prepared for every important question, and that had to be done when

332/1856

Diotima began to use the gatherings at her

house for a patriotic notion and after we
found out about Arnheims active involvement. This report was assigned to me, as you
will doubtless have noticed, and so I was
asked what name it should be given, because
you cant just stick such a thing in a row like
something in medical supplies or when you
do a commissary course, and the name Tuzzi
couldnt be mentioned for interministerial
reasons. But I couldnt think of anything appropriate either, so finally, in order not to
say either too much or too little, I proposed
calling it Report D: for me, D was Diotima,
but no one knew that, and for the others it
sounded really terrific, like the name of a directory, or maybe even like a secret to which
only the General Staff has access. It was one
of my best ideas, Stumm concluded, adding
with a sigh: At that time I was still allowed
to have ideas.

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But he did not seem entirely cheered

up, and when Ulrich whose mood of falling
back into the world was almost used up, or at
least its oral supply of talkativeness was
pretty well consumednow fell into silence
after an appreciative smile, Stumm began to
complain anew. You dont trust me. After
what Ive said, you think Im a militarist. But
on my honor, I fight against it, and I dont
want to simply drop all those things I believed in for so long. Its these magnificent
ideas that really make people out of soldiers.
I tell you, my friend, when I think about it I
feel like a widower whose better half has died
first! He warmed up again. The Republic of
Minds is of course just as disorderly as any
other republic; but what a blessing is the superb idea that no person is in sole possession
of the truth and that there are a host of ideas
that havent yet even been discovered, perhaps because of the very lack of order that
prevails among them! This makes me an

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innovator in the military. Of course, in the

General Staff they called me and my Report
D the mobile searchlight battery, on account of the variety of my suggestions, but
they really liked the cornucopia I was
emptying!
And all thats over?
Not unconditionally; but Ive lost a lot
of my confidence in the mind, Stumm
grumbled, seeking consolation.
Youre right about that, Ulrich said
dryly.
Now youre saying that too?
Ive always said it. I always warned
you, even before the Minister did. Mind is
only moderately suited to governing.
Stumm wanted to avoid a lecture, so he
said: Thats what Ive always thought too.

335/1856

Ulrich went on: The mind is geared into life like a wheel, which it drives and by
which it is also driven.
But Stumm let him go no further. If
you should suspect, he interrupted, that
such external circumstances were decisive
for me, you would be humiliating me! Its
also a matter of a spiritual purification! Report D was, moreover, taken from me with
great respect. The Minister called me in to
tell me himself that it was necessary because
the Chief of the General Staff wanted a personal report on the Congress for World
Peace, and so they immediately took the
whole business out of the Office for Military
Development and attached it to the Information Offices of the Evidenzbro
The Espionage Department? Ulrich
interjected, suddenly animated again.
Who else? Whoever doesnt know what
he wants himself at least has to know what

336/1856

everyone else wants! And I ask you, what

business does the General Staff have at a
Congress for World Peace? To interfere with
it would be barbarous, and to encourage it in
a pacifist way would be unmilitary! So they
observe it. Who was it who said Readiness is
all? Well, whoever it was knew something
about the military. Stumm had forgotten his
sorrow. He twisted his legs from side to side,
trying to cut off a flower with the scabbard of
his sword. Im just afraid it will be too hard
for them and theyll beg me on their knees to
come back and take over my report, he said.
After all, you and I know from having been
at it for nearly a year how such a congress of
ideas splits up into proofs and counterproofs! Do you really believedisregarding
for the moment the special difficulties of
governingthat its only the mind that can
produce order, so to speak?
He had now given up his preoccupation
with the flower and, frowning and holding

337/1856

the scabbard in his hand, gazed urgently into

his friends face.
Ulrich smiled at him and said nothing.
Stumm let the saber drop because he
needed the fingertips of both white-gloved
hands for the delicate determination of an
idea. You must understand what I mean
when I make a distinction between mind and
logic. Logic is order. And there must be order! That is the officers basic principle, and I
bow down to it! But on what basis order is
established doesnt make the slightest bit of
difference: thats mindor, as the Minister
of War put it in a rather old-fashioned way,
reasonand thats not the officers business.
But the officer mistrusts the ability of civilian
life to become reasonable by itself, no matter
what the ideas are by which its always trying
to do so. Because whatever mind there has
ever been at any time, in the end its always
led to war!

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Thus Stumm explained his new insights

and scruples, and Ulrich summarized them
involuntarily in an allusion to a well-known
saying when he asked: So you really mean
to say that war is an element of Gods ordained ordering of the world?
Thats talking on too high a plane!
Stumm agreed, with some reservation. I ask
myself straight out whether mind isnt
simply dispensable. For if Im to handle a
person with spurs and bridle, like an animal,
then I also have to have a part of the animal
in me, because a really good rider stands
closer to his steed than he does, for example,
to the philosophy of law! The Prussians call
this the scoundrel everyone carries inside
himself, and constrain it with a Spartan spirit. But speaking as an Austrian general, Id
rather put it that the better, finer, and more
ordered a nation is, the less it needs the
mind, and in a perfect state it wouldnt be
needed at all! I take this to be a really tough

339/1856

paradox! And by the way, who said what you

just said? Whos it from?
Moltke. He said that mans noblest virtuescourage, renunciation, conscientiousness, and readiness to sacrificereally develop only in war, and that without war the
world would bog down in apathetic
materialism.
Well! Stumm exclaimed. Thats interesting too! Hes said something I sometimes think myself!
But Moltke says in another letter to the
same person, and therefore almost in the
same breath, that even a victorious war is a
misfortune for the nation, Ulrich offered for
consideration.
You see, mind pinched him! Stumm
replied, convinced. Ive never read a line of
him; he always seemed much too militaristic
for me. And you can really take my word for
it that Ive always been an antimilitarist. All

340/1856

my life Ive believed that today no one believes in war anymore, you only make yourself look ridiculous if you say you do. And I
dont want you to think Ive changed because
Im different now! He had motioned the
carriage over and already set his foot on the
running board, but hesitated and looked at
Ulrich entreatingly. I have remained true to
myself, he went on. But if before I loved
the civilian mind with the feelings of a young
girl, I now love it, if I may put it this way,
more like a mature woman: its not ideal, it
wont even let itself be made coherent, all of
a piece. Thats why Ive told you, and not just
today but for a long time, that one has to
treat people with kindness as well as with a
firm hand, one has to both love them and
treat them shabbily, in order for things to
come out properly. And thats ultimately no
more than the military state of mind that
rises above parties and is supposed to distinguish the soldier. Im not claiming any

341/1856

personal merit here, but I want to show you

that this conviction was what was speaking
out of me before.
Now youre going to repeat that the
civil war of 66 came about because all Germans declared themselves brothers, Ulrich
said, smiling.
Yes, of course! Stumm confirmed.
And now on top of that everybody is declaring themselves brothers! That makes me ask,
whats going to come of it? What really
comes happens so unexpectedly. Here we
brooded for almost a whole year, and then it
turned out quite differently. And so it seems
to be my fate that while I was busily investigating the mind, the mind led me back to the
military. Still, if you consider everything Ive
said, youll find that I dont identify myself
with anything but find something true in
everything; thats the essence, more or less,
of what weve been talking about.

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After looking at his watch, Stumm started to give the sign to leave, for his pleasure
at having unburdened himself was so intense
that he had forgotten everything else. But Ulrich amicably laid his hand on him and said:
You still havent told me what your newest
little job is.
Stumm held back. Today theres no
more time. I have to go.
But Ulrich held him by one of the gold
buttons gleaming on his stomach, and
wouldnt let go until Stumm gave in. Stumm
fished for Ulrichs head and pulled his ear to
his mouth. Well, in strictest confidence, he
whispered, Leinsdorf.
I take it hes to be done away with, you
political assassin! Ulrich whispered back,
but so openly that Stumm, offended, pointed
to the coachman. They decided to speak
aloud but avoid naming names. Let me
think about it, Ulrich proposed, and see for

343/1856

myself whether I still know something about

the world you move in. He brought down the
last Minister of Culture, and after the recent
insult he received, one has to assume that he
will bring down the current one as well. But
that would be, momentarily, an unpleasant
disturbance, and this has to be precluded.
And, for whatever reason, he still clings
firmly to the conviction that the Germans are
the biggest threat to the nation, that Baron
Wisnieczky, whom the Germans cant stand,
is the man best suited to beat the drum
among them that the government ought not
to have changed course, and so on.
Stumm could have interrupted Ulrich
but had been content to listen, only now intervening. But it was under him in the campaign that the slogan Action! came about;
while everyone else was just saying Its a new
spirit, he was saying to everyone who didnt
like to hear it: Something must be done!

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And he cant be brought down, hes not

in the government. And the Parallel Campaign has been, so to speak, shot out from
under him, Ulrich said.
So now the danger is that hell start
something else, the General went on.
But what can you do about it? Ulrich
asked, curious.
Well! Ive been assigned the mission of
diverting him a little and, if you like, also
watching over him a bit
Ah! A Report L, you coy deceiver!
Thats what you can call it between us,
but of course it doesnt have an official name.
My mission is simply to sit on Leinsdorfs
neckthis time Stumm wanted to enjoy the
name too, but again he whispered itlike a
tick. Those were the Ministers own gracious
words.

345/1856

But he must have also given you a goal

to aim for?
The General laughed. Talk! Im to talk
with him! Go along with everything hes
thinking, and talk so much about it that he
will, we hope, wear himself out and not do
anything rash. Suck him dry, the Minister
told me, and called it an honorable mission
and a demonstration of his confidence. And
if you were to ask me whether thats all, I can
only respond: its a lot! Our old Excellency is
a person of enormous culture, and tremendously interesting! He had given the coachman the sign to start, and called back: The
rest next time. Im counting on you!
It was only as the coach was rolling
away that the idea occurred to Ulrich that
Stumm might also have had the intention of
rendering him innocuous, since he had once
been suspected of being able to lead Count
Leinsdorfs mind off on some quite extravagant fancy.

346/1856

54
NAIVE DESCRIPTION OF HOW AN
EMOTION ORIGINATES
Agathe had gone on to read a large part of
the pages that followed.
They did not, at first, contain anything
of the promised exposition of the current development of the concept of emotion, for before Ulrich gave a summary of these views,
from which he hoped to derive the greatest
benefit, he had, in his own words, sought to
present the origin and growth of an emotion
as naively, clumsily spelling it out with his
finger, as it might appear to a layman not unpracticed in matters of the intellect.

348/1856

This entry went on: We are accustomed to regard emotion as something that
has causes and consequences, and I want to
limit myself to saying that the cause is an external stimulus. But of course appropriate
circumstances are part of this stimulus as
well, which is to say appropriate external,
but also internal, circumstances, an inner
readiness, and it is this trinity that actually
decides whether and how this stimulus will
be responded to. For whether an emotion occurs all at once or protractedly, how it expands and runs its course, what ideas it entails, and indeed what emotion it is, ordinarily depend no less on the previous state of
the person experiencing the emotion and his
environment than they do on the stimulus.
This is no doubt self-evident in the case of
the condition of the person experiencing the
emotion: in other words, his temperament,
character, age, education, predispositions,
principles, prior experience, and present

349/1856

tensions, although these states have no definite boundaries and lose themselves in the
persons being and destiny. But the external
environment too, indeed simply knowing
about it or implicitly assuming it, can also
suppress or favor an emotion. Social life offers innumerable examples of this, for in
every situation there are appropriate and inappropriate emotions, and emotions also
change with time and region, with what
groups of emotions predominate in public
and in private life, or at least which ones are
favored and which suppressed; it is even the
case that periods rich in emotion and poor in
emotion have succeeded one another.
Add to all this that external and internal circumstances, along with the stimulusthis can easily be measuredare not independent of each other. For the internal
state has been adapted to the external state
and its emotional stimuli, and is therefore
dependent on them as well; and the external

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state must have been assimilated in some

fashion or other, in such a way that its manifestation depends on the inner state before a
disturbance of this equilibrium evokes a new
emotion, and this new emotion either paves
the way for a new equalization or is one itself. But in the same way, the stimulus too,
does not ordinarily work directly but works
only by virtue of being assimilated, and the
inner state again only carries out this assimilation on the basis of perceptions with which
the beginnings of the excitation must already
have been associated.
Aside from that, the stimulus capable
of arousing an emotion is connected with the
emotion insofar as what stimulates, for instance, a starving person is a matter of indifference to a person who has been insulted,
and vice versa.
Similar complications result when the
subsequent process is to be described seriatim. Thus even the question of when an

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emotion is present cannot be answered, although according to the basic view by which
it is to be effected and then produce an effect
itself, it must be assumed that there is such a
point in time. But the arousing stimulus does
not actually strike an existing state, like the
ball in the mechanical contraption that sets
off a sequence of consequences like falling
dominoes, but continues in time, calling
forth a fresh supply of inner forces that both
work according to its sense and vary its effect. And just as little does the emotion, once
present, dissipate immediately in its effects,
nor does it itself remain the same even for an
instant, resting, as it were, in the middle
between the processes it assimilates and
transmits; it is connected with a constant
changing in everything to which it has connection internally and externally, and also
receives reactions from both directions.
It is a characteristic endeavor of the
emotions to actively, often passionately, vary

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the stimuli to which they owe their origin,

and to eliminate or abet them; and the major
directions of life are those toward the outside
and from the outside. That is why anger
already contains the counterattack, desire
the approach, and fear the transition to
flight, to paralysis, or something between
both in the scream. But an emotion also receives more than a little of its particularity
and content through the retroactive effect of
this active behavior; the well-known statement of an American psychologist that we do
not weep because we are sad, but are sad because we weep might be an exaggeration, yet
it is certain that we dont just act the way we
feel, but we also soon learn to feel the way we
act, for whatever reasons.
A familiar example of this back-andforth pathway is a pair of dogs who begin to
romp playfully but end up in a bloody fight; a
similar phenomenon can be observed in children and simple people. And is not,

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ultimately, the entire lovely theatricality of

life such an example writ large, with its halfmomentous, half-empty gestures of honor
and being honored, of menacing, civility,
strictness, and everything else: all gestures of
wanting-to-represent-something and of the
representation that sets judgment aside and
influences the emotions directly. Even the
military drill* is part of this, based as it is on
the effect that a behavior imposed for a long
time finally produces the emotions from
which it was supposed to have sprung.
More important than this reacting to
an action, in this and other examples, is that
an experience changes its meaning if its
course happens to veer from the sphere of
the particular forces that steered it at the beginning into the sphere of other mental connections. For what is going on internally is
similar to what is happening externally. The
emotion pushes inside; it grabs hold of the
whole person as colloquial language not

354/1856

inappropriately has it; it suppresses what

doesnt suit it and supports whatever can offer it nourishment. In a psychiatric textbook,
I came across strange names for this:
switching energy and switching work But
in this process the emotion also stimulates
the inner sphere to turn toward it. The inner
readiness not already expended in the first
instant gradually pushes toward the emotion; and the emotion will be completely
taken over from within as soon as it gets hold
of the stronger energies in ideas, memories,
or principles, or in other stored-up energy,
and these will change it in such a way that it
becomes hard to decide whether one should
speak of a moving or of a being moved.
But if, through such processes, an
emotion has reached its high point, the same
processes must weaken and dilute it again as
well. For emotions and experiences will then
crisscross the region of this climax, but no
longer subordinate themselves to it

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completely; indeed, they will finally displace

it. This countercurrent of satiety and erosion
really begins when the emotion first arises;
the fact that the emotion spreads indicates
not only an expansion of its power but, at the
same time, a relaxation of the needs from
which it arose or of which it makes use.
This can also be observed in relation to
the action; for emotion not only intensifies in
the action, but also relaxes in it; and its satiety, if it is not disturbed by another emotion,
can proceed to the point of excess, that is to
say, to the point where a new emotion
occurs.
One thing deserves special mention. So
long as an emotion subjugates the internal
aspect, it comes in contact with activities
that contribute to experiencing and understanding the external world; and thus the
emotion will be able to partly pattern the
world as we understand it according to its
own pattern and sense, in order to be

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reinforced within itself through the reactive

aspect. Examples of this are well known: A
violent feeling blinds one toward something
that uninvolved observers perceive and
causes one to see things others dont. For the
melancholy person, everything is gloomy; he
punishes with disregard anything that might
cheer him up; the cheerful person sees the
world in bright colors and is not capable of
perceiving anything that might disturb this.
The lover meets the most evil natures with
trusting confidence, and the suspicious person not only finds his mistrust confirmed on
every side, but these confirmations also seek
him
1262
QUALITIES

THE

MAN

WITHOUT

out to plague him. In this way every

emotion, if it attains a certain strength and
duration, creates its own world, a selective

357/1856

and personal world, and this plays no small

role in human relations! Here, too, is where
our notorious inconsistency and our changeable opinions belong.
Here Ulrich had drawn a line and
briefly reverted to the question of whether an
emotion was a state or a process. The questions peculiarity now clearly emerged as illusory. What followed took up, in summary
and continuing fashion, where the previous
description had left off:
Proceeding from the customary idea
that emotion is a state that emanates from a
cause and produces consequences, I was led
in my exposition to a description that doubtless does represent a process if the result is
observed over a fairly long stretch. But if I
then proceed from the total impression of a
process and try to grasp this idea, I see just
as clearly that the sequence between neighboring elements, the one-after-another that
is an essential part of a process, is

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everywhere missing. Indeed, every indication

of a sequence in a particular direction is
missing. On the contrary, it points to a mutual dependence and presupposition between
the individual steps, and even to the image of
effects that appear to precede their causes.
Nor do any temporal relationships appear
anywhere in the description, and all this
points, for a variety of reasons, to emotion
being a state.
So strictly speaking I can merely say of
an emotion that it seems to be a state as
much as it is a process, or that it appears to
be neither a state nor a process; one statement can be justified as easily as the other.
But even that depends, as can easily be
shown, at least as much on the manner of description as on what is described. For it is
not a particular idiosyncrasy of mental activity, let alone that of emotion, but occurs also
in other areas in describing nature; for instance, everywhere where there is talk of a

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system and its elements, or of a whole and its

parts, that in one persons view can appear
as a state while another person sees it as a
process. Even the duration of a process is associated for us with the concept of a state. I
could probably not say that the logic of this
double idea-formation is clear, but apparently it has more to do with the distinction
between states and processes belonging to
the way thinking expresses itself in language
than it does with the scientific picture
presented by facts, a picture that states and
processes might improve but might also, perhaps, allow to disappear behind something
else.
The German language says: Anger is in
me, and it says: I am in anger [Ich bin in
Zorn]. It says: I am angry, I feel angry [Ich
fhle mich zornig]. It says: I am in love [Ich
bin verliebt], and I have fallen in love [Ich
habe mich verliebt]. The names the language
has given to the emotions probably point

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back frequently, in its history, to languages

having been affected by the impression of actions and through dangerous or obvious attitudes toward actions; nevertheless, language
talks of an emotion as, in one case, a state
embracing various processes, in another as
of a process consisting of a series of states.
As the examples show, it also includes quite
directly in its forms of expression, various
though these may be, the idea-formations of
the individual and of external and internal,
and in all this the language behaves as capriciously and unpredictably as if it had always
intended to substantiate the disorder of German emotions.
This heterogeneity of the linguistic picture of our emotions, which arose from impressive but incomplete experiences, is still
reflected today in the idea-formation of science, especially when these ideas are taken
more in breadth than in depth. There are
psychological theories in which the I

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appears as the most certain element, present

in every movement of the mind, but especially in the emotion of what is capable of being experienced, and there are other theories
that completely ignore the I and regard only
the relationships between expressions as
capable of being experienced, describing
them as if they were phenomena in a force
field, whose origin is left out of account.
There are also ego psychologies and psychologies without the ego. But other distinctions, too, are occasionally formulated: thus
emotion may appear in one place as a process that runs through the relation of an I to
the external world, in another as a special
case and state of connectedness, and so
forth: distinctions that, given a more conceptual orientation of the thirst for knowledge,
easily press to the fore so long as the truth is
not clear.
Much is here still left to opinion, even
if one takes the greatest care to distinguish

362/1856

opinion from the facts. It seems clear to us

that an emotion takes shape not just anywhere in the world but within a living being,
and that it is I who feels, or feels stimulation within itself. Something is clearly going
on within me when I feel, and I am also
changing my state. Also, though the emotion
brings about a more intense relation to the
external world than does a sense perception,
it seems to me to be more Inward than a
sense perception. That is one group of impressions. On the other hand, a stand taken
by the entire person is associated with the
emotion as well, and that is another group. I
know about emotion, in distinction to sense
perception, that it concerns all of me more
than sense perception does. Also, it is only by
means of an individual person that an emotion brings something about externally,
whether it is because the person acts or because he begins to see the world differently.
Indeed, it cannot even be maintained that an

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emotion is an internal change in a person

without the addition that it causes changes
in his relation to the external world.
So does the being and becoming of an
emotion take place in us, or to us, or by
means of us? This leads me back to my own
description. And if I may give credence to its
disinterestedness, the relationships it discreetly illuminates once again reinforce the
same thing: My emotion arises inside me
and outside me; it changes from the inside
and the outside; it changes the world directly
from inside and indirectly, that is through
my behavior, from outside; and it is therefore, even if this contradicts our prejudice,
simultaneously inside and outside, or at least
so entangled with both that the question as
to what in an emotion is internal and what
external, and what in it is I and what the
world, becomes almost meaningless.
This must somehow furnish the basic
facts, and can do so expeditiously, for,

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expressed in rather measured words, it

merely states that in every act of feeling a
double direction is experienced that imparts
to it the nature of a transitory phenomenon:
inward, or back to the individual, and outward, or toward the object with which it is
concerned. What, on the other hand, inward
and outward are, and even more what it
means to belong to the I or the world, in
other words what stands at the end of both
directions and would therefore be necessary
to permit us to understand their presence
completely: this is of course not to be clearly
grasped in the first experience of it, and its
origin is no clearer than anything else one
experiences without knowing how. It is only
through continuing experience and investigation that a genuine concept for this can be
developed.
That is why a psychology that considers it important that it be a real science of
experience will treat these concepts and

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proceed no differently from the way such a

science does with the concepts of state and
process; and the closely related ideas of the
individual person, the mind, and the I but
also complete ideas of inward and outward,
will appear in it as something to be explained, and not as something by whose aid
one immediately explains something else
The everyday wisdom of psychology
agrees with this remarkably well, for we usually assume in advance, without thinking
about it much, that a person who shows himself in a way that corresponds to a specific
emotion really feels that way. So it not seldom happens, perhaps it even happens quite
often, that an external behavior, together
with the emotions it embraces, will be comprehended directly as being all of a piece,
and with great certainty.
We first experience directly, as a
whole, whether the attitude of a being approaching us is friendly or hostile, and the

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consideration whether this impression is

correct comes, at best, afterward. What approaches us in the first impression is not
something that might perhaps prove to be
awful; what we feel is the awfulness itself,
even if an instant later the impression should
turn out to be mistaken. And if we succeed in
reconstituting the first impression, this apparent reversal permits us to also discern a
rational sequence of experiences, such as
that something is beautiful and charming, or
shameful or nauseating.
This has even been preserved in a
double usage of language we meet with every
day, when we say that we consider
something awful, delightful, or the like, emphasizing thereby that the emotions depend
on the person, just as much as we say that
something is awful, delightful, and the like,
emphasizing that the origin of our emotions
is rooted as a quality in objects and events.
This doubleness or even amphibian

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ambiguity of the emotions supports the idea

that they are to be observed not only within
us, but also in the external world.
With these last observations Ulrich had
already arrived at the third answer to the
question of how the concept of emotion is to
be determined; or, more reservedly, at the
opinion on this question that prevails today.

55
FEELING AND BEHAVIOR. THE
PRECARIOUSNESS OF EMOTION
The school of theoretical psychology most
successful at the moment treats emotions
and the actions associated with emotions as
an indissoluble entity. What we feel when we
act is for this psychology one aspect, and
how we act with feeling the other aspect, of
one and the same process. Contemporary
psychology investigates both as a unit. For
theories in this category, emotion isin their
termsan internal and external behavior,
event, and action; and because this bringing
together of emotion and behavior has proved
itself quite well, the question of how the two
sides are to be ultimately separated again

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and distinguished from each other has become for the time being almost secondary.
That is why instead of a single answer there
is a whole bundle of answers, and this
bundle is rather untidy.
We are sometimes told that emotion is
simply identical with the internal and external events, but we are usually merely told
that these events are to be considered equivalent to the emotion. Sometimes emotion is
called, rather vaguely, the total process,
sometimes merely internal action, behavior,
course, or event. Sometimes it also seems
that two concepts of emotion are being used
side by side: one in which emotion would be
in a broader sense the whole the other in
which it would be, in a narrower sense, a
partial experience that in some rather hazy
way stamps its name, indeed its nature, on
the whole. And sometimes people seem to
follow the conjecture that one and the same
thing, which presents itself to observation as

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a complex process, becomes an emotion

when it is experienced; in other words, the
emotion would then be the experience, the
result, and, so to speak, what the process
yields in consciousness.
The origin of these contradictions is no
doubt always the same. For every such description of an emotion exhibits components,
preponderantly in the plural, that are obviously not emotions, because they are actually
known and equally respected as sensation,
comprehension, idea, will, or an external
process, such as can be experienced at any
time, and which also participate exactly as
they are in the total experience. But in and
above all this there is also just as clearly
something that seems in and of itself to be
emotion in the simplest and most unmistakable sense, and nothing else: neither acting,
nor a process of thinking, nor anything else.
Thats why all these explanations can
be summarized in two categories. They

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characterize the emotion either as an aspect,

a component, or a force of the total process,
or else as the becoming aware of this process, its inner result, or something similar;
expressions in which one can see clearly
enough the embarrassment for want of better ones!
The most peculiar idea in these theories is that at first they leave vague the relation of the emotion to everything it is not,
but with which it is filled; but they make it
appear quite probable that this connection is
in any case, and however it might be thought
of otherwise, so constituted that it admits of
no discontinuous changes, and that
everything changes, so to speak, in the same
breath.
It can be thought of in terms of the example of melody. In melody the notes have
their independent existence and can be recognized individually, and their propinquity,
their simultaneity, their sequence, and

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whatever else can be heard are not abstract

concepts but an overflowing sensory exposition. But although all these elements can be
heard singly in spite of their connectedness,
they can also be heard connectedly, for that
is precisely what melody is; and if the
melody is heard, it is not that there is
something new in addition to the notes, intervals, and rhythms, but something with
them. The melody is not a supplement but a
second-order phenomenon, a special form of
existence, under which the form of the individual existences can just barely be discerned; and this is also true of emotion in relation to ideas, movements, sensations, intentions, and mute forces that unite in it.
And as sensitive as a melody is to any change
in its components so that it immediately
takes on another form or is destroyed entirely, so can an emotion be sensitive to an
action or an interfering idea.

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In whatever relationship the emotion

may therefore stand to internal and external
behavior this demonstrates how any change
in this behavior could correspond to a
change in the emotion, and vice versa, as if
they were the two sides of a page.
(There are many model and experimental examples that confirm the broad extent of this theoretical idea, and other examples outside science that this idea fitfully
illuminates, whether apparently or actually. I
would like to retain one of these. The fervor
of many portraitsand there are portraits,
not just pictures, even of things consists
not least in that in them the individual existence opens up toward itself inwardly and
closes itself off from the rest of the world.
For the independent forms of life, even if
they represent themselves as relatively hermetic, always have common links with the
dispersive circle of a constantly changing environment. So when I took Agathe on my

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arm and we both took ourselves out of the

frame of our lives and felt united in another
frame, perhaps something similar was happening with our emotions. I didnt know
what hers were, nor she mine, but they were
only there for each other, hanging open and
clinging to each other while all other dependency disappeared; and that is why we said we
were outside the world and in ourselves, and
used the odd comparison with a picture for
this animated holding back and stopping
short, this true homecoming and this becoming a unity of alien parts.)
So the peculiar thought I am talking
about teaches that the alterations and modulations of the emotion, and those of the internal and external behavior, can correspond
to each other point for point without the
emotion having to be equated with the behavior or with part of it, or without anything
else having to be maintained about the emotion beyond its possessing qualities that also

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have their civic rights elsewhere in nature.

This result has the advantage of not interfering with the natural distinction between an
emotion and an event, and yet bridges them
in such a way that the distinction loses its
significance. It demonstrates in the most
general fashion how the spheres of two actions, which can remain totally unlike one
another, may yet be delineated in each other.
This obviously gives the question of
how, then, an emotion is supposed to
consist of other mental, indeed even of
physical processes, an entirely new and remarkable turn; but this only explains how
every change in the behavior corresponds to
a change in the emotion, and vice versa, and
not what really leads to such changes as take
place during the entire duration of the emotion. In that case, the emotion would appear
to be merely the echo of its accompanying
action, and this action would be the mirror
image of the emotion, so it would be hard to

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understand their reciprocally changing each

other.
Here, consequently, the second major
idea that can be derived from the newly
opened up science of the emotions begins. I
would like to call it the idea of shaping and
consolidating.
This idea is based on several notions
and considerations. Since I would like to clarify it for myself, let me first go back to our
saying that an emotion brings about a behavior, and the behavior reacts on the emotion;
for this crude observation easily allows a better one to counter it, that between both there
is, rather, a relationship of mutual reinforcement and resonance, a rampant swelling into
each other, which also, to be sure, brings
about mutual change in both components.
The emotion is translated into the language
of the action, and the action into the language of the emotion. As with every

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translation, something new is added and

some things are lost in the process.
Among the simplest relationships, the
familiar expression that ones limbs are paralyzed with fear already speaks of this; for it
could just as well be maintained that the fear
is paralyzed by the limbs: a distinction such
as the one between rigid with terror and
trembling with fear rests entirely on this
second case. And what is claimed by the
simplest movement of expression is also true
of the comprehensive emotional action: in
other words, an emotion changes not just as
a consequence of the action it evokes, but
already within the action by which it is assimilated in a particular way, repeated, and
changed, in the course of which both the
emotion and the action mutually shape and
consolidate themselves. Ideas, desires, and
impulses of all sorts also enter into an emotion in this way, and the emotion enters
them.

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But such a relationship of course presupposes a differentiation in the interaction

in which the lead should alternate sequentially, so that now feeling, now acting, dominates, now a resolve, scruple, or idea becomes dominant and makes a contribution
that carries all the components forward in a
common direction. So this relationship is
contained in the idea of a mutual shaping
and consolidation, and it is this idea that
really makes it complete.
On the other side, the unity described
previously must at the same time be able to
assimilate changes and yet still have the ability to maintain its identity as a more or less
defined emotional action; but it must also be
able to exclude, for it assimilates influences
from within and without or fends them off.
Up to now, all I know of this unity is the law
of its completed state. Therefore the origins
of these influences must also be able to be
adduced and ultimately explained, thanks to

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which providence or arrangement it happens

that they enter into what is going on in the
sense of a common development.
Now, in all probability a particular
ability to endure and be resuscitated, a solidity and degree of solidity, and thus finally
also a particular energy cannot be ascribed
to the unity alone, to the structure as such,
the mere shape of the event; nor is it very
likely that there exist other internal participatory energies that focus specifically on this.
On the other hand, it is probable that these
energies play nothing more than a secondary
role; for our emotions and ideas probably
also control the same numerous, instantaneous internal relationships and the same enduring dispositions, inclinations, principles,
intentions, and needs that produce our actions as well as our emotions and ideas. Our
emotions and ideas are the storage batteries
of these elements, and it is to be assumed
that the energies to which they give rise

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somehow bring about the shaping and consolidation of the emotions.

How that happens I will try to make
clear by means of a widely held prejudice.
The opinion is often voiced that there is
some kind of inner relation among an emotion, the object to which it is directed, and
the action that connects them. The idea is
that it would then be more comprehensible
that these form a unified whole, that they
succeed one another, and so on. The heart of
the matter is that a particular drive or a particular emotionfor example, hunger and
the instinct for foodare directed not at random objects and actions but primarily, of
course, at those that promise satisfaction. A
sonata is of no help to a starving person, but
food is: that is to say, something belonging to
a more or less specific category of objects
and events; and this gives rise to the appearance of this category and this state of stimulation always being connected. There is some

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truth in this, but no more mysterious a truth

than that to eat soup we use a spoon and not
a fork.
We do so because it seems to us appropriate; and it is nothing but this
commonplace appearing-to-be-appropriate
that fulfills the task of mediating among an
emotion, its object, the concomitant actions,
ideas, decisions, and those deeper impulses
that for the most part elude observation. If
we act with an intention, or from a desire, or
for a purposefor instance, to help or hurt
someoneit seems natural to us that our action is determined by the demand that it be
appropriate; but beyond that it can turn out
in many different ways. The same is true for
every emotion. An emotion, too, longs for
everything that seems suited to satisfying it,
in which process this characteristic will be
sometimes more tightly, sometimes more
loosely, related; and precisely this looser

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connection is the natural path to shaping

and consolidation.
For it occasionally happens even to the
drives that they go astray, and wherever an
emotion is at its peak, it then happens that
an action is merely attempted, that an intention or an idea is thrown in that later turns
out to be inappropriate and is dropped, and
that the emotion enters the sphere of a
source of energy, or this sphere enters that of
the emotion, from which it frees itself again.
So in the course of the event not everything
is shaped and consolidated; a great deal is
also abandoned. In other words, there is also
a shaping without consolidation, and this
constitutes an indispensable part of the consolidating arrangement. For since everything
that seems appropriate to serve the directing
energies can be absorbed by the unity of the
emotional behavior, but only so much of this
is retained as is really appropriate, there
enter of themselves into the feeling, acting,

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and thinking the common trait, succession,

and duration which make it comprehensible
that the feeling, acting, and thinking mutually and increasingly consolidate and shape
themselves.
The weak point of this explanation lies
where the precisely described unity that
arises at the end is supposed to be connected
to the unknown and vaguely bounded sphere
of the impulses that lies at the beginning.
This sphere is hardly anything other than
what is embraced by the essences person
and I according to the proportion of their
involvement, about which we know little. But
if one considers that in the moment of an
emotion even what is most inward can be recast, then it will not seem unthinkable that in
such a moment the shaped unity of the action, too, can reach that point. If one considers, on the other hand, how much has to
happen beforehand in order to prepare such
a success as a person giving up principles

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and habits, one will have to desist from every

idea that concentrates on the momentary effect. And if one were, finally, to be satisfied
by saying that other laws and connections
are valid for the area of the source than for
the outlet, where the emotion becomes perceivable as internal and external action, then
one would again come up against the insufficiency that we have no idea at all according
to what law the transition from the causative
forces to the resulting product could come
about. Perhaps the postulation of a loose,
general unity that embraces the entire process can be combined with this, in that it
would ultimately enable a specific and solid
unity to emerge: but this question extends
beyond psychology, and for the time being
extends beyond our abilities too.
This knowledge, that in the process of
an emotion from its source to its appearance
a unity is indicated, but that it cannot be said
when and how this unity assumes the closed

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form that is supposed to characterize the

emotions completely developed behavior
(and in analyzing which I used the articulation of a melody as example)this quite negative knowledge permits, remarkably, an
idea to be brought in by means of which the
deferred answer to the question of how the
concept of the emotion appears in more recent research comes to a singular conclusion.
This is the admission that the actual event
corresponds neither in its entirety nor in its
final form to the mental image that has been
made of it. This is usefully demonstrated by
a kind of double negative: One says to oneself: perhaps the pure unity that theoretically
represents the law of the completed emotion
never exists; indeed, it may not even be at all
possible for it to exist, because it would be so
completely cut off inside its own compass
that it would not be able to assimilate any
more influences of any other kind. But, one
now says to oneself, there never is such a

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completely circumscribed emotion! In other

words: emotions never occur purely, but always only in an approximating actualization.
And in still other words: the process of shaping and consolidating never ends.
But this is nothing other than what
presently characterizes psychological thinking everywhere. Moreover, one sees in the
basic mental concepts only ideational patterns according to which the internal action
can be ordered, but one no longer expects
that it is really constructed out of such elements, like a picture printed by the four-color process. In truth, according to this view,
the pure nature of the emotion, of the idea,
of sensation, and of the will are as little to be
met with in the internal world as are the
thread of a current or a difficult point in the
outer world: There is merely an interwoven
whole, which sometimes seems to will and
sometimes to think because this or that quality predominates.

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The names of the individual emotions

therefore characterize only types, which approximate real experiences without corresponding to them entirely; and with this, a
guiding principle with the following contenteven if this is rather crudely puttakes
the place of the axiom of the older psychology by which the emotion, as one of the elemental experiences, was supposed to have an
unalterable nature, or to be experienced in a
way that distinguished it once and for all
from other experiences: There are no experiences that are from the beginning distinct
emotions, or even emotions at all; there are
merely experiences that are destined to become emotion and to become a distinct
emotion.
This also gives the idea of arrangement
and consolidation the significance that in
this process emotion and behavior not only
form, consolidate, and, as far as it is given
them, determine; it is in this process that the

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emotion originates in the first place: so that

it is never this or that specific emotion that is
present at the beginning say, in a weak
statetogether with its mode of action, but
only something that is appropriate and has
been destined to become such an emotion
and action, which, however, it never becomes in a pure state.
But of course this something* is not
completely random, since it is understood to
be something that from the start and by disposition is intended or appropriate to becoming an emotion, and, moreover, a specific emotion. For in the final analysis anger is
not fatigue, and apparently not in the first
analysis either; and just as little are satiety
and hunger to be confused, even in their
early stages. Therefore at the beginning
something unfinished, a start, a nucleus,
something like an emotion and things associated with that emotion, will already be
present. I would like to call it a feeling that is

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not yet an emotion; but it is better to present

an example, and for that I will take the relatively simple one of physical pain inflicted
externally.
This pain can be a locally restricted
sensation that penetrates or burns in one
spot and is unpleasant but alien. But this
sensation can also flare up and overwhelm
the entire person with affliction. Often, too,
at the beginning there is merely an empty
spot at the place, from which it is only in the
following moments that sensation or emotion wells up: it is not only children who at
the beginning often do not know whether
something hurts. Earlier, one assumed that
in these cases an emotion is superimposed
on the sensation, but today one prefers to
suppose that a nucleus of experience, originally as little a sensation as it is an emotion,
can develop equally well into the one as the
other.

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Also already part of this original stability of experience is the beginning of an instinctive or reflex action, a shrinking back,
collapsing, fending off, or a spontaneous
counterattack; and because this more or less
involves the entire person, it will also involve
an internal flight or fight condition, in other
words a coloration of the emotion by the
kind of fear or attack. This proceeds of
course even more strongly from the drives
triggered, for not only are these dispositions
for a purposive action but, once aroused,
they also produce nonspecific mental states,
which we characterize as moods of fearfulness or irritability, or in other cases of being
in love, of sensitivity, and so forth. Even not
acting and not being able to do anything has
such an emotional coloration; but the drives
are for the most part connected with a more
or less definite will formation, and this leads
to an inquiry into the situation that is in itself a confrontation and therefore has an

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aggressive coloration. But this inquiry can

also have the effect of coolness and calm; or
if the pain is quite severe, it does not take
place, and one suddenly avoids its source. So
even this example goes back and forth from
the very beginning between sensation, emotion, automatic response, will, flight, defense, attack, pain, anger, curiosity, and being coolly collected, and thereby demonstrates that what is present is not so much
the original state of a single emotion as
rather varying beginnings of several, succeeding or complementing one another.
This gives to the assertion that a feeling is present, but not yet an emotion, the
sense that the disposition to an emotion is
always present but that it does not need to be
realized, and that a beginning is always
present but it can turn out later to have
served as the beginning of a different
emotion.

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The peculiar manner in which the

emotion is from the beginning both present
and not present can be expressed in the comparison that one must imagine its development as the image of a forest, and not as the
image of a tree. A birch, for example, remains itself from its germination to its
death; but on the other hand, a birch forest
can begin as a mixed forest; it becomes a
birch forest as soon as birch treesas the
result of causes that can be quite variedpredominate in it and the departures
from the pure stamp of the birch type are no
longer significant.
It is the same with the emotion and
(this is always open to misunderstanding)
with the action connected to the emotion.
They always have their particular characteristics, but these change with everything that
adheres to them until, with growing certitude, they take on the marks of a familiar
emotion and deserve its name, which

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always retains a trace of free judgment. But

emotion and the action of emotion can also
depart from this type and approximate another; this is not unusual, because an emotion can waver and, in any event, goes
through various stages. What distinguishes
this from the ordinary view is that in the ordinary view the emotion has validity as a
specific experience, which we do not always
recognize with certainty. On the other hand,
the more recently established view ascribes
the lack of certainty to the emotion and tries
to understand it from its nature and to limit
it concisely.
There followed in an appendix individual examples that really ought to have been
marginal notations but had been suppressed
at the places they had been intended for in
order not to interrupt the exposition. And so
these stragglers that had dropped out of their
context no longer belonged to a specific
place, although they did belong to the whole

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and retained ideas that might possibly have

some useful application for the whole:
In the relation to love something what
carries such enormous distinctions as that
between love of God and loving to go fishing
is not the love but the something. The emotion itself: the devotion, anxiousness, desire,
hurt, gnawingin other words, lovingdoes
not admit a distinction.
But it is just as certain that loving ones
walking stick or honor is not apples and oranges only for the reason that these two
things do not resemble each other, but also
because the use we make of them, the circumstances in which they assume importancein short, the entire group of experiencesare different. It is from the noninterchangeability of a group of experiences
that we derive the certainty of knowing our
emotion. That is why we only truly recognize
it after it has had some effect in the world
and has been shaped by the world; we do not

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know what we feel before our action has

made that decision.
And where we say that our emotion is
divided, we should rather say that it is not
yet complete, or that we have not yet settled
down.
And where it appears as paradox or
paradoxical combination, what we have is often something else. We say that the courageous person ignores pain; but in truth it is
the bitter salt of pain that overflows in courageousness. And in the martyr it rises in
flames to heaven. In the coward, on the contrary, the pain becomes unbearably concentrated through the anticipatory fear. The example of loathing is even clearer; those feelings inflicted with violence are associated
with it, which, if received voluntarily, are the
most intense desire.
Of course there are differing sources
here, and also varying combinations, but

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what comes into being most particularly are

various directions in which the predominant
emotion develops.
Because they are constantly fluid, emotions cannot be stopped; nor can they be
looked at under the microscope. This means
that the more closely we observe them, the
less we know what it is we feel. Attention is
already a change in the emotion. But if emotions were a mixture this should really be
most apparent at the moment when it is
stopped, even if attention intervenes.
Because the external action has no independent significance for the mind, emotions cannot be distinguished by it alone. Innumerable times we do not know what we
feel, although we act vigorously and decisively. The enormous ambiguity of what a
person does who is being observed mistrustfully or jealously rests on this lack of clarity.

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The emotions lack of clarity does not,

however, demonstrate its weakness, for emotions vanish precisely when feeling is at its
height. Even at high degrees of intensity,
emotions are extremely labile; see for instance the courage of despair or happiness
suddenly changing into pain. At this level
they also bring about contradictory actions,
like paralysis instead of flight, or being suffocated by ones own anger. But in quite violent excitation they lose, so to speak, their
color, so that all that remains is a dead sensation of the accompanying physical manifestations, contraction of the skin, surging of
the blood, blotting out of the senses. And
what appears fully in these most intense
stages is an absolute bedazzlement, so that it
can be said that the shaping of the emotion,
and with it the entire world of our emotions,
is valid only in intermediate stages.
In these average stages we of course
recognize and name an emotion no

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differently from the way we do other phenomena that are in flux, to repeat this once
again. To determine the distinction between
hate and anger is as easy and as difficult as
ascertaining the distinction between premeditated and unpremeditated murder, or
between a basin and a bowl. Not that what is
at work here is capriciousness in naming, but
every aspect and deflection can be useful for
comparison and concept formation. And so
in this way the hundred and one kinds of
love about which Agathe and I joked, not entirely without sorrow, are connected. The
question of how it happens that such quite
different things are characterized by the
single word love has the same answer as the
question of why we unhesitatingly talk of
dinner forks, manure forks, tree-branch
forks, rifle forks, road forks, and other forks.
Underlying all these fork impressions is a
common forkness: it is not in them as a
common nucleus, but it might almost be said

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that it is nothing more than a comparison

possible for each of them. For they do not all
even need to be similar to one another: it is
already sufficient if one leads to another, if
you go from one to the next, as long as the
neighboring members are similar to one another. The more remote ones are then similar through the mediation of these proximate
members. Indeed, even what constitutes the
similarity, that which associates the neighboring members, can change in such a chain;
and so one travels excitedly from one end of
the path to the other, hardly knowing oneself
how one has traversed it.
But if we wished to regard, as we are
inclined to do, the similarity existing among
all kinds of love for its similarity to a kind of
ur-love, which so to speak would sit as an
armless and legless torso in the middle of
them all, it would most likely be the same error as believing in an ur-fork. And yet we
have living witness for there really being

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such an emotion. It is merely difficult to determine the degree of this really. It is different from that of the real world. An emotion
that is not an emotion for something; an
emotion without desire, without preferment,
without movement, without knowledge,
without limits; an emotion to which no distinct behavior and action belongs, at least no
behavior that is quite real: as truly as this
emotion is not served with arms and legs, so
truly have we encountered it again and
again, and it has seemed to us more alive
than life itself! Love is already too particular
a name for this, even if it most intimately related to a love for which tenderness or inclination are expressions that are too obvious. It
realizes itself in many different ways and in
many connections, but it can never let itself
be detached from this actualization, which
always contaminates it. Thus has it appeared
to us and vanished, an intimation that always remained the same. Apparently the dry

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reflections with which I have filled these

pages have little to do with this, and yet I am
almost certain that they have brought me to
the right path to it!

56
THE DO-GOODER SINGS
Professor August Lindner sang. He was waiting for Agathe.
Ah, the boy s eyes seem to me So crystal
clear and lovely, And a something shines in
them That captivates my heart.
Ah, those sweet eyes glance at me, Shining into mine! Were he to see his image there
He would greet me tenderly.
And this is why I yield myself To serve
his eyes alone, For a something shines in
them That captivates my heart.
It had originally been a Spanish song.
There was a small piano in the house, dating

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from Frau Lindners time; it was occasionally

devoted to the mission of rounding out the
education and culture of son Peter, which
had already led Peter to remove several
strings. Lindner himself never used it, except
possibly to strike a few solemn chords now
and then; and although he had been pacing
up and down in front of this sound machine
for quite some time, it was only after cautiously making sure that the housekeeper as
well as Peter was out of the house that he
had let himself be carried away by this unwonted impulse. He was quite pleased with
his voice, a high baritone obviously well
suited to expressing emotion; and now Lindner had not closed the piano but was standing there thinking, leaning on it with his
arm, his weightless leg crossed over his supporting leg. Agathe, who had already visited
him several times, was over an hour late. The
emptiness of the house, stemming in part
from that fact and in part from the

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arrangements he had made, welled up in his

consciousness as a culpable plan.
He had found a soul of bedazzling richness, which he was making great efforts to
save and which evoked the impression of
confiding itself to his charge; and what man
would not be charmed at finding something
he had hardly expected to find, a tender female creature he could train according to his
principles? But mixed in with this were deep
notes of discontent. Lindner considered
punctuality an obligation of conscience, placing it no lower than honesty and contractual
obligations; people who made no punctual
division of their time seemed to him pathologically scatterbrained, forcing their more serious fellow men, moreover, to lose parcels of
their time along with them; and so he regarded them as worse than muggers. In such
cases he took it as his duty to bring it to the
attention of such beings, politely but unrelentingly, that his time did not belong to him

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but to his activity; and because white lies injure ones own mind, while people are not all
equal, some being influential and some not,
he had derived numerous character exercises
from this; a host of their most powerful and
malleable maxims now came to his mind and
interfered with the gentle arousal brought on
by the song.
But no matter: he had not sung any religious songs since his student days, and enjoyed it with a circumspection. What southern navet, and what charm, he thought,
emanate from such worldly lines! How delightfully and tenderly they relate to the boy
Jesus! He tried to imitate the poems artlessness in his mind, and arrived at the result: If I didnt know better, Id be capable of
believing that I feel a girls chaste stirrings
for her boy! So one might well say that a
woman able to evoke such homage was
reaching all that was noblest in man and
must herself be a noble being. But here

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Lindner smiled with dissatisfaction and decided to close the lid of the piano. Then he
did one of his arm exercises that further the
harmony of the personality, and stopped
again. An unpleasant thought had crossed
his mind. She is unfeeling! he sighed behind gritted teeth. She would be laughing!
He had in his face at this moment
something that would have reminded his
dear departed mother of the little boy under
whose chin every morning she tied a big
lovely bow before sending him off to school;
this something might be called the complete
absence of rough-hewn maleness. On this
tall, slack, pipestem-legged apparition, the
head sat as if speared on a lance over the
roaring arena of his schoolmates, who jeered
at the bow tie made by his mothers hand;
and in anxiety dreams Professor Lindner
even now sometimes saw himself standing
that way and suffering for the good, the true,
and the beautiful. But for this very reason he

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never conceded that roughness is an indispensable male characteristic, like gravel,

which has to be mixed into mortar to give it
strength; and especially since he had become
the man he flattered himself to be, he saw in
that early defect merely a confirmation of the
fact that he had been born to improve the
world, even if in modest measure. Today we
are quite accustomed to the explanation that
great orators arise from speech defects and
heroes from weakness, in other words the explanation that our nature always first digs a
ditch if it wants us to erect a mountain above
it; and because the half-knowledgeable and
half-savage people who chiefly determine the
course of life are quick to proclaim nearly
every stutterer a Demosthenes, it is that
much easier, as a sign of intellectual good
taste, to recognize that the only important
thing about a Demosthenes was his original
stuttering. But we have not yet succeeded in
reducing the deeds of Hercules to his having

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been a sickly child, or the greatest achievements in the sprint and broad jump to flatfootedness, or courage to timidity; and so it
must be conceded that there is something
more to an exceptional talent than its
omission.
Thus Professor Lindner was by no
means restricted to acknowledging that the
raillery and blows he had feared as a child
could be a cause of his intellectual development. Nevertheless, the current disposition
of his principles and emotions did him the
service of transforming every such impression that reached him from the bustle of the
world into an intellectual triumph; even his
habit of weaving martial and sportive expressions into his speech, as well as his tendency
to set the stamp of a strict and inflexible will
on everything he said and did, had begun to
develop to the degree that, as he grew up and
lived among more mature companions, he
was correspondingly removed from direct

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physical attacks. At the university, he had

even joined one of the fraternities whose
members wore their jackets, caps, boots, insignia, and sword just as picturesquely as the
rowdies whom they despised, but made only
peaceful use of them because their outlook
forbade dueling. In this, Lindners pleasure in
a bravery for which no blood need be spilled
had achieved its definitive form; but at the
same time it gave witness that one can combine a noble temperament with the overflowing pulse of life or, of course in other terms,
that God enters man more easily when he
imitates the devil who was there before him.
So whenever Lindner reproached his
more compact son, Peter, as he was unfortunately often called upon to do, that yielding
to the very idea of force made a person effeminate, or that the power of humility and
the courage of renunciation are of greater
value than physical strength and courage, he
was not talking as a layman in questions of

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courage but enjoying the excitement of a

conjurer who has succeeded in yoking
demons to the service of the good. For although there was really nothing that could
disturb his equilibrium at the height of wellbeing he had attained, he was marked by a
disinclination to jokes and laughter bordering almost on anxietyas an injury that has
healed leaves behind a limpeven when he
merely suspected their bare possibility. The
tickling of jokes and humor, he was accustomed to instruct his son on the subject, originate in the sated comfort of life, in malice,
and in idle fantasies, and they easily induce
people to say things their better selves would
condemn! On the other hand, the discipline
that comes from stifling witty ripostes and
ideas is an admirable test of strength and an
annealing test of will, and the more you use
the silence you have struggled to master in
order to look into your joke more closely, the
better it turns out for the whole man. We

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usually see first, this standing admonition

concluded, how many impulses to elevate
oneself and demean others it conceals, how
much coquetry and frivolity lie behind most
jokes, how much refinement of sympathy
they stifle in ourselves and others, indeed
how much horrifying coarseness and mockery comes to light in the laughter we try to
coax from an audience!
As a result, Peter had to hide carefully
from his father his youthful inclination to
mockery and joking; but he was so inclined,
and Professor Lindner often felt the breath
of the evil spirit in his surroundings without
being able to spot the poisonous phantom. It
could go so far that the father would instill
fear in the son with a subduing glance, while
secretly fearing him himself, and when this
happened he was reminded of something ineffable between his wife and himself while
his plump spouse was still on earth. Being
lord and master in his own house,

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establishing its atmosphere and knowing

that his family surrounded him like a peaceful garden in which he had planted his principles, belonged for Lindner to the indispensable preconditions of happiness. But
Frau Lindner, whom he had married shortly
after he finished his studies, during which
time he had been a lodger at her mothers,
had unfortunately soon thereafter ceased to
share his principles and put on an air of being reluctant to contradict him that irritated
him more than contradiction itself. He could
not forget having sometimes caught a glance
from the corner of her eye while her mouth
was obediently silent, and every time this
happened he subsequently found himself in
a situation that was not exactly proof against
adverse comment: for instance, in a nightshirt that was too short, preaching that her
dignity as a woman should preclude her finding any pleasure in the rough, loose young
men who with their drunkenness and

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scrapes still dominated student life at that

time and who accordingly were not as undesirable as lodgers as they ought to be.
Womans secret mockery is a chapter in
itself, with the most intimate connections to
her lack of understanding for those preoccupations of greatest importance to the male;
and the moment Lindner remembered this,
the mental processes that had until then
been churning indistinctly within him uncorked the idea of Agathe. What would she
be like to live with intimately? There is no
question of her being what one might comfortably call a good person. She doesnt even
try to hide it! he told himself, and a remark
of hers that occurred to him in this connection, her laughing assertion that today the
good people were no less responsible for the
corruption of life than the bad ones, made
his hair stand on end. But on the whole he
had already extracted the abscessed teeth
of these horrible views, even if every time

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they came up they upset him all over again,

by once and for all declaring to himself: She
has no conception of reality! For he thought
of Agathe as a noble being, even though she
was, for a daughter of Eve, full of venomous unrest. The proper attitude, however
certain it may be for the believer, seemed to
her the most intellectually unascertainable
object, the solution of lifes most extreme
and difficult task. She seemed to have a
dreamily confused idea of what was good
and right, an idea inimical to order, with no
more coherence than an accidental grouping
of poems. Reality is alien to her! he repeated. If, for example, she knows
something about love, how can she make
such cynical statements about it as that its
impossible, and the like? Therefore she
must be shown what real love is.
But here Agathe presented new difficulties. Let him admit it fearlessly and courageously: she was offensive! She all too

415/1856

gladly tore down from its pedestal whatever

you cautiously raised up; and if you found
fault with her, her criticism knew no bounds
and she made it clear that she was out to
wound. There are such natures that rage
against themselves and strike the hand
bringing them succor; but a determined man
will never allow his behavior to depend on
the behavior of others, and at this moment
what Lindner saw was the image of a peaceful man with a long beard, bending over a
sick woman anxiously fending him off, and
seeing in the depths of her heart a profound
wound. The moment was far removed from
logic, and so this did not mean that he was
this man; but Lindner straightened up this
he actually didand reached for his beard,
which in the meantime had lost a good deal
of its fullness, and a nervous blush raced
across his face. He had remembered that
Agathe had the objectionable habit of instilling in him the belief, more than any

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other human being ever could have done,

that she would like to share his most sublime
and most secret feelings; indeed, that in her
own constrained situation she was even waiting for a special effort of these feelings in order, once he had exposed the innermost
treasures of his mind, to pour scorn on him.
She was egging him on! Lindner admitted
this to himself and could not have done otherwise, for there was a strange, restless feeling in his breast that one might have hardheartedly compared, although he was far
from thinking this, with hens milling about
in a chicken coop. But then she could suddenly laugh in the most mysterious way, or
say something profane and hard that cut him
to the quick, as if she had been building him
up only in order to cut him down! And had
she not already done this today too, even before her arrival, Lindner asked himself,
bringing him to such a pass with this piano?
He looked at it; it stood there beside him like

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a housemaid with whom the master of the

house had transgressed!
He could not know what motivated
Agathe to play this game with him, and she
herself would not have been able to discuss it
with anyonenot even, and especially, Ulrich. She was behaving capriciously; but to
the extent that this means with changeable
emotions, it was done intentionally and signified a shaking and loosening up of the
emotions, the way a person weighed down by
a delicious burden stretches his limbs. So the
strange attraction that several times had
secretly led her to Lindner had contained
from the beginning an insubordination
against Ulrich, or at least against complete
dependence on him; the stranger distracted
her thoughts a little and reminded her of the
diversity of the world and of men. But this
happened only so that she might feel her dependence on her brother that much more
warmly, and was, moreover, the same as

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Ulrichs secretiveness with his diary, which

he kept locked away from her; indeed, it was
even the same as his general resolve to let
reason stand beside emotion as well as above
it, and also to judge. But while this took up
his time, her impatience and stored-up tension was seeking an outlet, an adventure,
about which it could not yet be said what
path it would take; and to the degree that Ulrich inspired or depressed her, Lindner, to
whom she felt superior, caused her to be forbearing or high-spirited. She won mastery
over herself by misusing the influence she
exercised over him, and she needed this.
But something else was also at work
here. For there was between her and Ulrich
at this time no talk either of her divorce and
Hagauers letters or of the rash or actually
superstitious altering of the will in a moment
of disorientation, an act that demanded
restitution, either civic or miraculous.
Agathe was sometimes oppressed by what

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she had done, and she knew, too, that in the

disorder one leaves behind in a lower circle
of life Ulrich did not see any favorable sign of
the order one strives for in a higher sense.
He had told her so openly enough, and even
if she no longer remembered every detail of
the conversation that had followed on the
suspicions Hagauer had recently raised
against her, she still found herself banished
to a position of waiting between good and ill.
Something, to be sure, was lifting all her
qualities upward to a miraculous vindication,
but she could not yet allow herself to believe
in this; and so it was her offended, recalcitrant feeling of justice that also found expression in the quarrel with Lindner. She was
very grateful to him for seeming to impute to
her all the bad qualities that Hagauer, too,
had discovered in her and for unintentionally
calming her by the very way he looked while
doing it.

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Lindner, who thus, in Agathes judgment, had never come to terms with himself,
had now begun to pace restlessly back and
forth in his room, subjecting the visits she
was paying him to a severe and detailed examination. She seemed to like being here;
she asked about many details of his house
and his life, about his educational principles
and his books. He was surely not mistaken in
assuming that one would express so much
interest in someones life only if one were
drawn to share it; of course, the way she had
of expressing herself in the process would
just have to be accepted as her idiosyncrasy!
In this vein he recalled that she had once
told him about a woman unpardonably a
former mistress of her brother swhose
head always became like a coconut, with the
hair inside when she fell in love with a man;
and Agathe had added the observation that
that was the way she felt about his house. It
was all so much of a piece that it really made

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one afraid for oneself! But the fear seemed

to give her pleasure, and Lindner thought he
recognized in this paradoxical trait the feminine psyches anxious readiness to yield, the
more so as she indicated to him that she remembered similar impressions from the beginning of her marriage.
Now, it is only natural that a man like
Lindner would more readily have thoughts of
marriage than sinful ones. And so, both during and outside the periods he set aside for
the problems of life, he had sometimes
secretly allowed the idea to creep in that it
would perhaps be good if the child Peter had
a mother again; and now it also happened
that instead of analyzing Agathes behavior
further, he stopped at one of its manifestations that secretly appealed to him. For in a
profound anticipation of his destiny, Agathe
had, from the beginning of their acquaintance, spoken of nothing with more passion
than her divorce. There was no way he could

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sanction this sin, but he could also not prevent its advantages from emerging more
clearly with every passing day; and in spite of
his customary opinions about the nature of
the tragic, he was inclined to find tragic the
lot that compelled him to express bitter antipathy toward what he himself almost wished
would happen. In addition, it happened that
Agathe exploited this resistance mostly in order to indicate in her offensive way that she
did not believe the truth of his conviction. He
might trot out morality, place the Church in
front of it, pronounce all the principles that
had been so ready to hand all his life; she
smiled when she answered, and this smile
reminded him of Frau Lindners smile in the
later years of their marriage, with the advantage that Agathes possessed the unsettling power of the new and mysterious. Its
Mona Lisas smile! Lindner exclaimed to
himself. Mockery in a pious face! and he
was so dismayed and flattered by what he

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took to be a meaningful discovery that for

the moment he was less able than usual to
reject the arrogance ordinarily associated
with this smile when she interrogated him on
his belief in God. This unbeliever had no desire for missionary instruction; she wanted
to stick her hand in the bubbling spring; and
perhaps this was precisely the task reserved
for him; once again to lift the stone covering
the spring to permit her a little insight, with
no one to protect him if it should turn out
otherwise, no matter how unpleasant, even
alarming, this idea was to himself! And suddenly Lindner, although he was alone in the
room, stamped his foot and said aloud:
Dont think for a minute that I dont understand you! And dont believe that the subjugation you detect in me comes from a creature
subjugated from the beginning!
As a matter of fact, the story of how
Lindner had become what he was was far
more commonplace than he thought. It

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began with the possibility that he, too, might

have become a different person; for he still
remembered precisely the love he had had as
a child for geometry, for the way its beautiful, cleverly worked out proofs finally closed
around the truth with a soft snap, delighting
him as if he had caught a giant in a
mousetrap. There had been no indication
that he was particularly religious; even today
he was of the opinion that faith had to be
worked for, and not received as a gift in the
cradle. What had made him a shining pupil
in religion class was the same joy in knowing
and in showing off his knowledge that he
demonstrated in his other subjects. His inner
being, of course, had already absorbed the
ways in which religious tradition expressed
itself, to which the only resistance was the
civic sense he had developed early. This had
once found unexpected expression in the
single extraordinary hour his life had ever
known. It had happened while he was

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preparing himself for his final school examinations. For weeks he had been driving himself, sitting evenings in his room studying,
when all at once an incomprehensible
change came over him. His body seemed to
become as light toward the world as delicate
paper ash, and he was filled with an unutterable joy, as if in the dark vault of his breast a
candle had been lit and was diffusing its
gentle glow into all his limbs; and before he
could come to terms with such a notion, this
light surrounded his head with a condition of
radiance. It frightened him a lot; but it was
nevertheless true that his head was emitting
light. Then a marvelous intellectual clarity
overwhelmed all his senses, and in it the
world was reflected in broad horizons such
as no natural eye could encompass. He
glanced up and saw nothing but his half-lit
room, so it was not a vision; but the impetus
remained, even if it was in contradiction to
his surroundings. He comforted himself that

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he was apparently experiencing this somehow only as a mental person, while his
physical person was sitting somber and
distinct on its chair and fully occupying its
accustomed space; and so he remained for a
while, having already got half accustomed to
his dubious state, since one quickly grows
used to the extraordinary as long as there is
hope that it will be revealed as the product,
even if a diabolical product, of order. But
then something new happened, for he suddenly heard a voice, speaking quite clearly
but moderately, as if it had already been
speaking for some time, saying to him:
Lindner, where are you seeking me? Sis tu
tuus et ego ero tuus which can be roughly
translated: Just become Lindner, and I will
be with you. But it was not so much the content of this speech that dismayed the ambitious student, for it was possible that he had
already heard or read it, or at least some of
it, and then forgotten it, but rather its

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sensuous resonance; for this came so independently and surprisingly from the outside,
and was of such an immediately convincing
fullness and solidity, and had such a different sound from the dry sound of grim industriousness to which the night was tuned, that
every attempt to reduce the phenomenon to
inner exhaustion or inner overstimulation
was uprooted in advance. That this explanation was so obvious, and yet its path blocked,
of course increased his confusion; and when
it also happened that with this confusion the
condition in Lindners head and heart rose
ever more gloriously and soon began to flow
through his entire body, it got to be too
much. He seized his head, shook it between
his fists, jumped up from his chair, shouted
No! three times, and, almost screaming,
managed to speak the first prayer he could
think of, upon which the spell finally vanished and die future professor, mortally
frightened, took refuge in bed.

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Soon afterward he passed his examinations with distinction and enrolled at the
university. He did not feel in himself the inner calling to the clerical classnor, to answer Agathes foolish questions, had he felt it
at any time in his lifeand was at that time
not even entirely and unimpeachably a believer, for he, too, was visited by those
doubts that any developing intellect cannot
escape. But the mortal terror at the religious
powers hiding within him did not leave him
for the rest of his life. The longer ago it had
been, the less, of course, he believed that
God had really spoken to him, and he therefore began to fear the imagination as an unbridled power that can easily lead to mental
derangement. His pessimism, too, to which
man appeared in general as a threatened being, took on depth, and so his decision to become a pedagogue was in part probably the
beginning of an as it were posthumous educating of those schoolmates who had

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tormented him, and in part, too, an educating of that evil spirit or irregular God who
might possibly still be lurking in his thoracic
cavity. But if it was not clear to him to what
degree he was a believer, it quickly became
clear that he was an opponent of unbelievers,
and he trained himself to think with conviction that he was convinced, and that it was
ones responsibility to be convinced. At the
university, it was also easier for him to learn
to recognize the weaknesses of a mind that is
abandoned to freedom, in that he had only a
rudimentary notion of the extent to which
the condition of freedom is an innate part of
the creative powers.
It is difficult to summarize in a few
words what was most characteristic of these
weaknesses. It might be seen, for instance, in
the ways that changes in living, but especially the results of thinking and experience
itself, undermined those great edifices of
thought
aimed
at
a
freestanding

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philosophical explanation of the world,

whose last constructions were erected
between the middle of the eighteenth and the
middle of the nineteenth centuries: without
the fullness of new knowledge the sciences
brought to light almost every day having led
to a new, solid, even if tentative way of thinking, indeed without the will to do so stirring
seriously or publicly enough, so that the
wealth of knowledge has become almost as
oppressive as it is exhilarating. But one can
also proceed quite generally from the
premise that an extraordinary flourishing of
property and culture had risen by insidious
degrees to a creeping state of crisis, which,
not long after this daywhen Lindner, recuperating from the more stressful parts of his
personal reminiscences, was thinking about
the errors of the worldwas to be interrupted by the first devastating blow. For assuming that someone came into the world in
1871, the year Germany was born, he would

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already have been able to perceive around

the age of thirty that during his lifetime the
length of railroads in Europe had tripled and
in the whole world more than quadrupled;
that postal service had tripled in extent and
telegraph lines grown sevenfold; and much
else had developed in the same way. The degree of efficiency of engines had risen from
50 to 90 percent; the kerosene lamp had
been successively replaced by gaslight, gas
mantle lamps, and electricity, producing ever
newer forms of illumination; the horse team,
which had maintained its position for millennia, was replaced by the motorcar; and
airplanes not only had appeared on the scene
but were already out of their baby shoes. The
average length of life, too, had markedly increased, thanks to progress in medicine and
hygiene, and relations among peoples had
become, since the last warring skirmishes,
noticeably more gentle and confiding. The
person experiencing all this might well

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believe that at last the long-awaited progress

of mankind had arrived, and who would not
like to think that proper for an age in which
he himself is alive!
But it appears that this civic and spiritual prosperity rested on assumptions that
were quite specific and by no means everlasting, and today we are told that in those days
there had been enormous new areas for
farming and other natural riches that had
just been appropriated; that there were defenseless colored peoples who had not yet
been exploited (the reproach of exploitation
was excused by the idea that it was a means
of bestowing civilization upon them); and
that there were also millions of white people
living who, defenseless, were forced to pay
the costs of industrial and mercantile progress (but one salved ones conscience with
the firm and not even entirely unjustified
faith that the dispossessed would be better
off than before their dispossession). At any

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rate, the cornucopia from which physical and

spiritual prosperity poured forth was so large
and unbounded that its effects were invisible, and all one could see was the impression of increase with every achievement; and
today it is simply impossible to conceive how
natural it was at that time to believe in the
permanence of this progress and to consider
prosperity and intellect something that, like
grass, springs up wherever it is not deliberately rooted out.
Toward this confident bliss, this madness of growth, this fatefully exultant broadmindedness, the pale, scrawny student Lindner, tormented even physically by his height,
had a natural aversion, which expressed itself in an instinctive sensing of any error and
an alert receptivity for any sign of life that
gave evidence of this aversion. Of course,
economics was not his field of specialization,
and it was only later that he learned to evaluate these facts properly; but this made him

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all the more clairvoyant about the other aspect of this development, and the rot going
on in a state of mind that initially had placed
free trade, in the name of a free spirit, at the
summit of human activities and then abandoned the free spirit to the free trade, and
Lindner sniffed out the spiritual collapse that
then indeed followed. This belief in doom, in
the midst of a world comfortably ensconced
in its own progress, was the most powerful of
all his qualities; but this meant that he might
also possibly have become a socialist, or one
of those lonely and fatalistic people who
meddle in politics with the greatest reluctance, even if they are full of bitterness toward everything, and who assure the
propagation of the intellect by keeping to the
right path within their own narrow circle and
personally do what is meaningful, while leaving the therapeutics of culture to the quacks.
So when Lindner now asked himself how he
had become the person he was, he could give

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the comforting answer that it had happened

exactly the way one ordinarily enters a profession. Already in his last year at school he
had belonged to a group whose agenda had
been to criticize coolly and discreetly both
the classical paganism that was half officially admired in the school and the modern
spirit that was circulating in the world outside. Subsequently, repelled by the carefree
student antics at the university, he had
joined a fraternity in whose circles the influences of the political struggle were already
beginning to displace the harmless conversations of youth, as a beard displaces a baby
face. And when he got to be an upperclassman, the memorable occurrence applicable to every kind of thinking had dictatorially asserted itself: that the best support of
faith is lack of faith, since lack of faith, observed and struggled against in others, always gives the believer occasion to feel himself zealous.

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From the hour when Lindner had resolutely told himself that religion, too, was a
contrivance, chiefly for people and not for
saints, peace had come over him. Between
the desires to be a child and a servant of
God, his choice had been made. There was,
to be sure, in the enormous palace in which
he wished to serve, an innermost sanctum
where the miracles reposed and were preserved, and everyone thought of them occasionally; but none of His servants tarried
long in this sanctum: they all lived just in
front of it; indeed, it was anxiously protected
from the importunity of the uninitiated,
which had involved experiences not of the
happiest sort. This exerted a powerful appeal
on Lindner. He made a distinction between
arrogance and exaltation. The activity in the
antechamber, with its dignified forms and
myriad degrees of goings-on and subordinates, filled him with admiration and ambition; and the outside work he now undertook

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himself, the exercise of influence on moral,

political, and pedagogic organizations and
the imbuing of science with religious principles, contained tasks on which he could
spend not one but a thousand lives, but rewarded him with that enduring dynamism
harnessed to inner unchangeability which is
the happiness of blessed minds: at least that
is what he thought in contented hours, but
perhaps he was confusing it with the happiness of political minds. And so from then on
he joined associations, wrote pamphlets, delivered lectures, visited collections, made
connections, and before he had left the university the recruit in the movement of the
faithful had become a young man with a
prominent place on the officers list and influential patrons.
So there was truly no need for a personality with such a broad base and such a clarified summit to allow itself to be intimidated
by the saucy criticism of a young woman,

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and on returning to the present, Lindner

drew out his watch and confirmed that
Agathe had still not come, although it was almost time when Peter could return home.
Nevertheless, he opened the piano again
and, if he did not expose himself to the unfathomableness of the song, he did let his
eyes roam again over its words, accompanying them with a soft whisper. In doing this he
became aware for the first time that he was
giving them a false emphasis that was far too
emotional and not at all in accord with the
music, which for all its charm was rather
austere. He saw before him a Jesus child that
was somehow by Murillo,,, which is to say
that in some quite vague way, besides the
black cherry eyes of that masters older beggar boys, it had their picturesque beggars
rags, so that all this child had in common
with the Son of God and the Savior was the
touchingly humanized quality, but in a quite
obviously overdone and really tasteless way.

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This made an unpleasant impression on him

and again wove Agathe into his thoughts, for
he recalled that she had once exclaimed that
there was really nothing so peculiar as that
the taste which had produced Gothic cathedrals and passionate devotion should have
been succeeded by a taste that found pleasure in paper flowers, beading, little serrated
covers, and simpering language, so that faith
had become tasteless, and the faculty for giving a taste and smell to the ineffable was
kept alive almost solely by nonbelievers or
dubious people! Lindner told himself that
Agathe was an aesthetic nature, meaning
something that could not attain the seriousness of economics or morality but in certain
cases could be quite stimulating, and this
was one of them. Up to now Lindner had
found the invention of paper flowers beautiful and sensible, but he suddenly decided to
remove a bouquet of them that was standing

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on the table, hiding it for the time being behind his back.
This happened almost spontaneously,
and he was slightly dismayed by this action,
but was under the impression that he probably knew how to provide an explanation for
the peculiarity remarked on by Agathe,
which she had let take its course, an explanation she would not have expected of him. A
saying of the Apostles occurred to him:
Though I speak with the tongues of men
and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal! And glancing at the floor with puckered
forehead, he considered that for many years
everything he had done stood in relationship
to eternal love. He belonged to a wondrous
community of loveand it was this that distinguished him from the ordinary intellectualin which nothing happened for which an
allegorical connection to the Eternal could
not have been given, no matter how

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contingent and yoked to things earthly: indeed, nothing in which this connection
would not have taken root as its inmost
meaning, even if this did not always result in
ones consciousness always being polished to
a shine. But there is a powerful difference
between the love one possesses as conviction
and the love that possesses one: a distinction
in freshness, he might say, even if, of course,
the difference between purified knowledge
and muddy turbulence was certainly just as
justified. Lindner did not doubt that purified
conviction deserved to be placed higher; but
the older it is, the more it purifies itself,
which is to say that it frees itself from the irregularities of the emotions that produced it;
and gradually there remains not even the
conviction of these passions but only the
readiness to remember and be able to use
them whenever they might be needed. This
might explain why the works of the emotions

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wither away unless they are freshened once

again by the immediate experience of love.
Lindner was preoccupied with such almost heretical considerations when suddenly
the bell shrilled.
He shrugged his shoulders, closed the
piano again, and excused himself to himself
with the words: life needs not only worshipers but workers!

57
TRUTH AND ECSTASY
Agathe had not finished reading the entries
in her brothers diaries when for the second
time she heard his steps on the gravel-strewn
path beneath the windows, this time with
unmistakable clarity. She made up her mind
to penetrate his lair again, without his knowledge, at the first opportunity that presented
itself. For however alien this way of viewing
things was to her nature, she did want to get
to know and understand it. Mixed in with
this, too, was a little revenge, and she wanted
to pay back secret with secret, and so did not
want to be surprised. She hastily put the papers in order, replaced them, and erased
every trace that might have betrayed her new

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knowledge. Moreover, a glance at the time

told her that she really ought to have left the
house long since and was no doubt being
awaited with some irritation elsewhere,
something Ulrich might not know about. The
double standard she was applying suddenly
made her smile. She knew that her own lack
of candor was not really prejudicial to loyalty, and that this lack was, moreover, much
worse than Ulrichs. This was a spontaneous
satisfaction that enabled her to part from her
discovery notably reconciled.
When her brother entered his study
again he no longer found her there, but this
did not surprise him. He had finally
wandered back in, the people and circumstances he had been discussing with Stumm
having so filled his mind that after the General left he had strolled about in the garden
for some time. After long abstinence, a hastily drunk glass of wine can bring about a
similar, merely alcoholic vivacity, behind

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whose colorful scene changes one remains

gloomy and untouched; and so it had not
even crossed his mind that the people in
whose destinies he was again apparently so
interested lived no great distance from him
and could easily have been contacted. The
actual connection with them had remained
as paralyzed as a cut muscle.
Still, several memories formed an exception to this and had aroused thoughts to
which there were even now bridges of feeling, although only quite fragmentary ones.
For instance, what he had characterized as
the return of Section Chief Tuzzi from the
inwardness of emotion to its external manipulation gave him the deeper pleasure of reminding himself that his diaries aimed at a
distinction between these two aspects of
emotion. But he also saw before him Diotima
in her beauty, which was different from
Agathes; and it flattered him that Diotima
was still thinking of him, although with all

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his heart he did not begrudge her her chastisement at the hands of her husband in
those moments when this heart again, so to
speak, transformed itself into flesh. Of all the
conversations he had had with her, he remembered the one in which she had postulated the possibility of occult powers arising
in love; this insight had been vouchsafed her
by her love for the rich man who also wanted
to have Soul, and this now led him to think
of Arnheim as well. Ulrich still owed him an
answer to the emotional offer that was to
have brought him influence on the world of
action, and this led him to wonder what
could have become of the equally magniloquent and no less vague offer of marriage
that had once enraptured Diotima. Presumably the same thing: Arnheim would keep his
word if you reminded him of it, but would
have no objection if you forgot. The scornful
tension that had emerged on his face at the
memory of Diotimas moment of glory

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relaxed again. It really would be quite decent

of her not to keep a hold on Arnheim, he
thought. A voice speaking reasonably in her
overpopulated mind. At times, she had fits of
sobriety and felt herself abandoned by the
higher things, and then she would be quite
nice. Ulrich had always harbored some small
inclination for her in the midst of all his disinclination, and did not want to exclude the
possibility that she herself might finally have
realized what a ridiculous pair she and
Arnheim made: she prepared to commit the
sacrifice of adultery, Arnheim the sacrifice of
marriage, so that again they would not come
together, finally convincing themselves of
something heavenly and unattainable in order to elevate themselves above the attainable. But when Bonadeas story about Diotimas school of love occurred to him, he finally said to himself that there was still
something unpleasant about her, and there

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was nothing to exclude her throwing her entire energy of love at him at some point.
This was, more or less, how Ulrich let
his thoughts run on after his conversation
with Stumm, and it had seemed to him that
this was how upstanding people had to think
whenever they concerned themselves with
one another in the traditional way; but he
himself had got quite out of the habit.
And when he entered the house all this
had disappeared into nothingness. He hesitated a moment, again standing in front of his
desk, took his diaries in his hands, and put
them down again. He ruminated. In his papers a few observations about ecstatic conditions followed immediately after the exposition of the concept of the emotions, and he
found this passage correct. An attitude entirely under the domination of a single emotion was indeed, as he had occasionally mentioned, already an ecstatic attitude. To fall
under the sway of anger or fear is an ecstasy.

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The world as it looks to the eyes of a person

who sees only red or only menace does not
indeed last long, and that is why one does
not speak of a world but speaks only of suggestions and illusions; but when masses succumb to this ecstasy, hallucinations of terrifying power and extent arise.
A different kind of ecstasy, which he
had also pointed out previously, was the ecstasy of the uttermost degree of feeling.
When this is attained, action is no longer
purposeful but on the contrary becomes uncertain, indeed often absurd: the world loses
its colors in a kind of cold incandescence,
and the self disappears except for its empty
shell. This vanishing of hearing and seeing is
doubtless, too, an impoverishing ecstasyand incidentally, all enraptured states
of soul are poorer in diversity than the everyday oneand becomes significant only
through its link with orgiastic ecstasy or the
transports of madness, with the state of

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unbearable physical exertions, dogged expressions of will, or intense suffering, for all
of which it can become the final component.
For the sake of brevity, Ulrich had, in these
examples, telescoped the overflowing and
desiccating forms of losing oneself, and not
unjustly so, for if from another point of view
the distinction is indeed a quite significant
one, yet in consideration of the ultimate
manifestations, the two forms come close to
merging. The orgiastically enraptured person
leaps to his ruin as into a light, and tearing
or being torn to pieces are for him blazing
acts of love and deeds of freedom in the same
way that, for all the differences, the person
who is deeply exhausted and embittered allows himself to fall to his catastrophe, receiving salvation in this final act; in other words,
he too receives something that is sweetened
by freedom and love. Thus action and suffering blend on the highest plane on which they
can still be experienced.

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But this ecstasy of undivided sovereignty and of the crisis of an emotion are, of
course, to a greater or lesser degree merely
mental constructs, and true ecstasieswhether mystical, martial, or those of
love groups or other transported communitiesalways presuppose a cluster of interrelated emotions and arise from a circle of
ideas that reflects them. In less consolidated
form, occasionally rigidifying and occasionally loosening up again, such unreal images
of the world, formed in the sense of being
particular groupings of ideas and feelings (as
Weltanschauung, as personal tic), are so frequent in everyday life that most of them are
not even regarded as ecstasies, although they
are the preliminary stage of ecstasies in
about the same way that a safety match in its
box signifies the preliminary stage of a burning match. In his last entry, Ulrich had noted
that a picture of the world whose nature is
ecstatic also arises whenever the emotions

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and their subservient ideas are simply given

priority over sobriety and reflection: it is the
rapturous, emotional picture of the world,
ecstatic life, that is periodically encountered
in literature and to some extent also in reality, in larger or smaller social communes; but
what was missing in this enumeration was
precisely what for Ulrich was most important, the adducing of the one and only condition of soul and world which he considered
an ecstasy that would be a worthy coequal of
reality. But his thoughts now digressed from
the subject, for if he wanted to make up his
mind about evaluating this most seductive of
exceptions, it was absolutely necessaryand
this was also brought home to him in that he
had hesitatingly alternated between an ecstatic world and a mere picture of an ecstatic
worldto first become acquainted with the
link that exists between our emotions and
what is real: that is to say, the world to which

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we, as opposed to the illusions of ecstasy, impart this value.

But the standards by which we measure
this world are those of the understanding,
and the conditions under which this happens
are likewise those of the understanding. But
understandingeven if increasingly greater
discrimination of its limits and rights places
great obstacles in the path of the intellectpossesses a peculiarity in specific relation to the emotions that is easily perceived
and characterized: in order to understand,
we must put aside our emotions to the
greatest extent possible. We block them out
in order to be objective, or we place
ourselves in a state in which the abiding
emotions neutralize each other, or we abandon ourselves to a group of cool feelings that,
handled carefully, are themselves conducive
to understanding. We draw upon what we
apprehend in this clearheaded condition for
comparison when in other cases we speak of

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delusions through the emotions; and then

we have a zero condition, a neutralized state:
in short, a specific situation of the emotions,
the silent presupposition of experience and
thought processes with whose aid we consider merely as subjective whatever other
emotional states used to delude us. A millenniums experience has confirmed that we are
most qualified to consistently satisfy reality
if we place ourselves in this condition again
and again, and that whoever wants not
merely to understand but also to act also has
need of this condition. Not even a boxer can
do without objectivity, which in his case
means staying cool, and inside the ropes he
can as little afford to be angry as he can to
lose his courage if he does not want to come
out the loser. So our emotional attitude too,
if it is to be adapted to reality, does not depend solely on the emotions governing us at
the moment or on their submerged instinctual levels, but depends simultaneously

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on the enduring and recurrent emotional

state that guarantees an understanding of
reality and is usually as little visible as the air
within which we breathe.
This personal discovery of a connection
that is usually not often taken into account
had enticed Ulrich to thinking further about
the relation of the emotions to reality. Here a
distinction must be made between the sense
perceptions and the emotions. The former
also deceive, and clearly neither the sensuous image of the world that sense perceptions represent to us is the reality itself, nor
is the mental image we infer from it independent of the human way of thinking,
though it is independent of the subjective
way of thinking. But although there is no
tangible similarity between reality and even
the most exact representation of it that we
haveindeed, there is, rather, an unbridgeable abyss of dissimilarityand though we
never get to see the original, yet we are able

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in some complex way to decide whether and

under what conditions this image is correct.
It is different with the emotions: for these
present even the image falsely, to maintain
the metaphor, and yet in so doing fulfill just
as adequately the task of keeping us in harmony with reality, except that they do it in a
different way. Perhaps this challenge of remaining in harmony with reality had a particular attraction for Ulrich, but aside from
that, it is also the characteristic sign of
everything that asserts itself in life; and there
can thus be derived from it an excellent
shorthand formula and demonstration of
whether the image that perception and reason give us of something is correct and true,
even though this formula is not all-inclusive.
We require that the consequences of the
mental picture of reality we have constructed
agree with the ideational image of the consequences that actually ensue in reality, and
only
then
do
we
consider
the

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understandings image to be correct. In contrast to this, it can be said of the emotions

that they have taken over the task of keeping
us constantly in errors that constantly cancel
one another out.
And yet this is only the consequence of
a division of labor in which the emotion that
is served by the tools of the senses, and the
thought processes that are heavily influenced
by this emotion, develop and, briefly stated,
have developed into sources of understanding, while the realm of the emotions themselves has been relegated to the role of more
or less blind instigator; for in primeval times,
our emotions as well as our sense sensations
sprang from the same root, an attitude that
involved the entire creature when it came into contact with a stimulus. The division of
labor that arose later can even now be expressed by the statement that the emotions
do without understanding what we would do
with understanding if we were ever to do

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anything without some instigation other

than understanding! If one could only project an image of this feeling attitude, it would
have to be this: we assume about the emotions that they color the correct picture of the
world and distort and falsely represent it.
Science as well as everyday attitudes number
the emotions among the subjectivities;
they assume that these attitudes merely alter
the world we see, for they presume that an
emotion dissipates after a short time and
that the changes it has caused in a perception of the world will disappear, so that
reality will, over a shorter or longer time,
reassert itself.
It seemed to Ulrich quite remarkable
that this sometimes paralyzed condition of
the emotions, which forms the basis of both
scientific investigation and everyday behavior, has a subsidiary counterpoint in that the
canceling of emotions is also encountered as
a characteristic of earthly life. For the

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influence our emotions exercise on the

minds impartial representations, those
things that maintain their validity as being
true and indispensable, cancels itself out
more or less completely over a long enough
period of time, as well as over the breadth of
matter that gets piled up; and the influence
of the emotions on the minds non-impartial
representations, on those unsteady ideas and
ideologies, thoughts, views, and mental attitudes born out of changeable emotions,
which dominate historical life both sequentially and in juxtaposition, also cancels itself
out, even if it does so in opposition to certainty, even if it cancels itself out to worse
than nothing, to contingency, to impotent
disorder and vacillation in short, to what
Ulrich exasperatedly called the business of
the emotions.
Now that he read it again, he would
have liked to work out this point more precisely but couldnt, because the written train

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of thought that ended here, trailing off in a

few further catchwords, required that he
bring more important things to a conclusion.
For if we project the intellectual image of the
world, the one that corresponds to reality
(even if it is always just an image, it is the
right image), on the assumption of a specific
state of the emotions, the question arises of
what would happen if we were to be just as
effectively controlled not by it but by other
emotional states. That this question is not
entirely nonsensical can be seen in that every
strong affect distorts our image of the world
in its own way, and a deeply melancholy person, or one who is constitutionally cheerful,
could object to the fancies of a neutral and
evenhanded person, saying that it is not so
much because of their blood that they are
gloomy or cheerful as on account of their experiences in a world that is full of heavy
gloom or heavenly frivolity. And so, however
an image of the world may be imagined

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based on the predominance of an emotion or

a group of emotions, including for instance
the orgiastic, it can also be based on bringing
emotions in general to the fore, as in the ecstatic and emotional frame of mind of an individual or a community; it is a normal
everyday experience that the world is depicted differently on the basis of specific groups
of ideas and that life is lived in different ways
up to the point of obvious insanity.
Ulrich was not in the least minded to
consider that understanding was an error, or
the world an illusion, and yet it seemed to
him admissible to speak not only of an
altered picture of the world but also of another world, if instead of the tangible emotion that serves adaptation to the world some
other emotion predominates. This other
world would be unreal in the sense that it
would be deprived of almost all objectivity: it
would contain no ideas, computations, decisions, and actions that were adapted to

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nature, and dissension among people would

perhaps fail to appear for quite some time
but, once present, would be almost impossible to heal. Ultimately, however, that
would differ from our world only in degree,
and about that possibility only the question
can decide whether a humanity living under
such conditions would still be capable of carrying on with its life, and whether it could
achieve a certain stability in the coming and
going of attacks from the outer world and in
its own behavior. And there are many things
that can be imagined as subtracted from
reality or replaced by other things, without
people being unable to live in a world so constituted. Many things are capable of reality
and the world that do not occur in a particular reality or world.
Ulrich was not exactly satisfied with
this after he had written it down, for he did
not want it to appear as if all these possible
realities were equally justified. He stood up

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and paced back and forth in his study. Something was still missing, some land of distinction between reality and full reality,
or the distinction between reality for
someone and real reality, or in other
terms, an exposition of the distinctions of
rank was missing between the claim to the
validity of reality and world, and a motivation for our claiming a priority dependent on
conditions impossible to fulfill for what
seems to us to be real and true under all conditions, a priority that is true only under certain conditions. For on the one hand an animal, too, adapts splendidly to the world, and
because it certainly does not do so in complete darkness of soul, there must be even in
the animal something that corresponds to
human ideas of world and reality without it
having to be, on that account, even remotely
similar; and on the other hand we dont possess true reality but can merely refine our
ideas about it in an infinite, ongoing process,

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while in the hurly-burly of life we even use

juxtaposed ideas of quite varying degrees of
profundity, such as Ulrich himself had encountered in the course of this very hour in
the example of a table and a lovely woman.
But after having thought it over in approximately this fashion, Ulrich was rid of his restlessness and decided that it was enough; for
what might still be said about this subject
was not reserved for him, and not for this
hour, either. He merely convinced himself
once more that there was presumably nothing in his formulation that would be expected to impede a more precise exposition, and
for honors sake he wrote a few words to indicate what was missing.
And when he had done this he completely interrupted his activity, looked out
the window into the garden lying there in the
late-afternoon light, and even went down for
a while in order to expose his head to the
fresh air. He was almost afraid that he could

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now assert either too much or too little; for

what was still waiting to be written down by
him seemed to him more important than
anything else.

58
ULRICH AND THE TWO WORLDS OF
EMOTION
Where would be the best place to begin?
Ulrich asked himself as he wandered around
the garden, the sun burning his face and
hands in one place, and the shadow of cooling leaves falling on them in another.
Should I begin right away with every emotion existing in the world in binary fashion
and bearing within itself the origin of two
worlds as different from each other as day
and night? Or would I do better to mention
the significance that sobered feeling has for
our image of the world, and then come conversely to the influence that the image of the
world born from our actions and knowledge

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exercises on the picture of our emotions that

we create for ourselves? Or should I say that
there have already been states of ecstasy,
which I have sketchily described as worlds in
which emotions do not mutually cancel each
other out? But even while he was asking
himself these questions, he had already
made up his mind to begin with everything
at the same time; for the thought that made
him so anxious that he had interrupted his
writing had as many associations as an old
friendship, and there was no longer any way
of saying how or when it had arisen. While
he was trying to put things in order, Ulrich
had moved closer and closer to this
thoughtand it was only on his own account
that he had taken it upbut now that he had
come to the end, either clarity or emptiness
would have to emerge behind the dispersing
mists. The moment when he found the first
decisive words was not a pleasant one: In
every feeling there are two fundamentally

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opposed possibilities for development, which

usually fuse into one; but they can also come
into play individually, and that chiefly happens in a state of ecstasy!
He proposed to call them, for the time
being, the outer and the inner development,
and to consider them from the most harmless side. He had a crowd of examples at his
disposal: liking, love, anger, mistrust, generosity, disgust, envy, despair, fear, desire,
and he mentally ordered them into a series.
Then he set up a second series:
affability, tenderness, irritation, suspicion, high-spiritedness, anxiety, and longing,
lacking only those links for which he could
not find any name, and then he compared
the two series. One contained specific emotions, chiefly as they are aroused in us by a
specific encounter; the second contained
nonspecific emotions, which are strongest
when aroused by some unknown cause. And
yet in both cases it was the same emotions,

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in one case in a general, in the other in a specific state. So I would say, Ulrich thought,
that in every emotion there is a distinction
to be made between a development toward
specificity and a development toward
non-specificity. But before doing that, it
would first be better to list all the distinctions this involves.
He could have toted up most of them in
his sleep, but they will seem familiar to anyone who substitutes the word moods for
the nonspecific emotions from which Ulrich had formed his second series, although
Ulrich deliberately avoided this term. For if
one makes a distinction between emotion
and mood, it is readily apparent that the
specific emotion is always directed toward
something, originates in a life situation, has
a goal, and expresses itself in more or less
straightforward behavior, while a mood
demonstrates approximately the opposite of
all these things: it is encompassing, aimless,

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widely dispersed, and idle, and no matter

how clear it may be, it contains something
indeterminate and stands ready to engulf
any object without anything happening and
without itself changing in the process. So a
specific attitude toward something corresponds to the specific emotion, and a general
attitude toward everything corresponds to
the nonspecific emotion: the one draws us
into action, while the other merely allows us
to participate from behind a colorful
window.
For a moment Ulrich dwelt on this distinction between how specific and nonspecific emotions relate to the world. He said to
himself: I will add this: Whenever an emotion develops toward specificity, it focuses itself, so to speak, it constricts its purposiveness, and it finally ends up both internally
and externally in something of a blind alley;
it leads to an action or a resolve, and even if
it should not cease to exist in one or the

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other, it continues on, as changed as water

leaving a mill. If, on the other hand, it develops toward non-specificity, it apparently has
no energy at all. But while the specifically developed emotion is reminiscent of a creature
with grasping arms, the nonspecific emotion
changes the world in the same way the sky
changes its colors, without desire or self, and
in this form objects and actions change like
the clouds. The attitude of the nonspecific
emotion to the world has in it something magical andGod help me!in comparison to
the specific attitude, something feminine!
This is what Ulrich said to himself, and then
something occurred to him that took him far
afield: for of course it is chiefly the development toward a specific emotion that brings
with it the fragility and instability of the life
of the soul. That the moment of feeling can
never be sustained, that emotions wilt more
quickly than flowers, or transform themselves into paper flowers if one tries to

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preserve them, that happiness and will, art

and conviction, pass away: all this depends
on the specificity of the emotion, which always imposes on it a purposiveness and
forces it into the pace of life that dissolves or
changes it. On the other hand, the emotion
that persists in its non-specificity and
boundlessness is relatively impervious to
change. A comparison occurred to him: The
one dies like an individual, the other lasts
like a kind or species. In this arrangement
of the emotions there is perhaps repeated in
reality, even if very indirectly, a general arrangement of life; he was not able to gauge
this but did not stop over it, for he thought
he saw the main argument more clearly than
he ever had before.
He was now ready to return to his
study, but he waited, because he wanted to
mull over the entire plan in his head before
putting it down on paper. I spoke of two
possibilities of development and two states

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of one and the same emotion, he reflected,

but then there must also be present at the
origin of the emotion, of course, something
to initiate the process. And the drives that
feed our soul with a life that is still close to
animal blood actually demonstrate this bipartite disposition. A drive incites to action,
and this appears to be its major task; but it
also tunes the soul. If the drive has not yet
found a target, its nebulous expanding and
stretching become quite apparent; indeed,
there will be many people who see precisely
this as the sign of an awakening drivefor
example, the sex drivebut of course there is
a longing of hunger and other drives. So the
specific and the nonspecific are present in
the drive. 1*11 add, Ulrich thought, that the
bodily organs that are involved when the external world arouses an affect in us can on
other occasions produce this affect themselves if they receive a stimulus from within;

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and thats all it takes to arrive at a state of

ecstasy!
Then he reflected that according to the
results of research, and especially after his
discussion of these results in his diaries, it
was also to be assumed that the impulse for
one emotion can always serve for another
emotion, too, and that no emotion, in the
process of its shaping and strengthening,
ever comes to an entirely specifiable end. But
if that was true, then not only would no emotion ever attain its total specificity, but in all
probability it would not attain perfect nonspecificity either, and there was neither an
entirely specific nor an entirely nonspecific
emotion. And in truth it almost always happens that both possibilities combine in a
common reality, in which merely the characteristics of one or the other predominate.
There is no mood that does not also include specific emotions that form and dissolve again; and there is no specific emotion

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that, at least where it can be said to radiate,

seize, operate out of itself, extend itself,
or operate on the world directly, without
an external emotion, does not allow the characteristics of the nonspecific emotion to peer
through. There are certainly, however, emotions that closely approximate the one or the
other.
Of course the terms specific and
nonspecific involve the disadvantage that
even a specific emotion is always insufficiently specified and is in this sense nonspecific; but that should probably be easy to distinguish from significant non-specificity. So
all that remains is to settle why the particularity of the nonspecific emotion, and the
whole development leading up to it, is taken
to be less real than its counterpart, Ulrich
thought. Nature contains both. So the different ways they are treated are probably
connected with the external development of
emotion being more important for us than

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the inner development, or with the direction

of specificity meaning more to us than that of
non-specificity. If this were not so, our life
would truly have to be a different one than it
is! It is an inescapable peculiarity of
European culture that every minute the inner world is proclaimed the best and most
profound thing life has to offer, without regard for the fact that this inner world is
treated as merely an annex of the outer
world. And how this is done is frankly the
secret balance sheet of this culture, even
though it is an open secret: the external
world and the personality are set off
against each other. The assumption is that
the outer world stimulates in a person inner
processes that must enable that person to respond in an appropriate fashion; and by
mentally setting up this pathway leading
from a change in the world through the
change in a person to a further change in the
world, one derives the peculiar ambiguity

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that permits us to honor the internal world

as the true sphere of human grandeur and
yet to presuppose that everything taking
place within it has the ultimate task of flowing outward in the form of an orderly external action.
The thought went through Ulrichs
mind that it would be rewarding to consider
our civilizations attitude toward religion and
culture in this sense, but it seemed to him
more important to keep to the direction his
thoughts had been following. Instead of inner world, one could simply say emotions,
for they in particular are in the ambiguous
position of actually being this inwardness
and yet are mostly treated as a shadow of the
world outside; and this of course was involved with everything that Ulrich thought
he could distinguish as the inner and nonspecific development of emotions. This is
already shown in that the expressions we use
to describe inner governing processes are

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almost all derived from external processes;

for we obviously transpose the active kind of
external happening onto the differently constituted inner events even in representing
the latter as an activity, whether we call it an
emanation, a switching on or off, a taking
hold, or something similar. For these images,
derived from the outer world, have become
accepted and current for the inner world
only because we lack better ones to apprehend it. Even those scientific theories that
describe the emotions as an interpenetration
or juxtaposition on an equal footing of external and internal actions make a concession to this custom, precisely because they
ordinarily speak of acting and overlook pure
inwardnesss remoteness from acting. And
for these reasons alone, it is simply inevitable that the inner development of emotions
usually appears to us as a mere annex to
their external development, appears indeed
to be its repetition and muddying,

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distinguishing itself from the outer development through less sharply defined forms and
hazier connections, and thus evoking the
somewhat neglected impression of being an
incidental action.
But of course what is at stake is not
simply a form of expression or a mental priority; what we really feel is itself dependent
on reality in hundreds of ways and is therefore also dependent on the specific and external development of emotions to which the
development of inner and nonspecific emotions subordinates itself, by which the latter
are, as it were, blotted up. It shouldnt depend on the details, Ulrich resolved, yet it
could probably be shown in every detail not
only that the concept we create for ourselves
has the task of service-ably integrating its
subjective element into our ideas about
reality, but also that in feeling itself, both
dispositions merge in a holistic process that
unites their outer and inner development in

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very unequal fashion. Simply stated: we are

acting beings; for our actions we need the security of thinking; therefore we also need
emotions capable of being neutralizedand
our feeling has taken on its characteristic
form in that we integrate it into our image of
reality, and not the other way around, as ecstatics do. Just for that reason, however, we
must have within us the possibility of turning our feeling around and experiencing our
world differently!
He was now impatient to write, feeling
confident that these ideas had to be subjected to a more intense scrutiny. Once in his
study, he turned on the light, as the walls
already lay in shadow. Nothing was to be
heard of Agathe. He hesitated an instant before beginning.
He was inhibited when he recollected
that in his impatience to take shortcuts in
laying out and sketching his idea he had used
the concepts inner and outer, as well as

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individual and world, as if the distinction

between both agencies of the emotions coincided with these representations. This was of
course not so. The peculiar distinction Ulrich
had made between the disposition for and
the possibility of elaboration into specific
and nonspecific emotions, if allowed to prevail, cuts across the other distinctions. The
emotions develop in one and the other fashion just as much outwardly and in the world
as they do inwardly and in the individual. He
pondered over a proper word for this, for he
didnt much like the terms specific and
nonspecific, although they were indicative.
The original difference in experience is most
exposed and yet most expressive in that
there is an externalizing of emotions as well
as an inwardness both internal and external, he reflected, and was content for a moment, until he found these words, too, as unsatisfactory as all the others, when he went
on to try out a dozen. But this did not change

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his conviction; it only looked to him like a

complication in the discussion he was embarking on, the result of language not having
been created for this aspect of existence. If I
go over everything once more and find it correct, it wont matter to me if all I end up talking about is our ordinary emotions and our
other ones, he concluded.
Smiling, he took down from a shelf a
book that had a bookmark in it and wrote at
the head of his own words these words of another: Even if Heaven, like the world, is
subjected to a series of changing events, still
the Angels have neither concept nor conception of space and time. Although for them,
too, everything that happens happens sequentially, in complete harmony with the
world, they do not know what time means,
because what prevails in Heaven are neither
years nor days, but changing states. Where
there are years and days, seasons prevail,
where there are changes of state, conditions.

483/1856

Since the Angels have no conception of time

the way people do, they have no way of specifying time; they do not even know of its division into years, months, weeks, hours, into
tomorrow, yesterday, and today. If they
should hear a person speak of these
thingsand God has always linked Angels
with peoplewhat they understand by them
is states and the determination of states.
Mans thinking begins with time, the Angels
with a state; so what for human beings is a
natural idea is for the Angels a spiritual one.
All movement in the spiritual world is
brought about through inner changes in
state. When this troubled me, I was raised
into the sphere of Heaven to the consciousness of Angels, and led by God through the
realms of the firmament and conducted to
the constellations of the universe, and all this
in my mind, while my body remained in the
same place. This is how all the Angels moved
from place to place: that is why there are for

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them no intervals, and consequently no distances either, but only states and changes in
state. Every approach is a similarity of inner
states, every distancing a dissimilarity;
spaces in Heaven are nothing but external
states, which correspond to the internal
ones. In the spiritual world, everyone will appear visible to the other as soon as he has a
yearning desire for the others presence, for
then he is placing himself in the others state;
conversely, in the presence of disinclination
he will distance himself from him. In the
same way, someone who changes his abode
in halls or gardens gets where he is going
more quickly if he longs for the place, and
more slowly if his longing is less; with astonishment I saw this happen often. And
since the Angels are not able to conceive of
time, they also have a different idea of eternity than earthly people do; they understand
by it an infinite state, not an infinite time.

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A few days earlier, Ulrich had accidentally come across this in a selection of the
writings of Swedenborg he owned but had
never really read; and he had condensed it a
little and copied down so much of it because
he found it very pleasant to hear this old
metaphysician and learned engineerwho
made no small impression on Goethe, and
even on Kanttalking as confidently about
heaven and the angels as if it were Stockholm and its inhabitants. It fit in so well with
his own endeavor that the remaining differences, which were by no means insignificant,
were brought into relief with uncanny clarity.
It gave him great pleasure to seize on these
differences and conjure forth in a new fashion from the more cautiously posited concepts of a later century the assertionsdryly
unhallucinatory in their premature self-certainty, but with a whimsical effect nevertheless of a seer.

486/1856

And so he wrote down what he had

thought.

Alternate Draft
Versions
1940 - 1942
The following four chapters, in corrected
fair copy, are alternate versions of the
preceding galley chapters. (Alternates
47 and 48 have been omitted because the
first differs in only minor details from
galley chapter 57, and the second closely
parallels galley chapter 48.) Musil was
working on these during the last two
years of his life, up to his sudden death
on April 15,1942.

49
CONVERSATIONS ON LOVE
Man, the speaking animal, is the only one
that requires conversation even for his reproduction. And not only because he is always talking does he speak while that is going on too, but apparently his bliss in love is
bound root and branch to his loquacity, and
in so profoundly mysterious a fashion that it
almost calls to mind those ancients according to whose philosophy god, man, and
things arose from the logos, by which they
variously understood the Holy Ghost, reason, and speaking. Now not even psychoanalysis and sociology have had anything of consequence to say about this, although both
these modern sciences might well compete

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with Catholicism in intervening in everything

human. So one must construct ones own explanation, that in love, conversations play an
almost greater role than anything else. Love
is the most garrulous of all emotions, and it
consists largely of loquaciousness. If the person is young, these conversations that encompass everything are part of the phenomenon of growing up; if he is mature, they
form his peacocks fan, which, even though it
consists only of quills, unfolds the more vibrantly the later it happens. The reason
might lie in the awakening of contemplative
thinking through the emotions of love, and
in its enduring connection with them; but
this would only be putting off the problem
for the moment, for even if the word
contemplation is used almost as often as
the word love, it is not any clearer.
Whether, moreover, what bound
Agathe and Ulrich together can be accused of
being love or not is not to be decided on

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these grounds, although they spoke with

each other insatiably. What they spoke
about, too, turned around love, always and
somehow; that is true. But what is true of
every emotion is true of love, that its ardor
expands more strongly in words the farther
off action is; and what persuaded brother
and sister, after the initial violent and obscure emotional experiences that had gone
before, to give themselves over to conversations, and what seemed to them at times like
a magic spell, was above all not knowing how
they could act. But the timidity before their
own emotions that was involved in this, and
their curious penetration inward to this emotion from its periphery, sometimes caused
these conversations to come out sounding
more superficial than the depth that underlay them.

50
DIFFICULTIES WHERE THEY ARE
NOT LOOKED FOR
How do things stand with the example, as
celebrated as it is happily experienced, of
love between two so-called people of different sexes? It is a special case of the commandment to love thy neighbor without
knowing what land of person he is; and a test
of the relationship that exists between love
and reality.
People make of each other the dolls
with which they have already played in
dreaming of love.
And what the other thinks and really is
has no influence on this at all?

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As long as one loves the other, and because one loves the other, everything is enchanting; but this is not true the other way
around. Never has a woman loved a man because of his thoughts or opinions, or a man a
woman on account of hers. These play only
an important secondary role. Moreover, the
same is true of thoughts as of anger: if one
understands impartially what the other
means, not only is anger disarmed, but most
of the time, against its expectation, love as
well.
But, especially at the beginning, isnt
what plays the major role being charmed by
the concord of opinions?
When the man hears the womans
voice, he hears himself being repeated by a
marvelous submerged orchestra, and women
are the most unconscious of ventriloquists;
without its coming from their mouths, they
hear themselves giving the cleverest answers.
Each time it is like a small annunciation: a

493/1856

person emerges from the clouds at the side

of another, and everything the one utters
seems to the other a heavenly crown, custom
fitted to his head! Later, of course, you feel
like a drunk who has slept off his stupor.
And then the deeds! Are not the deeds
of loveits loyalty, its sacrifices and attentionsits most beautiful demonstration? But
deeds, like all mute things, are ambiguous. If
one thinks back on ones hfe as a dynamic
chain of actions and events, it amounts to a
play in which one has not noticed a single
word of the dialogue and whose scenes have
the same monotonous climaxes!
So one does not love according to merit
and reward, and in anti-phony with the immortal spirits mortally in love?
That one is not loved as one deserves is
the sorrow of all old maids of both sexes!
It was Agathe who gave this response.
The uncannily beautiful where-does-it-come-

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from of love rose up from past loves in conjunction with the mild frenzy of injustice and
even reconciled her to the lack of dignity and
seriousness of which she sometimes complained because of her game with Professor
Lindner, and which she was always ashamed
of whenever she again found herself in Ulrichs vicinity. But Ulrich had begun the conversation, and in the course of it had become
interested in pumping her for her memories;
for her way of judging these delights was
similar to his.
She looked at him and laughed.
Havent you ever loved a person above
everything, and despised yourself for it?
I could say no; but I wont indignantly
reject it out of hand, Ulrich said. It could
have happened.
Have you never loved a person,
Agathe went on excitedly, despite the
strangest conviction that this person,

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whether he has a beard or breasts, about

whom you thought you knew everything and
whom you esteem, and who talks incessantly
about you and himself, is really only visiting
love? You could leave out his thinking and
his merits, give him a different destiny, furnish him with a different beard and different
legs: you could almost leave him out, and
you would still love him!That is, insofar as
you love him at all! she added to soften it.
Her voice had a deep resonance, with a
restless glitter in its depths, as from a fire.
She sat down guiltily, because in her unintentional eagerness she had sprung up from
her chair.
Ulrich, too, felt somewhat guilty on account of this conversation, and smiled. He
had not in the least intended to speak of love
as one of those contemporary bifurcated
emotions that the latest trend calls
ambivalent, which amounts to saying that
the soul, as is the case with swindlers, always

496/1856

winks with its left eye while pledging an oath

with its right hand. He had only found it
amusing that love, to arise and endure, does
not depend on anything significant. That is,
you love someone in spite of everything, and
equally well on account of nothing; and that
means either that the whole business is a
fantasy or that this fantasy is the whole business, as the world is a whole in which no
sparrow falls without the All-Feeling One being aware of it.
So it doesnt depend on anything at
all! Agathe exclaimed byway of conclusion.
Not on what a person is, not on what he
thinks, not on what he wants, and not on
what he does.
It was clear to them that they were
speaking of the security of the soul, or, since
it might be well to avoid such a grand word,
of the insecurity, which theyusing the term
now with modest imprecision and in an
overall sensefelt in their souls. And that

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they were talking of love, in the course of

which they reminded each other of its
changeability and its art of metamorphosis,
happened only because it is one of the most
violent and distinctive emotions, and yet it is
such a suspicious emotion before the stern
throne of sovereign understanding that it
causes even this understanding to waver. But
here they had already found a beginning
when they had scarcely begun strolling in the
sunshine of loving ones neighbor; and mindful of the assertion that even in this gracious
stupefaction you had no idea whether you
really loved people, and whether you were
loving real people, or whether, and by means
of what qualities, you were being duped by a
fantasy and a transformation, Ulrich showed
himself assiduous in finding a verbal knot
that would give him a handhold on the questionable relationship that exists between
emotion and understanding, at least at the

498/1856

present moment and in the spirit of the idle

conversation that had just died away.
This always contains both contradictions; they form a four-horse team, he said.
You love a person because you know him;
and because you dont know him. And you
understand him because you love him; and
dont know him because you love him. And
sometimes this reaches such a pitch that it
suddenly becomes quite palpable. These are
the notorious moments when Venus through
Apollo, and Apollo through Venus, gaze at a
hollow scarecrow and are mightily amazed
that previously they had seen something else
there. If love is stronger than this astonishment, a struggle arises between them, and
sometimes lovealbeit exhausted, despairing, and mortally woundedemerges the victor. But if love is not so strong, it becomes a
struggle between people who think themselves deceived; it comes to insults, crude intrusions of reality, incredible humiliations

499/1856

intended to make up for your having been

the simpleton. He had experienced this
stormy weather of love often enough to be
able to describe it now quite comfortably.
But Agathe put an end to this. If you
dont mind, Id like to point out that these
marital and extramarital affairs of honor are
for the most part much overrated! she objected, and again tried to find a comfortable
position.
All love is overrated! The madman who
in his derangement stabs with a knife and
runs it through an innocent person who just
happens to be standing where his hallucination isin love hes normal! Ulrich declared, and laughed.

51
LOVING IS NOT SIMPLE
A comfortable position and lackadaisical
sunshine, which caresses without being importunate, facilitated these conversations.
They were mostly conducted between two
deck chairs that had been not so much
moved into the protection and shade of the
house as into the shaded light coming from
the garden, its freedom modulated by the
morning walls. One should not, of course, assume that the chairs were standing there because brother and sisterstimulated by the
sterility of their relationship, which in the ordinary sense was simply present but in a
higher sense was perhaps threateningmight have had the intention of

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exchanging their opinions concerning the deceptive nature of love in SchopenhauerianHindu fashion, and of defending themselves
against the insane seductive workings of its
drive to procreation by intellectually dismembering them; what dictated the choice
of the half-shadowed, the protective, and the
curiously withdrawn had a simpler explanation. The subject matter of the conversation
was itself so constituted that in the infinite
experience through which the notion of love
first emerges distinctly, the most various associative pathways came to light, leading
from one question to the next. Thus the two
questions of how one loves the neighbor one
does not know, and how one loves oneself,
whom one knows even less, directed their
curiosity to the question encompassing both:
namely, how one loves at all; or, put differently, what love really is. At first glance this
might seem rather precocious, and also an
all-too-judicious question for a couple in

502/1856

love; but it gains in mental confusion as soon

as one extends it to include millions of loving
couples and their variety.
These millions differ not only individually (which is their pride) but also according
to their ways of acting, their object, and their
relationship. There are times when one cannot speak of loving couples at all but can still
speak of love, and other times, when one can
talk of loving couples but not of love, in
which case things proceed in rather more ordinary fashion. All in all, the word embraces
as many contradictions as Sunday in a small
country town, where the farm boys go to
mass at ten in the morning, visit the brothel
in a side street at eleven, and enter the tavern on the main square at noon to eat and
drink. Is there any sense in trying to investigate such a word all the way around? But in
using it one is acting unconsciously, as if despite all the differences there were some inherent common quality! Whether you love a

503/1856

walking stick or honor is six of one and half a

dozen of the other, and it would not occur to
anybody to name these things in the same
breath if one werent accustomed to so doing
every day. Other kinds of games about things
that are different and yet one and the same
can be addressed with: loving the bottle, loving tobacco, and loving even worse poisons.
Spinach and outdoor exercise. Sports or the
mind. Truth. Wife, child, dog. Those only added to the list who spoke about: God. Beauty,
Fatherland, and money. Nature, friend, profession, and life. Freedom. Success, power,
justice, or simply virtue. One loves all these
things; in short, there are almost as many
things associated with love as there are ways
of striving and speaking. But what are the
distinctions, and what do these loves have in
common?
It might be useful to think of the word
fork. There are eating forks, manure forks,
tree-branch forks, gun forks, road forks, and

504/1856

other forks, and what they all have in common is the shaping characteristic of
forkness. This is the decisive experience,
what is forked, the gestalt of the fork, in the
most disparate things that are called by that
name. If you proceed from these things, it
turns out that they all belong to the same
category; if you proceed from the initial impression of forkness, it turns out that it is
filled out and complemented by the impressions of the various specific forks. The common element is therefore a form or gestalt,
and the differentiation lies first in the variety
of forms it can assume, but then also in the
objects having such a form, their purpose,
and such things. But while every fork can be
directly compared with every other, and is
present to the senses, even if only in the form
of a chalk line, or mentally, this is not the
case with the various shapes of love; and the
entire usefulness of the example is limited to
the question of whether here, too,

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corresponding to the forkness of forks, there

is in all cases a decisive experience, a loveness, a lovebeing, and a lovekind. But love is
not an object of sensory understanding that
is to be grasped with a glance, or even with
an emotion, but a moral event, in the way
that premeditated murder, justice, or scorn
is; and this means among other things that a
multiply branching and variously supported
chain of comparisons is possible among various examples of it, the more distant of which
can be quite dissimilar to each other, indeed
distinct from each other to the point of being
opposite, and yet be connected through an
association that echoes from one link to the
next. Acting from love can thus go as far as
hate; and yet the cause is not the much-invoked ambivalence, the dichotomy of emotions, but precisely the full totality of life.
Nevertheless, such a word might also
have preceded the developing continuation
of the conversation. For forks and other such

506/1856

innocent aids aside, sophisticated conversation knows nowadays how to handle the essence and nature of love without faltering,
and yet to express itself as grippingly as if
this kernel were concealed in all the various
appearances of love the way forkness is contained in the manure fork or the salad fork.
This leads one to sayand Ulrich and
Agathe, too, could have been seduced into
this by the general customthat the important thing in every land of love is libido, or to
say that it is eros. These two words do not
have the same history, yet they are comparable, especially in the contemporary view.
For when psychoanalysis (because an age
that nowhere goes in for intellectual or spiritual depth is riveted to hear that it has a
depth psychology) began to become an
everyday philosophy and interrupted the
middle classes lack of adventure, everything
in sight was called libido, so that in the end
one could as little say what this key and

507/1856

skeleton-key idea was not as what it was.

And much the same is true of eros, except
that those who, with the greatest conviction,
reduce all physical and spiritual worldly
bonds to eros have regarded their eros the
same way from the very beginning. It would
be futile to translate libido as drive or desire,
specifically sexual or pre-sexual drive or desire, or to translate eros, on the other hand,
as spiritual, indeed supra-sensory, tenderness; you would then have to add a specialized historical treatise. Ones boredom with
this makes ignorance a pleasure. But this is
what determined in advance that the conversation conducted between two deck chairs
did not take the direction indicated but
found attraction and refreshment instead in
the primitive and insufficient process of
simply piling up as many examples as possible of what was called love and putting
them side by side as in a game: indeed, to

508/1856

behave as ingenuously as possible and not

despise even the least judicious examples.
Comfortably chatting, they shared
whatever examples occurred to them, and
how they occurred to them, whether according to the emotion, according to the object it
was directed at, or according to the action in
which it expressed itself. But it was also an
advantage first to take the procedure in hand
and consider whether it merited the name of
love in real or metaphorical terms, and to
what extent. In this fashion many kinds of
material from different areas were brought
together.
But spontaneously, the first thing they
talked about was emotion; for the entire
nature of love appears to be a process of feeling. All the more surprising is the response
that emotion is the least part of love. For the
completely inexperienced, it would be like
sugar and toothache; not quite as sweet, and
not quite as painful, and as restless as cattle

509/1856

plagued by horseflies. This comparison

might not seem a masterpiece to anyone who
is himself tormented by love; and yet the
usual description is really not that much different: being torn by doubts and anxieties,
pain and longing, and vague desires! Since
olden times it seems that this description has
not been able to specify the condition any
more precisely. But this lack of emotional
specificity is not characteristic only of love.
Whether one is happy or sad is also not
something one experiences as irrevocably
and straightforwardly as one distinguishes
smooth from rough, nor can other emotions
be recognized any better purely by feeling or
even touching them. For that reason an observation was appropriate at this point that
they might have fleshed out as it deserved,
on the unequal disposition and shaping of
emotions. This was the term that Ulrich set
out as its premise; he might also have said
disposition, shaping, and consolidation.

510/1856

For he introduced it with the natural

experience that every emotion involves a
convincing certainty of itself that is obviously
part of its nucleus; and he added that it must
also be assumed, on equally general grounds,
that the disparity of emotions began no less
with this nucleus. You can hear this in his examples. Love for a friend has a different origin and different traits from love for a girl;
love for a completely faded woman different
ones from love for a saintly, reserved woman; and emotions such as (to remain with
love) love, veneration, prurience, bondage,
or the lands of love and the lands of antipathy that diverge even further from one another are already different in their very roots.
If one allows both assumptions, then all
emotions, from beginning to end, would
have to be as solid and transparent as crystals. And yet no emotion is unmistakably
what it appears to be, and neither self-observation nor the actions to which it gives rise

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provide any assurance about it. This distinction between the self-assurance and the uncertainty of emotions is surely not trifling.
But if one observes the origin of the emotion
in the context of its physiological as well as
its social causes, this difference becomes
quite natural. These causes awaken in general terms, as one might say, merely the land of
emotion, without determining it in detail; for
corresponding to every drive and every external situation that sets it in motion is a
whole bundle of emotions that might satisfy
them. And whatever of this is initially
present can be called the nucleus of the emotion that is still between being and nonbeing.
If one wanted to describe this nucleus,
however it might be constituted, one could
not come up with anything more apt than
that it is something that in the course of its
development, and independently of a great
deal that may or may not be relevant, will develop into the emotion it was intended to

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become. Thus every emotion has, besides its

initial disposition, a destiny as well; and
therefore, since what it later develops into is
highly dependent on accruing conditions,
there is no emotion that would unerringly be
itself from the very beginning; indeed, there
is perhaps not even one that would indisputably and purely be an emotion. Put another
way, it follows from this working together of
disposition and. shaping that in the field of
the emotions what predominates are not
their pure occurrence and its unequivocal
fulfillment, but their progressive approximation and approximate fulfillment. Something
similar is also true of everything that requires emotion in order to be understood.
This was the end of the observation adduced by Ulrich, which contained approximately these explanations in this sequence.
Hardly less brief and exaggerated than the
assertion that emotion was the smallest part
of love, it could also be said that because it

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was an emotion, it was not to be recognized

by emotion. This, moreover, shed some light
on the question of why he had called love a
moral
experience.
The
three
chief
termsdisposition, shaping, and consolidationwere, however, the main cruxes connecting the ordered understanding of the
phenomenon of emotions: at least according
to a particular fundamental view, to which
Ulrich not unwillingly turned whenever he
had need of such an explanation. But at this
stage, because working this out properly had
made greater and more profound claims
than he was willing to take upon himself,
claims that led into the didactic sphere, he
broke off what had been begun.
The continuation reached out in two
directions. According to the program of the
conversation, it ought now to have been the
turns of the object and the action of love to
be discussed, in order to determine what it
was in them that gave rise to their highly

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dissimilar manifestations and to discover

what, ultimately, love really is. This was
why they had talked about the involvement
of actions at the very beginning of the emotion in determining that emotion, which
should be all the more repeatable in regard
to what happened to it later. But Agathe
asked an additional question: it might have
been possible and she had reasons, if not
for distrust, at least to be afraid of itthat
the explanation her brother had selected was
really valid only for a weak emotion, or for
an experience that wanted to have nothing to
do with strong ones.
Ulrich replied: Not in the least! It is
precisely when it is at its strongest that an
emotion is most secure. In the greatest panic, one is paralyzed or screams instead of
fleeing or defending oneself. In the greatest
happiness there is often a peculiar pain.
Great eagerness, too, can only harm as one
says. And in general it can be maintained

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that at the highest pitch of feeling the emotions fade and disappear as in a dazzling
light. It may be that the entire world of emotions that we know is designed for only a
middling kind of life and ceases at the
highest stages, just as it does not begin at the
lowest. An indirect part of this, too, is what
you experience when you observe your feelings, especially when you examine them
closely: they become indistinct and are hard
to distinguish. But what they lose in clarity of
strength they need to gain, at least to some
degree, through clarity of attentiveness, and
they dont do even that.This was Ulrichs
reply, and this obliteration of the emotion
juxtaposed in self-observation and in its ultimate arousal was not accidental. For in both
conditions action is excluded or disturbed;
and because the connection between feeling
and acting is so close that many consider
them a unit, it is not without significance
that the two examples are complementary.

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But what he avoided saying was precisely what they both knew about it from
their own experience, that in actuality a condition of mental effacement and physical
helplessness can be combined with the
highest stage of the emotion of love. This
made him turn the conversation with some
violence away from the significance that acting has for feeling, apparently with the intention of again bringing up the division of love
according to objects. At first glance, this
rather whimsical possibility also seemed better suited to bringing order to ambiguity. For
if, to begin with an example, it is blasphemy
to label love of God with the same word as
love of fishing, this doubtless lies in the differences between the objects this love is
aimed at; and the significance of the object
can likewise be measured by other examples.
What makes the enormous difference in this
relationship of loving something is therefore
not so much the love as rather the

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something. Thus there are objects that make

love rich and happy; others that make it poor
and sickly, as if it were due entirely to them.
There are objects that must requite the love
if it is to develop all its power and character,
and there are others in which any similar demand would be meaningless from the outset.
This decisively separates the connection to
living beings from the connection to inanimate things; but, even inanimate, the object is
the proper adversary of love, and its qualities
influence those of love.
The more disproportionate in value this
adversary is, the more distorted, not to say
passionately twisted, love itself becomes.
Compare, Ulrich admonished, the healthy
love of young people for each other with the
ridiculously exaggerated love of the lonely
person for a dog, cat, or dickeybird. Observe
the passion between man and wife fade
away, or become a nuisance like a rejected
beggar, if it is not requited, or not fully

518/1856

requited. Dont forget, either, that in unequal

associations, such as those between parents
and children, or masters and servants,
between a man and the object of his ambition or his vice, the relationship of requited
love is the most uncertain, and without exception the fatal element. Wherever the governing natural exchange between the condition of love and its adversary is imperfect,
love degenerates like unhealthy tissue!This
idea seemed to have something special that
attracted him. Ulrich would have expounded
on it at length and with numerous examples,
but while he was still thinking these over,
something unanticipated, which quickened
his intended line of thought with expectation
like a pleasant fragrance coming across
fields, appeared to direct his reflections almost inadvertently toward what in painting
is called still life or, according to the contrary
but just as fitting procedure of a foreign language, nature morte. It is somehow

519/1856

ridiculous for a person to prize a wellpainted lobster, Ulrich continued without

transition, highly polished grapes, and a
hare strung up by the legs, always with a
pheasant nearby; for human appetite is ridiculous, and painted appetite is even more
ridiculous than natural appetite. They both
had the feeling that this association reached
back in more profound ways than were evident, and belonged to the continuation of
what they had omitted to say about
themselves.
For in real still lifesobjects, animals,
plants, landscapes, and human bodies conjured up within the sphere of artsomething
other than what they depict comes out:
namely, the mysterious, demoniacal quality
of painted life. There are famous pictures of
this kind, so both knew what they were talking about; it would, however, be better to
speak not of specific pictures but of a land of
picture, which, moreover, does not attract

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imitators but arises without rules from a

flourish of creative activity. Agathe wanted to
know how this could be recognized. Ulrich
gave a sign refusing to indicate any definitive
trait, but said slowly, smiling and without
hesitation: The exciting, vague, infinite
echo!
And Agathe understood him. Somehow
one has the feeling of being on a beach.
Small insects hum. The air bears a hundred
meadow scents. Thoughts and feelings stroll
busily hand in hand. But before ones eyes
lies the unanswering desert of the sea, and
what is important on the shore loses itself in
the monotonous motion of the endless view.
She was thinking how all true still lifes can
arouse this happy, insatiable sadness. The
longer you look at them, the clearer it becomes that the things they depict seem to
stand on the colorful shore of life, their eyes
filled with monstrous things, their tongues
paralyzed.

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Ulrich responded with another paraphrase. All still lifes really paint the world of
the sixth day of creation, when God and the
world were still by themselves, with no
people! And to his sisters questioning smile
he said: So what they arouse in people
would probably be jealousy, secret inquisitiveness, and grief!
That was almost an aperu, and not a
bad one; he noted it with displeasure, for he
was not fond of these ideas machined like
bullets and hastily gilded. But he did nothing
to correct it, nor did he ask his sister to do
so. For the strange resemblance to their own
life was an obstacle that kept both of them
from adequately expressing themselves
about the uncanny art of the still life or
nature morte.
This resemblance played a great role in
their lives. Without it being necessary to repeat in detail something reaching back to the
shared memories of childhood that had been

522/1856

reawakened at their reunion and since then

had given a strange cast to all their experiences and most of their conversations, it cannot be passed over in silence that the anesthetized trace of the still life was always to be
felt in it. Spontaneously, therefore, and
without accepting anything specific that
might have guided them, they were led to
turn their curiosity toward everything that
might be akin to the nature of the still life;
and something like the following exchange of
words resulted, charging the conversation
once more like a flywheel and giving it new
energy:
Having to beg for something before an
imperturbable countenance that grants no
response drives a person into a frenzy of despair, attack, or worthlessness. On the other
hand, it is equally unnerving, but unspeakably beautiful, to kneel before an immovable
countenance
from
which
life
was

523/1856

extinguished a few hours before, leaving behind an aura like a sunset.

This second example is even a commonplace of the emotions, if ever anything could
be said to be! The world speaks of the consecration and dignity of death; the poetic
theme of the beloved on his bier has existed
for hundreds, if not thousands of years; there
is a whole body of related, especially lyric,
poetry of death. This obviously has
something adolescent about it. Who imagines that death bestows upon him the
noblest of beloveds for his very own? The
person who lacks the courage or the possibility of having a living one!
A short line leads from this poetic immaturity to the horrors of conjuring up spirits and the dead; a second line leads to the
abomination of actual necrophilia; perhaps a
third to the pathological opposites of exhibitionism and coercion by violence.

524/1856

These comparisons may be strange, and

in part they are extremely unappetizing. But
if one does not allow oneself to be deterred
but considers them from, as it were, a
medical-psychological viewpoint, there is
one element they all have in common: an impossibility, an inability, an absence of natural courage or the courage for a natural life.
They also supply the truthshould one
already be embarked on daring comparisonsthat silence, fainting, and every kind of
incompleteness in the adversary is connected
with the effect of mental exhaustion.
What is especially repeated in this way,
as was mentioned before, is that an adversary who is not on the same level distorts
love; it is only necessary to add that it is not
infrequently a distorted attitude of the emotion that bids it make a choice at all. And inversely, it would be the responding, living,
acting partner who determines the emotions

525/1856

and keeps them in order, without which they

degenerate into shadowboxing.
But isnt the strange charm of the still
life shadowboxing too? Indeed, almost an
ethereal necrophilia?
And yet there is also a similar shadowboxing in the glances of happy lovers as an
expression of their highest feelings. They
look into each others eyes, cant tear themselves away, and pine in an infinite emotion
that stretches like rubber!
This was more or less how the exchange
of words had begun, but at this point its
thread was pretty much left hanging, and for
quite a while before it was picked up again.
For they had both really looked at each other, and this had caused them to lapse into
silence.
But if an observation is called for to explain thisand if it is necessary to justify
such conversations once again and express

526/1856

their senseperhaps this much could be

said, which at this moment Ulrich understandably left as an unspoken idea: that loving was by no means as simple as nature
would have us believe by bestowing on every
bungler among her creatures the necessary
tools.

52
BREATHS OF A SUMMER DAY
The sun, meanwhile, had risen higher; they
had abandoned the chairs like stranded
boats in the shallow shade near the house
and were lying on a lawn in the garden, beneath the full depth of the summer day. They
had been like this for quite some time, and
although the circumstances had changed,
this change hardly entered their consciousness. Not even the cessation of the conversation had accomplished this; it was left
hanging, without a trace of a rift.
A noiseless, streaming snowfall of
lusterless blossoms, emanating from a group
of trees whose flowering was done, hovered
through the sunshine, and the breath that

528/1856

bore it was so gentle that not a leaf stirred. It

cast no shadow on the green of the lawn, but
this green seemed to darken from within like
an eye. Extravagantly leaved by the young
summer, the tender trees and bushes standing at the sides or forming the backdrop gave
the impression of being amazed spectators
who, surprised and spellbound in their gay
attire, were participating in this funeral procession and celebration of nature. Spring and
fall, speech and natures silence, and the magic of life and death too, mingled in this picture; hearts seemed to stop, removed from
their breasts to join the silent procession
through the air. My heart was taken from
out my breast, a mystic had said: Agathe remembered it.
She knew, too, that she herself had read
this saying to Ulrich from one of his books.
That had happened here in the garden,
not far from the place where they were now.
The recollection took shape. Other maxims

529/1856

too that she had recalled to his mind occurred to her: Are you it, or are you not it? I
know not where I am; nor do I wish to
know! I have transcended all my abilities
but for the dark power! I am in love, and
know not in whom! My heart is full of love
and empty of love at the same time! Thus
echoed in her again the laments of the mystics, into whose hearts God had penetrated
as deeply as a thorn that no fingertips can
grasp. She had read many such holy laments
aloud to Ulrich at that time. Perhaps their
rendering now was not exact: memory behaves rather dictatorially with what it wishes
to hear; but she understood what was meant,
and made a resolve. As it now appeared at
this moment of flowery procession, the
garden had also once looked mysteriously
abandoned and animated at the very hour
when the mystical confessions Ulrich had in
his library had fallen into her hands. Time
stood still, a thousand years weighed as

530/1856

lightly as the opening and closing of an eye;

she had attained the Millennium: perhaps
God was even allowing his presence to be
felt. And while she felt these things one after
the otheralthough time was not supposed
to exist anymoreand while her brother, so
that she should not suffer anxiety during this
dream, was beside her, although space did
not seem to exist any longer either: despite
these contradictions, the world seemed filled
with transfiguration in all its parts. What she
had experienced since could not strike her as
other than conversationally temperate by
comparison with what had gone before; but
what an expansion and reinforcement it gave
to these later things as well, although it had
lost the near-body-heat warmth of the immediacy of the first inspiration! Under these circumstances Agathe decided to approach with
deliberation the delight that had formerly, in
an almost dreamlike way, befallen her in this
garden. She did not know why she associated

531/1856

it with the name of the Millennium. It was a

word bright with feeling and almost as palpable as an object, yet it remained opaque to
the understanding. That was why she could
regard the idea as if the Millennium could
come to pass at any moment. It is also called
the Empire of Love: Agathe knew that too;
but only then did it occur to her that both
names had been handed down since biblical
times and signified the kingdom of God on
earth, whose imminent arrival they indicated
in a completely real sense. Moreover, Ulrich
too, without on that account believing in the
Scriptures, sometimes employed these words
as casually as his sister, and so she was not at
all surprised that she seemed to know exactly
how one should behave in the Millennium.
You must keep quite still, her inspiration
told her. You cannot leave room for any
land of desire; not even the desire to question. You must also shed the judiciousness
with which you perform tasks. You must

532/1856

deprive the mind of all tools and not allow it

to be used as a tool. Knowledge is to be discarded by the mind, and willing: you must
cast off reality and the longing to turn to it.
You must keep to yourself until head, heart,
and limbs are nothing but silence. But if, in
this way, you attain the highest selflessness,
then finally outer and inner will touch each
other as if a wedge that had split the world
had popped out!
Perhaps this had not been premeditated
in any clear way. But it seemed to her that if
firmly willed, it must be attainable; and she
pulled herself together as if she were trying
to feign death. But it quickly proved as impossible to completely silence the impulses
of thought, senses, and will as it had been in
childhood not to commit any sins between
confession and communion, and after a few
efforts she completely abandoned the attempt. In the process, she discovered that
she was only superficially holding fast to her

533/1856

purpose, and that her attention had long

since slipped away; at the moment, it was occupied with a quite remote problem, a little
monster of disaffection. She asked herself in
the most foolish way, reveling in the very
foolishness of it: Was I really ever violent,
mean, hateful, and unhappy? A man
without a name came to mind, his name
missing because she bore it herself and had
carried it away with her. Whenever she
thought of him, she felt her name like a scar;
but she no longer harbored any hatred for
Hagauer, and now repeated her question
with the somewhat melancholy obstinacy
with which one gazes after a wave that has
ebbed away. Where had the desire come
from to do him mortal harm? She had almost
lost it in her distraction, and appeared to
think it was still to be found somewhere
nearby. Moreover, Lindner might really be
seen as a substitution for this desire for hostility; she asked herself this, too, and thought

534/1856

of him fleetingly. Perhaps she found all the

things that had happened to her astonishing,
young people always being more disposed to
be surprised at how much they have already
had to feel than older people, who have become accustomed to the changeability of
lifes passions and circumstances, like
changes in the weather. But what could have
so affected Agathe as this: that in the very
moment of sudden change in her life, as its
passions and conditions took flight, the
stone-clear sky reached again into the marvelous river of emotionsin which ignorant
youth sees its reflection as both natural and
sublimeand lifted from it enigmatically
that state out of which she had just
awakened.
So her thoughts were still under the
spell of the procession of flowers and death;
they were, however, no longer moving with it
to its rhythms of mute solemnity; Agathe was
thinking flittingly, as it might be called in

535/1856

contrast to the frame of mind in which life

lasts a thousand years without a wing beating. This difference between two frames of
mind was quite clear to her, and she recognized with some amazement how often just
this difference, or something closely related
to it, had already been touched on in her
conversations with Ulrich. Involuntarily she
turned toward him and, without losing sight
of the spectacle unfolding around them, took
a deep breath and asked: Doesnt it seem to
you, too, that in a moment like this,
everything
else
seems
feeble
by
comparison?
These few words dispersed the cloudy
weight of silence and memory. For Ulrich,
too, had been looking at the foam of blossoms sweeping by on their aimless journey;
and because his thoughts and memories
were tuned to the same string as those of his
sister, he needed no further introduction to
be told what would answer even her

536/1856

unspoken thoughts. He slowly stretched and

replied: Ive been wanting to tell you
something for a long timeeven in the state
when we were speaking of the meaning of
still lifes, and every day, reallyeven if it
doesnt hit the center of the target: there are,
to draw the contrast sharply, two ways of living passionately, and two sorts of passionate
people. In one case, you let out a howl of rage
or misery or enthusiasm each time like a
child, and get rid of your feelings in a trivial
swirl of vertigo. In that case, and it is the
usual one, emotion is ultimately the everyday
intermediary of everyday life; and the more
violent and easily aroused it is, the more this
kind of life is reminiscent of the restlessness
in a cage of wild animals at feeding time,
when the meat is carried past the bars, and
the satiated fatigue that follows. Dont you
think? The other way of being passionate
and acting is this: You hold to yourself and
give no impetus whatever to the action

537/1856

toward which every emotion is straining. In

this case, life becomes like a somewhat
ghostly dream in which the emotions rise to
the treetops, to the peaks of towers, to the
apex of the sky! Its more than likely that
thats what we were thinking of when we
were pretending to discuss paintings and
nothing but paintings.
Agathe propped herself up, curious.
Didnt you once say, she asked, that there
are two fundamentally different possibilities
for living and that they resemble different registers of emotion? One would be worldly
emotion, which never finds peace or fulfillment; the otherI dont know whether you
gave it a name, but it would probably have to
be the emotion of a mystical feeling that
resonates constantly but never achieves full
reality. Although she spoke hesitantly, she
had raced ahead too quickly, and finished
with some embarrassment.

538/1856

But Ulrich recognized quite well what

he seemed to have said; he swallowed as if he
had something too hot in his mouth, and attempted a smile. He said: If thats what I
meant, Ill have to express myself less pretentiously now! So Ill simply use a familiar
example and call the two lands of passionate
existence the appetitive and, as its counterpart, the non-appetitive, even if it sounds
awkward. For in every person there is a hunger, and it behaves like a greedy animal; yet
it is not a hunger but something ripening
sweetly, like grapes in the autumn sun, free
from greed and satiety. Indeed, in every one
of his emotions, the one is like the other.
In other words, a vegetableperhaps
even a vegetariandisposition alongside the
animal one? There was a trace of amusement and teasing in this question of
Agathes.
Almost! Ulrich replied. Perhaps the
animalistic and the vegetative, understood as

539/1856

the basic opposition of desires, would even

strike a philosopher as the most profound
discovery! But would that make me want to
be one? All I would venture is simply what I
have said, and especially what I said last,
that both lands of passionate being have a
model, perhaps even their origin, in every
emotion. These two aspects can be distinguished in every emotion, he continued. But
oddly, he then went on to speak only of what
he understood by the appetitive. It urges to
action, to motion, to enjoyment; through its
effect, emotion is transformed into a work,
or into an idea and conviction, or into a disappointment. All these are ways in which it
discharges, but they can also be forms of recharging, for in this manner the emotion
changes, uses itself up, dissipates in its success and comes to an end; or it encapsulates
itself in this success and transforms its vital
energy into stored energy that gives up the
vital energy later, and occasionally often with

540/1856

multiple interest. And doesnt this explain

that the energetic activity of our everyday
feelings and its feebleness, which you were
so pleasantly sighing about, dont make any
great difference to us, even if it is a profound
difference?
You may be all too right! Agathe
agreed. My God, this entire work of the
emotions, its worldly wealth, this wanting
and rejoicing, activity and unfaithfulness, all
only because of the existence of this drive!
Including everything you experience and forget, think and passionately desire, and yet
forget again. Its as beautiful as a tree full of
apples of every color, but its also formlessly
monotonous, like everything that ripens and
falls the same way each year!
Ulrich nodded at his sisters answer,
which exuded a breath of impetuousness and
renunciation. The world has the appetitive
part of the emotions to thank for all its works
and all beauty and progress, but also all the

541/1856

unrest, and ultimately all its senseless running around! he corroborated. Do you
know, by the way, that appetitive means
simply the share that our innate drives have
in every emotion? Therefore, he added,
what we have said is that it is the drives that
the world has to thank for beauty and
progress.
And its chaotic restlessness, Agathe
echoed.
Usually thats exactly what one says; so
it seems to me useful not to ignore the other!
For that man should thank for his progress
precisely what really belongs on the level of
the animal is, at the very least, unexpected.
He smiled as he said this. He, too, had
propped himself up on his elbow, and he
turned completely toward his sister, as if he
wished to enlighten her, but he went on
speaking hesitantly, like a person who first
wants to be instructed by the words he is
searching for. You were right to speak of an

542/1856

animalistic disposition, he said. Doubtless

there are at its core the same few instincts as
the animal has. This is quite clear in the major emotions: in hunger, anger, joy, willfulness, or love, the souls veil barely covers the
most naked desire!
It seemed that he wanted to continue in
the same vein. But although the conversationwhich had issued from a dream of
nature, the sight of the parade of blossoms
that still seemed to be drifting through the
middle of their minds with a peculiar uneventfulness did not permit any misconstruing of the fateful question of the relation
of brother and sister to each other, it was
rather that from beginning to end the conversation was under the influence of this idea
and dominated by the surreptitious notion of
a happening without anything happening,
and took place in a mood of gentle affliction;
although this was the way it was, finally the
conversation had led to the opposite of such

543/1856

a pervasive idea and its emotional mood: to

the point where Ulrich could not avoid emphasizing the constructive activity of strong
drives alongside their disturbing activity.
Such a clear indication of the drives, including the instinctive, and of the active person
in generalfor it signified that toomight
well be part of an Occidental, Western,
Faustian life feeling, as it was called in the
language of books, in contrast to everything
that, according to the same self-fertilizing
language, was supposed to be Oriental or
Asiatic. He recalled these patronizing
vogue words. But it was not his or his sisters
intention, nor would it have been in keeping
with their habits, to give a misleading significance to an experience that moved them
deeply by employing such adventitious,
poorly grounded notions; rather, everything
they discussed with each other was meant as
true and real, even if it may have arisen from
walking on clouds.

544/1856

That was why Ulrich had found it amusing to substitute an explanation of a scientific kind for the caressing fog of the emotions;
and in truth he did so just becauseeven if it
appeared to abet the Faustianthe mind
faithful to nature promised to exclude
everything that was excessively fanciful. At
least he had sketched out the basis for such
an explanation. It was, of course, rather
stranger that he had done so only for what he
had labeled the appetitive aspect of emotions, but quite ignored how he could apply
an analogous idea to the non-appetitive aspect, although at the beginning he had certainly considered them to be of equal importance. This did not come about without a
reason. Whether the psychological and biological analysis of this aspect of emotion
seemed harder to him, or whether he considered it in toto only a bothersome
aidboth might have been the casewhat
chiefly influenced him was something else, of

545/1856

which he had, moreover, shown a glimpse

since the moment when Agathes sigh had
betrayed the painful yet joyous opposition
between the past restless passions of life and
the apparently imperishable ones that were
at home in the timeless stillness under the
stream of blossoms. Forto repeat what he
had already repeated in various waysnot
only are two dispositions discernible in every
single emotion, through which, and in its
own fashion, the emotion can be fleshed out
to the point of passion, but there are also two
sorts of people, or different periods of destiny within each person, which differ in that
one or the other disposition predominates.
He saw a great distinction here. People
of the one sort, as already mentioned, reach
out briskly for everything and set about
everything; they rush over obstacles like a
torrent, or foam into a new course; their passions are strong and constantly changing,
and the result is a strongly segmented career

546/1856

that leaves nothing behind but its own

stormy passage. This was the sort of person
Ulrich had had in mind with the concept of
the appetitive when he had wanted to make
it one major notion of the passionate life; for
the other sort of person is, in contrast to this,
nothing less than the corresponding opposite
of the first kind: the second is timid, pensive,
vague; has a hard time making up its mind;
is full of dreams and longings, and internalized in its passion. Sometimesin ideas they
were not now discussing Ulrich also called
this sort of person contemplative, a word
that is ordinarily used in another sense and
that perhaps has merely the tepid meaning
of thoughtful; but for him it had more than
this ordinary meaning, was indeed equivalent to the previously mentioned Oriental/
non-Faustian. Perhaps a major distinction in
life was marked in this contemplative aspect,
and especially in conjunction with the appetitive as its opposite: this attracted Ulrich

547/1856

more vitally than a didactic rule. But it was

also a satisfaction to him, this elementary
possibility of explanation, that all such
highly composite and demanding notions of
life could be reduced to a dual classification
found in every emotion.
Of course it was also clear to him that
both sorts of people under discussion could
signify nothing other than a man without
qualities, in contrast to one who has every
quality that a man can show. The one sort
could also be called a nihilist, who dreams of
Gods dreams, in opposition to the activist,
who in his impatient mode of conduct is,
however, also a kind of God-dreamer and
nothing less than a realist, who bestirs himself, clear about the world and active in it.
Why, then, arent we realists? Ulrich asked
himself. Neither of them was, neither he nor
she: their ideas and their conduct had long
left no doubt of that; but they were nihilists

548/1856

and activists, sometimes one and sometimes

the other, whichever happened to come up.

Further Sketches
1939 - 1941

48
A MENTALITY DIRECTED TOWARD
THE SIGNIFICANT,
AND THE BEGINNING OF A
CONVERSATION ON THE SUBJECT
If you speak of the double-sided and disorderly way the human being is constituted,
the assumption is that you think you can
come up with a better one.
A person who is a believer can do that,
but Ulrich was not a believer. On the contrary: he suspected faith of inclining to the
over-hasty, and whether the content of this
spiritual attitude was an earthly inspiration
or a supra-earthly notion, even as a mechanism for the forward movement of the soul it
reminded him of the impotent attempts of

551/1856

the domestic chicken to fly. Only Agathe

caused him to make an exception; he
claimed to envy in her that she was able to
believe precipitately and with ardor, and he
sometimes felt the femininity of her lack of
rational discretion as physically as he did
one of those other sexual differentiations,
knowledge of which arouses a dazzling bliss.
He forgave her this unpredictability even
when it really seemed to him unforgivable, as
in her association with the ridiculous person
of Professor Lindner, about whom there was
much that his sister did not tell him. He felt
the reticence of her bodily warmth beside
him and was reminded of a passionate assertion which had it that no person is beautiful
or ugly, good or bad, significant or soul-destroying in himself, but his value always depends on whether one believes in him or is
skeptical of him. That was an extravagant
observation, full of magnanimity but also undermined by vagueness, which allowed all

552/1856

sorts of inferences; and the hidden question

of whether this observation was not ultimately traceable to that billy goat of credulity, this fellow Lindner, of whom he knew
little more than his shadow, caused a wave to
eddy up jealously in the rapid underground
river of his thoughts. But as Ulrich thought
about this, he could not recall whether it had
been Agathe who had made this observation
or he himself; the one seemed as possible as
the other. As a result of this heady confusion,
the wave of jealousy ebbed over all spiritual
and physical distinctions in a delicate foam,
and he would have liked to voice what his
real reservations were about every predisposition to faith. To believe something and to
believe in something are spiritual conditions
that derive their power from another condition, which they make use of or squander;
but this other condition not only was, as
seemed most obvious, the solid condition of
knowledge but could, on the contrary, be an

553/1856

even more ephemeral state than that of faith

itself: and that everything that moved his sister and him pointed precisely in this direction urged Ulrich to speak out, but his ideas
were still far from the prospect of pledging
himself to it, and therefore he said nothing,
but rather changed the subject before he
reached that point.
Even a man of genius bears within himself a standard that could empower him to
the judgment that in some totally inexplicable fashion things in the world go backward
as well as forward; but who is such a man?
Originally Ulrich had not had the slightest
desire to think about it, but the problem
would not let him go, he had no idea why.
One must separate genius in general
from genius as an individual superlative, he
began, but still had not found die right expression. I sometimes used to think that the
only two important species of humans were
the geniuses and the blockheads, which dont

554/1856

intermingle very well. But people of the species genius or people of genius, dont actually need to be geniuses. The genius one
gapes at is actually born in the marketplace
of the vanities; his splendor is radiated in the
mirrors of the stupidity that surround him; it
is always connected with something that bestows on it one merit the more, like money
or medals: no matter how great his deserts,
his appearance is really that of stuffed
genius.
Agathe interrupted him, curious about
the other: Fine, but genius itself?
If you pull out of the stuffed scarecrow
what is just straw, it would probably have to
be whats left, Ulrich said, but then bethought himself and added distrustfully: Ill
never really know what genius is, or who
should decide!
A senate of wise men! Agathe said,
smiling. She knew her brothers often quite

555/1856

idiosyncratic way of thinking; he had

plagued her with it in many conversations.
Her words were meant to remind him rather
hypocritically of the famous demand of
philosophy, which had not been followed in
two thousand years, that the governance of
the world ought to be entrusted to an
academy of the wisest men.
Ulrich nodded. That goes back to
Plato. And if it could have been brought
about, presumably a Platonist would have
followed him as leader of the reigning spirit
until one dayGod knows whythe
Plotinists would have been seen as the true
philosophers. Thats the way it is, too, with
what passes for genius. And what would the
Plotinists have made of the Platonists, and
before that the Platonists of them, if not
what every truth does with error: mercilessly
root it out? God proceeded cautiously when
he directed that an elephant bring forth only
another elephant, and a cat a cat: but a

556/1856

philosopher produces a blind adherent and a

counter-philosopher!
So God himself had to decide what
genius was! Agathe exclaimed impatiently,
not without feeling a soft, proud shudder at
this idea and awareness of its precipitate/
childish/vehemence.
I fear it bores him! Ulrich said. At
least the Christian God. Hes out for hearts,
without caring whether they have a lot of understanding or a little. Moreover, I believe
that theres a lot to be said for the churchs
contempt for the genius of laymen.
Agathe waited a bit; then she simply
replied: You used to have a different
opinion.
I could answer you that the heathen
belief that all ideas that move people rested
beforehand in the divine spirit must have
been quite beautiful; but its hard to think of
divine emanations, since among the things

557/1856

that mean a lot to us there are ideas called

guncotton or tires, Ulrich countered at once.
But then he seemed to waver and to have
grown tired of this jocular tone, and suddenly he revealed to his sister what she
wanted to know. He said: I have always believed, and almost as if its my nature to, that
the spirit, because one feels its power in oneself, also imposes the obligation to make it
carry weight in the world. I have believed
that to live meaningfully is the only reward,
and have wanted never to do anything that
was indifferent. And the consequence of this
for culture in general may seem an arrogant
distortion but is unavoidably this: Only genius is bearable, and average people have to be
squeezed to either produce it or allow it to
prevail! Mixed in with a thousand other
things, something of this is also part of the
general persuasion: Its really humiliating for
me to have to respond that I never could say
what genius was, and dont know now either,

558/1856

although just now I indicated casually that I

would ascribe this quality less to a particular
individual than to a human modality.
He didnt seem to mean it so seriously,
and Agathe carefully kept the conversation
going when he fell silent. Dont you yourself
find it pretty easy to speak of an acrobat with
genius? she asked. It seems that today the
difficult, the unusual, and whatever is especially successful ordinarily figure in the
notion.
It began with singers; and if a singer
who sings higher than the rest is called a
genius, why not someone who jumps higher?
By this reasoning you end up with the genius
of a pointing dog; and people consider men
who wont let themselves be intimidated by
anything to be more worthy than a man who
can tear his vocal cords out of his throat.
Evidently, whats vague here is a twofold use
of language: aside from the genius of success, which can be made to cover everything,

559/1856

so that even the stupidest joke can be, in its

fashion, a work of genius, there is also the
sublimity, dignity, or significance of what
succeeds: in other words, some kind of ranking of genius. A cheerful expression had replaced the seriousness in Ulrichs eyes, so
that Agathe asked what came next, which he
seemed to be suppressing.
It occurs to me that I once discussed
the question of genius with our friend
Stumm, Ulrich related, and he insisted on
the usefulness of distinguishing between a
military and a civilian notion of genius. But
to grasp this distinction, Ill probably have to
tell you something about the world of the
Imperial and Royal military. The companies
of engineers, [The German Genie means
both genius and engineer] he went on,
are there to build fortifications and for similar work, and are made up of soldiers and
subalterns and officers who dont have any
particular future unless they pass a Higher

560/1856

Engineer[/Genius] Course, after which they

land on the Engineering [/Genius] Staff. So
in the military, the Engineer [/Genius]
Staffer stands above the engineer [/genius],
says Stumm von Bordwehr. And at the very
top, of course, there is the General Staff, because that is absolutely the cleverest thing
God has done. So although Stumm always
enjoys playing the anti-militarist, he tried to
convince me that the proper usage of genius
can really be found only in the military and is
graded in steps, while all civilian chatter
about genius is regrettably lacking in such
order. And the way he twists everything so
that you really see to the bottom of truth, it
wouldnt be at all a bad idea for us to follow
his primer!
But what Ulrich added to this concerning the dissimilar notions of genius was
aimed less at the highest degree of genius
than at its basic form, the significant, whose
doubtfulness seemed to him more painful

561/1856

and confusing. It seemed to him easier to arrive at a judgment about what was exceptionally significant than about the significant
in general. The first is merely a step beyond
something whose value is already unquestioned, that is, something which is always
grounded in a more or less traditional order
of spiritual values; the latter, on the other
hand, calls for taking the first step into an indefinite and infinite space, which offers almost no prospect of allowing a cogent distinction to be made between what is significant and what is not. So it is natural for language instead to have stuck with the genius
of degree and success rather than with the
genius value of what succeeds; yet it is also
understandable that the custom that has developed of calling any aptitude that is hard to
imitate genius is connected with a bad conscience, and of course none other than that
of a dropped task or a forgotten duty. This
scandalized the two of them in a joking and

562/1856

incidental way, but they went on speaking

seriously. This is clearest, Ulrich said to his
sister, when, although it mostly happens
only by accident, one becomes conscious of
an external sign to which scant attention is
paid: namely, our habit of pronouncing the
noun Genie and its adjective, genial, differently, and not in a way to indicate that the
adjective derives from the noun.
As happens to everyone who is made
aware of a practice to which scant attention
is paid, Agathe was somewhat surprised.
After my conversation with Stumm
that time, I looked it up in Grimms dictionary, Ulrich offered by way of excuse. The
military word Geniein other words, the engineering soldiercame to us, of course, like
many military expressions, from the French.
In French, the art of the engineer is called le
genie, and connected with it is geniecorps,
arme du genie, and Ecole du genie, as well as
the English engine, the French engin, and

563/1856

the Italian ingenio macchina, the artful tool;

the whole clan goes back to the late Latin ingenium, whose hard g became in its travels a
soft g and whose fundamental connotation is
dexterity and inventiveness: a summation,
like the now rather old and creaky expression, arts and crafts, with which official
communications and inscriptions still sometimes bless us. From there a decayed path
also leads to the soccer player of genius, indeed even to the hunting dog of genius or the
steeplechase horse of genius, but it would be
consistent to pronounce adjective and noun
the same way. For there is a second Genie
and genial, whose meaning is likewise to be
found in every language and does not derive
from genium but from genius, the morethan-human, or at least, in reverence for
mind and spirit, the culmination of what is
human. I hardly need point out that for centuries these two meanings have been dreadfully confused and mixed up everywhere, in

564/1856

language as in life, and not only in German;

but, characteristically, in German most of all,
so that not being able to keep genius and ingenious apart can be called a particularly
German problem. Moreover, it has in German a history that in one place affects me
greatly
Agathe had followed this extended explanation, as is usual in such cases, with
some mistrust and a readiness for boredom,
while waiting for a turn that would free her
from this uncertainty. Would you consider
me a linguistic grouch if I were to propose
that from now on we both start using the expression inspiriting? Ulrich asked.
A smile and a movement of her head
spontaneously indicated his sisters resistance to this archaic term, which has fallen
out of use and now bears the scent of old
trunks and costumes.

565/1856

It is an archaic word, Ulrich admitted,

but this would be a good occasion to use it!
And as I said, I did read up on it. If it doesnt
bother you to do this in the street, let me
have a look at what else I can tell you about
it. With a smile, he pulled a piece of paper
from his pocket and deciphered various
notes he had made in pencil. Goethe, he
announced. Here I saw regret and penitence pushed to caricature, and because all
passion replaces genius, really inspiriting. In
another place: Tour inspiriting composure
often advanced to meet me with magnificent
enthusiasm. Wieland: The fruit of inspiriting hours. Hlderlin: The Greeks are still a
beautiful, inspiriting, and happy people.
And youll find a similar inspiriting in Schleiermacher, in his earlier years. But already
with Immermann you find inspired economy and inspired debauchery. So there
you already have the disconcerting transformation of the notion into the kettle-

566/1856

patching and slovenly, which is how

inspired is understood today. He turned
the piece of paper this way and that, stuck it
back in his pocket, and then took it out once
more for assistance. But its prehistory and
preconditions are found earlier, he added.
Kant was already criticizing the fashionable
tone of a geniuslike freedom in thinking and
speaks with annoyance of genius-men and
genius-apes. What annoyed him so much is
a respectable piece of German intellectual
history. For before him as well as after him
people in Germany talked, partly ecstatically,
partly disapprovingly, of genius urge, genius fever, storm of genius, leaps of genius,
calls of genius, and screams of genius, and
even philosophys fingernails were not always clean, least of all when it believed it
could suck the independent truth from its
fingers.
And how does Kant decide what a
genius is? Agathe asked. All she associated

567/1856

with his famous name was that she remembered having heard that he surpassed
everything.
What he emphasized in the nature of
genius was the creative element and originality, the spirit of originality, which has remained extraordinarily influential up to the
present day, Ulrich replied. Goethe later
was relying on Kant when he defined the
geniative with the words: to have many objects present and easily relate the most remote ones to each other: this free of egotism
and self-complacency. But thats a view that
was very much designed for the achievements of reason, and it leads to the rather
gymnastic conception of genius we have succumbed to.
Agathe asked with laughing disbelief:
So now do you know what genius and geniative are?

568/1856

Ulrich took the joshing with a shrug of

his shoulders. Anyway, weve found that
among Germans, if we dont see the strictly
Kantian spirit of originality, we feel that eccentric and conspicuous behavior indicates
genius, he said.

49
GENERAL VON STUMM ON GENIUS
The conversation with Stumm that Ulrich
mentioned had occurred at a chance meeting
and had been brief. The General seemed
worried; he did not indicate why, but he
began to grumble over the nonsense that in
civilian life there were so many geniuses.
What is a genius, really? he asked. No one
has ever called a general a genius!
Except Napoleon, Ulrich interjected.
Maybe him, Stumm admitted. But
that appears to happen more because his
whole evolution was paradoxical!
Ulrich didnt know what to say to this.

570/1856

At your cousins, I had lots of opportunity to meet people who are designated as
geniuses, Stumm declared pensively, and
went on: I believe I can tell you what a genius is: a person who not only enjoys great success but also, in some sense, has to get hold
of his subject backward! And Stumm immediately expounded on this, using the great
examples of psychoanalysis and the theory of
relativity:
In the old days it was also often true
that you didnt know something, he began
in his characteristic fashion. But you didnt
think anything of it, and if it didnt happen
during an examination it didnt harm anyone. But suddenly this was turned into the
so-called unconscious, and now everyones
unconscious is the size of all the things he
doesnt know, and its much more important
to know why you dont know something than
what it is you dont know! Humanly speaking, this has, as one says, turned things

571/1856

topsy-turvy, and its apparently a lot simpler

too.
Since Ulrich still did not react, Stumm
went on:
But the man who invented that also established the following law: You will remember that in the regiment one used to admonish the younger men when there had been
too much barnyard talk by telling them:
Dont say it, just do it! And whats the opposite of that? In some sense, the challenge:
If, because youre a civilized human being,
you cant do what you want, at least talk it
over with a learned man; for he will convince
you that everything that exists rests on
something that ought not to exist! Of course
I cant judge this from a scientific point of
view, but in any case you can see from this
that the new rules are absolutely the reverse
of those that prevailed before, and the man
who introduced them is praised today as a
top-notch genius!

572/1856

Since Ulrich was apparently still not

convinced, and Stumm himself did not feel
he had got where he wanted, he repeated his
argument using relativity theory, as he
conceived of it: like me, you learned at
school that everything that moves happens
in space and time, was where his thinking
started. But what is it like in practice? Permit me to say something quite ordinary: You
are supposed to be with the front of your
squadron at a particular place on the map at
such and such a time. Or when you get the
order, youre supposed to bring your cavalry
from a formation to form a new front, which
bears no relation at all to the straight lines
on the exercise field. It happens in space and
time, but it never happens without incident
and never works out the way you want. I, at
least, received a hundred reprimands so long
as I was with the troops, I tell you that candidly. Even at school I always, so to speak,
resisted when I had to calculate a mechanical

573/1856

motion in space and time on the blackboard.

So I found it a real inspiration of genius the
instant I heard that someone had finally discovered that space and time are quite relative concepts, which change at every moment
whenever they are put to serious use, although since the creation of the world they
have been regarded as the solidest thing
there is. Thats why this man, and in my view
quite rightly, is at least as famous as the other. But it can also be said of him that hes
tethered the horse by its tail, which, at least
today, is what more or less amounts to the
fixed main idea of what a genius is! And
thats what I would like to make you see, if
you place any value on my experience,
Stumm concluded.
Ulrich, in his partiality for him, had
conceded that the most important scientific
teachings of the present had their eccentric
aspects, or at least showed no fear of them. It
might not mean much; but if one is so

574/1856

inclined, a sign can be seen in this as well.

Fearless showiness, a predisposition for the
paradoxical, self-starting ambition, surprise,
and revision of everything on the basis of
contradictory details that previously had
hardly been noticed, all this had doubtless
been part of the fashion in thinking for some
time, for with their great achievements these
things had just begun to crown precisely
those fields where one would not have expected it and where one had been accustomed to
the steady administration and constant increase of an enormous intellectual estate.
But why? Stumm asked. How did it
happen?
Ulrich shrugged his shoulders. He
thought of his own abandoned science, the
broaching of its basic questions, their being
skewered when their logic was checked out.
It had not been much different with other
sciences; they felt their edifices shaken
through discoveries they had a hard time

575/1856

accommodating. That was the dispensation

and the violence of truth. Nevertheless, it
still seemed possible to speak of a boredom
with every day, never-ending progress, which
up to now, and for the longest time, had been
the ideal of real, silent faith amid the racket
of all convictions. There was no denying a
creeping doubt in all fields about the lightness of the bare, exact process of taking one
step before another. That, too, might be a
cause. Finally, Ulrich answered: Perhaps its
simply the same as when you get tired: you
need a prospect that refreshes you, or a
shove in the back of your knees.
Why not sit down instead? Stumm
asked.
I dont know. In any event, after the
longish calm flowering of the mind, you
prefer to flirt with revolution. Some such
thing seems to be in the offing. By way of
comparison, you might perhaps think of the
prevailing disjointedness in the arts. I dont

576/1856

understand much about politics, but perhaps

sometime in the future someone will say that
this intellectual restlessness already held
signs of a revolution.
The hell you say! Stumm exclaimed,
arts and revolutionary unrest reminding him
of his impressions at Diotimas.
Perhaps only as a transition to a new
stability to come! Ulrich said soothingly.
That made no difference to Stumm.
Since that tactless business in front of the
War Minister Ive avoided Diotimas parties,
he related. Dont get me wrong, I have no
objection whatever to all those geniuses
weve been talking about, who are already
preserved in amberor if I do, its only that
the way theyre revered seems to me exaggerated. But I really have it in for the rest of that
rabble! And after a brief but obviously bitter
moment he brought himself to ask the

577/1856

question: Tell me honestly, is genius really

so valuable?
Ulrich had to smile, and disregarding
what he had said before, he now mentioned
the enormoushe even called it the magically simplemindedsense of release that one
recognized in the solution to any land of
problem that the most talented and even the
greatest specialists had vainly striven to find.
Genius is the single unconditional human
value, it is human value, he said. Without the
involvement of genius there would not even
be the animal group of the higher primates.
In his eagerness, he even passionately
praised that genius which he was later to call
merely the genius of degree and dexterity, to
the extent that it was not fundamentally
genius by nature.
Stumm nodded with satisfaction. I
know: the invention of fire and the wheel,
gunpowder and printing, and so on! In short,
from log canoe to logarithms! But after he

578/1856

had demonstrated his sympathy he went on:

Now let me tell you something, and its
from the conversations at Di-otimas: Trom
Sophocles to Feuermaul! Some young dolt
once shouted that in complete seriousness!
What bothers you about Sophocles?
Ah! I dont know anything about him.
But Feuermaul! And here you are claiming
that genius is an unconditional value.
The touch of genius is the only moment in which that ugly and obdurate pupil
of God, man, is beautiful and candid! Ulrich
intensified his statement. But I did not say
that its easy to decide whats genius and
what merely fantasy. Im just saying that
wherever a new value really enters the human game, genius is behind it!
How can you know whether something
is really a new value?
Ulrich hesitated, smiling.

579/1856

And then, in any case, whether the

value really is worth anything! Stumm added with curiosity and concern.
You often feel it at first sight, Ulrich
said.
Ive been told that people have been
mistaken at first sight!
The conversation faltered. Stumm was
perhaps preparing a fundamentally different
question.
Ulrich said: You hear the first bars of
Bach or Mozart; you read a page of Goethe or
Corneille: and you know that youve touched
genius!
Maybe with Mozart and Goethe, because with them I already know that; but not
with an unknown! the General protested.
Do you believe it wouldnt have electrified you even when you were young? The

580/1856

enthusiasm of youth is in itself related to

genius!
What do you mean, in itself? But if
youre really forcing me to answer: maybe an
opera diva might have aroused my enthusiasm. And Alexander the Great, Caesar, and
Napoleon excited me once too. But in itself,
writers or composers of any kind have always left me cold!
Ulrich beat a retreat, although he felt
that he had merely got hold of a good argument from the wrong end. I meant to say
that a young person, as he develops intellectually, sniffs out genius the way a migrating
bird senses direction. But apparently that
would be confusing things.
For the young person has only the most
limited access to what is significant. He has
no particular sense of it, but only a sense for
what excites him. Hes not even looking for
genius, but hes searching for himself and for

581/1856

whatever is an appropriate foothold for the

shape of his biases. What speaks to him, he
declared, is whats like him, in all the vagueness that goes along with it. Its more or less
what he himself believes he can be, and has
the same importance in his formation as the
mirror, in which he gazes at himself happily,
but by no means only out of vanity. Thats
why its only to be expected of works of genius that they should have this effect on him;
usually its contemporary things, and among
those rather the ones that stimulate moods
than those clearly formed by the intellect,
just as he prefers mirrors that make his face
thin or his shoulders broad to faithful ones.
That may well be, Stumm agreed
pensively. But do you believe that people get
cleverer later on?
Theres no doubt that the mature person is more capable and has more experience
in recognizing what is significant; but his
mature personal aims and powers also force

582/1856

him to exclude many things. Its not that he

refuses from lack of understanding but that
he leaves things aside.
Thats it! Stumm exclaimed, relieved.
Hes not as limited as a young person, but I
would say hes more circumscribed! And that
has to be too. Whenever people like us associate with immature young people of the
kind favored by your cousin, God knows we
must be ready for anything and have the
good sense not to understand half of what
theyre saying!
You might well criticize them.
But your cousin says theyre geniuses!
How do you prove the opposite?
Ulrich would not have been disinclined
to follow up this question as well. A genius
is a person who finds a solution where many
have looked for it in vain by doing something
nobody before him thought of doing, he

583/1856

defined, in order finally to get on, because he

was curious himself.
But Stumm declined. I can stick to the
facts themselves, he commented. At Frau
von Tuzzis Ive met enough critics and professors in person, and every time that one of
the geniuses who improve life or art made
assertions that were entirely too far out of
line, I discreetly sought these experts
advice.
Ulrich allowed himself to be distracted.
And what was the result?
Oh, they were always very respectful to
me and said: You shouldnt bother your
head about that, General! Of course that
may be a kind of arrogance they have; for
though they nervously praise all new artists,
they nonetheless seem to imagine that these
artists, in their own assertions, dangerously
contradict each other, indeed that they feel
something like blind rage toward each other,

584/1856

and that summa summarum they perhaps

dont know what theyre doing!
And did you also find out what those
sun-stricken minds that Diotima cools with
laurel think about the critics and professors,
to the extent these people dont praise
them? Ulrich asked. As if the artists were
the ones feeding these beasts of intellect with
their flesh, and these beasts were the ones
who would leave a mere struggle over bones
as the final remains of all mans humanity!
Youve observed them well! Stumm
agreed as a delighted connoisseur.
But in the face of so much contradiction, how do you recognize whether youve
really got hold of a genius or not? Ulrich
asked logically.
Stumms answer was honest, if not
compelling: I dont give a damn, he said.

585/1856

Ulrich looked at him in silence. If he

wanted merely to engage in a rear-guard
skirmish and avoid problems that were more
difficult than the circumstances warranted,
then it was a mistake for him not to use this
moment to disengage himself from the enemy, as good tactics would have dictated.
But he himself did not know what mood he
was in. So he finally said: Nothing gives fake
geniuses so much luck with the masses as the
incomprehension that genuine geniuses ordinarily have for each other, and, following
their example, the pseudo-genuine ones;
lamp polishers cant clean Prometheus! At
this conclusion Stumm looked up at him, uncomprehending but thoughtful. Dont misunderstand me, he added cautiously. Remember my eagerness when I was searching
for a great idea for Diotima. I know what intellectual aristocracy is. Nor am I Count
Leinsdorf, for whom thats always a kind of
minor nobility. Just now, for example, you

586/1856

brilliantly defined what a genius is. How did

it go? It finds a solution by doing something
that hadnt occurred to anyone before! That
really says the same thing Ive been saying:
the important thing is that a genius gets hold
of his subject from the wrong end. But thats
not intellectual aristocracy! And why isnt it
intellectual aristocracy? Because the usual
polestar of our age is that whatever the circumstances, what happens must be meaningful, but whether you call it genius or intellectual aristocracy, progress or, as you now
often hear people say, a record, just doesnt
matter much to our time!
But then why did you mention intellectual
aristocracy?
Ulrich
prompted
impatiently.
I cant really say precisely, for that very
reason!
Stumm
defended
himself.
Anyway, he continued, thinking busily,
perhaps you could say in a way that an intellectual aristocracy in particular is not

587/1856

permitted to leave character in peace. Arent

I right?
Yes, youre right! Ulrich encouraged
him, made aware for the first time this precise moment, quite incidentally, as it
happened, to heed a distinction like the one
between genius and dexterity.
Yes, Stumm repeated thoughtfully.
And then he asked: But what is character?
Is it what helps a man develop the ideas that
will distinguish him? Or is it what keeps him
from having such ideas? For a man who has
character doesnt do much flitting around!
Ulrich decided to shrug his shoulders
and smile.
Presumably its connected with what
one is accustomed to calling great ideas,
Stumm went on skeptically. And then intellectual aristocracy would be nothing except
the possession of great ideas. But how does
one recognize that an idea is great? There are

588/1856

so many geniuses, at least a couple in every

profession; indeed, its a distinctive mark of
our time that we have too many geniuses.
How is one to understand them all and not
overlook any! His painful familiarity with
the question of what a really great idea was
had brought him back to its role in genius.
Ulrich shrugged again.
There are of course some people, and
Ive met them, Stumm said, who never
miss the smallest genius that can be dug up
anywhere!
Ulrich replied: Those are the snobs
and intellectual pretenders.
The General: But Diotima is one of
these people too.
Ulrich: Makes no difference. A person
into whom everything he finds can be stuffed
must be built with no shape of his own, like a
sack.

589/1856

Its true, the General replied rather

reproachfully, that youve often said that Diotima was a snob. And youve sometimes
said it about Arnheim as well. But that made
me imagine a snob to be someone who is
quite stimulating! Ive honestly tried hard to
be one myself and not let anything slip past
me. Its hard for me to suddenly hear you say
that you cant even depend on a snob to understand genius. Because you said before
that youth couldnt answer for it, nor age
either. And then we discussed how geniuses
dont, and critics not at all. Well then, genius
will finally have to reveal itself to everyone of
its own accord!
That will happen in time, Ulrich
soothed him, laughing. Most people believe
that time naturally turns up what is
significant.
Yes, one hears that too. But tell me if
you can, Stumm asked impatiently. I can
understand that one is cleverer at fifty than

590/1856

one was at twenty. But at eight oclock in the

evening Im no cleverer than I was at eight in
the morning; and that one should be cleverer
after nineteen hundred and fourteen years
than after eight hundred and fourteen, that I
cant see either! This led them to go on a bit
discussing the difficult subject of genius, the
only thing, in Ulrichs opinion, that justified
mankind, but at the same time the most exciting and confusing, because you never
know whether youre looking at genius or at
one of its half-baked imitations. What are its
distinguishing characteristics? How is it
passed on? Could it develop further if it were
not constantly being thwarted? Is it, as
Stumm had asked, such a desirable thing
anyway? These were problems that for
Stumm belonged to the beauty of the civilian
mind and its scandalous disorder, while Ulrich, on the other hand, compared them with
a weather forecast that not only didnt know
whether it would be fair tomorrow but didnt

591/1856

know whether it had been fair yesterday

either. For the judgment of what constitutes
genius changes with the spirit of the times,
assuming that anyone is interested in it at
all, which by no means need be the mark of
greatness of soul or of mind.
Such puzzles would no doubt have been
well worth solving, and so it came about in
this part of the conversation that Stumm finally, after shaking his head a few times,
proffered his observation about the Engineering[/Genius] Staff that Ulrich later repeated to his sister. This explanation, that
genius needed a Genius Staff, reminded him
somewhat painfully, moreover, of what Ulrich himself had half ironically called the
General Secretariat of Precision and Soul,
and Stumm did not neglect to remind him
that he had last mentioned it in his own and
Count Leinsdorfs presence during the unfortunate gathering at Diotimas. At that time
you were demanding something quite

592/1856

similar, he held up to him, and if Im not

mistaken, it was a department for geniuses
and the intellectual aristocracy. Ulrich nodded silently. For the intellectual aristocracy, Stumm continued, would ultimately
be what ordinary geniuses dont have. No
matter how you define them, our geniuses
are geniuses and nothing more, nothing but
specialists! Am I right? I can really understand why many people say: today theres no
such thing as genius!
Ulrich nodded again. A pause ensued.
But theres one thing Id like to know,
Stumm asked with that hint of egotism that
attaches to a recurrent perplexing thought:
Is it a reproach or a distinction that people
never say about a general: hes a genius?
Both.
Both? Why both?
I honestly dont know.

593/1856

Stumm was taken aback but, after

thinking it over, said: You put that brilliantly! The people love an officer as long as
they arent stirred up; and he gets to know
the people: the people couldnt care less
about geniuses! But by the time he gets to be
a general he has to be a specialist, and if he
himself is a specialist genius he then falls into the category that theres no such thing as
genius. So he never gets, as I would say if I
spelled it out, to the point where the use of
this wishy-washy term would be appropriate.
Do you know, by the way, that I recently
heard something really clever? I was at your
cousins, in the most intimate circle, although Arnheim is away, and we were discussing intellectual questions. Then someone
pokes me in the ribs and explains Arnheim
to me in a whisper: Hes what you call a
genius, he said. More than all the others. A
universal specialist! Why dont you say anything? Ulrich found nothing to say. The

594/1856

possibilities inherent in this point of view

surprised me. Besides, you yourself happen
to be such a kind of universal specialist.
Thats why you shouldnt neglect Arnheim
so; because ultimately the Parallel Campaign
might get its saving idea from him, and that
could be dangerous! I would really much
prefer that it came from you.
And although Stumm had (finally)
spoken far more than Ulrich, he took his
leave with the words: As always, its a pleasure talking with you, because you understand all these things de facto much better
than everyone else!

50
GENIUS AS A PROBLEM
Ulrich had related this conversation to his
sister.
But even before that he had been speaking of difficulties connected with the notion
of genius. What enticed him to do this? He
had no intention of claiming to be a genius
himself, or of politely inquiring about the
conditions that would enable a person to become one. On the contrary, he was convinced
that the powerful, exhausted ambition in his
time for the vocation of genius was the expression not of intellectual or spiritual greatness but merely of an incongruity. But as all
contemporary questions about life become
impossibly entangled in an impenetrable

596/1856

thicket, so do the questions surrounding the

idea of genius, which in part enticed ones
thoughts to penetrate it and in part left them
hung up on the difficulties.
After he finished his report, Ulrich had
immediately come back to this. Of course,
whatever has genius must be significant; for
genius is the significant accomplishment that
originates under particularly distinctive conditions. But significant is not only the lesser but also the more general category. So the
first thing was to inquire into this notion
again. The words significant and
significance themselves, like all terms that
are much used, have different meanings. On
the one hand, they are connected with the
concepts of thinking and knowing. To say
that something signifies or has this significance means that it points to, gives to understand, indicates, or can represent in specific
cases, or simply generally, that it is the same
as something else, or falls under the same

597/1856

heading and can be known and comprehended as the other. That is, of course, a relationship accessible to reason and involving
the nature of reason; and in this manner
anything and everything can signify
something, as it can also be signified. On die
other hand, the term signifying something
is used as well in the sense of something having significance or being of significance. In
this sense, too, nothing is excluded. Not only
a thought can be significant, but also an act,
a work, a personality, a position, a virtue,
and even an individual quality of mind. The
distinction between this and the other kind
of signifying is that a particular rank and
value is ascribed to what is significant. That
something is significant means in this sense
that it is more significant than other things,
or simply that it is unusually significant.
What decides this? The ascription gives one
to understand that it belongs to a hierarchy,
an order of mental powers that is aspired to,

598/1856

even should the attainable measure of order

be in many things as undependable as it is
strict in others. Does this hierarchy exist?
It is the human spirit itself: named not
as a natural concept but as the objective
spirit.
Agathe asked what this included; it is a
notion that people more scientifically trained
than she threw around so much that she
ducked.
Ulrich nearly emulated her. He found
the word used far too much. At that period it
was used so often in scientific and pseudoscientific arguments that it simply revolved
around itself. For heavens sake! Youre becoming profound! he retorted. The expression had inadvertendy slipped from his own
lips.
Ordinarily, one understands by objective spirit the works of the spirit, the relatively constant share it deposits in the world

599/1856

through the most various signs, in opposition to the subjective spirit as individual
quality and individual experience; or one understood by it, and this could not be entirely
separated from the first kind, the viable spirit, verifiable, constant in value, in opposition
to the inspirations of mood and error. This
touched two oppositions whose significance
for Ulrichs life had certainly not been simply
didactic butand this he was well aware of
and had expressed often enoughhad become extremely alluring and worrisome. So
what he meant had elements of both.
Perhaps he could also have said to his
sister that by objective spirit one understands everything that man has thought,
dreamed, and desired; but, to do so means
not looking at it as components of a spiritual,
historical, or other temporal-actual development, and certainly not as something
spiritual-suprasensory either, but exclusively
as itself, according to its own characteristic

600/1856

content and inner coherence. He could also

have said, which appeared to contradict this
but in the end came to the same thing, that it
should be looked at with the reservation of
all the contexts and orderings of which it is
at all capable. For what something signifies
or is in and of itself he equated with die result that coalesces out of the significances that
could accrue to it under all possible
conditions.
But one merely needs to put this differently, simply saying that in and of itself,
something would be precisely what it never
is in and of itself, but rather is in relation to
its circumstances; and likewise that its significance is everything that it could signify; so
one merely has to turn the expression on its
head for the scruple connected with it to immediately become obvious. For of course the
usual procedure, on the contrary, is to assume, even if only from a usage of language,
that what something is in and of itself, or

601/1856

what it signifies, forms the origin and nucleus of everything that can be expressed about
it in mutable relationships. So it was a particular conception of the nature of the notion
and of signifying by which Ulrich had let
himself be guided; and particularly because
it is not unfamiliar, it might also be stated
something like this: Whatever may be understood under the nature of the concept of a logical theory is in application, as a concept of
something, nothing but the counter-value
and the stored-up readiness for all possible
true statements about that something. This
principle, which inverts the procedure of logic, is empirical, that is, it reminds one, if
one were to apply an already coined name to
it, of that familiar line of philosophical
thought, without, however, being meant in
precisely the same sense. Ought Ulrich now
to have explained to his companion what
empiricism was in its earlier form and what
it had become in its more modest, and

602/1856

perhaps improved, modern version? As often

happens when an idea gains in correctness,
the more finely honed process of thinking renounces false answers but also some more
profound questions as well.
What was baptized as empiricism in
philosophical language was a doctrine that
arbitrarily declared the really astonishing
presence and unchangeable sway of laws in
nature and in the rules of the intellect to be a
deceptive view that originated in habituation
to the frequent repetition of the same experiences. The approximate classical formula for
this was:
Whatever repeats itself often enough
seems to have to be so; and in this exaggerated form, which the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries bestowed upon it, this formula was a repercussion of the long antecedent theological speculation: that is, of the
faith placed in God, of being able to explain
His works with the aid of whatever one takes

603/1856

into ones head. Notions and ideas demonstrate, when they are dominant, the same
inch-nation to let themselves be worshiped
and to broadcast capricious judgments as
people do; and that probably led, when empiricism was established in modern times, to
the admixture of a rather superficial opposition to totally convinced rationalism, which
then, when it came to power itself, bore some
of the responsibility for a shallow materialistic nature and societal mentality that at
times has become almost popular. Ulrich
smiled when he thought of an example, but
did not say why. For it was not reluctantly
that one reproached empiricism, which was
all too simpleminded and confined to its
rules, that according to it the sun rises in the
east and sets in the west for no other reason
than that up till now it always has. And were
he to betray this to his sister and ask her
what she thought of it, she would probably
answer arbitrarily, without bothering about

604/1856

the arguments and counterarguments, that

the sun might one day do it differently. This
was why he smiled as he thought of this example; for the relationship between youth
and empiricism seemed to him profoundly
natural, and youths inclination to want to
experience everything itself, and to expect
the most surprising discoveries, moved him
to see this as the philosophy appropriate to
youth. But from the assertion that awaiting
the rising of the sun in the east every day
merely has the security of a habit, it is only a
step to asserting that all human knowledge is
felt only subjectively and at a particular time,
or is indeed the presumption of a class or
race, all of which has gradually become evident in European intellectual history. Apparently one should also add that approximately
since the days of our great-grandfathers, a
new kind of individuality has made its appearance: this is the type of the empirical
man or empiricist, of the person of

605/1856

experience who has become such a familiar

open question, the person who knows how to
make from a hundred of his own experiences
a thousand new ones, which, however, always remain within the same circle of experience, and who has by this means created the
gigantic, profitable-in-appearance monotony
of the technical age. Empiricism as a philosophy might be taken as the philosophical
childrens disease of this type of person.

Sketches
for
a
Continuation
of
the
Galley
Chapters
1938 and Later

59
NIGHT TALK
In his room he had lit one lamp after the other, as if the stimulating excess of illumination would make the words come more easily, and for a long time he wrote zealously.
But after he had accomplished the most important part, he was overcome by the awareness that Agathe had not yet returned, and
this became more and more disturbing. Ulrich did not know that she was with Lindner,
nor did he know about these visits at all; but
since that secret and his diaries were the
only things they concealed from each other,
he could surmise and also almost understand
what she was doing. He did not take it more
seriously than it deserved, and was more

608/1856

astonished at it than jealous; then too, he

ascribed responsibility for it to his own lack
of resolution, insofar as she pursued ways of
her own that he could not approve of. It nevertheless inhibited him more and more, and
diminished the readiness for belief that was
weaving his thoughts together, that in this
hour of collectedness he did not even know
where she was or why she was late. He decided to interrupt his work and go out, to escape the enervating influence of waiting, but
with the intention of soon returning to his
labors. As he left the house it occurred to
him that going to the theater not only would
be the greatest diversion, but would also
stimulate him; and so he went, although he
was not dressed for it. He chose an inconspicuous seat and at first felt the great pleasure of coming into a performance that was
already energetically under way. It justified
his coming, for this dynamic mirroring of
emotions familiar a hundred times over, by

609/1856

which the theater is accustomed to live under

the pretext that this gives it meaning, reminded Ulrich of the value of the task he had
left at home and renewed his desire to come
to the end of the road that, proceeding from
the origin of the emotions, ultimately had to
lead to their significance. When he again directed his attention to the goings-on onstage,
it occurred to him that most of the actors
busily occupied up there, beautifully if meaninglessly imitating passions, bore titles such
as Privy Councillor or Professor, for Ulrich
was in the Hoftheater, and this raised
everything to the level of state comedy. So although he left the theater before the end of
the play, he nevertheless returned home with
his spirits refreshed.
He again turned on all the lights in his
room, and it gave him pleasure to listen to
himself writing in the porous stillness of the
night. This time, when he had entered the
house, all sorts of fleeting signs barely

610/1856

assimilated by his consciousness told him

that Agathe had returned; but when he subsequently thought of it and everything was
without a sound, he was afraid to look
around him. Thus the night became late. He
had been once more in the garden, which lay
in complete darkness, as inhospitable, indeed as mortally hostile, as deep black
ocean; nevertheless, he had groped his way
to a bench and persevered there for quite a
while. It was difficult, even under these circumstances, to believe that what he was writing was important. But when he was again
sitting in the light, he set to work to write to
the end, as far as his plan extended this time.
He didnt have far to go, but had hardly begun when a soft noise interrupted him. For
Agathe, who had been in his room while he
was at the theater and had repeated this
secret visit while he was in the garden, slipping out upon his return, hesitated a short

611/1856

while outside the door and now softly turned

the knob.
***
Agathes entrance: she is wearing the historical lounging attire, etc. Lets her hand glide
over his head, sits with crossed legs on the
sofa.
Or: wrapper. Perhaps better. Describe
it? Not transparent; on the contrary, heavy
material. She was enveloped in a wrapper of
old velvet material that reached to her ankles
and looked like a completely darkened picture that had once been painted on a gold
ground. Like a magicians cape. Her ankles
bare, the span of her foot as bare as her
hand. Her slippers were of violet silk the color of spindle-tree fruit hanging on its bush in
autumn. A collar of some soft weave, whose
color hovered between ivory, milk, and dull
gilt silver.

612/1856

She had never worn this wrapper before; Ulrich did not recall it.
Ibidem. When he is near her, Ulrich
feels the flowing back into emotion of what is
outside and what inside, and the vigorous action of the emotion. Also the sexual
propensity, which belongs to a different
sphere.
The woman who becomes a guiding image in a different aspect and the woman who
is the fulfillment of desire as examples of
conceptions of different levels that in life exist side by side.
She settles down on the sofa. Her torso
comfortably supported and her legs drawn
up beneath her so that only her foot peeks
out beneath the hem that forms a wheel.
Later she briskly changes position, but at the
beginning her posture was thoughtful and
her face serious.

613/1856

Ive read it! she informed her brother,

like a chess player who, after a short pause
for reflection, makes his first move.
It seems to me you shouldnt have, he
responded in the same manner.
Agathe burst out laughing. It was disloyal of you to conceal it from me, she asserted boldly.
If the description of the dress stays,
dont have the laughing right after it
Ulrich listened to her voice and contemplated her beauty. These reflections make
me understand more about myself than
many years were able to previously, he said
quite calmly.
And they have nothing to do with me?
Yes, it concerns you as well!
But why then are you doing it secretly?
Why havent you ever told me about it?

614/1856

Why are you secretly visiting that man

of tears Lindner?
Also to understand myself better. And
anyway, he weeps tears of anger.
Were you there today?
Yes. Agathe looked steadily at her
brother and noticed the resentment in his
eyes.
He strove to control himself and responded as tersely as possible: I dont like
your doing that.
I dont Uke doing it myself, Agathe
said, continuing after a brief pause: But I
like what you write. The beginning and the
end, and whats in between too. I didnt understand everything, but I read it all. I think
you could explain a lot of things to me, and
because Im afraid of straining myself, Ill believe a lot without any explanation at all.

615/1856

(Post datum. This is really an example

of an inner form of cheerfulness as distinct
from outer.)
She laughed again, and it pealed softly.
She seemed to be laughing over nothing and
only from joy; and although Ulrich could be
quite sensitive to peoples laughter when it
was aroused by something, for then it sometimes seemed to him just as humdrum an occurrence as sneezing, it immediately enticed
him into an impossible task, that of adequately describing this pleasant, unmotivated sound. If, into the bargain, one threw in
a little poetic commonplace, the impression
could then be compared with that of a small,
low-tuned silver bell: a dark bass tone submerged in a soft overflowing sparkle. But
while Ulrich was listening to these cheerful
sounds spreading out in the quiet room, his
eyes also thought they were seeing all its
lamps burning that much more quietly / as
brightly. Precisely the simplest sensory

616/1856

impressions that populate the world occasionally have surprises in store when it
comes to describing them, as if they came
from another world.
Influenced by this weakness, Ulrich
suddenly felt a confession on his tongue
about which he himself had not thought for
goodness knew how long. I once made a
devilish bet with our big cousin Tzi, which I
will never write down and which I dont
think I ever told you about, he began to confess. He suspected that I would write books,
and, as it seems to me, he considered books
that did not praise his politics to be deleterious and those that did superfluous, aside
from the historical literature and memoirs a
diplomat customarily employs. But I swore
to him that I would kill myself before I succumbed to the temptation of writing a book;
and I really meant it. For what I was able to
write would do nothing more than prove that
one is able to live differently in some specific

617/1856

fashion; but that I should write a book about

it would at the very least be the counterproof
that Im not able to live in that fashion. I
didnt expect it would turn out differently.
His sister had listened to him without
stirring, without even a muscle in her face
twitching. We can kill each other if it turns
into a book, she said. But it seems to me we
have less reason to than before.
Ulrich involuntarily looked her in the
eye.
Rather more reason for the opposite,
she went on.
You cant yet say that (too), Ulrich objected calmly.
Agathe found that the supporting pillow
at her side needed rearranging, which turned
her face away from him. Dont be angiy with
me, she replied from this posture, but even
though I admire what you write, I still dont

618/1856

quite understand why you write. Indeed,

sometimes Ive found it enormously comical.
You carefully dissect according to natural
and moral laws the possibility of extending
your hand. Why dont you simply reach out?
Its ruinous simply to reach out. Did I
ever tell you the story of the majors wife?
Agathe nodded mutely.
It cant end the way that did!
The small furrow appeared between
Agathes brows. The majors wife was a
commonplace person, she declared coolly.
Thats right. But whether one discovers
a world or goes on a Don Quixote adventure
doesnt depend, unfortunately, on the worth
of the person in whose honor one embarks
on the trip.
Who knows! Agathe replied. A moment later she impatiently abandoned her
comfortable position and sat down in the

619/1856

ordinary way right in front of her brother, as

if she were going to test something. She
looked at him (almost grimly) but said nothing. Well? Ulrich asked encouragingly, expecting an attack (that was awaiting him).
Doesnt
everything
youve
written
downshe pointed to the table and the papers lying on itanswer everything weve
been asking ourselves so often and have been
so uncertain about?
I almost think so.
I have the feeling that everything weve
been discussing back and forth for so long is
resolved in these papers. But why didnt you
hit on it sooner? Im even immodest enough
to maintain that youve left us both in the
dark for quite a while.
Were still in the dark. You shouldnt
overestimate these ideas. And its been hard

620/1856

for me to open up to you. Sometimes in a

dream you have delightful thoughts, but if
you carry on with them after you wake up,
theyre ridiculous.
Really? But if Ive understood you correctly, youre certain that for every emotion
there are two worlds and that it depends on
us which one we wish to live in!
Two images of the world! But only one
reality! Within it, of course, you can perhaps
live in one way or the other. And that is when
you apparently have the one or the other
reality before you.
Apparently, but totally? Apparently,
and with no gaps? But if everything were living in this other way, wouldnt that be the
Millennium?
Ulrich cautiously confirmed the possibility of this conclusion.

621/1856

So the intimation of this other world

would also be what brought about belief in a
paradise? Dont laugh at me, but its made
me conclude that in this way one would of
necessity arrive in paradise just by living according to the other part of ones feelings, as
you call it.
Put correctly, paradise would then
have to arrive on earth, Ulrich rectified.
Im not laughing at all. I just have to
add: as far as one can! / Or: mysticism as
anomalous psychology of normal life: You
believe that mysticism is a secret through
which we enter another world; but it is only,
or even, the secret of living differently in our
world.
Oh? Yes, thats what you wrote. But
didnt you even much earlier sometimes call
it the concave, submerged world? Agathe
ascertained. You spoke of an encompassing
and an encompassed possibility of feeling as

622/1856

if they were old tales. Of gods and goddesses.

Of two branches of development in life. Of
moon-nights and day. Of two inseparable
twins!
It is the answer to all our conversations,
all our peculiarities.
Agathe was pressing, but Ulrich yielded
of his own accord: You can add anything
you like: everything that has truly moved me
has its explanation here. The victories that
come from acting in the world, and the emotions that go with them, have always been
alien to me, even if at times I felt an obligation to them. An apparently inactive state I
called love, without loving a woman, was opposed in me to the processes of knowledge
that gave me the passion a rider has for his
horse / which I called the world of love because I couldnt love in the everyday world! /
We always imagined a different life before
us.

623/1856

Agathe interrupted him animatedly. But

it was hard for her to find the right words. At
the beginning, although soon swept away by
what she was saying, there was a little awkwardness in her voice, as when a boy tries to
speak in a mans bass voice, or when a girl
paints a mustache on her face, as she began:
You know that Im no shrinking touch-menot. And Ive often reproached myself for my
so-called passions, which have always left me
completely unmoved. I clearly felt that I was
being moved by them only because I hadnt
found what could truly move us. Possibly
better this way: When she applied the expression touch-me-not to herself. She said
Ulrich knew that she wasnt one and that she
attached no importance to it. But also (that
is: he knew) that she found her so-called passions most shameful after the fact. You
scrape yourself like a cow against a tree, just
as happily, and suddenly stop in the same
bewilderment, she said.

624/1856

Ulrich: A person is passionate in two

senses. A land of appetitive sense, which
reaches out for everything and undertakes
everything, and another, which is timid, has
a hard time making up its mind to do things,
and is full of inexpressible longing. One
probably has both within oneself.
Agathe: The man with qualities and the
man without qualities! Marvelous, marvelous. If someone understands you properly
he has saved his life! What author wouldnt
be flattered by such praise! Ulrich responded: Its not immaterial that we are talking
about a passionate person in two quite different senses. Weve become accustomed to
applying the term chiefly to people we really
ought to call lustful, to gluttons in every kind
of passion, while we rather tend to regard
people who are profoundly passionate within
themselves as weak in affect, people who ascetically serve some sort of nobler passion of
life. That leads to stupid mix-ups.

625/1856

Agathe: Im reproached for acting

badly
Who reproaches
suspiciously)

you?

(a

little

Agathe
violently
twitched
her
shoulders. Professor Hagauer. Think of his
letters. Indeed, Ive often reproached myself
for having done what I did with the will
Well make amends for it, Ulrich
intervened.
What a situation to be in, feeling that
youre not a good person and yet not wanting
it any other way! You yourself once reproached me about this, and I was
insulted
Ulrich interrupted her with an apologetic, defensive gesture. Probably (too) from
the author, that its important that they have
now recognized that theyve got to the center
of their difficulties.

626/1856

Agathe: Oh, youve often talked about

morality. Youve set before me at least ten
different definitions; every time, listening to
you was a totally new experience. But now
Im reproached for being immoral, Im made
to believe it myself, but for all that Im an absolute marvel of morality!
Ulrich: And why a marvel?
Agathe: You showed me the way! The
only condition I love and seek needs no morality, it is morality! Every twitch of the little
toe that happens in it is moral. Am I right?
(laughs)
Ulrich: Yes, youre right.
Agathe: But first I want to ask you
something elseEverything weve been talking about half-jokingly and half seriously for
the last few days: is it all settled?
Ulrich: Of course.

627/1856

Agathe: To love your neighbor as yourself is an ecstatic demand?

Ulrich: It is the natural morality of mystic ecstasy, which teaches something that
never quite fits the ordinary activity of our
lives.

Early-Morning Walk
Part I
Around Clarisses mouth laughter was struggling with the difficulties facing her; her
mouth kept opening and then pressing itself
tightly shut. She had got up too early: Walter
was still sleeping; she had hastily thrown on
a light dress and gone outside. The singing of
birds reached her from the woods through
the empty morning stillness. The hemisphere
of the sky had not yet filled with warmth.
Even the light was still shallowly dispersed.
It only reaches my ankles, Clarisse
thought. The cock of the morning has just
been wound up! Everything is before its
time! Clarisse was deeply moved that she

629/1856

was wandering through the world before it

was time. It almost made her cry.
Without saying anything about it to
Walter or Ulrich, Clarisse had been to the
asylum a second time. Since then she had
been especially sensitive. She applied
everything she had seen or heard during her
two visits to herself. Three events especially
preoccupied her. The first was that she had
been addressed and greeted as the Emperors
son and a man. When this assertion had
been repeated, she had quite distinctly felt
her resistance to it yield, as if something ordinary that usually stood in the way of this
royal quality was vanishing. And she was
filled with an inexpressible desire. The
second thing that excited her was that Meingast, too, was transforming himself, and was
obviously using her and Walters proximity
in the process. Since she had surprised him
in the vegetable gardenit might have been
a few weeks agoand terrified him with her

630/1856

truly prophetic shout that she could transform herself too and also be a man, he had
been avoiding her company. Since then she
had not seen him often, even at meals; he
locked himself in with his work or spent the
whole day out of the house, and whenever he
was hungry he secretly took something to eat
from the pantry (without asking). It had
been just a short time ago that she had succeeded in talking to him again alone. She had
told him: Walter has forbidden me to talk
about how youre undergoing a transformation in our house! and had blinked her eyes.
But even here Meingast kept himself concealed and acted surprised, indeed annoyed.
He did not want to let her in on the secret he
was busily working on. This seemed to be the
explanation. But Clarisse had said to him:
Perhaps Ill steal a march on you! And she
connected that with the first event. There
was little reflection in this, and on that account its relation to reality was unclear; but

631/1856

what was clearly palpable was the lustful

emergence of a different being from within
the foundation of her own.
Clarisse was now convinced that the insane people had found her out (that she had
offered to Meingast that she could also be a
man). And since then she had one secret
more: when an invitation to repeat the interrupted visit did not arrive, either from the
secretly resisting General von Stumm or
from Ulrich, she had after long hesitation
herself called Dr. Friedenthal and announced
that she would visit him at the hospital. And
the doctor had promptly found time for
Clarisse. When she asked him immediately
upon her arrival whether mad people did not
know a great deal that healthy people could
not even guess at, he smiled and shook his
head, but gazed deeply into her eyes and
answered in a tone of complacency: The
doctors of the insane know a lot that healthy
people dont even suspect! And when he had

632/1856

to go on his rounds he had offered to take

Clarisse along, and to begin where they had
stopped the last time. As if it were already a
matter of course, Clarisse again slipped into
the white doctors coat that Friedenthal held
for her.
Butand this was the third event that
still excited Clarisse after the fact, and even
more than the othersshe again did not get
to see Moosbrugger. For something remarkable happened. They had left the last pavilion and were breathing in the spicy air of the
grounds as they walked, during which
Friedenthal ventured: Now its time for
Moosbrugger! when again a guard came
running up with a message. Friedenthal
shrugged his shoulders and said: Strange!
Its not going to work out this time either! At
this moment the Director and a Commission
are with Moosbrugger. I cant take you with
me. And after he had assured her on his
own initiative that he would invite her to

633/1856

continue her visit at the first opportunity, he

left with rapid strides, while the guard conducted Clarisse back to the street.
Clarisse found it striking and extraordinary that her visits had twice come to
nothing, and suspected that there was
something behind it. She had the impression
that she was intentionally not being allowed
to see Moosbrugger and that a new excuse
was being thought up each time, perhaps
even with the purpose of making Moosbrugger disappear before she could get through to
him.
But when Clarisse thought this over
again, she nearly cried. She had let herself be
outsmarted and felt quite ashamed; for she
had heard nothing from Friedenthal. But
while she was getting so upset, she was also
calming down again. A thought occurred to
her that often preoccupied her now, that in
the course of the history of mankind many
great men had been spirited away and

634/1856

tortured by their contemporaries, and that in

the madhouse many had even disappeared.
They could neither defend themselves nor
explain, because all they felt for their time
was scorn! she thought. And she recalled
Nietzsche, whom she idolized, with his great,
sad mustache and grown totally mute behind
it.
But this gave her an uncanny feeling.
What had just now insulted or provoked her,
her defeat at the hands of the cunning doctor, was suddenly revealed to her as a sign
that the destiny of such a great man might
also have been preordained for her. Her eyes
sought the direction in which the asylum lay,
and she knew that she always felt this direction as something special, even when she
wasnt thinking of it.
It was extremely oppressive to feel oneself so
at one with madmen, but she told herself

635/1856

that to put oneself on the level of the uncanny is to decide for genius!
Meanwhile the sun had come up, and
this made the landscape even emptier; it was
green and cool, with bloody wisps; the world
was still low, and reached up only to
Clarisses ankles on the little rise she was
standing on. Here and there a birds voice
shrieked like a lost soul. Her narrow mouth
expanded and smiled at the course of the
morning. She stood girded round by her
smile like the Blessed Virgin on the earth
embraced by sin / crescent moon. She
mulled over what she should do. She was under the sway of a peculiar mood of sacrifice:
far too many things had recently been going
through her head. She had repeatedly believed that it was now beginning with her: to
do a great deed, something great with all her
soul! But she did not know what.
She only felt that something was imminent. She stood in fear of it, but felt a

636/1856

longing for the fearful. It hovered in the

emptiness of the morning like a cross above
her shoulders. But really it was more an active hurt. A great deed. A transformation.
There was that idea again, so laden with associations! But, as it were, empty, like a
rising first ball of light. And yet it was
something active and aggressive. What it
might be and her attempts to imagine it
caromed through her head in all directions.
The swallows, too, had meanwhile begun to
dart back and forth through the air.
Suddenly Clarisse became cheerful
again, although the uncanniness did not entirely disappear. It occurred to her that she
had got quite far away from her house. She
turned around, and began to dance on the
way. She stretched her arms straight out and
lifted her knee. That was how she traversed
the entire last part of her route.

637/1856

But before she got home, at a bend in

the path, she came upon General von
Stumm.
(1) Good morning, dear lady! How are
things? he called already
from a distance of fifteen yards.
Quite well! Clarisse replied with a
stern face, in a toneless soft voice.
(2) Stumm was in uniform, and his little
round legs were ensconced in boots and duncolored riding breeches with a generals red
stripes. At the Ministry he militantly pretended that he sometimes went on long rides in
the morning before work, but in reality he
went strolling with Clarisse over the banks
and meadows that surrounded her house. At
this hour Walter was still sleeping, or had to
busy himself with his clothes and breakfast
in joyless haste so he wouldnt be late to the
office; and if Walter peeked out of the window, filled with jealousy he saw the sun

638/1856

sparkling on the buttons and colors of a uniform, alongside which a red or blue summer
dress was usually to be seen billowing in the
wind, as happens in old paintings to the garments of angels in the exuberance of their
descending.
(3) Shall we go to the ski jump?
Stumm asked cheerfully. The ski jump was
a small quarry in the hills, and had nothing
whatever to do with its name. But Stumm
found this name, one that Clarisse had
chosen, exquisite and dynamic. As if it
were winter! he exclaimed. It makes me
laugh every time. And you would doubtless,
my dear lady, call a snowbank a summer
hill?
Clarisse liked being called my dear
lady and immediately agreed to turn around
with him, because once she had become accustomed to the generals company she
found it quite agreeable. First, because he
was, after all, a general; not nothing, like

639/1856

Ulrich and Meingast and Walter. She now

loved everything that was important in the
world. Then, because it had occurred to her
that it was really a quite peculiar circumstance to be always carrying a sword around,
an odd relation to the world that corresponded to the great and fearful feelings that at
times / often preoccupied her. Further, she
esteemed the voluble von Stumm because
she unconsciously recognized that he did
not, like the others, desire her in a way that,
when she was not in the mood herself, demeaned her. Theres something strangely
pure about him! she had explained to her
jealous husband. But as a final reason, she
also needed a person with whom she could
talk, for she was oppressed by myriad
swarms of inner promptings that she had to
keep to herself. And when the General was
listening to her, she felt that everything she
said and did was good. You have, my dear
lady, the General would often assure her,

640/1856

something that sets you apart from all women I have had the honor of getting to know.
You positively teach me energy, martial
courage, and the conquering of Austrian negligence! He smiled as if it were a joke, but
she clearly noticed that he meant some of it
seriously.
(4) But the major topic of their conversations was, as is also the rule in love, recollections of their common great experience,
the visit to the insane asylum, and so this
time Clarisse began to confide to the General
that she had since been back a second time.
With whom? the General inquired, relieved to have escaped a horrible mission.
Alone, Clarisse said.
Good God! Stumm exclaimed, and
stopped, although they had only taken a few
steps. Really alone? You dont let anything
give you the creeps! And did you see anything special? he asked, curious.

641/1856

The murderers house, Clarisse responded with a smile.

This was the designation that Dr.
Friedenthal, a good stage director, had used
as they had walked across the soundless
moss under the trees of the old garden toward a group of small buildings from which
horrible cries came echoing toward them
with remarkable regularity. Friedenthal, too,
had smiled, and had told Clarisse, as Clarisse
now told the General, that every inmate of
this group of houses had killed at least one
person, sometimes a number of people.
And now theyre screaming when its
too late! Stumm said in a tone of reproachful acquiescence in the way of the world.
But Clarisse did not appreciate his response. She recalled that she, too, had asked
what the cries meant. And Friedenthal had
told her that they were manic fits; but he
said this quite softly and cautiously, as if they

642/1856

were not to intrude. And just at that moment

the gigantic guards had suddenly materialized around them and opened the reinforced
doors; and Clarisse, repeating this and falling back into the mood, like being at an exciting play, softly whispered the term manic
fits while looking meaningfully into the
Generals eyes.
She turned away and walked on a few
paces ahead, so that Stumm almost had to
run to catch up with her. When he was at her
side again, she asked him what he thought
about modern painting, but before he could
gather his impressions, she surprised him
with the information that there was an astonishing correspondence between this
painting and an architecture born from the
spirit of the madhouse: The buildings are
dice, and the patients live in hollowed-out
concrete dice, she explained. There is a
corridor through the middle, and cubeshaped cells left and right, and in each cell

643/1856

there is nothing but one person and the

space around him. Even the bench hes sitting on is part of the wall. Of course all edges
have been carefully rounded off so he cant
hurt himself, she added with precision, for
she had observed everything with the
greatest attention.
She found no words for what she really
wanted to say. Since she had been surrounded by art all her life and had listened to the
concerns expressed about art, this island had
remained relatively resistant to the changes
that had been slowly growing in other areas
of her thinking; and especially since her own
artistic activity did not spring directly from
passion but was merely an appendix of her
ambition and a consequence of the circumstances in which she lived, her judgment in
this area, despite the illness that had recently
made new inroads on her personality, was no
more perverse than is common, from time to
time, in the development of art. She could,

644/1856

therefore, deal quite comfortably with an

idea like purpose-oriented architecture or
a manner of building deriving from the mission of an insane asylum, and it was only
the peopling of these up-to-date dwellings
with the insane that surprised her as a new
concept and tickled her like a scent kindled
in the nose.
But Stumm von Bordwehr interrupted
her with the modest observation that he had
always imagined that cells for maniacs had
to be padded.
Clarisse became uncertain, for perhaps
the cells had been made of light-colored rubber, and so she cut off his objection. Maybe
in the old days, she said firmly. In the days
of upholstered furniture and tasseled drapes,
maybe the cells were upholstered too. But
today, when people think objectively and
spatially, its quite impossible. Cultural progress doesnt stop, even in insane asylums!

645/1856

But Stumm would rather have heard

something about the manics themselves than
be diverted by the problem of what connections there might be between them and
painting and architecture, so he replied:
Most interesting! But now Im really
anxious to hear what happened in these
modern spaces!
Youll be surprised, Clarisse said. As
quiet as a cemetery.
Interesting! I recall that in the courtyard of murderers that we saw, it was that
still for a few moments too.
But this time only a single man had on
a striped linen smock, Clarisse went on. A
weak, little old man with blinking eyes. And
suddenly she gave a loud laugh. He
dreamed that his wife had deceived him, and
when he woke up in the morning he beat her
to death with the bootjack!

646/1856

Stumm laughed too. Right when he

woke up? Thats capital! he agreed. He was
evidently in a hurry! And the others? Why do
you say that he was the only one who had on
a smock?
Because the others were in black. They
were quieter than the dead, Clarisse replied,
overcome with seriousness.
Murderers really dont seem to be
merry people, Stumm hazarded.
Oh, youre thinking of the nutcracker!
Clarisse said.
For a moment the General did not know
whom she meant.
The one with nutcracker teeth who
said to me that Vienna is a beautiful city!
And what did this lot say to you? the
General asked with a smile.
But I told you, they were as silent as
ghosts!

647/1856

But, my dear lady, Stumm excused

himself, you cant call that manic!
They were waiting for their attacks!
What do you mean, waiting? Its
strange to wait for an attack of mania the
way you wait for an inspiring corps commander. And you say that they were dressed
in black: ready to be reviewed, in a way? Im
afraid, dear lady, that you must have been
mistaken in what you were seeing just then. I
most humbly beg your pardon, but I am accustomed to imagining such things with the
greatest precision!
Clarisse, who found it not at all disagreeable that Stumm insisted on precision,
for something was weighing her down that
was not clear to her either, replied: Dr.
Friedenthal explained it to me that way, and
I can only repeat, General, that thats the way
it was. There were three men waiting there;
all three had on black suits, and their hair

648/1856

and beards were black. One was a doctor, the

second a lawyer, and the third a wealthy
businessman. They looked like political martyrs about to be shot.
Why did they look that way? asked
the incredulous Stumm.
Because they were wearing neither collar nor tie.
Perhaps they had just arrived?
No! Friedenthal said they had been in
the asylum a long time, Clarisse asserted
warmly. And yet thats the way they looked,
as if they could stand up at any moment and
go to the office or visit a patient. Thats what
was so strange.
Well, its all the same to me, Stumm
responded, to turn the conversation, and yet
with a nobility that was new to him, while at
the same time he struck his boots aggressively with his riding crop. Ive seen fools in

649/1856

uniform, and consider more people crazy

than one might think I would. But I imagined manic as something more vivid, even
if I concede that you cant ask of a person
that he be manic all the time. But that all
three were so quietIm sorry I wasnt there
myself, for I think this Dr. Friedenthal is
capable of pulling the wool over a persons
eyes!
When he was speaking they listened
quite mutely, Clarisse reported. You
wouldnt have noticed that they were ill at all
if you hadnt happened to meet them there.
And imagine, as we were leaving, the one
who was a doctor stood up and motioned me,
with a truly chivalrous gesture, to go first,
saying to Friedenthal: Doctor, you often
bring visitors. You are always showing guests
around. Today for a change Ill come with
you too/
And then of course those bullies, those
toadies of guards, immediately the

650/1856

General began heatedly, even though he

might have been more touched by the tragedienne than the tragedy.
No, they didnt grab him, Clarisse interrupted. It was really with the greatest respect that they kept him from following me.
And I assure you, it was all so moving in this
polite and silent fashion. As if the world were
hung with heavy, precious fabrics, and the
words one would like to say have no resonance. Its hard to understand these people.
Youd have to live in an asylum yourself for a
long time to be able to enter their world!
What an exquisite idea! But God preserve us from it! Stumm responded quickly.
You know, dear lady, that I am indebted to
you for a pretty good insight into the value of
shaking up the bourgeois spirit by means of
illness and murder: but still, there are certain limits!

651/1856

With these words they had arrived at

the hill that was their goal, and the General
paused for breath before undertaking the
pathless climb. Clarisse surveyed him with
an expression of grateful solicitude and a
tender mockery that she rarely showed. But
one of them did have a fit! she informed
him roguishly, the way one hauls out a
present that had been concealed.
Well, so there! Stumm exclaimed. He
could not think of anything else to say. But
his mouth remained open as he mindlessly
groped around for a word; suddenly he beat
against his boots again with his crop. But of
course, the shouts! he added. Right at the
beginning you spoke of the shouting you
heard, and I overlooked that when you were
talking about the deathly stillness. You tell a
story so magnificently that one forgets
everything!
As we stood in front of the door from
which shouts and a strange moaning

652/1856

alternated, Clarisse began, Friedenthal

asked me once more whether I really wanted
to go in. I was so excited I could hardly answer, but the guards paid no attention and
began opening the doors. You may imagine,
General, that at that moment I was terribly
afraid, for Im really only a woman. I had the
feeling: when the door opens, the maniac is
going to jump me!
One always hears that such mentally ill
people have incredible strength, the General
said by way of encouragement.
Yes; but when the door was open and
we all stood at the entrance, he paid absolutely no attention to us!
Paid no attention? Stumm asked.
None at all! He was almost as tall as
Ulrich, and perhaps my age. He was standing
in the middle of the cell, with his head bent
forward and his legs apart. Like this!
Clarisse imitated it.

653/1856

General: Was he dressed in black too?

Clarisse: No, stark naked.
General: Looks at Clarisse from head to
toe.
Thick strands of saliva were spread all
over his young mans brownish-blond beard;
the muscles literally jumped out of his
scrawniness; he was naked, and his hair, I
mean specific hairs
You present everything so vividly one
understands it all! Stumm intervened
soothingly.
were dully bright, shamelessly
bright; he fixed us with them as if they were
an eye that looks at you without noticing
anything about you!
Clarisse had reached the top, the General sat at her feet. From the ski jump one
looked down on vineyards and meadows
sloping away, on large and small houses that

654/1856

for a short distance rose in a jumble up the

slope from below, and in one place the
glance escaped into the charming depth of
the hilly plateau that on the far horizon
bordered high mountains. But if, like
Stumm, you were sitting on a low tree
stump, all you saw was an accidental hump
of forest arching its back toward the sky,
white clouds in the familiar, fatly drifting
balls, and Clarisse. She stood with her legs
apart in front of the General and mimicked a
manic fit. She held one arm bent out at a
right angle and stiffly locked to her body;
with her head bent forward, she was executing with her torso in an unvarying sequence
a jerky motion that formed a shallow forward
circle, while she bent one finger after another
as if she were counting. And she allowed
each of these motions to be accompanied by
a pantingly uttered cry, whose force,
however, she considerately restrained. You
cant imitate the essential part, she

655/1856

explained. Thats the incredible strain with

every motion, which gives an impression as if
each time the person is tearing his body from
a vise.
But thats mora! the General exclaimed. You know, that game of chance?
Whoever guesses the right number of fingers
wins. Except that you cant bend one finger
after another but have to show as many as
you think of on the spur of the moment. All
our peasants on the Italian border play it.
It really is mora, said Clarisse, who
had seen it on her travels. And he also did it
the way you described!
Well then, mora, Stumm repeated
with satisfaction. But I*d like to know
where these insane people get their ideas,**
he added, and here commenced the strenuous part of the conversation.
Clarisse sat down on the tree stump beside the General, a little apart from him so

656/1856

that she could, if need be, cast an eye on

him, and each time this happened he had a
ridiculous horrible feeling, as if he were being pinched by a stag beetle. She was prepared to explain for his benefit the emotional
life of the insane as she herself understood it
after much reflection. One of its most important elementsbecause she connected
everything with herselfwas the idea that
the so-called mentally ill were some kind of
geniuses who were spirited away and deprived of their rights, and for some reason
that Clarisse had not yet discovered, this was
something they were not able to defend
themselves against. It was only natural that
the General could not concur in this opinion,
but this did not surprise either of them. I
am willing to concede that such an idiot
might occasionally guess something that the
likes of us dont know,* he protested. Thats
the way you imagine them being: they have a
certain aura; but that they should think more

657/1856

than we healthy people no, please, I beg to

differ!**
Clarisse insisted seriously that people
who were mentally healthy thought less than
those who were mentally unhealthy. Have
you ever strayed off a point, General, from A
to B?** she asked Stumm, and he was forced
to agree that he had. Have you ever, then,
done it the other way round, from B to A?
she asked further, and Stumm had even less
desire to deny it, after considering for a while
what it meant, for it is part of a mans pride
to think through for himself to the single
thing called truth. But Clarisse reasoned:
You see, and thats nothing but cowardice,
this neat and orderly reflecting about things.
On account of their cowardice men will never
amount to anything!
Ive never heard that before, Stumm
asserted dismissively. But he thought it over.
Wouldnt that mean?

658/1856

Clarisse moved closer to him with her

eyes. Surely some woman has whispered in
your ear: You god-man?
Stumm could not recall this happening,
but he didnt want to admit it, so he merely
made a gesture that could just as well mean
unfortunately not as Im sick and tired of
hearing it! In words, he replied: Many women are very high-strung! But what does
that have to do with our conversation? Something of that sort is simply an exaggerated
compliment!
Do you remember the painter whose
sketches the doctor showed us? Clarisse
asked.
Yes, of course. What he had painted
was really magnificent.
He was dissatisfied with Friedenthal
because the doctor doesnt understand anything about art. Show it to this gentleman!
he said, pointing to me, Clarisse went on,

659/1856

again suddenly casting her eye on the General. Do you believe it was merely a compliment that he addressed me as a man?
Its just one of those ideas, Stumm
said. Honestly, Ive never thought about it. I
would assume its whats called an association, or an analogy, or something like that.
He just had some reason or other to take you
for a man!
But does it give you pleasure to be taken
for a man? Pleasure? No. But
Although Stumm was convinced that
with these last words he had explained
something to Clarisse, he was still surprised
by the warmth with which she exclaimed:
Terrific! Then I only need tell you that it has
the same cause as in love when theres

660/1856

whispering about god-man! For the world is

full of double beings!
One should not of course believe that it
was agreeable to Stumm when Clarisse
talked this way, shooting a cleft glance from
eyes narrowed to slits; he was thinking,
rather, whether it would not be more proper
not to conduct such conversations in uniform, but to appear for the next walk in
mufti. But on the other hand the good
Stumm, who admired Clarisse with great
caution, if not concealed terror, had the ambitious desire to understand this young woman who was so passionate, and also to be
understood by her, for which reason he
quickly discovered a good side to her assertion. He put it this way, that most things involving the world and people were indeed
ambivalent, which accorded well with his
newly acquired pessimism. He assuaged
himself further by assuming that what was
meant by god-man and man-woman was no

661/1856

different from what could be said about anybody: that he was a bit of a noble person and
a bit of a rascal. Still, he preferred to steer
the conversation back to the more natural
view, and began to spin out his knowledge of
analogies, comparisons, symbolic forms of
expression, and the like.
Please excuse me and permit me, dear
lady, to adopt your excitement for a moment
and accept the idea that you really are a
man, he began, advised by the guardian angel of intuition, and went on in the same
fashion: because then you would be able to
imagine what it means for a lady to wear a
heavy veil and show only a small part of her
face; or, which is almost the same thing, for a
ball gown to swirl up from the floor in a
dance and expose an ankle: thats how it was
just a few years ago, about the time I was a
major; and such hints strike one much more
strongly, I might almost say more passionately, than if one were to see the lady up to

662/1856

her knee with no obstacle in the wayyes,

obstacle is precisely the right word! Because
thats how I would also describe what analogies or comparisons or symbols consist of.
They present an obstacle to thinking, and in
doing so arouse it more strongly than is usually the case. I believe thats what you mean
when you say that theres something cowardly about ordinary reflection.
But Clarisse meant nothing of the sort.
People have an obligation to get beyond
mere hints! she asserted.
Quite remarkable! Stumm exclaimed,
honestly moved. Old Count Leinsdorf says
the same thing you do! Just recently I had a
most profound discussion with that distinguished gentleman about metaphors and
symbols, and in connection with the patriotic
campaign he expressed precisely the opinion
you did: that all of us have the obligation to
reach out beyond the condition of metaphor
to reality!

663/1856

I once wrote him a letter in which I

asked him to do something about freeing
Moosbrugger, Clarisse said.
You see, even then we already had two
acquaintances in common without knowing
it!
And what was his response? For of
course he couldnt do it. I mean, even if he
could, he couldnt, because hes much too
conservative and legalistic a gentleman.
But you could? Clarisse asked.
No; whatevers in the madhouse can
stay there. No matter how ambiguous it is.
Caution, you know, is the mother of
wisdom.
But whats this? Clarisse asked, smiling, for she had discovered on the scabbard
of the Generals sword the woven double

664/1856

eagle, the emblem of the Imperial and Royal

Monarchy. Whats this double eagle?
What do you mean? What should the
double eagle be? Its the double eagle!
But what is a double eagle? An eagle
with two heads? Only one-headed eagles fly
around in the real world! So Im pointing out
to you that youre carrying on your saber the
symbol of a double being! I repeat, General,
enchanting things are all based, it would appear, on primitive nonsense!
General: Pst! I shouldnt be listening to
such things! (smiling)

Walter and Clarisses

Woodsy Armistice

As they approached her house, she was accompanied by the theatrical illusion of being
a person returning from a distant land. She
had given up her dance but for some reason
or other was humming in her head the
melody There my father Parsifal wore the
crown, I his knight, Lohengrin my name.
When she walked through the door and felt
the violent transition from the morning,
whose brightness had already become hard
and warm, into the sleeping twilight of the
vestibule, she thought she was caught in a
trap. Under her light weight the steps she
climbed emitted a barely audible sound; it
echoed like the breath of a sigh, but nothing

666/1856

in the entire house responded. Clarisse cautiously turned the doorknob of the bedroom:
Walter was still sleeping! She was greeted by
light the color of milky coffee penetrating the
curtains, and the nursery odor of the ending
night. Walters lips were sulky like a boys,
and warm; at the same time his face was
simple, indeed impoverished. Much less was
to be seen in it than was normally ones impression. Only a lustful need for power, otherwise not evident, was now visible. Standing
motionless by his bed, Clarisse looked at her
husband; he felt his sleep disturbed by her
entrance and rolled over on his other side.
She lingeringly enjoyed the superiority of the
waking over the sleeping person; she felt the
desire to kiss him or stroke him, or indeed to
scare him, but could not make up her mind.
She also did not want to expose herself to the
danger associated with the bedroom, and
finding Walter still sleeping had obviously
found her unprepared. She tore off a piece

667/1856

from some wrapping paper from a purchase,

which had been left lying on the table, and
wrote on it in large letters: I have paid a visit to the sleeper and await him in the woods.
When Walter awoke shortly afterward
and discovered the empty bed next to his, he
dully remembered that something had gone
on in the room while he was sleeping, looked
at the clock, discovered the note, and quickly
wiped away the cobwebs of sleep, for he had
intended on this particular day to get up especially early and do some work. Since this
was now no longer possible, he thought it
proper, after thinking it over a bit, to put off
the work; and although he saw himself
forced to scrape his own breakfast together,
he was soon standing in the best of spirits
under the rays of the morning sun. He assumed that Clarisse was lurking in a hiding
place and would materialize from ambush as
soon as he entered the woods. He took the
usual route, a wide dirt wheelbarrow path,

668/1856

which took about half an hour. It was a half

holiday, which is to say one of those days
between holidays that do not officially count
as holidays; on which account, remarkably
enough, precisely those official agencies and
the noble professions connected with them
took the whole day off, while less responsible
private people and businesses worked half
the day. Things like this are said to have
been sanctioned by history, and the consequence was that on this day Walter was
permitted to walk like a private individual in
an almost private nature, in which apart
from him only a few unsupervised hens were
running around. He stretched to see whether
he might discover a bright-colored dress
either at the edge of the woods or perhaps
even coming toward him, but there was
nothing to be seen, and although the walk
had been lovely at the start, his pleasure in
the exercise sank with the increasing heat.
His rapid walking soaked his collar and the

669/1856

pores of his face until that unpleasant feeling

of damp warmth set in which degrades the
human body to a piece of laundry. Walter resolved to get into better shape for the outdoors again; allowed himself the excuse that
perhaps he was merely dressed too warmly;
was also doubtless anxious lest he might be
coming down with something: and his
thoughts, which had initially been quite animated, became in this fashion gradually incoherent and finally flopped, as it were, in
time with his steps, while the path seemed
never to end.
At some point he thought: As a socalled normal person, ones thoughts are
truly hardly less incoherent than a madmans! And then it occurred to him:
Moreover, one does say that its insanely
hot! And he smiled weakly that this turn of
phrase was apparently not without foundation, since for example the changes a feverish
temperature brings about in ones head are

670/1856

really somewhere between the symptoms of

ordinary heat and those of mental disturbance. And so, without taking it entirely seriously, it might perhaps also be said of
Clarisse that she had always been what one
calls a crazy person without her having to be
a sick one. Walter would very much have
liked to know the answer to this question.
Her brother and doctor claimed that there
was not the slightest danger. But Walter believed he had known for a long time that
Clarisse was already on the other side of a
certain boundary. He sometimes had the
feeling that she was merely still hovering
around him as do departed souls, of whom it
is said that they cannot immediately separate
themselves from what they had loved. This
idea was not unsuited to inflating his pride,
for there were not many other people who
would have been up to such a ghastly yet
beautifulas he now called itstruggle
between love and horror. There were, to be

671/1856

sure, times when he felt irresolute. A sudden

push or collapse could carry his wife away into the domain of the completely repellent
and ugly, and that would still have been the
least of it, for what if, in that case, she did
not repel him! No, Walter assumed that she
would have to repel him, for the debased
mind was ugly! And Clarisse would then
have to be put in an institution, for which
there was not enough money. That was all
quite depressing. Still, there had been times,
when her soul was already, so to speak, fluttering in front of the windowpanes, when he
had felt himself so bold that he had no desire
to think whether he should pull her in to him
or rush out to her.
Such thoughts made him forget the
sunny, strenuous path, but finally also
caused him to leave off thinking altogether,
so that while he remained in animated motion he really had no content, or was filled
with terribly ordinary contents, which he

672/1856

solemnly pondered; he walked along Uke a

rhythm without notes, and when he bumped
into Clarisse he almost stumbled over her.
She, too, had at first followed the broad path,
and had found at the edge of the woods a
small indentation where the spilled sunlight
licked the shadows at every breath of wind,
like a goddess licking an animal. Here the
ground rose gently, and since she was lying
on her back, she saw the world within a
strange gimlet. Through some kind of kinship of shapes, the uncanny mood that on
this day mixed particularly easily with her
cheerfulness had again taken hold of her
spirits, and gazing long and steadily into the
horizontally perverse landscape she began to
feel sadness, as if she had to assume the burden of a sorrow or a sin or a destiny. There
was an enormous sense of abandonment, of
anticipation, and an expectancy of sacrifice
abroad in the world, of the land she had
found the first time she had gone out, when

673/1856

the day just reached her ankles. Her eyes

involuntarily sought the place where, behind
more distant slopes and not visible to her,
the extensive buildings of the asylum for the
insane must lie; and when she thought she
had located them it calmed her, as it calms
the lover to know the direction in which his
thoughts can find his beloved. Her thoughts
flew, but not in that direction. Theyre
now crouching, having fallen quite silent,
Uke huge black birds beside me in the sun,
she thought, and the splendid yet melancholy feeling associated with this lasted until
Clarisse caught sight of Walter in the distance. Then she had suddenly had enough of
her sorrow, hid behind the trees, held her
hand in front of her mouth like a funnel, and
shouted, as loudly as she could: Cuckoo!
She then straightened up and ran deeper into the woods, but immediately changed her
mind again and threw herself down in the
warm forest weeds beside the path Walter

674/1856

would have to use. His countenance then did

come along, thinking itself unobserved, expressing nothing but an unconscious, gently
animated attentiveness to the obstacles on
the path, and this made his face very strange,
indeed quite resolutely masculine, to look at.
When he was unsuspectingly close, Clarisse
stretched out her arm and reached for his
foot, and tins was the moment when Walter
nearly fell and first caught sight of his wife,
lying almost under his eyes and directing her
smiling glance up at him. Despite some of his
concerns, she did not look in the least ugly.
Clarisse laughed. Walter sat down beside her on a tree stump and dried his neck
with his handkerchief. Clarisse! he
began, and continued only after a pause: I
really meant to work today.
Meant? Clarisse mocked. But for once
it did not sting. The word whizzed from her
tongue and mingled with the cheerful whirring of the flies that zoomed past their ears

675/1856

through the sun like small metal arrows.

Walter replied: Ill admit that lately I
havent thought working was the right thing
to do if you could just as well sniff the new
flowers. Work is one-sided; it goes against
ones duty to wholeness!
Since he paused briefly, Clarisse threw a
small pine cone that had come to hand up in
the air a few times and caught it again.
Of course Im also aware of the objections that could be raised against that, Walter asserted.
Clarisse let the pine cone fall to the
ground and asked animatedly: So youre going to begin working again? Today we need
an art that has brush strokes and musical intervals this big! She stretched her arms out
three feet.
I dont have to begin that way right
off, Walter objected. Anyway, I still find
the whole problematic of the individual artist

676/1856

off-putting. Today we need a problematic of

the totality But hardly had he uttered the
word problematic than it seemed to him
quite overexcited in the stillness of the
woods. He therefore added something new:
But basically its in no way a demand inimical to life that a person should paint
something he loves; in the case of the landscape painter, nature!
But a painter also paints his beloved,
Clarisse threw in. One part of the painter
loves, the other paints!
Walter saw his beautiful new idea shrivel up. He was not in the mood to breathe new
life into it, but he was still convinced that the
idea was important and merely needed careful working out. And the singing of finches,
the woodpeckers drumming, the humming
of small insects: it didnt move him to work
but rather dragged him down into an infinite
abyss of indolence.

677/1856

Were very much alike, you and I, he

said with gratification. Theres hardly another couple like us! Others paint, make music, or write, and I refuse to: basically thats
as radical as your eagerness!
Clarisse turned on her side, raised herself on her elbow, and opened her mouth for
a furious response. Ill set you free yet, all
the way! she said quickly.
Walter looked down at her tenderly.
What do you mean, really, when you say
that we have to be saved from our sinful
form? he asked eagerly.
This time Clarisse did not answer. She
had the impression that if she were to speak
now it would run away too quickly, and although she intended to say something, the
woods confused her; for the woods were on
her side: that was something that couldnt be
expressed properly, although it was clear to
see.

678/1856

Walter probed in the delicious wound.

Did you really talk about that again with
Meingast? he asked in a way that demanded
a response, yet hesitantly, indeed fearful that
she might have done so although he had forbidden it.
Clarisse lied, for she shook her head;
but at the same time she smiled.
Can you still remember the time we
took Meingasts sins on ourselves? he pursued further. He took her hand. But Clarisse
only let him have a finger. It is a remarkable
condition when a man has to remind himself
with as much reluctance as willingness that
nearly everything his beloved bestows on
him has previously belonged to another; it
may be the sign of a love that is all too
strong, or perhaps the sign of a feeble soul,
and sometimes Walter actually sought out
this condition. He loved the fifteen-tosixteen-year-old Clarisse, who had never
been taken with him completely and

679/1856

unreservedly; loved her almost more than

the present Clarisse, and the memory of her
caresses, which were perhaps the reflection
of Meingasts indecency, stirred him in a peculiar way more profoundly than, by comparison, the cool, unhampered quality of
marriage. He found it almost agreeable
knowing that Clarisse had a favoring side
glance to spare for Ulrich and now entirely
once again for the magnificently altered
Meingast, and the way in which these men
had an unfavorable impact on her imagination magnified his longing for his wife the
way the shadows of debauchery and desire
under an eye make it appear larger. Of
course men in whom jealousy will suffer
nothing beside themselves, he-men, will not
experience this, but his jealousy was full of
love, and when that is the case, then the torture is so precise, so distinct, so alive, that it
is almost the vicarious experiencing of desire. Whenever Walter imagined his wife in

680/1856

the act of giving herself to another man he

felt more strongly than when he held her in
his own arms, and, somewhat disconcerted,
he thought by way of excuse: When Im
painting and I need to see the most subtle
curvature of the lines of a face, I dont look at
it directly but in a mirror! It really stung
him that he was yielding to such thoughts in
the woods, in the healthy world of nature,
and the hand that held Clarisses finger
began to tremble. He had to say something,
but it could not be what he was thinking. He
joked in a strained way: So now you want to
take my sins upon yourself, but how are you
going to do that? He smiled; but Clarisse
noticed a slight trembling spreading over his
lips. This did not suit her just now; although
it is always a marvelous spur to laughter, this
image of the way a man who is dragging a
much too large bale of useless thoughts
along with him tries to stride through the
small door to which he is drawn. She sat

681/1856

completely upright, looked at Walter with a

mockingly serious glance, shook her head
several times, and began reflectively:
Dont you believe that periods of depression alternate with periods of mania in
the world? Urgent, disturbed, fruitful periods of upswing that bring in the new, alternating with sinful periods, despondent, depressed, bad centuries or decades? Periods
in which the world approaches its bright
ideal shape and periods where it sinks into
its sinful form. Walter looked at her with
alarm. Thats how it is; I just cant tell you
which years, she continued, adding: The
upswing doesnt have to be beautiful; in fact,
it has to shuck off a good deal, which may of
course be beautiful. It can look like a disease:
Im convinced that from time to time humanity has to become mentally ill in order to
attain the synthesis of a new and higher
health!
Walter refused to understand.

682/1856

Clarisse talked on: People who are

sensitive, like you and me, feel that! Were
now living in a period of decline, and thats
why you cant work either. In addition there
are sensual ages, and ages that turn away
from sensuality. You must prepare yourself
for suffering.
Remarkably, it moved Walter that
Clarisse had said you and me. She had not
said that for a long time.
And of course there are periods of
transition, Clarisse went on. And figures
like Saint John, precursors; we may be two
precursors.
Now Walter responded: But you had
your way and went to the insane asylum;
now we really ought to be of one mind
again!
You mean that I ought not to go
again? Clarisse interjected, and smiled.

683/1856

Dont go again! Walter pleaded. But

he did so without conviction: he felt it himself; his plea was merely meant to cover him.
Clarisse replied: All precursors complain about the spirits lack of resolution because they dont yet have complete faith, but
no one dares put an end to the irresolution!
Even Meingast doesnt dare, she added.
Walter asked: What is it youd have to
dare?
You see, a whole people cant be insane, Clarisse said in an even softer voice.
There is only individual insanity. When
everyone is insane, then they are the healthy
ones. Isnt that right? Therefore a whole
people of the insane is the healthiest of
people; you just have to treat them as a
people, and not as sick people. And I tell you,
the mad think more than the healthy do, and
they lead a resolute life of a kind we never
have the courage for! To be sure, they are

684/1856

forced to live this life in a sinners form, or

they cant yet do otherwise!
Walter swallowed and asked: But what
is this sinners form? You talk about it so
much, and a lot about transformation too,
about taking sins upon oneself, about double
beings and so much else, that I half understand and half dont understand!

That goes around in circles

Of course it goes around in circles
Clarisse smiled, and it was her embarrassed and rather excited smile. That cant
be put in a few words, she replied. The insane are just double beings.
Well, you said that before. But what
does it mean? Walter probed; he wanted to
know how she was feeling, without consideration for her.
Clarisse reflected. In many depictions,
Apollo is man and woman. On the other
hand, the Apollo with the arrow was not the
Apollo with the lyre, and the Diana of
Ephesus wasnt the Diana of Athens. The
Greek gods were double beings, and weve
forgotten that, but were double beings too.
Walter said after a while: Youre exaggerating. Of course the god is one thing when
hes killing men and another when hes making music.

686/1856

Thats not natural at all! Clarisse

countered. You would be the same! You
would only be excited in a different way.
Youre a little different here in the woods and
there in your room, but youre not a different
person. I could say that you never transform
yourself completely into what you do; but I
dont want to say too much. Weve lost the
concepts for these processes. The ancients
still had them, the Greeks, the people of
Nietzsche!
Yes, Walter said, perhaps; perhaps
one could be quite different from the way we
are. And then he fell silent. Snapped a twig.
They were both now lying on the ground,
with their heads turned toward each other.
Finally Walter asked:
What sort of double being am I?
Clarisse laughed.
He took his twig and tickled her face.

687/1856

You are billy goat and eagle, she said,

and laughed again.
I am not a billy goat! Walter protested
sulkily.
Youre a billy goat with eagles wings!
Clarisse fleshed out her assertion.
Did you just invent that? Walter
asked.
It had come to her on the spur of the
moment, but she could add something to it
that she had long known: Every person has
an animal in which he can recognize his fate.
Nietzsche had the eagle.
Perhaps you mean whats called a totem. Do you know that for the Greeks specific animals were still associated with the
gods: the wolf, the steer, the goose, the swan,
the dog
You see! Clarisse said. I didnt know
that at all, but its true. And she suddenly

688/1856

added: Do you know that sick people do disgusting things? Just like the man under my
window that time. And she related the story
of the old man on the ward who had winked
at her and then behaved so indecently.
A lovely story, that, and moreover in
front of the General! Walter objected
heatedly. You really mustnt go there
again!
Oh, come on, the General is just afraid
of me! Clarisse defended herself.
Why should he be afraid?
I dont know. But you are too, and
Father was afraid, and Meingast is afraid of
me too, Clarisse said. I seem to possess an
accursed power, so that men who have
something wrong with them are compelled
to offer themselves to me. In a word, I tell
you, sick people are double beings of god and
billy goat!

689/1856

Im afraid for you! Walter whispered

more than spoke, softly and tenderly.
But the sick ones arent only double
beings of god and goat, but also of child and
man, and sadness and gaiety, Clarisse went
on without paying attention.
Walter shook his head. You seem to associate all men with goat!
My God, thats true, I do. Clarisse defended it calmly. I carry the figure of the
goat within myself too!
The figure! Walter was a little scornful, but involuntarily; for the constant succession of ideas was making him tired.
The image, the model,
moncall it what you like!

the

dai-

Walter needed a rest, he wished to stop

for a while, and replied: I will admit that in
many respects people are double beings. Recent psychology

690/1856

Clarisse interrupted him vehemently.

Not psychology! You all think much too
much!
But didnt you claim that the insane
think more than we healthy people do? Walter asked mechanically.
Then I said it wrong. They think differently. More energetically! she replied, and
went on: It doesnt make the slightest difference what one thinks; as soon as one acts,
what one thought beforehand doesnt matter
anymore. Thats why I find it right not to go
on talking but to go to the insane in their
house.
Just a minute! Walter begged. What
is your double being?
I am first of all man and woman.
But you just said goat too.
That too. Too! Its not the sort of thing
you can measure with ruler and compass.

691/1856

No, that you cant! Walter moaned

aloud, covering his eyes with his hands and
clenching his hands into fists. As he lay there
mute in this posture, Clarisse crept up to
him, threw her arms around his shoulders,
and kissed him from time to time.
Walter lay motionless.
Clarisse was whispering and murmuring something into his ear. She was telling
him that the man under the window had
been sent by the goat, and that the goat signified sensuality, which had everywhere separated itself from the rest of mankind. All
people creep to each other in bed every night
and leave the world where it is: this lower
solution to the great powers of desire in
people must finally be stopped, and then the
goat would become the god! This was what
Walter heard her say. And wasnt she right?
Yet how did it happen that it pleased him?
How did it happen that for a long time nothing else had pleased him? Not the paintings

692/1856

that he had earlier admired; not the masters

of music whom he had loved; not the great
poems, and not the mighty ideas? And that
he now found pleasure in listening to
Clarisse telling him something that anyone
else would say was fantasy? These were the
questions that went through Walters mind.
As long as his life had lain before him, he
had felt it to be full of great desire and imagination; since then, Eros had truly separated himself from it. Was there anything he
still did body and soul? Was not everything
he touched insignificant? Truly, love was
gone from his fingertips, the tip of his
tongue, his entrails, eyes, and ears, and what
remained was merely ashes in the form of
life, or, as he now expressed it rather magniloquently, dung in a polished glass, the
goat! And beside him, at his ear, was
Clarisse: a little bird that had suddenly begun to prophesy this in the woods! He could
not find the suggestive, the commanding

693/1856

tone to point out to her where her ideas went

too far and where they did not. She was full
of images jumbled together; he, too, had
been this full of images once, he persuaded
himself. And of these great images, one has
no idea which ones can be made into reality
and which ones cannot. So every person
bears within himself a leading ideal figure,
Clarisse was now maintaining, but most
people settle for living in the form of sin, and
Walter found that it might well be said of
him that he bore an ideal figure within himself, although he, perhaps even self-penitently, at least voluntarily, lived in ashes. The
world also has an ideal figure. He found this
image magnificent. Of course it did not explain anything, but what good is explanation? It expressed the will of humanity, striving upward again and again after every defeat. And it suddenly struck Walter that
Clarisse had not kissed him voluntarily for at

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least a year, and that she was now doing it

for the first time.

6
BREATHS OF A SUMMER DAY
On the same morning, Agathe, impelled by
moody contradictions left over from the previous night, said to her brother: And why
should it be possible to live a life in love?
There are times when you live no less in anger, in hostility, or even in pride or hardness,
and they dont claim to be a second world!
Id prefer to say that one lives for
love, Ulrich replied indolently. Our other
emotions must inspire us to action in order
that they last; thats what anchors them in
reality.
But its usually that way in love too,
Agathe objected. She felt as if she were

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swinging on a high branch that was threatening to break off under her any moment. But
then why does every beginner swear to himself that it will last forever, even if hes beginning for the tenth time? was her next
question.
Perhaps because its so inconstant.
One also swears eternal enmity.
Perhaps because its such a violent
emotion.
But there are emotions whose nature it
is to last longer than others: loyalty, friendship, obedience, for example.
I think because they are the expression
of stable, indeed even moral, relationships.
Your answers arent very consistent!
The interruptions and continuations of
the conversation seemed to nestle in the
shallow, lazy breaths of the summer day.
Brother and sister lay, a little bleary-eyed

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and overtired, on garden chairs in the sunshine. After a while Agathe began again:
Faith in God imposes no action, contains no prescribed relationships to other
people, can be totally immoral, and yet its a
lasting emotion.
Faith and love are related to each other, Ulrich remarked. Also, unlike all the
other emotions, both have available their
own manner of thinking: contemplation.
That means a great deal; for it is not love and
faith themselves that create the image of
their world; contemplation does it for them.
What is contemplation?
I cant explain it. Or maybe, in a nutshell, a thinking by intimation. Or, in other
words: the way we think when were happy.
The other emotions you named dont have
this resource. You could also call it meditating. If you say that faith and love can move

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mountains, it means that they can entirely

take the place of the mind.
So the thought of the believer and the
lover is intimation? The real inner manner of
their thinking?
Right! Ulrich confirmed, surprised.
No reason to praise me! You said it
yourself yesterday! his sister informed him.
And just so that Im sure: contemplation,
then, is also the thinking that allows itself to
be led not by our actual emotions but by our
other ones?
If you want to put it that way, yes.
So thats the way one could think in a
world of special people? Yesterday you used
the term ecstatic society for it. Do you
remember?
Yes.
Good!

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Why are you laughing now? Ulrich

asked.
Because Mephistopheles says: Truth is
proclaimed through the mouths of two witnesses! So two suffice!
Hes evidently wrong, Ulrich contradicted calmly. In his day, dlire deux, the
joint insanity of two people, had not yet been
recognized.
A noiseless stream of weightless drifting
blossoms, emanating from a group of trees
whose flowering was done, drifted through
the sunshine, and the breath that bore it was
so gentle that not a leaf stirred. It cast no
shadow on the green of the lawn, but this
green seemed to darken from within like an
eye. Extravagantly and tenderly leaved by the
young summer, the trees and bushes standing in the wings or forming the backdrop
gave the impression of being amazed spectators who, surprised and spellbound in their

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gay attire, were participating in this funeral

procession and celebration of nature. Spring
and fall, speech and natures silence, life and
death, mingled in this picture. Hearts
seemed to stop, to have been removed from
their breasts, in order to join this silent procession through the air. My heart was taken
from out my breast, a mystic had said.
Agathe cautiously abandoned herself to the
enthusiasm that once before in this garden
had almost led her to believe in the arrival of
the Millennium and under the image of
which she imagined an ecstatic society. But
she did not forget what she had learned
since: in this kingdom, you must keep quite
still. You cannot leave room for any land of
desire: not even the desire to ask questions.
You must also shed the understanding with
which you ordinarily perform tasks. You
must strip the self of all inner tools. It
seemed to her that walls and columns retreated to the side within her, and that the

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world was entering her eyes the way tears do.

But she suddenly discovered that she was
only superficially holding fast to this condition, and that her thoughts had long since
slipped away from it.
When she encountered them again, her
thoughts were considering a quite remote
problem, a little monster of disaffection. She
was asking herself in the most foolish fashion, and intent on this foolishness: Was I
ever really impetuous and unhappy? A man
without a name came to mind, whose name
she bore, indeed had borne away from him,
and she repeated her question with the mute,
unmoving obstinacy with which one gazes
after a wave that has ebbed away. Presumably, young people (whose life span is still
short) are more disposed to be amazed at
what they have already felt than older
people, who have become accustomed to the
changeability of lifes passions and circumstances; except that the escape of feeling is

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also the stream in whose motion the stone

heavens of mystic emotion are reflected, and
for one of these reasons it was probably a
supra-naturally magnified astonishment that
contained the question of where the hatred
and violence she had felt against Hagauer
had come from. Where was the desire to hurt
him? She was close to thinking she had lost
it, like an object that must still be somewhere
nearby.
So Agathes thoughts were doubtless
still completely under the spell of the procession of flowers and death, but they were not
moving with it, and in its mute and solemn
way, but making little jumps here and there.
It was not meditating she was indulging in,
but a thinking, even if a thinking without
rigor, a branching off and inner continuation
of what had earlier been left unsaid in the
fleeting exchange about the constancy of the
emotions; without exactly wanting to be, she
was still gripped by it, and she recalled an

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image that Ulrich had suggested on another

occasion, and with greater sympathy, about
this constancy and inconstancy of the emotions. She was thinking now that nothing
was more remote from her than expressing
her emotions in works, and apparently she
was thinking for a moment of August Lindner and meant good works, works of
love, signs of loves practical orientation,
such as he desired of her in vain; but by and
large, she meant simply works and was
thinking of Ulrich, who earlier had always
spoken of spiritual work that one had to
fashion out of everything, even if it was only
a deeper breath. And that one derived a rule
or created an idea for everything and felt responsible for the world also remained a matter of indifference to her most profound inclination: her ambition was not tempted to
sit in the masters saddle of a hobbyhorse.
And finally character was not the refuge of
her emotions either, and when she

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confronted this question she received the answer: I never used to love what I felt so
strongly that I would have wanted to be, so
to speak, its cupboard for my entire life!
And it occurred to her that for her emotions,
insofar as they had been aroused by men, she
had always chosen men whom she did not
like with either all her soul or all her body.
How prophetic! she thought cheerfully.
Even then I weakened the desires, the pull
toward reality in my emotions, and kept
open the path to the magic kingdom!
For wasnt that now Ulrichs theory
about passion? Either howl like a child with
rage and frustration or enthusiasmand get
rid of it! Or abstain entirely from the pull toward the real, the active, and desire of any
land that every emotion contains. What lies
in between is the real kingdom of the emotionsits works and transformations, its
being filled up with realityas lovely as a
storeroom full of apples of every hue, and

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absurdly monotonous too, like everything

that fades and falls the same way with every
new year! This was what she was thinking,
and she tried to find her way back again to
the emotion hovering silently through the
world of nature. She kept her mind from
turning toward anything in a specific way.
She strained to shed all knowledge and desire, all utilitarian use of head and heart and
limbs. You must be unegotistic in this most
extreme sense; you have to strive to gain this
mysterious unmediated relationship to outer
and inner, she said to herself, and collected
herself almost as if she wanted to feign
death. But this seemed as impossible a task
as it had been in childhood not to commit a
sin between confession and communion, and
finally she abandoned the effort entirely.
What? she asked herself sulkily. Is a world
in which one desires nothing perhaps not desirable? At this moment she was honestly
suspicious of the world of ecstasy, and she

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urgently wanted to present this fundamental

question that underlies all ascesis to her
brother. He, however, seemed not to want to
be disturbed by anything as he lay there enjoying his comfortable position and closed
the narrow slit between his eyelids completely every time she looked over at him.
So she abandoned her deck chair and
stood irresolutely for a while, smiling, looking now at Ulrich, now at the garden. She
stretched her legs and adjusted her skirt with
small blows of her hand. Each one of these
actions had a land of rustic beauty, simple,
healthy, instinctive; and it was this way
either by chance or because her most recent
thoughts had led her to be cheerful in a robust way. Her hair fell in a scallop at each
side of her face, and the background, formed
of trees and bushes that, from where she was
standing, opened into depth, was a frame
that positioned her image before earth and
sky. This view, which Ulrich was enjoying,

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for he was secretly observing his sister, not

only was attractive but soon became so much
so that it suffered nothing else beside it that
it would not have drawn in. Ulrich thought
this time of the expression enhanced accountability for this enchanting image that
was forming, not for the first time, between
brother and sister; he extrapolated the term
from a word that ages ago, in another
charmed circle, had meant much to him: and
truly, as there is a diminished sense of accountability, whose bewitched nature had
formerly astounded him, and which is ultimately always stamped with the defect of
senselessness, what seemed to be reigning
here was an increased and intensified fullness of the senses, a high superabundance,
indeed a distress, of such a kind that
everything about Agathe and which was taking place cast a reflection on her that could
not be grasped by sensory designations, and
placed her in an aspect for which not only no

708/1856

word existed but also no expression or outlet

of any kind. Every fold of her dress was so
laden with powers, indeed it almost might be
said with value, that it was impossible to
imagine a greater happiness, but also no
more uncertain adventure, than cautiously to
touch this fold with the tips of ones fingers!
She had now half turned away from her
brother and was standing motionless, so that
he could observe her freely. He knew that experiences of this kind had bound the two of
them together for as long as they had known
each other. He remembered the morning
after his arrival at their fathers house, when
he had caught sight of her in womans
clothes for the first time; it had been at that
time, too, that he had had the strange experience of seeing her standing in a grotto of rays
of light, and this in addition: that she was a
more beautiful repetition and alteration of
his self. There were, moreover, many things
connected with this that merely had a

709/1856

different external shape. For the painted circus animals that he had loved more ardently
than real ones, the sight of his little sister
dressed for a ball, her beauty kindling in him
the longing to be her, then even the confectioners horse that had lately been the object
of a bantering conversation, all arose from
the same enchantment; and now, when he
again returned to the present, which was by
no means droll, the most contradictory
scruples about coming too close to one another, the staring at and bending over, the
heavy figurative quality of many moments,
the gliding into an equivocal we-and-theworld feeling, and many other things,
demonstrated to him the same forces and
weaknesses. Involuntarily he reflected on
these things. Common to all these experiences was that they received an emotion of
the greatest force from an impossibility,
from a failure and stagnation. That they were
missing the bridge of action leading to and

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from the world; and finally, that they ended

on a vanishingly narrow borderline between
the greatest happiness and pathological behavior. Looked at in an unholy way, they
were all somewhat reminiscent of a porcelain
still life, and of a blind window, and of a
dead-end street, and of the unending smile
of wax dolls under glass and light: things
that appear to have got stuck on the road
between death and resurrection, unable to
take a step either forward or backward. In
bringing such examples to mind, Ulrich
thought that they were also to be understood
without mystery and myth. Such images entice our emotions, which are accustomed to
act, and our sympathies, which are usually
dispersed over many things, in a direction in
which no progress is possible; and this might
easily give rise to an experience of dammedup significance that permits no access of any
kind, so that it grows and grows in absolutely
unbearable fashion. Externally, nothing new

711/1856

happens anymore, but the one thing is repeated again and again, Ulrich thought.
And internally, its as if we had henceforth
only said, thought, and felt: one thing, one
thing, one thing! But its not entirely like that
either! he interjected to himself. Its rather
like a very slow and monotonous rhythm.
And something new arises: bliss! A tormenting bliss one would like to give the slip to but
cant! Is it bliss at all? Ulrich asked himself.
Its an oppressive increase in the emotion
that leaves all qualities behind. I could just
as easily call it a congestion!
Agathe did not seem to notice that she
was being observed. And why does my happinessfor it is happinesssearch out just
such occasions and hiding places? Ulrich
went on to ask again, with one small change.
He could not keep from admitting to himself
that separated out from the stream, such an
emotion could also wash around the love for
a dead person, whose countenance belongs

712/1856

with a more profound defenselessness than

any living one to the glances which it cannot
drive off. And his happening to think that in
literature moody, necrophilic art thoughts
were not exactly a rarity did not make it any
better, but merely led him to reflect that the
charming insanity of relating things, which
combines all the souls longing into the representation of a beautiful dead woman, has
some kind of connection with the malevolent
insanity in which a fetisha hairband, a
shoedraws all the currents of body and
soul to itself. And every fixed idea too, even
one that is only overpowering in the ordinary sense, is accompanied by such an intensified usurpation. There was in this a kinship
more or less crippled and not entirely pleasant, and Ulrich would not have been a man
had not the twisted, slippery, lurking, lost
nature of these relationships filled him with
suspicion. To be sure, his spirits were lifted
by the idea that there was nothing in the

713/1856

world that did not have some black-sheep

kin, for the world of health is composed of
the same basic elements as the world of disease: it is only the proportions that differ;
but when he cautiously directed his glance at
Agathe and allowed it to drink from the sight
of her, there still dominated in his feelings,
in spite of their miserable sublimity, an uncanny absence of will, a marked displacement or being carried away into the vicinity
of sleep, of death, of the image, of the immobile, the imprisoned, the powerless. Ideas
drained away, every energetic drive dissipated, the unutterable paralyzed every limb,
the world slipped away remote and unheeding, and the unstable armistice on the borderline between the enhanced and the diminished was barely to be borne any longer.
But precisely with the entrance of this
enormous draining away of power something
different began, for their bodies seemed to
be losing something of their boundaries, of

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which they no longer had any need. Its like

the frenzy of the bee swarm thats trying to
surround the queen! Ulrich thought silently.
And finally the unavoidable discovery
dawned on him, although he had so far
avoided it, that all these strange, individual
temptations of the emotions and emotional
experiences, which intermingled and
hovered within him like the shadows cast by
the foliage of a restless tree when the sun is
high, could be encompassed and understood
at a single glance if he regarded his love for
his sister as their origin. For evidently this
emotion and this alone was the hero of his
breaking down, of his blocked path, and of
all the ambiguous adventures and detours
associated with this. Even the psychology of
the emotions, which he was pursuing on his
own in his diaries, now seemed to him
merely an attempt to conceal the love
between him and his sister in a quixotic edifice of ideas. Did he, then, desire her? He

715/1856

was really astonished that he was confessing

this to himself for the first time, and he now
clearly saw the possibilities between which
he had to make up his mind. Either he really
had to believe that he was making ready for
an adventure such as had never existed before, an adventure that he needed only to
urge on and set out on with no second
thoughtsOr he had to yield to his emotion,
even should this feeling be unnatural, in the
natural way, or forbid himself to; and was all
he was accomplishing through his irresolution to become inventive in subterfuges?
When he asked himself this second, rather
contemptible question, he did not fail to ask
the third it entailed: What was there to prevent him from doing what he wanted? A biological superstition, a moral one? In short,
the judgment of others? Thinking of this, Ulrich felt such a violent boiling up of feeling
against these others that he was even more
surprised, especially as this sudden stab bore

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no relation to the gentle emotions with

which he believed himself filled.
But in reality what came to the fore was
only something that had recently receded into the background. For his attachment to
Agathe and his detachment from the world
were always two sides of one and the same
situation and inclination. Even in those years
when he had almost never thought that he
had a real sister, the concept of sister had
had a magic effect on him. No doubt this
happens often, and it is usually nothing very
different from the soaring youthful form of
that need for love which in the later condition of submission seeks out a bird, a cat, or
a dog, at times too, probably, humanity or
ones neighbor, because between the dust
and heat of the struggle to live and lifes
games this need cannot truly unfold. Sometimes this need for love is already even in
youth full of submission, of timidity toward
life, and loneliness, and in that case the

717/1856

misty image of the sister takes on the shadowboxing grace of the doppelganger, which
transforms the anxiety of being abandoned
by the world into the tenderness of lonely togetherness. And sometimes this ecstatic image is nothing but the crassest egotism and
selfishness, that is to say an excessive wanting to be loved, which has entered into a
jerry-built agreement with sweet selflessness. In all such casesand Ulrich thought
again of the case in which it transforms itself
into a fellow human being and then dispenses with its ambiguity, but also with its
beauty!sister is a creation originating
from the other part of emotion, from the
uproar of this emotion and the desire to live
differently; thats the way Ulrich would understand it now. But it probably is this only
in the weak form of longing. But familiar
with longing as he was, his mind was no less
acquainted with struggle, and if he correctly
understood his past, his precipitate turning

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toward Agathe had initially been a declaration of war against the world; love is,
moreover, always the revolt of a couple from
the wisdom of the crowd. It could be said
that in his case, the revolt had come first; but
it could be said just as well that the core of all
his criticism of the world was nothing so
much as a knowing about love. So I amif a
hermaphroditic monasticism is conceivable,
why shouldnt this be!in the dubious situation of having been, at bottom, a soldier
with monastic inclinations, and ultimately a
monk with soldierly inclinations who cant
leave off swearing! he thought cheerfully,
but still with astonishment; for he was made
aware for perhaps the first time of the profound contradiction between his passion and
the entire disposition of his nature. Even as
he now looked at Agathe, he thought he perceived his conflict on the sea-bright surface
of inwardness spreading out around her, as
an evil, metallic reflection. He was so lost in

719/1856

these thoughts that he did not notice that she

had for some time been curiously observing
his eyes.
Now she stepped up to her brother and
mischievously passed her hand downward
before his eyes, as if she wished to cut off his
peculiar glance. And as if that were not sufficient, she grasped his arm and prepared to
pull him up from his chair. Ulrich stood and
looked around him the way a person does
emerging from sleep. To think that at this
very moment, hundreds of people are fighting for their lives! That ships are sinking, animals are attacking people, thousands of animals are being slaughtered by people! he
said, half like someone looking back with a
shudder from a blissful shore, half like a man
who is sorry not to be part of it.
Youre certainly sorry not to be part of
it? Agathe then did indeed ask.

720/1856

His smile denied it, but his words conceded the point: Its pleasant to think about
how pleasant it is when I grasp with my
whole hand a thing that Ive merely been
stroking for some time with the tip of a
finger.
His sister put her arm through his.
Come, lets walk around a little! she proposed. In the hardness of his arm she felt the
manly joy at everything savage. She pressed
her fingernails against the unyielding
muscles, seeking to hurt him. When he complained, she offered the explanation: In the
infinite waters of bliss Im clutching at the
straw of evil! Why should you be the only
one? She repeated her attack. Ulrich placated her with a smile: What your nails are
doing to me is not a straw but a girder! They
were walking meanwhile. Had Agathe
demonstrated the ability to guess his
thoughts? Were the two of them twin clocks?
When emotions are tuned to the same string,

721/1856

is it entirely natural to read emotions from

each others faces? It is at any rate an impressive game, so long as one does not miss
the mark and crash. The loveliest assurance
of the miracles enduring now lay in their
motion, lay in the garden, which seemed to
be sleeping in the sunshine, where the gravel
crunched, the breeze freshened from time to
time, and their bodies were bright and alert.
For surmising oneself bound in feeling to
everything the eye could see was as easy as
the transparent air, and only when they
stopped was it afterward as melancholy as a
deep breath to take first steps again through
this imagistic landscape. The words they exchanged meanwhile really signified nothing,
but merely cradled them as they walked, like
the childishly amused conversation a fountain has with itself, babbling gossip about
eternity.
But without their needing to say anything, they slowly turned into a path that led

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them near the boundary of their small

garden kingdom, and it was evident that this
was not happening for the first time. Where
they came in sight of the street, rolling animatedly past beyond the high iron fence that
was supported by a stone base, they abandoned the path, taking advantage of the cover of trees and bushes, and paused on a small
rise, whose dry earth formed the place where
several old trees stood. Here the picture of
the resting pair was lost in the play of light
and shadow, and there was almost no likelihood of their being discovered from the
street, although they were so near it that the
unsuspecting pedestrians made that exaggerated outward impression which is peculiar to
everything one merely observes without in
any way participating in it. The faces seemed
like things, indeed even poorer than things,
like flat disks, and if words were suddenly
carried into the garden they had no sense,
only an amplified sound such as hollow,

723/1856

decayed rooms have. But the two observers

did not have long to wait before one person
or another came still closer to their hiding
place: whether it was someone stopping and
looking in astonishment at all the green suddenly revealed along his course, or whether it
was someone moved to stop by the favorable
opportunity of resting something in his hand
on the stone base of the fence for a moment,
or to tie his shoelace on it, or whether in the
short shadows of the fence pillars falling on
the path it was two people stopped in conversation, with the others streaming past behind them. And the more accidentally this
seemed to happen in single cases, the more
clearly the invariable, unconscious, enduring
effect of the fence detached itself from the
variety and contingency of these manifold
actions, invading the individual life like a
trap.

724/1856

They both loved this game of cause and effect, which stood in scornful contrast to the
game of souls
They had discovered this place on the
days when they, too, had strolled through the
streets and talked about the difficulties of
loving ones neighbor, and the contradictions
of everyone loving everybody; and the fence,
which separated them from the world but
connected them with it visually, had seemed
to them then the manifest image of the human world, not least of themselves: in short,
the image of everything which Ulrich had
once summarized in the terse expression
the un-separated and not united. Most of
this now seemed quite superfluous and a
childish waste of time; as indeed its only
mission had been to give them time and to
gain from the observing game with the world
the conviction that they had something in
mind that concerned everyone and did not
just spring from a personal need. Now they

725/1856

were much more secure, they knew more

about their adventure. All individual questions were froth, beneath which lay the dark
mirror of another possible way of life. Their
great sympathy with each other and with
others, and in general the fulfillment of the
promises sunk into the world, promises that
constantly emanate the peculiar mirage that
life-as-it-is strikes us as fragmented in every
way by life-as-it-might-bethis fulfillment
was never to be won from details but only
from the Totally Different! The fence,
however, had still preserved something of its
coarse, prompting distinctness, and was at
least able to beckon to a leave-taking.
Agathe laid her hand, which had the
light, dry warmth of the finest wool, on Ulrichs head, turned it in the direction of the
street, let her hand fall to his shoulder, and
tickled her brothers ear with her fingernail
and no less with the words: Now lets test
our love for our neighbors once more,

726/1856

Teacher! How would it be if today we tried to

love one of them like ourselves!
I dont love myself! Ulrich resisted in
the same tone. I even think that all the earlier energy I was so proud of was a running
away from myself.
So what youve sometimes said, that
Im your self-love in the form of a girl, is altogether not terribly flattering.
Oh, on the contrary! Youre another
self-love, the other!
Now, that youll have to explain to
me! Agathe commanded without looking
up.
A good person has good defects and a
bad one has bad virtues: so the one has a
good self-love and the other a bad one!
Obscure!

727/1856

But from a famous author from whom

Christendom has learned a great deal, but
unfortunately just not that.
Not much clearer!
Half a millennium before Christ, he
taught that whoever does not love himself in
the right way is not able to love others either.
For the right love for oneself is also being
naturally good to others. So self-love is not
selfishness but being good.
Did he really say that?
Oh, I dont know, perhaps Im putting
the words in his mouth. He also taught that
goodwill is not wanting the good but wanting
something with goodness. He was a logician
and natural philosopher, soldier and mystic,
and, significantly, is supposed to have been
the greatest teacher, and so it did not even
escape him that morality can never be completely detached from mysticism/

728/1856

Youre an insufferable exercise instructor who shows up in the morning; the

cock crows, and ones supposed to hop to it!
Id rather sleep!
No, you ought to help me.
They lay on their stomachs on the
ground, next to each other. If they raised
their heads, they saw the street; if they
didnt, they saw between pointed young
blades of grass the drying fallen leaves from
the high tree.
Agathe asked: So thats why its love
your neighbor as yourself? It could also be
the other way around: Love yourself as your
neighbor.
Yes. And its easier to love him not
only less than oneself but also more. Whats
almost impossible is to love him and yourself
in the same way. Compared with that, loving
someone so much that you sacrifice yourself
for him is positively a relief, Ulrich replied.

729/1856

For the moment, the conversation had taken

on the playful tone that deftly stirred up profound questions, a tone to which they had
become accustomed during their walks
through the city; but reallyand although
since then nothing that could be counted as
time had passedthey were deliberately imitating themselves, the way one casually immerses oneself again in a game one has outgrown. And Agathe remarked: So then love
your neighbor as yourself also means: dont
love your neighbor selflessly!
Actually, yes, Ulrich conceded. And
without agreeing with her incidental arguments against selfless goodness, which in
male human form were courting her soul, he
added: Thats even quite important. For the
people who talk of selfless goodness are
teaching something thats better than selfishness and less than goodness.

730/1856

And Agathe asked: But when you fall

in love the usual way, doesnt that inevitably
involve desire and selflessness?
Yes.
And it really cant be said of self-love
either that one desires oneself, or that one
loves oneself selflessly?
No, Ulrich said.
Then whats called self-love may not be
any kind of love at all? Agathe hazarded.
Thats as you take it, her brother
replied. Its more a confiding in oneself, an
instinctive caring for oneself
Self-toleration! Agathe said, quite deliberately making a dissatisfied and slightly
disgusted face, although she did not exactly
know why.
Why are we talking about it at all? Ulrich interjected.

731/1856

But were talking about others!

Agathe answered, and laughter at her brother and herself lit up her face. She had again
directed her glance at the fence, drawing her
brothers after her; and because their eyes
were not focused on a specific distance, the
host of vehicles and pedestrians swam past
it. Where shall we begin? she asked, as if
the rest were understood as a matter of
course.
You cant just do it on command! Ulrich objected.
No. But we can try to just feel
everything in some such way; and we can entrust ourselves to it more and more!
That has to happen of itself.
Lets help it along! Agathe proposed.
For instance, lets stop talking and do nothing but look at them!

732/1856

Thats all right with me, Ulrich

agreed.
For a short time they were silent; then
something else occurred to Agathe: To love
something in the ordinary sense means to
prefer it to something else: so we must try to
love one person and at the same time prevent ourselves from preferring him to others, she whispered.
Keep quiet! You have to be quiet! Ulrich fended her off.
Now they gazed out for a while again.
But soon Agathe propped herself up on her
elbow and looked despairingly at her brother. Its not working! As soon as I tried it, the
people outside became like a river full of pale
fish. Were dreadful idlers! she complained.
Ulrich turned toward her, laughing.
Youre forgetting that striving for bliss isnt
work!

733/1856

Ive never done anything in my whole

life; now Id like something to happen! Lets
do something good to someone! Agathe
pleaded.
Even doing good is a notion that
doesnt occur at all in real goodness. Its only
when the waves break that the ocean disintegrates into droplets! Ulrich countered.
And what would it mean anyway to do
something good in a situation in which you
cant do anything but good? The anticipation, the headiness of a feeling of victory, the
confidence of powers that were for the moment at rest, allowed him to be playful with
his seriousness.
So you dont want to do anything?
Agathe asked coolly.
Of course I do! But the kingdom of
love is in every respect the great anti-reality.
Thats why the first thing you have to do is
cut the arms and legs off your emotions; and

734/1856

then well see what can happen in spite of

that!
You make it sound like a machine/
Agathe chided.
You have to undertake it as a good experimenter, Ulrich contradicted her, unmoved. You have to try to circumscribe the
decisive part.
Agathe now offered serious resistance.
Were not concluding some scientific investigation but, if youll permit the expression,
opening our hearts, she said with somewhat
sarcastic sharpness. And also the point wed
have to start from has not been exactly new
for some time, since the Gospels! Exclude
hatred, resistance, strife from yourself; just
dont believe that they exist! Dont blame,
dont get angry, dont hold people responsible, dont defend yourself against anything!
Dont struggle anymore; dont think or bargain; forget and unlearn denial! In this way

735/1856

fill every crack, every fissure, between you

and them; love, fear, beg, and walk with
them; and take everything that happens in
time and space, whatever comes and goes,
whatever is beautiful or disturbing, not as
reality but as a word and metaphor of the
Lord. Thats how we should go to meet
them!
As usually happened, during this long
and passionate and unusually resolute
speech her face had taken on a deeper hue.
Splendid! Every word a letter in a great
scripture! Ulrich exclaimed appreciatively.
And we, too, will have to gain courage. But
such courage? Is that what you really want?
Agathe subdued her zeal and denied it
mutely and honestly. Not entirely! she added by way of explanation, so as not to deny
it too much.
It is the teaching of Him who advised
us to offer our left cheek if we have been

736/1856

struck on the right one. And thats probably

the mildest transgression that ever was, Ulrich went on reflectively. But dont misunderstand one thing, that this message too, if
carried out, is a psychological exercise! A
particular behavior and a particular group of
ideas and emotions are bound up in it together and mutually support each other. I
mean everything in us that is suffering, enduring, tender, susceptible, protective, and
yielding: in short, love. And its so far from
that to everything else, especially to
whatever is hard, aggressive, and actively
life-shaping, that these other emotions and
ideas and the bitter necessities disappear
from view entirely. That doesnt mean that
they fade from reality; merely that you dont
get angry at them, dont deny them, and that
you forget knowing about them; so its like a
roof that the wind can get under and that can
never stand for long

737/1856

But one has faith in goodness! Its

faith! Youre forgetting that! Agathe
interrupted.
No, Im not forgetting that, but that
came along only later, through Paul. I made
a note of his explanation. It runs: Faith is the
substance of things hoped for, the evidence
of things not seen. And thats a gross, Id almost say covetous, misunderstanding. The
tenet of the kingdom that will come at the
end of days would like to have something it
can get hold of in place of the bliss that the
Son of Man has already experienced on
earth.
It has been promised. Why are you
running it down? Is it then worth nothing to
be able to believe not merely with all ones
soul but utterly, with parasol and clothes?
But the breath of the annunciation was
not promise and faith but intimation! A condition in which one loves metaphors! A

738/1856

bolder condition than faith! And Im not the

first to notice this. The only thing thats been
regarded as truly real for the bringer of salvation has been the experiencing of these
foreshadowing metaphors of happy unresistingness and love; the miserable rest, which
we call reality, natural, sturdy, dangerous
life, has simply mirrored itself in his soul in a
completely dematerialized way, like a picture
puzzle. Andby Jehovah and Jupiter!that
assumes, first of all, civilization, because no
one is so poor that robbers cant be found to
murder him; and it assumes a desert in
which there are indeed evil spirits, but no
lions. Secondly, these high and happy tidings
appear to have originated pretty much in ignorance of all contemporary civilizations. It
is remote from the multiplicities of culture
and the spirit, remote from doubts, but also
from choice, remote from sickness but also
from almost all discoveries that fight it: in
short, it is remote from all the weaknesses,

739/1856

but also from all the advantages of human

knowledge and capability, which even in its
own time were by no means meager. And incidentally, thats why it also has rather
simple notions of good and evil, beautiful
and ugly. Now, the moment you make room
for such objections and conditions, youll
also have to content yourself with my less
simple procedure!
Agathe argued against it anyway.
Youre forgetting one thing, she repeated,
that this teaching claims to come from God;
and in that case everything more complex
that deviates from it is simply false or
indifferent!
Quiet! Ulrich said, placing a finger on
his mouth. You cant talk about God in such
a stubbornly physical way, as if He were sitting behind that bush over there the way He
did in the year 100!

740/1856

All right, I cant, Agathe conceded.

But let me tell you something, too! You
yourself, when youre devising bliss on earth,
are prepared to renounce science, tendencies
in art, luxury, and everything people rush
around for every day. Then why do you begrudge it so much to others?
Youre certainly right, Ulrich conceded. A dry twig had found its way into his
hand, and he pensively poked the ground
with it. They had slid down a little, so that
once again only their heads peeked over the
top of the rise, and that only when they lifted
them. They lay beside each other on their
stomachs like two marksmen who have forgotten what they were lying in wait for; and
Agathe, touched by her brothers yielding,
threw her arm around his neck and made a
concession of her own. Look, what is it doing? she exclaimed, pointing with a finger to
an ant beside his twig, which had attacked
another ant.

741/1856

Its murdering,,, Ulrich ascertained

coldly.
Dont let it! Agathe pleaded, and in
her excitement raised a leg to the sky so that
it rose upside down over her knee.
Ulrich proposed: Try to take it metaphorically. You dont even have to rush to
give it a particular significance: just take its
own! Then it becomes like a dry breath of air,
or the sulfurous smell of decaying foliage in
autumn: some kind of volatizing drops of
melancholy that make the souls readiness
for dissolution tremble. I can imagine that
one could even get over ones own death amicably, but only because one dies just once
and therefore regards it as especially important; because the understanding of saints and
heroes is pretty lacking in glory in the face of
natures constant small confusions and their
dissonances!
Possibly: Ulrich: Through faith!

742/1856

Agathe: Intimation and metaphor wont

do it either.
Ulrich: Exactly!
While he was speaking, Agathe had
taken the twig from his fingers and attempted to rescue the ant that had been attacked,
with the result that she nearly crushed both,
but finally she succeeded in separating them.
With diminished vitality, the ants crept toward new adventures.
Did that make any sense? Ulrich
asked.
I understand you to mean by that that
what we were trying to do by the fence is
against nature and reason, Agathe
answered.
Why shouldnt I say it? Ulrich said.
Anyway, I wanted to say to surprise you: the
glory of God does not twitch an eyelid when
calamity strikes. Perhaps too: life swallows

743/1856

corpses and filth without a shadow on its

smile. And surely this: man is charming as
long as no moral demands are made on
him. Ulrich stretched out irresponsibly in
the sun. For they merely needed to change
position slightly, they did not even have to
stand up, in order for the world on which
they had been eavesdropping to disappear
and be replaced by a large lawn, bordered by
rustling bushes, that stretched in a gentle incline down to their lovely old house and lay
there in the full light of summer. They had
given up the ants and offered themselves to
the points of the suns rays, half unawares;
from time to time a cool breeze poured over
them. The sun shines on the just and the
unjust! Ulrich offered as benediction, in
peaceable mockery.
Love your enemies, for He maketh the
sun to rise on the evil and on the good is the
way it goes. Agathe contradicted him as

744/1856

softly as if she were merely confiding it to the

air.
Really? The way I say it, it would be
wonderfully natural!
But youve got it wrong.
Are you sure? Where is it from
anyway?
The Bible, of course. Ill look it up in
the house. I want to show you for once that I
can be right too!
He wanted to hold her back, but she
was already on her feet beside him and
hastened away. Ulrich closed his eyes. Then
he opened and closed them again. Without
Agathe, the solitude was bereft of everything;
as if he were not in it himself. Then the steps
returned. Great resounding footsteps in the
silence, as in soft snow. Then the indescribable sense of nearness set in, and finally the
nearness filled with a cheery laugh, prefacing

745/1856

the words: It goes: Love your enemies,for

he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on
the good, and sendeth rain on the just and
on the unjust!
And wheres it from?
Nowhere else but the Sermon on the
Mount that you seem to know so well, my
friend.
I feel Ive been exposed as a bad theologian, Ulrich conceded with a smile, and
asked: Read it aloud!
Agathe had a heavy Bible in her hands,
not an especially old or precious thing, but in
any case not a recent edition, and read:
Ye have heard that it hath been said,
thou shalt love thy neighbor, and hate thine
enemy. But I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to
them that hate you, and pray for them which
despitefully use you, and persecute you; that

746/1856

ye may be the children of your Father which

is in heaven: for he maketh the sun to rise on
the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on
the just and on the unjust.
Do you know anything else? Ulrich
asked, eager to know.
Yes, Agathe went on. It is written: To
have heard that it was said by them of old
time, Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever
shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment:
But I say unto you, that whosoever is angry
with his brother without a cause shall be in
danger of the judgment:but whosoever
shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell
fire. And then this too, which you know so
well: But I say unto you, that ye resist not
evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy
right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if
any man will sue thee at the law and take
away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also.
And whosoever shall compel thee to go a
mile, go with him twain/

747/1856

Well, I dont like that! Ulrich said.

Agathe thumbed through the pages.
Maybe youll like this: And if thy right hand
offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee:
for it is profitable for thee that one of thy
members should perish, and not that thy
whole body should be cast into hell.
Ulrich took the book from her and
leafed through it himself. There are even
several variations, he exclaimed. Then he
laid the book in the grass, pulled her beside
him, and for some time said nothing. At last
he replied: Speaking seriously, Im like
Everyman, or at least like that man; its natural for me to apply this saying in reverse. If
his hand offend thee, cut it off, and if you
smite someone on the cheek, give him a hook
to the heart too, just to make sure.

62
THE CONSTELLATION OF BROTHER
AND SISTER;
OR, THE UNSEPARATED AND NOT
UNITED
Even in those years when Ulrich had sought
his path in life alone and not without
bravado, the word sister had often been for
him heavy with an undefined longing, although at that time he almost never thought
that he possessed a real living sister. In this
there was a contradiction pointing to disparate origins, which were indicated in many
ways that brother and sister ordinarily discounted. Not that they necessarily saw it as
false, but it counted as little in relationship
to the truth they knew they were

749/1856

approaching as an intruding corner signifies

in the sweep of a grandly curving wall.
Without question, such things happen
often. In many lives the unreal, invented sister is nothing other than the soaring youthful
form of a need for love that later, in the condition of chillier dreams, contents itself with
a bird or another animal, or turns toward humanity or ones neighbor. In the life of many
others, this sister is adolescent timidity and
loneliness, an invented doppelganger full of
shadowboxing charm, which softens the
anxieties of loneliness in the tenderness of a
lonely togetherness. And of many natures it
need merely be said that this image that they
cherish so ecstatically is nothing but the
crassest egotism and selfishness: an excessive liking to be loved that has entered into a
jerry-built agreement with sweet selflessness. But that many men and women bear
the image of such a counterpart in their
hearts there can be no doubt. It simply

750/1856

represents love and is always the sign of an

unsatisfying and tense relation to the world.
And it is not only those who are deficient or
who are by nature without harmony who
have such desires; balanced people have
them too.
And so Ulrich began to speak to his sister about an experience he had related to her
once already, and repeated the story of the
most unforgettable woman who, with the exception of Agathe herself, had ever crossed
his path. She was a child-woman, a girl of
about twelve, remarkably mature in her behavior, who had ridden in the same trolley
car for a short distance with him and a companion, and had charmed him like a mysteriously bygone love poem whose traces are full
of never-experienced bliss. Later, the flaming
up of his infatuation had sometimes aroused
doubts in him, for it was peculiar and admitted dubious inferences about himself. For
that reason he did not relate the incident

751/1856

with feeling but spoke of the doubts, even

though it was not without feeling that he
generalized them. At that age, a girl quite
often has more beautiful legs than she does
later, he said. Their later sturdiness apparently comes from what they need to carry
directly above them; in adolescence these
legs are long and free and can run, and if
their skirts expose the thigh in some activity,
the curve already has something gently increasingoh, the crescent moon occurs to
me, toward the end of its tender first virginal
moon phasethats how glorious they look!
Later I sometimes investigated the reasons
quite seriously. At that age hair has the softest sheen. The face shows its lovely naturalness. The eyes are like some smooth, nevercrumpled silk. The mind, destined in future
to become petty and covetous, is still a pure
flame without much brightness among obscure desires. And what at this age is certainly not yet beautifulfor instance, the

752/1856

childish tummy or the blind expression of

the breastacquires through the clothing, to
the extent that it cleverly simulates adulthood, and through the dreamy imprecision
of love, everything that a charming stage
mask can achieve. So its quite in order to admire such a creature, and how else should
one do so than through a slight attack of
love!
And its not at all against nature for a
child to be the object of such feelings?
Agathe asked.
What would be against nature would
be a straight-out lustful desire, Ulrich
replied. But a person like that also drags the
innocent or, in any event, unready and helpless creature into actions for which it is not
destined. He must ignore the immaturity of
the developing mind and body, and play the
game of his passion with a mute and veiled
opponent; no, he not only ignores whatever
would get in his way, but brutally sweeps it

753/1856

aside! Thats something quite different, with

different consequences!
But perhaps a touch of the perniciousness of this sweeping aside is already contained in the ignoring? Agathe objected.
She might have been jealous of her brothers
tissue of thoughts; at any rate, she resisted.
I dont see any great distinction in whether
one pays no attention to what might restrain
one, or doesnt feel it!
Ulrich countered: Youre right and
youre not right. I really just told the story
because its a preliminary stage of the love
between brother and sister.
Love between brother and sister?
Agathe asked, and pretended to be astonished, as if she were hearing the term for the
first time; but she was digging her nails into
Ulrichs arm again, and perhaps she did so
too strongly, and her fingers trembled. Ulrich, feeling as if five small warm wounds

754/1856

had opened side by side in his arm, suddenly

said: The person whose strongest stimulation is associated with experiences each of
which is, in some way or other, impossible,
isnt interested in possible experiences. It
may be that imagination is a way of fleeing
from life, a refuge and a den of iniquity, as
many maintain; I think that the story of the
little girl, as well as all the other examples
weve talked about, point not to an abnormality or a weakness but to a revulsion
against the world and a strong recalcitrance,
an excessive and overpassionate desire for
love! He forgot that Agathe could know
nothing of the other examples and equivocal
comparisons with which his thoughts had
previously associated this kind of love; for he
now felt himself in the clear again and had
overcome, for the time being, the anesthetizing taste, the transformation into the willless and lifeless, that was part of his

755/1856

experience, so that the automatic reference

slipped inadvertently through a gap in his
thoughts.
These thoughts were still oriented toward the more general aspect, with which his
personal case could be compared as well as
contrasted; and if in favor of the inner coherence of these ideas one leaves aside how they
succeeded and shaped one another, what remained was a more or less impersonal content that looked something like this: For the
articulation of life, hate might be just as important as love. There seem to be as many
reasons to love the world as to detest it. Both
instincts he in human nature ready for use,
their powers in unequal proportions, which
vary in individuals. But there is no way of
knowing how pleasure and bitterness balance each other in order to allow us to keep
going on with our lives. The opinion we like
to hear, that this calls for a preponderance of
pleasure, is evidently false. For we also go on

756/1856

with our lives with bitterness, with an excess

of unhappiness, hatred, or contempt for life,
and proceed as surely as we would with a superabundance of happiness. But it occurred
to Ulrich that both are extremes, the life-loving person as well as the person shadowed by
animosity, and this is what led him to think
of the complicated balance that is the usual
one. Belonging to this balance of love and
hate, for example, and thereby to the processes and structures with whose help they
reach an accommodation, are justice and all
other ways of observing moderation; but
there belong to it no less the formation of fellowships of two or of vast numbers, combinations that are like feathered nests elaborately girdled with thorns; there belongs to it
the certainty of God; and Ulrich knew that in
this series the intellectual-sensual structure
of the sister ultimately also had its place as
a most daring expedient. From what weakness of soul this dream drew its nourishment

757/1856

stood hindmost, and foremost stood, as its

origin, a really superhuman disparity. And
apparently it was for this reason that Ulrich
had spoken of revulsion toward the world,
for whoever knows the depth of good and
evil passion experiences the falling away of
every kind of agreement that mediates
between them, and he had not spoken the
way he did in order to gloss over the passion
for his own flesh and blood. Without accounting for why he was doing so, he now
told Agathe a second little story as well,
which at the beginning seemed to have no
connection at all with the first. I once came
across it, and it is supposed to have actually
happened in the time of the Thirty Years
War, when individuals and peoples were
thrown about in confusion, he began. Most
of the peasants from one isolated group of
farms had been snatched away to serve in the
war; none of them returned, and the women
managed the farms by themselves, which

758/1856

was tiring and vexatious for them. Then it

happened that one of the men who had disappeared returned to the region, and after
many adventures came to his wife. Ill say
right off that it wasnt the right man but a
tramp and deceiver, who had shared camp
and march for a few months with the missing
and perhaps dead man, and had so successfully absorbed the other mans stories, when
homesickness loosened his tongue, that he
was able to pretend to be him. He knew the
nicknames of wife and cow, and the names
and habits of the neighbors, who moreover
lived some distance away. He had a beard exactly like the other mans. He had a way of
looking, with his two eyes of nondescript color, that one might easily think he wouldnt
have done it much differently before; and although his voice sounded strange at first, it
could certainly be explained by saying that
one was now listening more closely than one
had before. In short, the man knew how to

759/1856

imitate his predecessor trait for trait, the way

a coarse and unlike portrait at first repeals
but becomes more of a likeness the longer
one remains alone with it, and finally takes
over ones recollection entirely. I can imagine that, from time to time, something like
dread must have warned the woman that he
was not her husband; but she wanted to have
her man again, and perhaps just a man, and
so the stranger became more and more established in his role
And how did it end? Agathe asked.
I forget. Apparently the man must
have been unmasked by some sort of accident. But man in general is never unmasked,
his whole life long!
You mean: One always only loves the
stand-in for the right person? Or do you
mean that when a person loves for the
second time he doesnt confuse the two, but
the image of the new one is in many places

760/1856

only an over-painting of the image of the

first one? Agathe asked, with a charming
yawn.
I intended to say a lot more, and it is
much more boring, Ulrich responded. Try
to imagine someone, color-blind, for whom
shades of brightness and shadow represent
almost the entire world of colors: he cant see
a single color and yet can apparently act so
that no one notices, for what he can see represents for him what he cant. But what happens in this case in a particular area is what
really happens to us all with reality. In our
experiences and investigations, reality never
appears otherwise than through a glass that
partially transmits ones glance and partially
reflects back the image of the viewer. If I observe the delicately flushed white of your
hand, or feel the refractory inwardness of
your flesh in my fingers, I have something
real before me, but not in the way in which it

761/1856

is real; and just as little when I reduce it to

its ultimate atoms and formulas!
Then why make such an effort to reduce it to something loathsome!
Do you recall what I said about the intellectual portrayal of nature, of its being an
image without similarity? There are many
quite different ways in which anything can
be apprehended as the exact image of
something else, but everything that occurs in
this image, or results from it, must in just
this one specific view always be a depiction
of what investigating the original image
demonstrates. If this also turns out to be the
case where it could not have originally been
foreseen, then the image is as justified as it
can possibly be. Thats a very general and
quite unsensory notion of image-ability. It
presupposes a specific relationship of two
areas, and gives to understand that it can be
comprehended as a portrayal whenever it
covers both areas without exception. In this

762/1856

sense, a mathematical formula can be the

image of a natural process, just as much as a
portrayal established by external sensory
similarity. A theory can in its consequences
accord with reality, and the effects of reality
with theory. The cylinder in a music box is
the portrayal of a way of singing, and an action portrays a fluctuating feeling. In mathematics, where for the sake of unsullied progression of thought one would most like to
trust only what can be counted off on ones
fingers, one usually speaks only of the precision of coordinates, which has to be possible
point for point. But fundamentally,
everything can also be regarded as a portrayal that is called correspondence, represent-ability for some purpose, equal value and
exchangeability, or equality in respect to
something, or undifferent-ability, or mutual
appropriateness according to some kind of
standard. A portrayal, therefore, is
something like a relationship of complete

763/1856

correspondence in view of any particular

such relationship
Agathe interrupted this exposition,
which Ulrich was pronouncing listlessly and
out of a sense of duty, with the admonition:
You could really get one of our modern
painters fired up with all that
Well, why not! he replied. Consider
what sense there is in talking about fidelity
to nature and similarity where the spatial is
replaced by a surface, or the motley colors of
life by metal or stone. Thats why artists
arent entirely wrong to reject these notions
of sensory imitation and similarity as photographic and, with the exception of a few traditional laws that go along with their medium and tools, why they recognize only inspiration, or some kind of theory that has
been revealed to them; but the customers
who are portrayed, who after the execution
of these laws see themselves as victims of a
miscarriage of justice, mostly arent.

764/1856

Ulrich paused. Although he had intended to

speak about the logically strict notion of portrayal only in order to be able to derive from
it its free but by no means random consequences, which dominate the various imagistic relationships that occur in life, he was
now silent. Observing himself in this attempt
left him dissatisfied. He had lately forgotten
many things that had formerly been at the
tips of his fingers, or to put it better, he had
pushed them aside; even the pointed expressions and concepts of his earlier profession,
which he had used so often, were no longer
viable for him, and in searching for them he
not only felt an unpleasant dryness but was
also afraid of talking like a bungler.
You said that a color-blind person isnt
missing anything when he looks at the
world, Agathe encouraged him.
Yes. Of course I oughtnt to have put it
quite that way, Ulrich responded. Its still
an obscure question altogether. Even if you

765/1856

limit yourself to the intellectual image that

the understanding derives from something,
in confronting the problem of whether its
true you come up against the greatest difficulties, although the air you ordinarily
breathe is always dry and crystalline.
However, the images we make for ourselves
in life so we can act and feel rightly, or even
act and feel energetically, arent determined
just by the understanding; indeed, these images are often quite irrational and, according
to rational standards, not at all accurate representations, and yet they must fulfill their
purpose in order for us to remain in harmony with reality and with ourselves. They
must also be precise and complete according
to some kind of key or manual of images, and
according to the notion that determines the
manner in which they are portrayed, even if
this notion leaves room for various
methods

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Agathe interrupted him excitedly. She

had suddenly grasped the connection. So
the false peasant was a portrayal of the real
one? she asked.
Ulrich nodded. Originally, an image always represented its object completely. It bestowed power over it. Whoever cut out the
eyes or the heart of an image killed the person portrayed. Whoever secretly got hold of
the image of an inaccessible beauty was able
to conquer her. The name, too, is part of
these images; and so one was able to conjure
God with His name, which is equivalent to
making Him subservient. As you know, even
today one makes off with secret remembrances, or gives oneself a ring with an engraved name, and wears pictures and locks
of hair over ones heart as a talisman. In the
course of time, something split off; but it has
all sunk to the level of superstition, although
one part has achieved the tedious dignity of
photography, geometry, and such things. But

767/1856

just think of the hypnotized person, who

with every sign of satisfaction bites into a
potato that for him represents an apple, or
think of your childhood dolls, which you
loved more passionately the simpler they
were and the less they looked like people; so
you see that it doesnt depend on externalities, and youre back at the bolt-upright fetish
column that represents a god
Couldnt you almost say that the more
dissimilar an image is, the greater the passion for it as soon as weve attached
ourselves to it? Agathe asked.
Yes, absolutely! Ulrich agreed. Our
reason, our perception, have separated
themselves from our emotions in this matter.
One could say that the most stirring representations always have something unlike.
Smiling, he observed her from the side and
added: When Im not in your presence I
dont see you before me in a way one would
like to paint; its rather as if you had glanced

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into some water and I was trying vainly to

trace your image in the water with my finger.
I maintain that its only indifferent things
that one sees properly and truly alike.
Strange! his sister replied. I see you
before me precisely! Perhaps because my
memory is entirely too precise and
dependent!
Similarity of portrayal is an approximation of what the understanding finds real
and equal; it is a concession to the understanding, Ulrich said agreeably, and went
on in a conciliatory way: But besides that,
there are also the images that address themselves to our emotions, and an image in art
is, for example, a mixture of both demands.
But if, beyond that, you wish to take it to the
point where something portrays something
else only for the emotions, youll have to
think of such examples as a flag flying, which
at certain moments is an image of our
honor

769/1856

But there you can only be talking about

a symbol, youre no longer talking about images! Agathe interjected.
Mental image, simile, metaphor, they
shade into one another, Ulrich said. Even
such examples as the image of a disease and
the doctors plan for curing it belong here.
They must have imaginations inventive lack
of precision, but the precision of execut-ability as well. This flexible boundary between
imagining the plan, and the image that endures in the face of reality, is important
everywhere in life, but hard to find.
How different we are! Agathe repeated thoughtfully.
Ulrich parried the reproach with a
smile. Very much so! Im speaking of the
lack of precision in taking something/or
something, as of a divinity bestowing fruitfulness and life, and Im trying to impart as
much order to it as it will bear; and you dont

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notice that Ive been talking for a long time

about the truthful possibility of twins who
are doppelgangers, who have two souls, but
are one? He went on spiritedly: Imagine
twins
who
resemble
each
other
interchangeably; place them before you,
each in the same attitude, separated only by
a wall indicated by a line to confirm that they
are two independent beings. And in an uncanny augmentation, they can repeat themselves in whatever they do, so that you spontaneously assume the same about their inner
processes. Whats uncanny about this performance? That theres absolutely nothing by
which we can distinguish them, and that yet
they are two! That in everything we might
undertake with them, one is as good as the
other, although in the process something like
a destiny is being fulfilled! In short, they are
the same for us but not for themselves!

771/1856

Why are you playing such gruesome

and spooky games with these twins? Agathe
asked.
Because its a case that happens often.
Its the case of mistaking things, of indifference, of perceiving and acting wholesale, of
represent-ability: in other words, a major
chapter from the usages of life. Ive only
prettied it up in order to dramatize
something for you. Now let me turn it
around: Under what circumstances would
the twins be two for us and one for themselves? Is that spooky too?
Agathe pressed his arm and sighed.
Then she admitted: If its possible for two
people to be the same for the world, it could
also be that a person appears to us doubled
But youre making me speak nonsense! she
added.
Imagine two goldfish in a bowl, Ulrich
asked.

772/1856

No! Agathe said firmly, but laughing

at the same time. Im not going along with
any more of this!
Please, imagine them! A large bowl in
the shape of a ball, as you sometimes see in
someones living room. You can, incidentally,
imagine the bowl to be as large as the boundaries of our property. And two reddish-gold
fish, moving their fins slowly up and down
like veils. Lets leave aside whether they are
really two or one. For each other, at least,
they will be two, for the time being; their
jealousy over feeding and sex will see to that.
They avoid each other, too, whenever they
come too near each other. But I can well imagine that for me they can become one: I need
only concentrate on this motion that slowly
draws in upon itself and unfolds, and then
this single shimmering creature becomes
merely a dependent part of this common upand-down motion. Now I ask when this
might also happen to them

773/1856

Theyre goldfish! Agathe admonished.

Not a group of dancers suffering from supernatural delusions!
They are you and I, her brother responded pensively, and thats why I would
like to try to bring the comparison to a proper conclusion. It seems to me a soluble problem to imagine how the world glides past in
its separate-but-united motion. Its no different from the world undulating past from a
railway car going around curves, except that
it happens twice over, so that at every one of
the double beings moments, the world occupies two positions, which somehow must coincide in the soul. That means that the idea
of getting from one to the other through
some motion will never be associated with
these double beings; the impression of a distance existing between them will not arise;
and more such things. I think I can imagine
that one would also manage to be tolerably
comfortable in such a world and could

774/1856

doubtless puzzle out in various ways the necessary constitution of the mental tools and
procedures needed to make sense of things.
Ulrich stopped for a moment and reflected.
He had become aware of many objections,
and the possibility of overcoming them also
suggested itself. He smiled guiltily. Then he
said: But if we assume that the constitution
of that other world is the same as ours, the
task is much easier! Both hovering creatures
will then feel themselves as one without being bothered by die difference in their perception and without there being any need of
a higher geometry or physiology to attain it,
as long as you are simply willing to believe
that spiritually they are bound to each other
more firmly than they are to the world. If
anything at all important that they share is
infinitely stronger than the difference of
their experiences; if it bridges these differences and doesnt even let them reach awareness; if the disturbances reaching them from

775/1856

the world arent worth being aware of, then it

will happen. And a shared suggestion can
have this effect; or a sweet indolence and imprecision of the habits of receptiveness,
which mix everything up; or a one-sided tension and exaltation that allows only what is
desired to get through: one thing, it seems to
me, as good as the next
Now Agathe laughed at him: Then why
did I have to march through all that precision about the conditions of portrayal? she
asked.
Ulrich shrugged his shoulders. Its all
interconnected, he answered, falling silent.
He himself knew that with all his efforts
he had nowhere made a breach, and their
variety confused his recollection. He foresaw
that they would repeat themselves. But he
was tired. And as the world becomes snugly
heavy in the evaporating light and draws all
its limbs up to itself, so did Agathes

776/1856

nearness again force its way physically

among his thoughts while his mind was giving up. They had both become accustomed to
conducting such difficult conversations, and
for rather a long time these had already been
such a mixture of the pulsating power of the
imagination, and the vain utmost effort of
the understanding to secure it, that it was
nothing new for either of them at one time to
hope for a resolution, at another to allow
their own words to rock them to sleep much
as one listens to the childishly happy conversation of a fountain, babbling to itself happily about eternity. In this condition Ulrich
now belatedly thought of something, and
again had recourse to his carefully prepared
parable. Its amazingly simple, but at the
same time strange, and I dont know how to
present it to you convincingly, he said. You
see that cloud over there in a somewhat different position than I do, and also presumably in a different way; and weve discussed

777/1856

how whatever you see and do and what occurs to you will never be the same as what
happens to me and what I do. And weve investigated the question of whether, in spite
of that, it still might not be possible to be one
being to the ultimate degree, and live as two
with one soul. Weve measured out all sorts
of answers with a compass, but I forgot the
simplest: that both people could be minded
and able to take everything they experience
only as a simile! Just consider that for the
understanding every simile is equivocal, but
for the emotions its unequivocal. For
someone to whom the world is just a simile
could also probably, according to his standards, experience as one thing what according
to the worlds standards is two. At this moment the idea also hovered before Ulrich
that, in an attitude toward life for which being in one place is merely a metaphor for being in another, even that which cannot be
experiencedbeing one person in two bodies

778/1856

wandering about separatelywould lose the

sting of its impossibility; and he made ready
to talk about this further.
But Agathe pointed at the cloud and interrupted him glibly: Hamlet: Do you see
yonder cloud thats almost in shape of a
camel? Polonius: By th mass, and tis like a
camel indeed. Hamlet: Methinks it is like a
weasel Polonius: It is backd like a weasel.
Hamlet: Or like a whale? Polonius: Very
like a whale! She said this so that it was a
caricature of assiduous accord.
Ulrich understood the objection, but it
did not prevent him from continuing: One
says of a simile, too, that it is an image. And
it could be said just as well of every image
that its a simile. But none is an equation.
And just for that reason, the fact that its part
of a world ordered not by equality but by
similitude explains the enormous power of
representation, the forceful effect that characterizes even quite obscure and unlike

779/1856

copies, which weve already spoken about!

This idea itself burgeoned through its twilight, but he did not complete it. The immediate recollection of what they had said
about portrayals combined in it with the image of the twins and with the picture-perfect
numbness Agathe had experienced, which
had repeated itself before her brothers eyes;
and this brew was animated by the distant
memory of how often such conversations,
when they were at their finest and came from
heart and soul, themselves proclaimed an inclination to express themselves only in
similes. But today that did not happen, and
Agathe again hit the sensitive spot like a
marksman as she upset her brother with a
remark. Why, for heavens sake, are all your
words and desires directed at a woman who,
oddly enough, is supposed to be your exact
second edition? she exclaimed, innocently
offending. She was, nevertheless, a little
afraid of the reply, and protected herself with

780/1856

the generalization: Is it comprehensible that

in the whole world the ideal of all lovers is to
become one being, without considering that
these ungrateful people owe almost all the
charm of love to the fact that they are two beings, and of seductively different sexes? She
added sanctimoniously, but with even craftier purpose: They even sometimes say to one
another, as if they wanted to accommodate
you, Youre my doll!
But Ulrich accepted the ridicule. He
considered it justified, and it was difficult to
counter it with a new accommodation. At the
moment it was not necessary either. For although brother and sister were speaking
quite differently, they were still in agreement. From some undetermined boundary
on, they felt as one being: the way that from
two people playing piano four-handedly, or
reading with two voices a scripture important for their salvation, a single being arises,
whose animated, brighter outline is

781/1856

indistinctly set off from a shadowy background. As in a dream, what hovered before
them was a melting into one formjust as
incomprehensibly, convincingly, and passionately beautifully as it happens that two
people exist alongside each other and are
secretly the same; and this unity was partly
supported and partly upset by the dubious
manipulation that had lately emerged. It can
be said of these reflections that it should not
be impossible that the effects the emotions
can achieve in sleep can be repeated when
one is wide awake; perhaps with omissions,
certainly in an altered fashion and through
different processes, but it could also be expected that it would then happen with greater resistance to dissolving influences. To be
sure, they saw themselves sufficiently removed from this, and even the choice of
means they preferred distinguished them
from each other, to the extent that Ulrich inclined more to accounting for things, and

782/1856

Agathe
to
resolution.

spontaneously

credulous

That is why it often happened that the

end of a discussion appeared to be further
from its goal than its beginning, as was also
the case this time in the garden, where the
meeting had begun almost as an attempt to
stop breathing and had then gone over to
suppositions about ways of building variously imagined houses of cards. But it was
basically natural that they should feel inhibited about acting according to their all too
daring ideas. For how were they to turn into
reality something that they themselves
planned as pure unreality, and how should it
be easy for them to act in one spirit, when it
was really an enchanted spirit of inaction?
This was why in the midst of this conversation far removed from the world they suddenly had the urgent desire to come into
contact with people again.

PART 2
Drafts of Character and
Incident

Ulrich / Ulrich and Agathe

/ Agathe
MID 1920s
[Ulrich visits the clinic]
He encountered Moosbrugger towering
broadly among the cunning deceivers. It was
heroic, the futile struggle of a giant among
these people. He seemed through some quality or other to actually deserve the admiration that he found a sham but enjoyed in a
naively ridiculous way. In the grossest distortions of insanity, there is still a self struggling to find something to hang on to. He
was like a heroic ballad in the midst of an age
that creates quite different kinds of songs but
out of habitual admiration still preserves the
old things. Defenseless, admired power, like
a club among the arrows of the mind. One

785/1856

could laugh at this person and yet feel that

what was comic in him was shattering. The
clouding of this mind was connected with
that of the age.
Do you have a friend? Ulrich asked in
a moment when they were unobserved. I
mean, Moosbrugger, dont you have anyone
who could get you out of here? Theres no
other way. Moosbrugger said he did, but he
wouldnt be easy to find. What is he? A locksmith. But hes a locksmith who works on
cabinets, Moosbrugger grinned rather sheepishly, (hes not easy to find), he works in
many places. Hed do it, but Ulrich would
have to go to his wife and get his address
from her. And he didnt want to impose that
on him, this wife was an awful person. Moosbrugger was visibly cutting capers and
preening in a courtly way before Ulrich. Ulrich said she would probably give him the information, whether she was awful or not.
Yes, she no doubt would; he would have to

786/1856

mention Moosbruggers name. Before his

last wandering, when he was working in Vienna, he had lived with her himself, the heart
of the matter now emerged; he, Moosbrugger; but she was a woman with low tastes, a
criminal, a quite common sort Moosbrugger
shows all the symptoms of his hatred for women only because he is afraid that Ulrich
might have a poor opinion of him when he
sees this woman.
So she would tell Ulrich where he could
meet her partner.
Ulrich went to see her. Borne by the
automatism that accompanies all deeds of
daring. He was really not in the least surprised when he entered an apartment that
looked like forty others in a building on the
outskirts of the city, and encountered in the
kitchen a young woman doing chores, who
must have been just like the forty other
housewives. Nor did the suspicion with
which he was greeted in any way differ from

787/1856

the suspicion one often finds in these circles.

As soon as he entered he had to say
something, and through the general
European courtesies he uttered was immediately placed in a quite impersonal relationship. There wasnt a breath of crime in this
environment. She was a coarse young woman, and her breasts moved under her
blouse like a rabbit under a cloth.
When he brought up the name of Moosbrugger Fraulein Hornlicher smiled deprecatingly, as if to say: the useless crazy things
he gets himself into; but she was willing to
help him. Of course it depended on Karl, but
she didnt think hed leave Moosbrugger in
the lurch. This all took place in courteous exchanges, as when a businessman whos got
himself into a corner begs his solid neighbors
for support.
She gave Ulrich the name of a small tavern where he would presumably find Karl.
Hed probably have to go several times, since

788/1856

Karls movements were never entirely predictable. He should tell the tavern keeper
who had sent him and whom he wanted to
speak to and calmly sit down and wait.
Ulrich was lucky, and found Karl Biziste
on his first try. Again an automatic play of
limbs and thoughts carried him there; but
this time Ulrich was paying attention, and
followed with curiosity what seemed to be
happening to him rather than to be
something he was doing. His emotions were
the same as they were the time when he had
been arrested. From that moment, when
Clarisses interest had cautiously begun to
tickle him like the end of a thread, until now,
where events were already being woven into
a heavy rope, things had taken their own
course, one thing leading to another with a
necessity that merely carried him along. It
seemed incredibly strange to him that the
course of most peoples lives is this course of
things that so alienated him, while on the

789/1856

contrary for other people it is quite natural

to let themselves be borne along by whatever
turns up, and thus finally be raised to a solid
existence. Ulrich also felt that soon he would
no longer be able to turn around, but this
made him as curious as when one suddenly
notices the inexorable movement of ones
own breathing.
And he made yet another observation.
When he imagined how much mischief could
arise from what he was proposing to do, and
that it soon would no longer be in his power
to avoid initiating the process. With an evil
deed that he felt on his conscience as if it had
already been committed, he saw the world he
was walking through in a different way. Almost as if he had a vision in his heart. Of
God, or a great invention, or a great happiness. Even the starry sky is a social phenomenon, a structure of the shared fantasy
of our species, man, and changes when one
steps out of its circle.

790/1856

MoosbruggerUlrich told himselfwill

wreak more havoc if I help him to freedom.
Theres no denying that sooner or later he
will again fall victim to his disposition, and I
will bear the responsibility for it. But when
he tried grave self-reproach in order to stop
himself, there was something really untruthful in it. About as if one were to take the
stance of being able to see clearly through a
fog. The sufferings of those victims were
really not certain. Had he seen the suffering
creatures before him, he would probably
have been overcome by a fierce empathy, for
he was a person of oscillations, and that also
meant of sympathetic oscillations. But as
long as this suggestive power of experiencing
with the senses was missing, and everything
remained only a play of mental forces, these
victims remained adherents of a mankind
that he would really have liked to abolish, or
at least greatly change, and no amount of
sympathy diminished the emotional force of

791/1856

this dislike. There are people whom this horrifies; they are under the impress of a very
strong moral or social power of suggestion;
they speak up and start shouting as soon as
they notice even the most remote injustice,
and are furious at the badness and coldness
of feeling that they frequently find in the
world. They demonstrate violent emotions,
but in most cases these are the emotions imposed on them by their ideas and principles:
that is, an enduring suggestiveness, which
like all powers of suggestion has something
automatic and mechanical about it, whose
path never dips into the realm of living emotions. The person who lives disinterestedly
is, in contrast to them, ill-disposed and indifferent toward everything that does not touch
his own circle of interests; he not only has
the indifference of a mass murderer, in its
passive form, when he reads in his morning
paper about the accidents and misfortunes of
the previous day, but he can also quite easily

792/1856

wish all kinds of misfortune on people he

doesnt care about, if they annoy him. Certain phenomena lead one to assume that a
forward-marching civilization based on
shared works also strengthens the repressed
and immured antagonists of these emotions.
This was what was going through Ulrichs
mind as he walked along. Moosbruggers victims were abstract, threatened, like all the
thousands who are exposed to the dangers of
factories, railroads, and automobiles.
When he happened to look around on
his way to Herr Biziste, he thought he could
see that all the life we have created has been
made possible only through our neglecting
our duty to care for our more distant neighbor. Otherwise we would never think of putting on the street machines that kill him; indeed, we would never let him go out on the
street himself, as is actually the case with
cautious parents and their children. Instead
of this, however, we live with a statistically

793/1856

predictable annual percentage of murders,

which we commit rather than deviate from
our manner of living and the line of development we hope to maintain. Ulrich suddenly
thought, too, that part of this was a general
division of labor in which it is always the task
of a particular group of people to heal injuries caused by the indispensable activities of
others; but we never restrain a force by demanding that it moderate itself; and finally
there are still quite specific institutions, like
parliaments, kings, and the like, that serve
exclusively as equalizers. Ulrich concluded
from this that for him to assist Moosbruggers
escape had no significance, for there were
enough other people whose job it was to prevent any injuries that might result, and if
they fulfilled their obligations they were
bound to succeed, which made his personal
deed no worse than an irregularity. This individual, moral prohibitionthat he was
nevertheless obliged as an individual not to

794/1856

let things go that farwas in this context

nothing more than a doubled coefficient of
security, which the knowledgeable person
could afford to neglect.
The vision of a different order of things
hovering far in advance of these specific
ideas, an order that was more honest, one
might say technically without clichs, accompanied Ulrich even as the adventure enticed
him, tired as he was of the indecisive life of a
person of today. / Possibly: It was not his
good fortune to be effective in the world and
to be defined by that. like Thomas Mann or
the good upstanding citizen of this age. Nor
was he involved in the struggle for
something. / Thus this path was not unlike
the dive into the water, well known to Ulrich,
from a height of thirty feet. On the way down
one sees ones own image rushing toward
one faster and faster in a watery reflection
and can adjust small errors in ones position;

795/1856

but for the rest, one can no longer change

anything in what is taking place.
When he had found the tavern, Ulrich did
everything as Fraulein Hornlicher had indicated. He mentioned her name, told the proprietor what he wanted, was asked to sit
down and told that he might have to wait
quite a while. He inspected the guests, many
of whom spoke to the proprietor as they
entered and left; felt himself observed, but
could not make out a great deal himself. It
was an hour at which the patrons were intermingled with workers and petit bourgeois.
Finally, he thought he could make out the
criminals among the guests by the peculiarly
ridiculous elegance of their clothes.
Ulrich had not made out Herr Biziste,
who, when he came in, spoke with the proprietor like the others after glancing quickly
around the room and, after he had sat down,

796/1856

was looked at in the same way by everyone

else around the room, and who was dressed
with an equally counterfeit elegance / with a
somewhat different elegance. Nor did the
owner give Ulrich any sign. Biziste was
drinking with several men, then stood up to
go, stopped as if idly by Ulrichs table, and
asked him dismissively what it was he was
after. Ulrich had the tact not to stand, but to
look up carelessly and offer Biziste a chair.
This was of course presumptuous, but since
he could be certain that Biziste was still interested in Moosbrugger, he could permit
himself to meet the great man on the same
level. He told him that Moosbrugger would
be executed within a few weeks if no one
helped him. For some reason or other, Ulrich
seemed to himself like a spoiled boy who is
playing with street urchins and is showing
off with fairy tales he has invented. Biziste
seemed to disapprove of Ulrich as of an incorrigible blockhead. Still dismissive, he

797/1856

asked Ulrich how he thought this could be

done. Ulrich quickly emptied his glass and by
a rather vague gesture left it to the proprietor
whether he was to bring another glass for
himself and his tablemate as well. Then he
related that arranging an escape from the observation clinic would not be all that difficult. Herr Biziste was interested in this new
milieu that Ulrich described to him. Ulrich
became inventive; it amused him to think it
out in front of a hardened criminal, and on
the spot he made up a specific plan in which
only the hour remained unfixed but that otherwise, thanks to Ulrichs exact knowledge of
the place, didnt seem at all bad. Three men
would be needed, one as a lookout outside
the garden wall they had to climb over, so
that on their way out they would not fall into
the hands of a police patrol or give themselves away to passersby; the other two
would be enough to bring Moosbrugger

798/1856

civilian clothes and hold off any guard who

might come by until Moosbrugger had
changed.
The arrogant irony with which Biziste
listened to this plan, as Ulrich spoke faster
and faster from nervousness, was striking.
Then Biziste stood up and said: If you
come to such and such a place on Wednesday, perhaps we can talk about it some more.
Will you bring along a third person?
Biziste shrugged his shoulders, and Ulrich was dismissed.
It gave Ulrich a peculiar, bitter pleasure
that in the meantime everything else went on
inexorably.
On the day Biziste had set, he had gone
to the rendezvous but did not meet the third
man. Biziste, treating the whole business
casually, merely said to him that for a certain
sum this third man had declared himself

799/1856

willing. He mentioned a day and time, and

revealed that Ulrich would have to go over
the wall too, since he was the only one who
knew the layout.
All Biziste probably wanted to do was
frighten him, and for money a new partner
could have been found, but the bizarre situation attracted Ulrich; since one could also
break ones neck skiing, why should he not
climb over a wall in the night with criminals?
Incidentally, he heartily wished the police on
this puffed-up Biziste.
He put on his oldest suit, omitted a collar, and topped it off with a sports cap; in
this way his silhouette in the shadows of the
night was not conspicuously different from
that of the other people one might encounter
on the remote street along which the wall of
the asylum garden ran. Moosbrugger had
been alerted; over time, three linen sheets
had disappeared in die hospital, to serve as a
rope on which he was to let himself down.

800/1856

Ulrich could probably have smuggled in a

climbers rope, but he wanted to avoid anything that might betray the assistance supplied, since it was not out of the question
that suspicion would fall on him. On this
night the window of Moosbruggers room
was dimly lit; Ulrich had got him the stump
of a candle so that they would be able to orient themselves in the darkness of the moonless night.
Biziste had climbed onto the back of the
second gentleman, swung himself up on
top of the wall, and could be heard jumping
down into the leaves on the other side. As Ulrich was about to follow, voices were heard;
the gentleman stood up so inconsiderately
that Ulrich, who had already got a foot up to
mount on his back, nearly fell, and the other
man strolled, hands in pockets, into the
night.
Ulrichs heart was pounding and he felt
a need to run, which he controlled with

801/1856

effort; but in order not to attract attention by

behaving oddly, he imagined that he ought
not to be walking alone, caught up with the
gentleman, and took his arm like that of a
drinking companion, which the gentleman
seemed to find ridiculously overdone.
The voices died away, and the
gentleman again offered his back; Ulrich
grasped the mortar and brick dust, felt the
stab of a pulled muscle in his leg, so forcefully had he swung it up in his excitement,
hung there, let himself fall into the darkness,
and ended in an applauding sound of dead
leaves such as he had not heard since his
boyhood. He stood up in total darkness, unable to discern the slightest trace of Biziste.
He groped right and left, in the hope that another noise would answer his own, but it remained as quiet as it was dark. He had to
make up his mind to go in the direction of
the building alone, hoping that he would
meet up with Biziste on the way.

802/1856

Again Ulrichs heart pounded; the

bushes scratched, as if in his fear he was
making only inappropriate movements.
Distances,
odors,
physical
contacts,
soundseverything was new, never experienced. He had to stop, collect his will, and
tell himself that he had no other recourse
than to see this stupid adventure through.
He stumbled onto a path and deduced which
direction would lead to the building most
quickly, but was suddenly overcome by the
problem of whether he should walk on the
crunching gravel or go on working his way
through the bushes.
That damned Biziste ought to have
waited for him, but at the same time he
longed for him as if he were a stronger brother. If he would not have been ashamed of
himself because of the fellow on the other
side of the wall, Ulrich would have turned
around. But he did not even know what signal he was supposed to give to find out

803/1856

whether all was clear on the other side. He

realized that he was a fool, and gained some
respect for these rogues. But he was not a
man to let himself be defeated so easily; it
would have been ridiculous for an intellectual not to be able to cope with this too. Ulrich
marched forward straight through the shrubbery; the excitement he was in and the selfcontrol his progress required (entirely
without reflection; it was simply moral
pains) made him ruthlessly crack, break, and
rustle the bushes. To have slunk forward like
an Indian seemed to him just then incredibly
silly and childish, and this was the moment
in which the normal person in him began to
reawaken.
When he came to the edge, Biziste, as
Ulrich really might have expected from the
first, was squatting there observing the
building, and he turned a witheringly punitive glance toward his noisy arrival. Moosbruggers window was dimly lit; Biziste

804/1856

whistled through his teeth. The huge

shoulders of the murderer filled the rectangle of the window, the rope fashioned
from the sheets rolled down; but Moosbrugger was not skilled in crime and had underestimated the strength of the rescue line required for his enormous weight; hardly had
he suspended himself from it when it broke,
and the force of his landing exploded the
stillness with a muffled detonation. At this
moment two guards materialized in the halflight that illuminated the wall.
Two days earlier, two mentally ill prisoners had escaped from another observation
clinic, but Ulrich had neither heard nor read
about it. And so he had not known that since
yesterday security had been generally
tightened and old, long-forgotten measures
were again being enforced for a while.
Among these was the two-man patrol, which,
perhaps drawn by the noises Ulrich had
made and now alarmed by the muffled fall,

805/1856

stopped, looked around, recognized in the

sand a heavy body that with great effort was
trying to get up, rushed over, saw a rope
hanging from die window, and with all their
lung power signaled for help through shrill
little whistles. Moosbrugger had dislocated
his shoulder and broken an ankle, otherwise
it would have been an unhappy encounter for
the guards who jumped on him; as it was, he
knocked one bleeding into the sand, but
when he tried to straighten up to shake off
the second, pain deprived him of his footing.
The guard hung on his neck and whisded
piercingly; the second man, full of pain and
rage, pounced on him, and at this moment
Biziste sprang out of the bushes. With a
powerful blow of his fist, he smashed one
guards whistle between his teeth so that he
tumbled off Moosbrugger, but now the other
whisded like mad and rushed at Biziste. Such
guards are strong men, and Biziste was not
exceptionally powerful. If at this instant

806/1856

Ulrich had come forward to help, with his

considerable trained strength, they would no
doubt have succeeded in rendering both attackers mute and motionless for a while, but
Ulrich did not feel die slightest desire to do
so. In the tangle before him his sympathies
lay quite honestly with the men unexpectedly
set upon, who were fighting for their duty,
and if he had only followed his emotions, he
would have grabbed this Biziste by the collar
and given him a solid hook to the chin. But
perhaps that was also merely the somewhat
comical maternal voice of bourgeois order in
him, and as the situation tensed his muscles
and nerves, so his mind ebbed, filling him
with disgust at contradictions whose resolution was not worth the effort. Another semievent, Ulrich said to himself. A very painful
sensation of the awful ludicrousness of his
situation came over him.
Biziste reached for his knife. But before
he raised it to thrust, his glance, practiced in

807/1856

weighing risk and advantage, revealed to him

the hopelessness of the outcome: Moosbrugger could not stand up without assistance,
the noise of the alarmed people on night
duty was already coming out of the darkness
from the wing of the building, flight was the
only recourse. The guard, who would not let
him go, screamed, hit by a stab in the arm.
Biziste disappeared, leaving Ulrich behind,
as Ulrich ascertained with cheerful satisfaction in spite of the quite awkward situation.
He had meantime been thinking how he
himself might get out of this stupid business.
The way over the wall was blocked, for he
hadnt the slightest desire to meet Herr
Biziste and his friend ever again in his life,
nor did he feel like climbing over the wall
alone and perhaps being detained by the
curious drawn to the scene by the shouts of
the guards, who would certainly be chasing
after Biziste. He settled on the only thing
that occurred to him, a very stupid thing: to

808/1856

run a little farther, quickly find a bench, and

pretend to be asleep in case he was found.
He raised the collar of his coat so his bare
neck could not be seen, took off his cap, and
awoke with as much surprise as possible
when, surrounded by a maze of lights, he was
knocked from the bench by an incredible fist
and his arms grabbed by six men. He did not
know whether he gave a good performance
as the righteous person drunk with sleep; it
was his good fortune that one of the guards
immediately recognized him, upon which he
was released with reluctant respect. He was
taken for a doctor who was doing studies at
the clinic. He now tried to make credible that
after a visit he had been walking in the
grounds and had fallen asleep here. To this
end, he involuntarily looked at his watch, remembered that he had left it at home but
could no longer take back the gesture and
therefore found it missing; reached into his
jacket and pants pockets and immediately

809/1856

found his money missing too, for he had of

course also not brought it along; and as stupid as this comedy was, as he told himself,
there was an even stupider guard who believed it, or really just one whose servile officiousness and desire to please Ulrich suggested what Ulrich wanted him to believe, so
that he immediately called out: The rascals
have also robbed the Herr Doktor. Ulrich did
not say either yes or no, but only went on like
someone who missed his belongings without
knowing anything about what had happened
and now found out the entire drama backward and in snatches. As an object of respect
and the remaining center of interest, he left
the clinic in this feigned role as quickly as he
could; he was not to enter it again as long as
it sheltered Moosbrugger.
For after this attempted flight Moosbrugger was placed under heavy guard, and
Ulrich, on the orders of the head of the clinic,
was no longer allowed to visit him. Nor did

810/1856

Ulrich have the slightest desire to. Still, the

unpleasant uncertainty, whether the doctor
The very unpleasant doubt remained
whether, upon investigating the circumstances, they had not come to suspect him,
which of course they would not express but
were just as httle ready to abandon.
In mania, this would be a depressive
cycle of short duration.

LATE 1920s

Her brothers conduct, the restlessness that

the visit to Lindner had intensified in her,
stimulated Agathe to a degree that remained
hidden even from herself. She did not know
how it had happened, or when; suddenly her
soul was transported out of her body and
looked around curiously in the alien world.
This world pleased her soul uncommonly.
Anything that might have disturbed it was
lost in the completeness of its pleasure.
Agathe dreamed.
Her body lay on the bed without stirring, though it was breathing. She looked at
it and felt a joy like polished marble at the
sight. Then she observed the objects that
stood farther back in her room; she

812/1856

recognized them all, but they were not exactly the things that otherwise were hers. For
the objects lay outside her in the same way as
her body, which she saw resting among
them. That gave her a sweet pain!
Why did it hurt? Apparently because
there was something deathlike about it; she
could not act and could not stir, and her
tongue was as if cut off, so that she was also
unable to say anything about it. But she felt a
great energy. Whatever her senses lit upon
she grasped immediately, for everything was
visible and shone the way sun, moon, and
stars are reflected in water. Agathe said to
herself: You have wounded my body with a
roseand turned to the bed in order to take
refuge in her body.
Then she discovered that it was her
brothers body. He, too, was lying in the reflecting glorious light as in a crypt; she saw
him not disntinctly but more penetratingly
than usual, and touched him in the secrecy of

813/1856

the night. She raised him up; he was a heavy

burden in her arms, but she nevertheless had
the strength to carry and hold him, and this
embrace had a supranatural charm. Her
brothers body nestled so lovably and indulgently against her that she rested in him; as
he in her; nothing stirred in her, not even
now the beautiful desire. And because in this
suspension they were one and without distinctions, and also without distinctions within themselves, so that her understanding was
as if lost and her memory thought of nothing
and her will had no activity, she stood in this
calm as if facing a sunrise, and melted into it
with her earthly details. But while this was
happening, joyously, Agathe perceived surrounding her a wild crowd of people who, as
it appeared, found themselves around her in
great fear. They were running excitedly back
and forth, and gesturing warningly and resentfully with increasing din. In the manner
of a dream, this was happening quite close to

814/1856

her but without involving her, but only until

the noise and fright suddenly intruded violently into her mind. Then Agathe was afraid,
and quickly stepped back into her sleeping
body; she had no idea at all how everything
might have been changed, and for a time left
off dreaming.
But after a while she began again. Again
she left her body, but this time met her
brother immediately. And again her body
was lying naked on the bed; they both looked
at it, and indeed the hair over the genitals of
this unconscious body that had been left behind burned like a small golden fire on a
marble tomb. Because there was no I or
you between them, this being three did not
surprise her. Ulrich was looking at her softly
and earnestly in a way she did not recognize
as his. They also looked at their surroundings together, and it was their house in
which they found themselves, but although
Agathe knew all the objects quite well, she

815/1856

could not have said in which room this was

happening, and that again had a peculiar
charm, for there was neither right nor left,
earlier nor later, but when they looked at
something together they were united like water and wine, a union that was more golden
or silver, depending on whichever was
poured in in greater quantity. Agathe knew
immediately: This is what we have so often
talked of, total love, and paid close attention
so as not to miss anything. But she still
missed how it was happening. She looked at
her brother, but he was looking in front of
him with a stiff and embarrassed smile. At
this moment she heard a voice somewhere, a
voice so exceedingly beautiful that it had
nothing to compare with earthly things, and
it said: Cast everything you have into the
fire, down to your shoes; and when you no
longer have anything dont even think of a
shroud, but cast yourself naked into the fire!
And while she was listening to this voice and

816/1856

remembering that she knew this sentence, a

splendor rose into her eyes and radiated
from them, a splendor that took away precise
earthly definition even from Ulrich, though
she had no impression that anything was
missing from him, and her every limb received from it in the manner of its special
pleasure great grace and bliss. Involuntarily
she took some steps toward her brother. He
was coming toward her from the other side
in the same way.
Now there was only a narrow chasm
between their bodies, and Agathe felt that
something must be done. At this place in her
dream she began, too, with the greatest effort, to think again. If he loves something
and receives and enjoys it, she said to herself, then he is no longer he, but his love is
my love! She doubtless sensed that this sentence, the way she had uttered it, was somehow distorted and emasculated, but still she
understood it through and through, and it

817/1856

took on a significance that clarified

everything. In the dream, she explained it
to herself, one must not think about things,
then everything will happen! For everything
she was thinking she believed to see transpiring, or rather, what happened and partook of the desire of matter also partook of
the desire of the spirit, which penetrated it as
thought in the profoundest possible way.
This seemed to her to give her a great superiority over Ulrich; for while he was now
standing there helplessly, without stirring,
not only did the same splendor as before rise
into her eyes and fill them, but its moist fire
suddenly broke out from her breasts and
veiled everything that faced her in an indescribable sensation. Her brother was now
seized by this fire and began to burn in it,
without the fire growing more or less. Now
you see! Agathe thought. Weve always
done it wrong! One always builds a bridge of
hard material and always crosses over to the

818/1856

other at a single place: but one must cross

the abyss at every place! She had seized her
brother by the hands and tried to draw him
to her; but as she pulled, the burning naked
male body, without really being changed,
dissolved into a bush or a wall of glorious
flowers and, in this form, came loosely
closer. All intentions and thoughts vanished
in Agathe; she lay fainting with desire in her
bed, and as the wall strode through her she
also believed that she had to wander through
large brooks of soft-skinned flowers, and she
walked without being able to make the spell
vanish. I am in love! she thought, as
someone finds a moment when he is able to
draw breath, for she could hardly still bear
this incredible excitement that did not want
to end. Since the last transformation she also
no longer saw her brother, but he had not
disappeared.
And looking for him, she woke up; but
she felt that she wanted to go back once

819/1856

more, for her happiness had attained such an

intensification that it went on increasing.
She was quite confused as she got out of bed:
the beginnings of wakefulness were in her
mind, and all the rest of her body held the
not-yet-ended dream that apparently wanted
to have no end.
***
Since the dream, there had been in Agathe
an intention to lead her brother astray on
some mad experiment. It was not clear even
to herself. Sometimes the air was like a net in
which something invisible had got caught. It
spread the web apart but was not able to
break through it. All impressions had somewhat too great a weight. When they greeted
each other in the morning, the first impression was of a quite sharply sensual delimitation. They emerged from the ocean of sleep
onto the islands of you and I. The bodys
color and shape drifted like a bouquet of
flowers on the depths of space. Their glances,

820/1856

their movements, seemed to reach farther

than usual; the inhibition that otherwise
catches and stops them in the secret mechanism of the world must have grown weaker.
But words were often suppressed by the fear
that they would be too weak to utter this.
In order to understand such a passion,
one must remember the habits of consciousness. Not long ago, for example, a woman
wearing glasses not only was considered ridiculous, but really looked it; today is a time
in which they make her look enterprising
and young: those are habitual attitudes of
consciousness; they change but are always
present in some connection, forming a scaffolding through which perception enters into
consciousness. The image is always present
before its component parts are, and is what
first gives significance to the meaningless
daubings of sense impressions. Poloniuss
cloud, which appears sometimes as a ship,
sometimes as a camel, is not the weakness of

821/1856

a servile courtier but completely characterizes the way God has created us. The play
between self and external world is not like
the die and the stamping but is reciprocal
and capable of extremely fine motions, to the
extent that it is freed from the cruder mechanisms of utility. One rarely imagines how
far this extends. In truth it reaches from
beautiful, ugly, good, and evil, where it still
seems natural to everyone that one mans
morning cloud should be another mans
camel, through bitter and sweet, fragrant
and stinking, as far as the apparently most
precise and least subjective impressions of
colors and forms. Herein lies perhaps the
deepest sense of the support that one person
seeks in another; but Ulrich and Agathe were
like two people who, hand in hand, had
stepped out of this circle. What they felt for
each other was by no means simply to be
called love. Something lay in their relationship to each other that could not be included

822/1856

among the ordinary notions of living together; they had undertaken to live like brother
and sister, if one takes this expression in the
sense not of an official marriage-bureau document but of a poem; they were neither
brother and sister nor man and wife, their
desires like white mist in which a fire burns.
But that sufficed at times to remove their
hold on the world from what they were for
each other. The result was that what they
were became senselessly strong. Such moments contained a tenderness without goals
or limits. And also without names or aid. To
do something for someones sake contains in
the doing a thousand connections to the
world; to give someone pleasure contains in
the giving all considerations that bind us to
other people. A passion, on the other hand, is
an emotion that, free from all contaminants,
can never do enough for itself. It is simultaneously the emotion of a powerlessness in the

823/1856

person and that of a movement proceeding

from it, which seizes the entire world.
And it is not to be denied that in the
company of her brother Agathe tasted the
bitter sweetness of a passion. Today one often confuses passion and vice. Cigarette
smoking, cocaine, and the vigorously esteemed recurrent need for coitus are, God
knows, no passions. Agathe knew that; she
knew the substitutes for passion, and recognized passion at the first moment in that not
only the self burns, but the world as well; it is
as if all things were behind the air just above
the tip of a flame. She would have liked to
thank the Creator on her knees that she was
experiencing it again, although it is just as
much a feeling of devastation as of happiness. Agathe felt, too, that this life is like a
ship gliding along in infinite seclusion. The
sounds on the shore become ever weaker,
and objects lose their voice: they no longer
say, now you should do this or that with me;

824/1856

movement dies away; the nimble words die

away. At times in the mornings there already
lay, between the house they were living in
and the street, a nothingness that neither Ulrich nor Agathe could penetrate; lifes
charms lost their power to evoke the ridiculous little decisions that are so vital: putting
on a hat, inserting a key, those small touches
of the rudder by means of which one moves
forward. But the space in the rooms was as if
polished, and everything was full of a soft
music, which ceased only when one strained
to hear it more clearly. And that was why the
loving anxiety was there; the silence behind
the sound of a word, behind a handshake, a
movement, could often suddenly detach itself for a moment from a series of others, divest itself of the chains of temporal and spatial connections and send the sound out onto
an infinite deep, above which it rested motionless. life then stood still. The eye, in
sweet torment, could not withdraw itself

825/1856

from the image. It sank into existence as into

a wall of flowers. It sank ever deeper and
ever more slowly. It reached no bottom; it
could not turn around! What might the
clocks be doing now? Agathe thought; the
idiotic little second hand she remembered,
with its precise forward movement around
its little circle: with what longing for salvation she now thought of it! And should a
glance be absorbed in the other, how painful
it was to withdraw it; as if their souls had
linked together! It was very nearly comical,
this silence. A heavy mountain of soulfulness. Ulrich often struggled to find a word, a
jest; it would not matter in the least what
one talked about, it only needed to be
something indifferent and real that is domesticated in life and has a right to a home.
That puts souls back into connection with
reality. One can just as well start talking
about the lawyer as come up with any clever
observation. All it had to be was a betrayal of

826/1856

the moment; the word falls into the silence

then, and in the next moment other corpses
of words gleam around it, risen up in great
crowds like dead fish when one throws poison into the water! Agathe hung on Ulrichs
lips while he was searching for such a word,
and when his lips could no longer find it and
no longer part, she sank back exhausted into
the silence that burned her too, like a pallet
consisting of nothing but little tips of flame.
Whenever Ulrich resisted: But we do
have a mission, an activity in the world!
Agathe answered: Not I, and you are certainly only imagining yours. We have some
idea of what we have to do: be together!
What difference does it make what progress
is made in the world? Ulrich disagreed, and
attempted to convince her ironically of the
impossibility of what it was that kept him
bound in chains. Theres only one explanation for our inactivity that is to some degree
satisfactory: to rest in God and be subsumed

827/1856

in God. You can use another word instead of

God: the Primal One, Being, the Unconditional there are a few dozen words, all
powerless. They all oppose assurance to the
terror at the sweet cessation of being human:
you have arrived at the edge of something
that is more than being human. Philosophical prejudices then take care of the rest.
Agathe replied: I understand nothing of
philosophy. But lets just stop eating! Lets
see what comes of that?
Ulrich noticed that in the bright childishness of this proposal there was a fine
black line.
What would come of that? He
answered in detail: First hunger, then exhaustion, then hunger again, raging fantasies
about eating, and finally either eating or
dying!
You cant know without having tried
it!

828/1856

But, Agathe! Its been tried and tested

a thousand times!
By professors! Or by bankrupt speculators. Do you know, dying must be not at all
like one says. I nearly died once: it was
different.
Ulrich shrugged his shoulders. He had
no idea how close together in Agathe the two
feelings were, to impulsively ignore all her
lost years or, if that failed, to want to stop.
She had never, like Ulrich, felt the need of
making the world better than it is; she was
happy lying around somewhere, while Ulrich
was always on the go. This had been a difference between them since childhood, and it
remained a difference until death. Ulrich did
not so much fear death as regard it as a disgrace that is set as a final price on all striving. Agathe had always been afraid of death
when she imagined it, as every young and
healthy person does, in the unbearable and
incomprehensible form: Now you are, but at

829/1856

some point you will no longer be! But at the

same time she had, in her early youth,
already become acquainted with the gradual
process of separation that is capable of inserting itself into the tiniest span of time,
that hurtlingly rapidin spite of all its slownessbeing turned away from life and becoming tired of and indifferent to it, and
striving trustingly into the approaching
nothingness that sets in when the body is
grievously harmed by an illness without the
senses being affected. She had confidence in
death. Perhaps its not so bad, she thought.
Its always, in any case, natural and pleasant
to stop, in everything one does. But decay,
and the rest of those horrible things: for
heavens sake, isnt one used to everything
happening to one while one has nothing to
do with it? You know, Ulrichshe terminated the conversationyoure like this: if
youre given leaves and branches, you always
sew them together into a tree; but I would

830/1856

like to see what would happen if we would

once, for instance, sew the leaves firmly onto
ourselves.
And yet Ulrich, too, felt they had nothing else to do but be together. Whenever
Agathe called through the rooms: Leave
the light on!a quick call, before Ulrich on
his way out darkened the room to which
Agathe wished to return once more, Ulrich
thought: A request, hasty, what more? Oh,
what more? No less than Buddha running to
catch a tram. An impossible gait! A collapse
of absurdity. But still, how lovely Agathes
voice was! What trust lay in the brief request,
what happiness that one person can call out
something like that to another without being
misunderstood. Of course, such a moment
was like a piece of earthly thread running
among mysterious flowers, but it was at the
same time moving, like a woolen thread that
one places around ones beloveds neck when
one has nothing else to give her. And when

831/1856

they then stepped out into the street and,

walking side by side, could not see much of
each other but only felt the tender force of
unintended contact, they belonged together
like an object that stands in an immense
space.
It lies in the nature of such experiences
that they urge their own telling. Within the
tiniest amount of happening they contain an
extreme of inner processes that needs to
break a path for itself to the outside. And as
in music or a poem, at a sickbed or in a
church, the circle of what can be uttered in
such circumstances is peculiarly circumscribed. Not, as one might believe, through
solemnity or some other subjective mood,
but through something that has far more the
appearance of an objective thing. This can be
compared with the remarkable process
through which one assimilates intellectual
influences in ones youth; there, too, one
takes in not every truth that comes along but

832/1856

really only a truth that comes to meet it from

ones own mind, a truth that therefore, in a
certain sense, has only to be awakened, so
that one already knows it in the moment one
comes across it. There are at that age the
truths that are destined for us and those that
arent; bits of knowledge are true today and
false tomorrow, ideas light up or go outnot
because we change our minds but because
with our thoughts we are still connected to
our life as a whole and, fed by the same invisible springs, rise and sink with them. They
are true when we feel ourselves rising at the
moment of thinking them, and they are false
when we feel ourselves falling. There is
something inexpressible in ourselves and the
world that is increased or diminished in the
process. In later years this changes; the disposition of the emotions becomes less flexible, and the understanding becomes that extraordinarily flexible, firm, doughty tool
which we know it to be when we refuse to

833/1856

allow ourselves to be swayed by emotion. At

this point the world has already divided itself: on the one side into the world of things
and dependable sensations of them, of judgments and, as it can also be put, recognized
emotions or will; on the other side into the
world of subjectivity, that is of caprice, of
faith, taste, intimation, prejudices, and all
those uncertainties, taking an attitude in regard to which, whatever it may be, there remains a kind of private right of the individual, without any claims to public status. When
that happens, individual industry may sniff
out and take in everything or nothing; it
rarely happens in the steeled soul that in the
fire of the impression the walls, too, stretch
and move.
But does this attitude really permit one
to feel as secure in the world as it might lead
one to think? Does not the whole solid world,
with all our sensations, buildings, landscapes, deeds, drift on countless tiny clouds?

834/1856

Beneath every perception lies music, poem,

feeling. But this feeling is tied down, made
invariable, excluded, because we want to
perceive things truly, that is, without emotion, in order to let them guide us, instead of
our guiding them, which, as one knows,
amounts to meaning that we finally, quite
suddenly, have really learned to fly instead of
merely dreaming about flying, as the millennia before us did. To this emotion imprisoned in objects there corresponds, on the
individual side, that spirit of objectivity
which has pushed all passion back into a
condition where it is no longer perceptible,
so that in every person there slumbers a
sense of his value, his usefulness, and his significance that cannot be touched, a basic
feeling of equilibrium between himself and
the world. Yet this equilibrium need only be
disturbed at any point, and everywhere the
imprisoned little clouds escape. A little fatigue, a little poison, a little excess of

835/1856

excitement, and a person sees and hears

things he doesnt want to believe; emotion
rises, the world slides out of its middling
condition into an abyss or rises up energetically, solitary, like a vision and no longer
comprehensible!
Often everything that he and Agathe
undertook, or what they saw and experienced, seemed to Ulrich only a simile. This
tree and that smile are reality, because they
have the quite specific quality of not merely
being illusion; but are there not many realities? Was it not just yesterday that we were
wearing wigs with long locks, possessed very
imperfect machines, but wrote splendid
books? And only the day before yesterday
that we carried bows and arrows and put on
gold hoods at festivals, over cheeks that were
painted with the blue of the night sky, and
orange-yellow eye sockets? Some kind of
vague sympathy for these things still quivers
within us today. So much was like today and

836/1856

so much was different, as if it was trying to

be one of many hieroglyphic languages. Does
not this mean that one should also not set
too much store in present things? What is
bad today will perhaps in part be good tomorrow, and the beautiful ugly; disregarded
thoughts will have become great ideas, and
dignified ideas decay to indifference. Every
order is somehow absurd and like a wax figure, if one takes it too seriously; every thing
is a frozen individual instance of its possibilities. But those are not doubts, rather a dynamic, elastic, undefined quality that feels itself capable of anything.
But it is a peculiarity of these experiences that they are almost always experienced only in a state of nonpossession. Thus
the world changes when the impassioned
person yearns for God, who does not reveal
Himself, or the lover for his distant beloved,
who has been snatched from him. Agathe as
well as Ulrich had known these things, and

837/1856

to experience them reciprocally when they

were together sometimes gave them real difficulty. Involuntarily they pushed the present
away, by telling each other for the first time
the stories of their past in which this had
happened. But these stories again reinforced
the miraculousness of their coming together,
and ended in the half-light, in a hesitant
touching of hands, silences, and the trembling of a current that flowed through their
arms.
And sometimes there were violent
rebellions.
Lets make an assumption[Ulrich] said to
himself, for example, in order to exclude it
again laterand lets suppose that Agathe
would feel loathing at the love of men. In
that case, in order to please her as a man, I
would have to behave like a woman. I would
have to be tender toward her without

838/1856

desiring her. I would have to be good in the

same way to all things in order not to frighten her love. I could not lift a chair unfeelingly, in order to move it to some other place
in insentient space; for I may not touch it out
of some random idea; whatever I do must be
something, and it is involved with this spiritual existence, the way an actor lends his
body to an idea. Is that ridiculous? No, its
nothing other than festive. For thats the
sense of sacred ceremonies, where every gesture has its significance. That is the sense of
all things when they emerge again before our
eyes for the first time with the morning sun.
No, the object is not a means for us. It is a
detail, the little nail, a smile, a curly hair of
our third sister. [Ulrich elsewhere defines
the three sisters as himself, Agathe, and the
Other Condition] I and you are only objects too. But we are objects that are engaged
in exchanging signals with each other; that is
what gives us the miraculous: something is

839/1856

flowing back and forth between us, I cannot

look at your eyes as if at some dead object,
we are burning at both ends. But if I want to
do something for your sake, the thing is not a
dead object either. I love it, that means that
something is happening between me and it; I
dont want to exaggerate, I have no intention
of maintaining that the object is alive like me
(and has feeling and talks with me), but it
does live with me, we always stand in some
relationship to each other.
I have said we are sisters. You have
nothing against my loving the world, but I
must love it like a sister, not like a man or
the way a man loves a woman. A little sentimentally; you and it and I give one another
presents. I take nothing away from the tenderness that I present you with if I also make
a present to the world; on the contrary, every
prodigality increases our wealth. We know
that each of us has our separate relations to
one another that one could not totally reveal

840/1856

even if one wanted to, but these secrets do

not arouse any jealousy. Jealousy assumes
that one wishes to turn love into a possession. However, I can lie in the grass, pressed
to the lap of earth, and you will feel the
sweetness of this moment along with me. But
I may not regard the earth as an artist or a
researcher: then I would be making it my
own, and we would form a couple that would
exclude you as a third.
What, then, in everyday life really distinguishes the most primitive affect of love
from mere sexual desire? Mixed in with the
desire to rape is a dread, a tenderness, one
might almost say something feminine mixed
in with the masculine. And thats the way it
is with all emotions; they are peculiarly pitted of their seeds and magnified.
Morality? Morality is an insult in a condition in which every movement finds its justification in contributing to the honor of that
condition.

841/1856

***
But the more vividly Ulrich imagined
this assumed sisterly feeling, the more ...
***
To previous page: One could variously call
the cardinal sin in this paradise: having,
wanting, possessing, knowing. Round about
it gather the smaller sins: envying, being
offended.
They all come from ones wanting to put
oneself and the other in an exclusive relationship. From the self wanting to have its
way like a crystal separating from a liquid.
Then there is a nodal point, and nothing but
nodal points collect around it.
But if we are sisters, then you will want
not the man, nor any thing or thought but
yours. You do not say: I say. For everything
will be said by everything. You do not say: I

842/1856

love. For love is the beloved of all of us, and

when it embraces you it smiles at me.
When Agathe next entered Lindners
house, he seemed to have fled in a hurry a
short time before. The inviolable order in
hall and rooms had been thrown into disorder, which admittedly did not take much,
for quite a few of the objects that were not in
their usual places in these rooms were quite
upsetting to look at anyway. Hardly had
Agathe sat down to wait for Lindner when
Peter came rushing through the room; he
had no idea that she had come in. He seemed
bent on smashing to pieces everything in his
path, and his face was bloated, as if everywhere beneath the pink skin tears were hiding, preparing themselves for an eruption.
Peter? Agathe
Whats the matter?

asked

in

dismay.

He wanted to go right by, but suddenly

stopped and stuck out his tongue at her with

843/1856

such a comical expression of disgust that she

had to laugh.
Agathe had a soft spot for Peter. She
understood that it could be no fun for a
young man to have Professor Lindner for a
father, and when she imagined that Peter
perhaps suspected her of being his fathers
future wife, his antagonistic attitude toward
her met with her secret applause. Somehow
she felt him to be a hostile ally. Perhaps only
because she remembered her own youth as a
pious convent-school girl. He had as yet no
roots anywhere; was seeking himself, and
seeking to grow up; growing up with the
same pains and anomalies inside as outside.
She understood that so well. What could wisdom, faith, miracles, and principles mean to
a young person who is still locked up in himself and not yet opened up by life to assimilate such things! She had a strange sympathy
for him; for his being undisciplined and recalcitrant, for his being young, and

844/1856

apparently, too, simply for the badness of his

way of thinking. She would gladly have been
his playmate, at least here; these surroundings gave her this childish thought, but she
sadly noticed that he usually treated her like
an old woman.
Peter! Peter! Whats the matter? he
aped her. Hell tell you anyhow. You soulsister of his!
Agathe laughed even more and caught
him by the hand.
Do you like that? Peter went after her
unabashedly. Do you like me to howl? How
old are you anyway? Not so much older than
I am, I should think: but he treats you the
way he treats the sublime Plato! He had disengaged himself and examined her, looking
for an advantage.
What has he really done to you?
Agathe asked.

845/1856

Whats he done? Hes punished me!

Im not at all ashamed in front of you, as you
see. Soon hes going to pull down my pants,
and youll be allowed to hold me!
Peter! For shame! Agathe warned innocently. Did he really beat you?
Did he? Peter? Maybe youd like that?
Shame on you, Peter!
Not at all! Why dont you call me Herr
Peter? Anyway, what do you think: there! He
stretched out his tensed leg and grasped his
upper thigh, strengthened from playing soccer. Have a look for yourself; I could
murder him with one hand. He doesnt have
as much strength in both legs as I have in
one arm. Its not me, its you who ought to be
ashamed, instead of prattling wisdom with
him! Do you want to know what hes done to
me?

846/1856

No, Peter, you cant talk to me that

way.
Why not?
Because your fathers heart is in the
right place. And because But here Agathe
could not find the right way to proceed; she
was no good at preaching, although the
youth was indeed in the wrong, and she suddenly had to laugh again. So what did he
do to you?
He took away my allowance!
Wait! Agathe asked. Without stopping
to think, she fished out a banknote and
handed it to Peter. She herself did not know
why she did this; perhaps she thought the
first thing to do was to get rid of Peters anger before she could have an effect on him,
perhaps it only gave her pleasure to thwart
Lindners pedagogy. And with the same suddenness she had addressed Peter with the familiar Du. Peter looked at her in

847/1856

astonishment. Behind his lovely misted eyes

something quite new awoke. The second
thing he imposed on mehe continued, grinning cynically, without thanking heris also
broken: the school of silence! Do you know
it? Man learns through silence to remove his
speech from all inner and outer irritations
and make it the handmaid of his innermost
personal considerations!
You surely said some improper
things, said Agathe, falling back on the normal pronoun of address.
This is how it was! The first response
of man to all interventions and attacks from
without happens by means of the vocal
cords, he quoted his father. Thats why
hes ruined today and my day off from school
tomorrow with room arrest, observes total
silence toward me, and has forbidden me to
speak a single word with anybody in the
house. The third thinghe mockedis control of the instinct for food

848/1856

But, Peter, you must now really tell

meAgathe interrupted him, amusedwhat
did you do to set him off?
The conversation in which he was
mocking his father through his future mother had put the youth in the best of spirits.
Thats not so simple, Agathe, he replied
shamelessly. There is, you ought to know,
something that the old man fears the way the
devil fears holy water: jokes. The tickling of
jokes and humor, he says, comes from idle
fantasy and malice. I always have to swallow
them. Thats exemplary for ones character.
Because, if we look at the joke more closely
Enough! Agathe commanded. What
was your forbidden joke about?
About you! said Peter, his eyes boring
into hers in challenge. But at this moment he
shrank back, because the doorbell rang, and
both recognized from the sound of the ring
that it was Professor Lindner. Before Agathe

849/1856

could make any reproaches, Peter pressed

his fingernails with painful violence into her
hand and stole out of the room.
There were also violent rebellions.
Agathe owned a piano. She was sitting
at it in the twilight, playing. The uncertainty
of her frame of mind played along with the
notes. Ulrich came in. His voice sounded
cold and mute as he greeted her. She interrupted her playing. When the words had
died away, her fingers went a few steps further through the boundless land of music.
Stay where you are! ordered Ulrich,
who had stepped back, drawing a pistol from
his pocket. Nothings going to happen to
you. He spoke altogether differently, a
stranger. Then he fired at the piano, shooting
into the center of its long black flank. The
first bullet cut through the dry, tender wood
and howled across the strings. A second
churned up leaping sounds. As shot followed

850/1856

shot, the keys began to hop. The jubilandy

sharp reports of the pistol drove with increasing frenzy into a splintering, screaming,
tearing, drumming, and singing uproar.
When the magazine was empty, Ulrich let it
drop to the carpethe only noticed it when
he futilely tried to get off two more shots. He
gave the impression of a madman, pale, his
hair hanging down over his forehead; a fit
had seized him and carried him far away
from himself. Doors slammed in the house,
people were listening; slowly, in such impressions, reason again took possession of
him.
Agathe had neither lifted her hand nor
uttered the slightest sound to prevent the destruction of the expensive piano or flee the
danger. She felt no fear, and although the beginning of her brothers outbreak could have
seemed insane, this thought did not frighten
her. She accepted it as a pleasant end. The
strange cries of the wounded instrument

851/1856

aroused in her the idea that she would have

to leave the earth in a swarm of fantastically
fluttering birds.
Ulrich pulled himself together and
asked if she was angry with him; Agathe
denied it with radiant eyes. His face again assumed its usual expression. I dont
knowhe saidwhy I did it. I couldnt resist
the impulse.
Agathe reflectively tried out a few isolated strings that had survived.
I feel like a fool, Ulrich pleaded, and
cautiously ran his hand through his sisters
hair, as if his fingers could find refuge from
themselves there. Agathe withdrew them
again by the wrist and pushed them away.
What came over you? she asked.
I have no idea, Ulrich said, making an
unconscious motion with his arms as if he
wanted to brush off the embrace of
something tenacious and lack it away.

852/1856

Agathe said: If you wished to repeat

that, it would turn into a quite ordinary target practice. Suddenly she stood up and
laughed. Now youll have to have the piano
completely rebuilt. What wont that all lead
to: orders, explanations, bills! For that
reason alone something like this cant happen again.
I had to do it, Ulrich explained shyly.
I would just as gladly have shot at a mirror
if youd happened to be looking in it.
And now youre upset that one cant
do such a thing twice. But it was beautiful
just as it was. She pushed her arm in his and
drew close to him. The rest of the time
youre never willing to do anything unless
you know where it will lead!
On the same evening, Ulrich had to put
in an appearance at a garden party. He could
not very well beg off, although he would have
done so had not his despair / depression

853/1856

impelled him to go. But he arrived late; it

was near midnight. The greater part of the
guests had already laid aside their masks.
Among the trees of the old grounds torches
flamed, rammed into the ground like burning spears or fastened with brackets to the
trunks of trees. Gigantic tables had been set
up, covered with white cloths. A flickering
fire reddened the bark of the trees, the silently swaying canopy of leaves overhead,
and the faces of countless people crowded together, which from a Utile distance seemed
to consist only of such red and black spots. It
seemed to have been the watchword among
the ladies to appear in mens costumes. Ulrich recognized a Frau Maya Sommer as a
soldier from the army of Maria Theresa, the
painter von Hartbach as a Tyrolean with
bare knees, and Frau Clara Kahn, the wife of
the famous physician, in a Beardsley costume. He also discovered that even among
the younger women of the upper nobility, so

854/1856

far as he knew them by sight, many had

chosen a mannish or boyish disguise; there
were jockeys and elevator boys, half-mannish Dianas, female Hamlets, and corpulent
Turks. The fashion of slacks for women, advocated just recently, seemed, although no
one had followed it, to have had some effect
upon the imagination nonetheless; for that
time, in which women belonged to the world
at most from ground level to halfway up their
calves, but between there and the neck only
to their husbands and lovers, to be seen like
that at a party where one might expect to see
members of the Imperial House was
something unheard of, a revolution, even if
only a revolution of caprice, and the precursor of the vulgar customs that the older and
stouter ladies were already privileged to predict, while the others noticed nothing but exuberance. Ulrich thought he could excuse
himself from greeting the old prince, around
whom as master of the house a group of

855/1856

people was in constant attendance, while he

barely knew him; he looked for [his valet] Tzi
to ask him to do something, but when he
could not find him anywhere assumed that
the industrious man had already gone home,
and sauntered away from the center of activity to the edge of a grove of trees, from
which, over an enormous grass lawn, one
could catch a glimpse of the castle. This magnificent old castle had had fastened to it long
rows of electric lights like footlights, which
shone from under cornices or ran up pillars
and liquefied, as it were, the forms of the architecture from out of the shadows, as if the
stern old master who had devised them was
among the guests and a little tipsy beneath a
blanched paper hat. Below, one could see the
servants running in and out through the dark
door openings, while above, the ugly
reddish-gray night sky of the city arched forward like an umbrella into the other, pure
dark night sky, which one glimpsed, with its

856/1856

stars, whenever one lifted ones eyes. Ulrich

did so, and was as if drunk from a combination of disgust and joy. As he let his glance
fall, he perceived a nearby figure that had
previously escaped his notice.
It was a tall woman in the costume of a
Napoleonic colonel, and she was wearing a
mask; by which Ulrich recognized immediately that it was Diotima. She acted as if she
did not notice him, looking at the shining
castle, sunk in thought. Good evening,
cousin! he addressed her. Dont try to deny
it; I recognize you unmistakably because
youre the only person still wearing a mask.
What do you mean? the mask asked.
Very simple: You feel ashamed. Tell
me why so many women showed up in
trousers?
Diotima vehemently shrugged her
shoulders. The word went around beforehand. My God, I can understand it: the old

857/1856

ideas are already so worn out. But I really

must confess to you that Im annoyed; it was
a tactless idea; you think youve stumbled into a theatrical fancy-dress ball.
The whole thing is impossible, Ulrich
said. Such parties dont work anymore because their time is past.
Hmph! Diotima answered perfunctorily. She found the sight of the castle
romantic.
Would the Colonel command where
one might find a better opinion? Ulrich
asked, with a challenging look at Diotimas
body.
Oh, my dear friend, dont call me
Colonel!
There was something new in her voice.
Ulrich stepped close to her. She had taken off
her mask. He noticed two tears that fell
slowly from her eyes. This tall, weeping

858/1856

officer was totally ridiculous, but also very

beautiful. He seized her hands and gently
asked what the matter was. Diotima could
not answer; a sob she was trying to suppress
stirred the bright sheen of the white riding
breeches that reached far up beneath her
flung-back coat. They stood thus in the halfdarkness of the light sinking into the lawns.
We cant talk here, Ulrich whispered.
Come with me somewhere else. If you permit, Ill take you to my house. Diotima tried
to draw her hand away from his, but when
this didnt work she let it be. Ulrich felt by
this gesture what he could hardly believe,
that his hour with this woman had come. He
grasped Diotima respectably around the
waist and led her, supporting her tenderly,
deeper into the shadows and then around to
the exit. / A kiss right here?
Before they again emerged into the
light, Diotima had of course dried her tears
and mastered her excitement, at least

859/1856

outwardly. Youve never noticed, Ulrichshe said in a low voicethat Ive loved
you for a long time; like a brother. I dont
have anyone I can talk to. Since there were
people nearby, Ulrich only murmured:
Come, well talk. But in the taxi he did not
say a word, and Diotima, anxiously holding
her coat closed, moved away from him into
the corner. She had made up her mind to
confess her woes to him, and when Diotima
resolved to do something it was done; although in her whole life she had never been
with another man at night than Section Chief
Tuzzi, she followed Ulrich because before she
had run into him she had made up her mind
to have a long talk with him if he was there,
and felt/had a great, melancholy longing for
such a talk. The excitement of carrying out
this firm resolve had an unfortunate physical
effect on her; it was literally true that her resolve lay in her stomach like some indigestible food, and when (in addition) the

860/1856

excitement suppressed all the juices that

could dissolve it, Diotima felt cold sweat on
her forehead and neck as if from nausea. She
was diverted from herself only by the impression that arriving at Ulrichs made on
her; the small grounds, where the electric
bulbs on the tree trunks formed an alley,
seemed to her charming as they strolled
through; the entry hall with the antlers and
the small baroque staircase reminded her of
hunting horns, packs of hounds, and horsemen, and since nighttime reinforces such
impressions and conceals their weaknessesout of admiration for her cousin she
could not understand why he had never
showed off this house but had, as it always
seemed, only made fun of it.
Ulrich laughed, and got something
warm to drink. Looked at more closely, its
a stupid frivolityhe saidbut lets not talk
about me. Tell me whats been happening to
you. Diotima could not utter a word; this had

861/1856

never happened to her before; she sat in her

uniform and felt illuminated by the many
lights that Ulrich had turned on. It confused
her.
So Arnheim has acted badly? Ulrich
tried to help.
Diotima nodded. Then she began.
Arnheim was free to do as he pleased. Nothing had ever happened between her and him
that would, in the ordinary sense, have imposed any obligations on him or given him
any privileges.
But if Ive observed rightly, the situation between you had already gone so far
that you were to get a divorce and marry
him? Ulrich interjected.
Oh, marry? the Colonel said. We
might perhaps have got married, if he had
behaved himself better; that can come like a
ring that one finally slips on loosely, but it
ought not to be a band that binds!

862/1856

But what did Arnheim do? Do you

mean his escapade with Leona?
Do you know this person?
Barely.
Is she beautiful?
One might call her that.
Does she have charm? Intelligence?
What sort of intelligence does she have?
But, my dear cousin, she has no intelligence of any land whatsoever!
Diotima crossed one leg over the other
and allowed herself to be handed a cigarette;
she had gathered a little courage. Was it
out of protest that you appeared at the party
in this outfit? Ulrich asked. Am I right?
Nothing else would have moved you to do
such a thing. A kind of Overman in you enticed you, after men failed you: I cant find
the right words.

863/1856

But, my dear friend, Diotima began,

and suddenly behind the smoke of the cigarette tears were again running down her face.
I was the oldest of three daughters. All my
youth I had to play the mother; we had no
mother; I always had to answer all the questions, know everything, watch over
everything. I married Section Chief Tuzzi because he was a good deal older than I and
already beginning to lose his hair. I wanted a
person I could finally subject myself to, from
whose hand my brow would receive grace or
displeasure. I am not unfeminine. I am not
so proud as you know me. I confess to you
that during the early years I felt bliss in
Tuzzis arms, like a little girl that death abducts to God the father. But foryears Ive
had to despise him. Hes a vulgar utilitarian.
He doesnt see or understand anything about
anything else. Do you know what that
means!

864/1856

Diotima had jumped up; her coat remained lying in the chair; her hair hung over
her cheeks like a schoolgirls; her left hand
rested now in manly fashion on the pommel
of her saber, now in womanly fashion went
through her hair; her right arm made large
oratorical flourishes; she advanced one leg or
closed her legs tightly together, and the
round belly in the white riding breeches
hadand this lent a remarkably comic effectnot the slightest irregularity such as a
man betrays. Ulrich now first noticed that
Diotima was slightly drunk. In her doleful
mood she had, at the party, tossed off several
glasses of hard spirits one after another, and
now, after Ulrich, too, had offered her alcohol, the tipsiness had been freshly touched
up. But her intoxication was only great
enough to erase the inhibitions and fantasies
of which she normally consisted, and really
only exposed something like her natural
nature: not all of it, to be sure, for as soon as

865/1856

Diotima came to speak of Arnheim, she

began to talk about her soul.
She had given her entire soul to this
man. Did Ulrich believe that in such questions an Austrian has a finer sensibility,
more culture? No.
But perhaps he does!Arnheim was
certainly an important person. But he had
failed ignominiously. Ignominiously!I gave
him everything, he exploited me, and now
Im miserable!
It was clear that the suprahuman and
suggestive love play with Arnheim, rising
physically to no more than a kiss but mentally to a boundless, floating duet of souls (a
love play that had lasted many weeks, during
which Diotimas quarrel with her husband
had kept it pure), had so stirred up Diotimas
natural fire that, to put it crudely, someone
ought to be kicking it out from under the
kettle to prevent some kind of accident of

866/1856

exploding nerves. This was what Diotima,

consciously or not, wanted from Ulrich. She
had sat down on a sofa; her sword lay across
her knees, the sulfurous mist of gentle rapture over her eyes, as she said: Listen, Ulrich: youre the only person before whom Im
not ashamed. Because youre so bad. Because
youre so much worse than I am.
Ulrich was in despair. The circumstances reminded him of the scene with
Gerda that had taken place here weeks ago,
like this one the result of a preceding overstimulation. But Diotima was no girl overstimulated by forbidden embraces. Her lips
were large and open, her body damp and
breathing like turned-up garden soil, and under the veil of desire her eyes were like two
gates that opened into a dark corridor. But
Ulrich was not thinking of Gerda at all; he
saw Agathe before him, and wanted to
scream with jealousy at the sight of this feminine inability to resist any longer, although

867/1856

he felt his own resistance fading from second

to second. His expectation was already a
mirror in which he saw the breaking of these
eyes, their growing dull, as only death and
love can achieve, the parting in a faint of lips
between which the last breath steals away,
and he could hardly still expect to feel this
person sitting there before him collapsing
completely and looking at him as he turned
away in decay, like a Capuchin monk descending into the catacombs. Apparently his
thoughts were already heading in a direction
in which he hoped to find salvation, for with
all his strength he was fighting his own collapse. He had clenched his fists and was
drilling his eyes, from Diotimas viewpoint,
into her face in a horrible way. At this moment she felt nothing but fear and approval
of him. Then a distorted thought occurred to
Ulrich, or he read it from the distortion of
the face into which he was looking. Softly
and emphatically he replied: You have no

868/1856

idea how bad I am. I cant love you; Id have

to be able to beat you to love you!
Diotima gazed stupidly into his eyes.
Ulrich hoped to wound her pride, her vanity,
her reason; but perhaps it was only his natural feelings of animosity against her that
had mounted up in him and to which he was
giving expression. He went on: For months
I havent been able to think of anything but
beating you until you howl like a little child!
And he suddenly seized her by the shoulders,
near the neck. The imbecility of sacrifice in
her face grew. Beginnings of wanting to say
something still twitched in this face, to save
the situation through some kind of detached
comment. Beginnings of standing up
twitched in her thighs, but reversed themselves before reaching their goal. Ulrich had
seized her saber and half drawn it from its
scabbard. For Gods sake! he felt. If nothing intervenes Ill hit her over the head with
it until she gives no more signs of her

869/1856

damned life! He did not notice that in the

meantime a decisive change had been taking
place in the Napoleonic colonel. Diotima
sighed heavily as if the entire woman that
she had been since her twelfth year was escaping from her bosom, and then she leaned
over to the side so as to let Ulrichs desire
pour itself over her in whatever way he liked.
If her face had not been there, Ulrich
would at this moment have laughed out loud.
But this face was indescribable the way insanity is, and just as infectious. He threw
away the saber and gave her, twice, a rough
smack. Diotima had expected it to be different, but the physical concussion nevertheless
had its effect. Something started going the
way clocks sometimes start when they are
roughly treated, and in the ordinary course
that events took from that point on
something unusual was also mingled, a
scream and rattle of the emotions.

870/1856

Childish words and gestures from long

ago mingled with it, and the few hours until
morning were filled with a kind of dark,
childish, and blissful dream state that freed
Diotima from her character and brought her
back to the time when one does not yet think
about anything and everything is good.
When day shone through the panes she was
lying on her knees, her uniform was
scattered over the floor, her hair had fallen
over her face, and her cheeks were full of
saliva. She could not recall how she had
come to be in this position, and her awakening reason was horrified at her fading ecstasy. There was no sign of Ulrich.
***
[Valerie]
A young person tells himself: Im in love. For
the first time. He tells himself, he doesnt
just do it; for there is in him still a little of

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the childish pride of wanting to possess the

world of grownups, the whole world.
He might have previously desired and
possessed beautiful women. He might also
have been in love before; in various ways:
impatiently, boldly, cynically, passionately;
and yet the moment may still come when he
tells himself for the first time: Im in love.
Ulrich had at the time immediately loosened
the bonds that tied him to the woman with
whom this happened, so that it was almost
like a breaking up. He left from one day to
the next; said, We wont write much. Then
wrote letters that were like the revelation of a
religion, but hesitated to mail them. The
more powerfully the new experience grew in
him, the less he let any of it show.
He suddenly began to recall this vividly.
At that time he had been quite young, an
army officer, on leave in the countryside.
Perhaps that was what had brought about his
shift in mood. He was spiritedly courting a

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woman, older than he, the wife of a cavalry

captain, his superior; she had for a long time
been favorably inclined toward him, but
seemed to be avoiding an adventure with this
beardless little man who confused her with
his unusual philosophical and passionate
speeches, which came from beyond her
circle. On a stroll, he suddenly seized her
hand; fate had it that the woman left her
hand for a moment in his as if powerless,
and the next instant a fire blazed from arms
to knees and the lightning bolt of love felled
both of them, so that they almost fell by the
side of the path, to sit on its moss and passionately embrace.
The night that followed was sleepless.
Ulrich had said good-bye in the evening and
said: tomorrow we run away. Desire aroused
and not yet satisfied threw the woman back
and forth in her bed, dry as thirst, but at the
same time she feared the stream that was to
moisten her lips in the morning, because of

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its overflowing suddenness. The entire night

she reproached herself because of the others
youth, and also on account of her husband,
for she was a good wife, and in the morning
wept tears of relief when she had handed to
her Ulrichs letter, in which he took such an
abrupt
departure
amid
piled-up
protestations.
Valerie had been the name of this goodnatured woman, Ulrich remembered, and at
that time, in spite of his inexperience, he
must have already been clearly aware that
she was only the impetus, but not the content, of his sudden experience. For during
that sleepless night, shot through with passionate ideas, he had been borne farther and
farther away from her, and before morning
came, without his rightly knowing why, his
resolve was fixed to do something the like of
which he had never done before. He took
nothing but a rucksack along, traveled a
quite short stretch on the train, and then

874/1856

wandered, his first step already in unknown

territory, through a completely isolated valley to a tiny shrine hidden high in the mountains, which at this season no one visited and
where hardly anyone lived.
What he did there was, if one were to
make a story of it to someone, absolutely
nothing. It was fall, and in the mountains the
early-autumn sun has a power of its own;
mornings it lifted him up and bore him to
some tree high up on the slopes, from beneath which one looked into the far distance,
for in spite of his heavy hiking boots he was
really not conscious of walking. In the same
self-forgetful way he changed his location
several times during the day and read a little
in a few books he had with him. Nor was he
really thinking, although he felt his mind
more deeply agitated than usual, for his
thoughts did not shake themselves up as they
usually do, so that a new idea is always landing on top of the pyramid of the earlier ones

875/1856

while the ones at the bottom are becoming

more and more compacted until finally they
fuse with flesh, blood, skull case, and the
tendons supporting the muscles, but his insights came like a jet into a full vessel, in
endless overflowing and renewal, or they
passed in an everlasting progression like
clouds through the sky in which nothing
changes, not the blue depths and not the
soundless swimming of those mother-ofpearl fish. It could happen that an animal
came out of the woods, observed Ulrich, and
slowly bounded away without anything changing; that a cow grazed nearby, or a person
went past, without any more happening than
a beat of the pulse, twin to all the others of
the stream of life that softly pounds without
end against the walls of the understanding.
Ulrich had stumbled into the heart of
the world. From there it was as far to his beloved as to the blade of grass beside his feet
or to the distant tree on the sky-bare heights

876/1856

across the valley. Strange thought: space, the

nibbling in little bites, distance disstanced,
replaces the warm husk and leaves behind a
cadaver; but here in the heart they were no
longer themselves, everything was connected
with him the way the foot is no farther from
the heart than the breast is. Ulrich also no
longer felt that the landscape in which he
was lying was outside him; nor was it within;
that had dissolved or permeated everything.
The sudden idea that something might happen to him while he was lying therea wild
animal, a robber, some brutewas almost
impossible of accomplishment, as far away
as being frightened by ones own thoughts. /
Later: Nature itself is hostile. The observer
need only go into the water. / And the beloved, the person for whose sake he was experiencing all this, was no closer than some
unknown traveler would have been. Sometimes his thoughts strained like eyes to imagine what they might do now, but then he

877/1856

gave it up again, for when he tried to approach her this way it was as if through alien
territory that he imagined her in her surroundings, while he was linked to her in subterranean fashion in a quite different way.
***
Youre working? She did not conceal her
disappointment, for with remarkable certainty she felt it as disloyalty whenever Ulrich leafed through books in his hand and his
forehead became stiff as bone.
I have to. I cant bear the uncertainty
of what were going through. And were not
the first people its happening to either.
Twin siblings?
Thats perhaps something especially
elect. But I dont believe in such mysteries as
being chosen He quickly corrected himself. Hundreds of people have had the experience of believing that they were seeing

878/1856

another world open up before them. Just as

we do.
And what came of it?
Books.
But it cant have been just books?
Madness. Superstition. Essays. Morality. And religion. The five things.
Youre in a bad mood.
I could read to you or talk with you for
hours about things from these books. What I
began yesterday was an attempt to do that.
You can go back as far as you like from this
moment in which were now talking, millennia or as far as human memory can reach,
and you will always find described the existence of another world that at times rises up
like a deep sea floor when the restless floods
of our ordinary life have receded from it.
Since weve been together Ive been
comparing as much of this as I could get hold

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of. All the descriptions state, in odd agreement, that in that condition there is in the
world neither measure nor precision, which
have made our world of the intellect great,
neither purpose nor cause, neither good nor
bad, no hmit, no greed, and no desire to kill,
but only an incomparable excitement and an
altered thinking and willing. For as objects
and our emotions lose all the limitations that
we otherwise impose on them, they flow together in a mysterious swelling and ebbing, a
happiness that fills everything, an agitation
that is in the true sense boundless, one and
multiple in shape as in a dream. One might
perhaps add that the ordinary world, with its
apparently so real people and things that
lord it over everything like fortresses on
cliffs, if one looks back at it, together with all
its evil and impoverished relationships, appears only as the consequence of a moral error from which we have already withdrawn
our organs of sense.

880/1856

That describes exactly as much as we

ourselves experienced when we looked into
each others eyes for the first time.
The condition in which one perceives
this has been given many names: the condition of love, goodness, turning away from the
world, contemplation, seeing, moving away,
returning home, willlessness, intuition, union with God, all names that express a vague
harmony and characterize an experience that
has been described with as much passion as
vagueness. Insane peasant women have
come to know it, and dogmatic professors of
theology; Catholics, Jews, and atheists,
people of our time and people of tens of
thousands of years ago; and as amazingly
similar as the ways are in which they have
described it, these descriptions have remained remarkably undeveloped; the
greatest intellect has not told us any more
about it than the smallest, and it appears
that you and I will not learn any more from

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the experience of millennia than we know by

ourselves.
What does this mean?
Agathe looked at him questioningly.
Lindner, she said, when I once asked him
about the significance of such experiencesand by the way, he dismisses
themmaintains that they go back to the difference between faith and knowledge, and
that for the rest, theyre neurotic
exaggerations
Very good, Ulrich interrupted her. If
you had reminded me of that yesterday, it
might perhaps have spared my despair at my
lack of results. But well come back to Lindner later! Of course thats fibbing; if I believe
something, I at least want to have the hope
that under favorable circumstances I could
also experience it, but not keep stopping
after the same first steps all the time.

882/1856

No, Agathe, it means something quite

different. What would you say if I maintain
that it signifies nothing other than the lost
paradise. It is a message. A message in a
bottle that has been drifting for thousands of
years. Paradise is perhaps no fairy tale; it
really exists.
Up till then he had spoken with such rational decisiveness that these words had a
quite remarkable sound. If he had said: Ive
done some reconnoitering, come along, we
have to go out by the window and then
through a dark corridor, and so on, then
well get thereit would not have seemed
strange to Agathe to set off immediately.
He really ought to explain it twice: once
with yearning, then the way one explains it
as prelogical, etc.

883/1856

But Ulrich merely went on reporting the

results of his inquiries.
From what Ive found, he said with
the same calm as before, two things emerge.
First, that paradise has been placed where it
is unattainable. Even in the first legendary
beginnings of the human race it is supposed
to have been lost, and what people claim to
have experienced of it later is described as
ecstasy, trance, madness: in short, as pathological delirium; but it is quite striking that
something is simultaneously being denied as
illness and considered a paradise: this leads
me to suppose that it must also be attainable
for healthy and rational people, but on a path
that is presumed to be forbidden and
dangerous.
But that then leads me to understand
the second point, that this condition of paradise in life, which is supposed to be taboo as
a whole, breaks into pieces and is

884/1856

inextricably mingled in with common life,

that is, what people consider the highest
values.
In other words: the ideals of humanity.
Think about it: they are all unattainable. But
not only, as people pretend, because of human frailty but because, were one to fulfill
them absolutely, they would become absurd.
They are, therefore, the remains of a condition which as a whole is not capable of life, of
which our life is not capable.
One might be tempted to see in this
shadowy doppelganger of another world only
a daydream, had it not left behind its still
warm traces in countless details of our lives.
Religion, art, love, moralitythese are attempts to follow this other spirit, they project into our lives with enormous power, but
they have lost their origin and meaning, and
this has made them totally confused and
corrupt.

885/1856

They are bays but not the ocean.

***
And that brings us to Lindner.
He would go mad if he were to follow
the emotions that he has declared to be the
decisive ones in his life. Thats why he rations them and dilutes them with
convictions.
You want to be goodlike a lake
without a shoreand its individual drops,
which he carefully stores up in himself, are
what draw you to him.
You therefore only have some inkling,
and he is convinced (believes) that you feel
something is good, feel it like the smell of a
field; while he makes a firm distinction
between good and evil, but by separating
them he mixes them together hopelessly.

886/1856

That makes you feel abandoned, even

by yourself, because you have an intimation
of a togetherness as never before. Your experience is hard to communicate, private, almost unsocial. He ties his soul to experiences
that can be repeated and understood, for the
unequivocal is repeatable and therefore comprehensible, but the mutuality of the ideals
he disseminates is like the shadowy realm
that is neither life nor death. He knows the
virtue of limitation, you the sin of limitation.
You are deprived of power, he is active. His
God is nothing but an initial association or
the like.
In a word: You would like to live in
God, even if only as His worst creature, while
he lives for Him. But in doing so he is following the same tried-and-true course as everyone else.
***

887/1856

Agathe had found a hairpin. In the period

following Bonadeas visit, which Ulrich had
not told her about. She was sitting on the
sofa and talking with her brother, her hands,
full of idle security, supported in the pillows
on both sides, when she suddenly felt the
small steel object between her fingers. It
quite confused her hands before she drew it
out. She looked at the pin, which was that of
a strange woman, and the blood rose to her
cheeks.
It might have been a small occasion for
laughter that Agathe, like any jealous woman, hit upon the truth with such uncanny
accuracy. But although it would have been
easy to explain the discovery in some other
fashion, Ulrich made no attempt to do so.
Blood had risen to his cheeks too.
Finally, Agathe regained her composure, but her smile was disconcerted.

888/1856

Ulrich mumbled a confession about

Bonadeas assault.
She listened to him restlessly. Im not
jealous, she said. I have no right to be. But

She sought to find this but; the

demonstration was meant to cover the wildness that rose up in her against another woman taking Ulrich away from her.
Women are peculiarly naive when they
talk about a mans needs. They have let
themselves be persuaded that these needs
are inexorable violent forces, a kind of sullied but still grandiose suffering on the part
of men, and they seem to know neither that
they themselves become just as crazy
through long abstinence, nor that after a
period of transition it is not much more difficult for men to accustom themselves to it
than it is for them; the distinction is, in
truth, more a moral than a physiological one,

889/1856

a distinction of the habit of granting or denying oneself ones desires. But for many women, who believe they have grounds for not
letting their desires gain control over them,
this idea, that the man is not allowed to control himself without doing harm to himself,
serves as a welcome opportunity to enclose
the suffering man-child in their arms, and
Agathe tooput in the role of a rather frigid
woman through the taboo against otherwise
following toward her brother the unambiguous voice of her heartunconsciously applied this stratagem in her mind.
I believe I do understand youshe
saidbutbut you have hurt me.
When Ulrich tried to ask her pardon
and attempted to stroke her hair or her
shoulders, she said: Im stupidtrembled a
little, and moved away.
If you were reading a poem aloud to
meshe tried to explainand I wasnt able

890/1856

to keep from looking at the latest newspaper

the while, you would be disappointed too.
Thats just the way it hurt. On your account.
Ulrich was silent. The vexation of again
experiencing through explanations what had
happened sealed his lips.
Of course I have no right to set rules
for you, Agathe repeated. What is it then
that I do give you! But why are you throwing
yourself away on such a person! I could imagine your loving a woman I admire. I dont
know how to express it, but isnt every caress
a person gives someone somehow taken
away from everyone else?
She felt that she would want it that way
if she were to abandon this dream and have a
husband again.
Inwardly, more than two people can
embrace, and everything external is only
She stopped short, but suddenly the comparison occurred to her: I could imagine that

891/1856

the person who embraces the body is only

the butterfly uniting two flowers
The comparison seemed to her somewhat too poetic. While she voiced it, she felt
vividly the warm and ordinary feeling women have: I must give him something and
compensate him.
Ulrich shook his head. I have, he said
seriously, committed a grave error. But it
was not the way you think. What you say is
beautiful. This bliss that arises from the skin
through mechanical stimulation, this sudden
being seized and changed by God: to ascribe
this to a person who is just the instrument,
to give him a privileged place through adoration or hate, is basically as primitive as being
angry at the bullet that hits you. But I have
too little faith to imagine that one could find
such people. Holds her handit is a mood
borne far away.

892/1856

When his hand sought pardon on her,

Agathe enclosed her brother in her arms and
kissed him. And involuntarily, shaken, in a
sisterly-comforting way and then no longer
able to control it, she opened her lips for the
first time on his with that complete, undiminished womanliness that opens up the
ripe fruit of love to its core.
***
In the Parallel Campaign everyone declared
themselves for Arnheim. Clarisse preferred
Meingast.
Ulrich came home embittered. Faced
with that powerlessness that cannot find a
single point from which to express its opposition to the perfecting of an inadequate
world.
He felt: Theyre doing everything I
want, its just that theyre doing it badly.

893/1856

They dont even understand me enough

to contradict me; they believe that Im saying
what theyre saying, only worse.
Whenever you talk with them you start
vomiting from nervousness.
They have goodness, love, soul;
chopped into little pieces and mixed in with
large chunks of the opposite; this keeps them
healthy and makes them idealists, while I
end up on the margin of the absurd and the
criminal.
Oh, how unbearable they are, these
chatterers at Diotimas! But it would be just
as nonsensical not to confess that there are
many people who feel it as much as I do and
who accomplish better things: Why do I feel
so excluded?
He went through Agathes room and
straight to his study. His face mirrored the
strain and silence of a hard struggle.

894/1856

Believers squabble with God when they

get to feel isolated among their fellowmen;
thats when unbelievers get to know Him for
the first time. If it were possible to run out
into the empty, chilly universe, that would
have been the right expression for Ulrichs
despair, anger, and unquiet temperament.
His flames had inverted themselves and were
burning inwardly. It nearly made him
suffocate.
Suddenly he stopped. He took paper
and pencil, which were lying under the heap
of scribbled papers on his desk, and wrote
down an idea. Read it through, walked up
and down, read it once more, and added
something to it.
There is no necessity behind it! This
was the first idea, which, still obscure, contained everything. This world is only one of
countless possible experiments?

895/1856

Then: In mathematics there are problems that admit of no general solutions but
only case-by-case ones. But under certain
given conditions these partial solutions are
summarized to give relative total solutions.
Thus God gives partial solutions; these are
the creative people; they contradict one another; we are condemned again and again
to derive from this relative total solutions
that dont correspond to anything!
Finally: Like molten ore I am poured
into the mold that the world has shaped during my lifetime. For that reason I am never
entirely what I think and do. For that reason
this self always remains strange to me. One
attempted form in an attempted form of the
totality.
Acting without reflecting: for a man
never gets further than when he doesnt
know where hes going.

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When he read over this last idea, he

tore up the piece of paper and went in to
Agathe; for then there is only one thing: not
to listen to the bad masters, who have erected one of His possible lives as if for eternity,
according to Gods plan, but to confide oneself to Him humbly and defiantly.

Ulrich-Agathe Journey
1.
Below lay a narrow stretch of coast with
some sand. Boats drawn up on it, seen from
above, like blue and green spots of sealing
wax. If one looked more closely, oil jugs,
nets, men with vertically-striped pants and
brown legs; the smell of fish and garlic;
patched-up, shaky little houses. The activity
on the warm sand was as small and far away
as the bustling of beetles. It was framed on
both sides by boulders as by stone pegs on
which the bay hung, and farther along, as far
as the eye could see, the steep coast with its
crinkled details simply plunged into the
southern sea. If one cautiously clambered
down, one could, over the ruins of fallen
rocks, venture out a little into the ocean,
which filled tubs and troughs among the

898/1856

stones with a warm bath and strange animal

comrades.
Ulrich and Agathe felt as if a tremendous din had been raised from them and had
flown off. They stood out there in the ocean,
swaying white flames, almost sucked up and
extinguished by the hot air. It was somewhere in Istria, or the eastern edge of Italy,
or on the Tyrrhenian Sea. They hardly knew
themselves. They had got on the train and
traveled; it seemed to them as if they had
been crisscrossing at random / in a
waythat would prevent them from ever
finding their way back.
2.
On their mad journey, Ancona was firmly
fixed in their memory. They had arrived
dead tired and in need of sleep. They got in
early in the forenoon and asked for a room.
Ate zabaglione in bed and drank strong coffee, whose heaviness was as if lifted to the

899/1856

skies by the foam of whipped cream. Rested,

dreamed. When they had gone to sleep it
seemed to them that the white curtains in
front of the windows were constantly lifting
and sinking in an enchanting current of refreshing air; it was their breathing. When
they awoke, they saw through the opening
slats ore-blue sea, and the red and yellow
sails of the barks entering and leaving the
harbor were as shrill as floating whistles.
They understood nothing in this new
world; it was all like the words of a poem.
They had left without passports and
had a mild fear of some sort of discovery and
punishment. When they registered at the
hotel they had been taken for a young married couple and offered this lovely room with
a wide bed meant for two, a letto matrimoniale, which in Germany has fallen into disuse. They had not dared reject it. After the
sufferings of the body, the longing for primitive happiness.

900/1856

Lying in this bed, they noticed an oval

window the size of a cabin porthole, high up
to the right of the door and near a corner of
the room, in a totally incomprehensible
place; it had opaque-colored glass, disquietingly like a secret observation post, but surrounded by a casual wreath of painted roses.
In comparison with the enormous tension that had gone before, it was nothing.
And afterward there was a conspiratorial
happiness in every detail, and at the moment
when their resistance wavered and melted
Ulrich said: It also makes most sense not to
resist; we have to get this behind us so that
this tension doesnt debase what we have before us.
And they traveled.
They had stayed three days.
It has to be this way too: charmed by
each other again and again. Traversing the
scale of the sexual with variations.

901/1856

For three days they never talked about

soul. Only then did they bring it up again.
3.
When they went out on the street for the first
time: buzzing of people. like a flock of sparrows happily dusting themselves in the sand.
Curious glances without timidity, which felt
themselves at home. At the backs of the
brother and sister as they cautiously glided
through this crowd lay the room, lay the
wakefulness drifting deep over sleep like a
cats paw over water, the blissful exhaustion
in which one can ward off nothing, and also
not oneself, but hears the world as a pale
noise outside the infinitely deep corridors of
the ear.
The exhaustion of excessive enjoyment
in the body, the consumed marrow. It is
shaming and joyful.
4.

902/1856

They went on. Apparently suitcase nomads.

In truth driven by the restlessness of finding
a place worth living and dying in.
Much was beautiful and held them enticingly fast. But nowhere did the inner voice
say: this is the place.
Finally here. Actually some insignificant chance had brought them here, and they
did not notice anything special. Then this
voice made itself heard, softly but distinctly.
Perhaps, without knowing it, they had
become tired of their random traveling.

5.
Here, where they stayed, a piece of gardenlike nature rose up to the small white hotel,
empty at this season, which was concealed
on the slope; rose from the narrow beach
between the rocky arms of the coast, like a
posy of flowers and shrubs pressed against
the breast, with narrow paths winding
around it in a very gentle, slow climb up to
the hotel. A little higher there was nothing
but dazzling stone glittering in the sun,
between ones feet yellow broom and red
thistles that ran from the feet toward the sky,
the enormous hard straightness of the plateaus edge, and, if one had climbed up with
eyes closed and now opened them: suddenly,
like a thunderously opened fan, the motionless sea.
It is probably the size of the arc in the
line of the contour, this far-reaching security
enclosed by an arm, a security that is more
than human? Or only the enormous desert of

904/1856

the dark-blue color, hostile to life? Or that

the bowl of the sky never lies so directly over
life? Or air and water, of which one never
thinks? Otherwise colorless, good-natured
messengers, but here where they were at
home suddenly rearing up unapproachably
like a pair of royal parents.
The legends of almost all peoples report
that mankind came from the water and that
the soul is a breath of air. Strange: science
has determined that the human body consists almost entirely of water. One becomes
small. When they got off the train in which
they had crisscrossed the dense network of
European energies and, still trembling from
the motion, had hastened up here, brother
and sister stood before the calm of the sea
and the sky no differently than they would
have stood a hundred thousand years ago.
Tears came to Agathes eyes, and Ulrich
lowered his head.

905/1856

What is this whole exposition for? Can

it be retracted? Somethings not right here.
Arm on arm, their hands intertwined,
they climbed down again in the blue of evening to their new home. In the small dining
room the whiteness of the tablecloths
sparkled and the glasses stood as soft
splendor. Ulrich ordered fish, wine, and
fruit, speaking at length and in detail about it
with the matre dhtel; it did not interfere.
The black figures glided around them or
stood against the walls. Silverware and teeth
functioned. The pair even carried on a conversation so as not to attract notice. Ulrich
almost came to speak of the impression they
had had up above. As if the people of a hundred thousand years ago had really had a direct revelation: it was like that; if one considers how tremendous the experience of
these first myths is, and how little since; it
did not interfere; everything that happened

906/1856

was embedded as in the murmuring of a

fountain.
Ulrich looked at his sister for a long
time; she was now not even beautiful; there
was not that either. On an island they had
not seen in the daylight a chain of houses
shone: that was lovely but far away; the eyes
looked at it only fleetingly and then directly
in front of themselves again.
They asked for two rooms.

6.
The sea in summer and the high mountains
in autumn are the two real tests of the soul.
In their silence Ues a music greater than
anything else on earth; there is a blissful torture in the inability to follow their rhythms,
to make the rhythm of word and gesture so
broad that it would join with theirs; mankind
cannot keep in step with the breath of the
gods.
The next morning, Ulrich and Agathe
found a tiny pocket of sand up among the
rocks beneath the edge of the plateau; when
they stumbled onto it they had the feeling as
if a creature that lived there had expected
them and was looking at them: here no one
knows anything about us anymore. They had
been following a small, natural path; the
coast curved away, they actually convinced
themselves that the shining white hotel had
disappeared. It was a long, narrow sunlit
step of rock, with sand and bits and pieces of

908/1856

stone. They undressed. They felt the need to

bend their knees and stretch their arms, naked, unprotected, small as children before
the greatness of the sea and the solitude.
They did not say this to each other, and were
ashamed before each other, but hidden behind the motions of their clothing and of
searching for a place to lie down, each tried it
for himself.
They were both ashamed because it is
so nudist-camp natural and health-conscious, but expected it necessarily had to
lead to something else
The silence nailed them to the cross.
They felt that soon they would not be
able to stand it anymore, would have to
shout, insane as birds.
This was why they were suddenly standing beside each other, with their arms
around each other. Skin stuck to skin; timidly this small feeling penetrated the great

909/1856

desert like a tiny succulent flower growing all

alone among the stones, and calmed them.
They wove the circle of the horizon like a
wreath around their hips, and looked at the
sky. Stood as on a high balcony, interwoven
with each other and with the unutterable like
two lovers who, the next instant, will plunge
into the emptiness. Plunged. And the emptiness supported them. The instant lasted; did
not sink and did not rise. Agathe and Ulrich
felt a happiness about which they did not
know if it might be grief, and only the conviction inspiring them, that they had been
chosen to experience the extraordinary, kept
them from weeping.
7.
But they soon discoveredif they did not
want to, they did not have to leave the hotel
at all. A wide glass door led from their room
to a small balcony overlooking the sea.
Unobserved, they could stand in the doorway, their eyes directed at this never-

910/1856

answering expanse, their arms flung protectively around each other. Blue coolness, on
which the living warmth of the day lay like
fine gold dust even after midnight, penetrated from the ocean. While their souls were
standing erect within them, their bodies
found each other like animals seeking
warmth. And then the miracle happened to
these bodies. Ulrich was suddenly part of
Agathe, or she of him.
Agathe looked up, frightened. She
looked for Ulrich out there, but found him in
the center of her heart. She did see his form
leaning out in the night, wrapped in starlight, but it was not his form, only its shining, ephemeral husk; and she saw the stars
and the shadows without understanding that
they were far away. Her body was light and
fleet, it seemed to her that she was floating in
the air. A great, miraculous impetus had
seized her heart, with such rapidity that she
almost thought she felt the gentle jolt. At this

911/1856

moment brother and sister looked at each

other confounded.
However much they had been preparing
themselves for this every day for weeks, they
feared that in this second they had lost their
reason. But everything in them was clear.
Not a vision. Rather an excessive clarity. And
yet they still seemed to have lost and put
aside not only their reason but all their capacities; no thoughts stirred in them, they
could form no purpose, all words had receded far away, the will lifeless; everything
that stirs in the individual was rolled up inertly, like leaves in a burning calm. But this
deathlike impotence did not weigh them
down; it was as if the lid of a sarcophagus
had been roiled off them. Whatever was to be
heard during the night sobbed without
sound or measure, whatever they looked at
was without form or mood and yet contained
within itself the joyous delight of all forms
and moods. It was really strangely simple: as

912/1856

their powers became circumscribed all

boundaries had disappeared, and since they
no longer felt any kind of distinctions,
neither in themselves nor about objects, they
had become one.
They gazed around cautiously. It was almost painful. They were quite confused, far
away from themselves, set down in a distance in which they lost themselves. They
saw without light and heard without sound.
Their soul was as excessively stretched as a
hand that loses all its power, their tongue
was as if cut off. But this pain was as sweet as
a strange, living clarity.
[?] It was like a pain grating on their sensibilities, and yet could be called more a sweetness than a pain, for there was no vexation in
it but a peculiar, quite supranatural comfort.
And they further perceived that the circumscribing powers in them were not lost at
all, but in reality inverted, and with them all

913/1856

boundaries had been inverted. They noticed

that they had not become mute at all but
were speaking, but they were not choosing
words but were being chosen by words; no
thought stirred in them, but the whole world
was full of marvelous thoughts; they thought
that they, and things as well, were no longer
mutually displacing and repelling hermetic
bodies, but opened and allied forms. Their
glances, which in their whole lives had followed only the small patterns that objects
and people form against the enormous background, had suddenly reversed, and the
enormous background played with the patterns of life like an ocean with tiny matches.
Agathe lay half fainting against Ulrichs
chest. She felt at this moment embraced by
her brother in such a distant, silent, and pure
fashion that there was nothing at all like it.
Their bodies did not move and were not
altered, and yet a sensual happiness flowed
through them, the like of which they had

914/1856

never experienced. It was not an idea and

not imagined! Wherever they touched each
other, whether on their hips, their hands, or
a strand of hair, they interpenetrated one
another.
They were both convinced at this moment that they were no longer subject to the
distinctions of humankind. They had overcome the stage of desire, which expends its
energy on an action and a brief intensification, and their fulfillment impinged on them
not only in specific places but in all the
places of their bodies, as fire does not become less when other fires kindle from it.
They were submerged in this fire that fills up
everything; swimming in it as in a sea of desire, and flying in it as in a heaven of rapture.
Agathe wept with happiness. Whenever
they moved, the recollection that they were
still two dropped like a grain of incense into
the sweet fire of life and dissolved in it; these

915/1856

were perhaps the happiest moments, where

they were not entirely one.
Originally also supposed to come here:Im
in love and dont know with whomIm
neither faithful, nor unfaithful, what am I
then.
For they felt, hovering more strongly
over this hour than over others a breath of
grief and transitoriness, something shadowy
and unreal, a being robbed, a cruelty, a fearful tension of uncertain forces against the
fear of being transformed once more. Finally,
when they felt the condition fade, they separated wordlessly and in utter exhaustion.
The next morning, Ulrich and Agathe
had separated without having made plans,
and did not see each other the entire day;
they could not do otherwise; the emotions of
the night were still ebbing away and taking
them with them; both felt the need to come
to terms with themselves alone, without

916/1856

noticing that this entailed a contradiction of

the experience that had overpowered them.
Involuntarily they went off far across the
countryside in opposite directions, stopped
in places at different times, sought a resting
place in view of the sea, and thought of each
other.
It may be called strange that their love
immediately involved the need for separation, but this love was so great that they mistrusted it and desired this test.
Can they still separate? How can it be done?
Now one can dream. Lie under a bush
and the bees buzz; or stare into the weaving
heat, the thin air. The senses doze off, and in
the body memories shine forth agaip like the
stars after sunset. The body is again touched
and kissed, and the magic line of demarcation that otherwise still distinguishes the
strongest memories from reality is transcended by these soft / dreaming memories. They

917/1856

push time and space aside like a curtain and

unite the lovers not only in thought but physically, not with their heavy bodies but with
inwardly altered ones consisting entirely of
tender mobility. But only when one thinks
that during this union, which is more perfect
and blissful than bodily union, one has no
idea what the other person has just been doing, or what he will be doing the next moment, does the mystery attain its greatest
depth. Ulrich assumed that Agathe had remained behind in the hotel. He saw her
standing on the white square in front of the
white building, speaking with the manager.
It was false. Or perhaps she was standing
with the young German professor who had
arrived and introduced himself, or was talking with Luisina, the chambermaid with the
lovely eyes, and laughing at her pert, funny
answers. That Agathe was now able to laugh!
It destroyed the Condition; a smile was just
heavy enough to be borne by it!! When

918/1856

Ulrich turned around, Agathe was suddenly

really standing there. Really? She had come
across the stones in a great arc; her dress
was fluttering in the wind, she cast a dark
shadow on the hot ground and was laughing
at Ulrich. Blissfully real reality; it hurt as
much as when eyes that have been staring into die distance must quickly adapt to
nearness.
Agathe sat down beside him. A lizard
sat nearby; it silently darted out its tongue, a
small, scurrying flame of life, beside their
conversation. Ulrich had noticed it some
time before. Agathe hadnt. But when
Agathe, who was afraid of small animals,
caught sight of it, she was frightened and,
laughing in embarrassment, scared the little
creature away with a stone. And to gather
courage she ran after it, clapping her hands
and chasing the little beast.
Ulrich, who had been staring at the
small creature as at a flickering magic

919/1856

mirror, said to himself: That we were now so

different is as sad as that we were born at the
same time but will die at different times.
With his eyes and ears he followed this
strange body, Agathe. But then he suddenly
fell deeply once again into and was at the
bottom of the experience out of which
Agathe had startled him.
He was not able to pin it down clearly,
but in this flickering brightness above the
stones in which everything was transformed,
happiness into grief, and also grief into happiness, the painful moment abruptly took on
die secret lust of the hermaphrodite who,
separated into two independent beings, finds
itself again, whose secret no one who touches
it suspects. Yet how glorious it isAgathes
brother thoughtthat she is different from
me, that she can do things I cant even guess
at, which yet also belong to me through our
secret empathy. Dreams occurred to him,
which he otherwise never recalled but which

920/1856

must have often preoccupied him. Sometimes in a dream he had met the sister of a
beloved, although she did not have a sister,
and this strange familiar person radiated all
the happiness of possession and all the happiness of desire. Or he heard a soft voice
speaking. Or saw only the fluttering of a
skirt, which most definitely belonged to a
stranger, but this stranger was most definitely his beloved. As if a disembodied, completely free attachment was only playing with
these people. All at once Ulrich was startled,
and thought he saw in the great brightness
that the secret of love was precisely this, that
lovers are not one.
That belongs to the principles of profane
love! Thus really already a game against
itself.
How wonderful it is, Agathe, Ulrich said,
that you can do things I cant guess at.

921/1856

Yes, she answered, the whole world

is full of such things. As I was walking across
this plateau I felt that I could now walk in
every direction.
But why did you come to me?
Agathe was silent.
It is so beautiful to be different from
the way one was born, Ulrich continued.
But I was afraid of just that. He told her
the dreams that he had remembered, and
she knew them too.
But why are you afraid? Agathe asked.
Because it occurred to me that if it is
the sense of these dreamsand it might well
be that they signify the final memory of
itthat our desires aim not at making one
person out of two but, on the contrary, at escaping from our prison, our oneness, to become two in a union, but preferably twelve, a
thousand, incredibly many, rather, to slip

922/1856

out of ourselves as in a dream, to drink life

brewed to the boiling point, to be carried out
of ourselves or whatever, for I cant express it
very well; then the world contains as much
lust as strangeness, as much tenderness as
activity, and is not an opium haze but rather
an intoxication of the blood, an orgasm of
battle, and the only mistake we could make
would be to forget the (lustful contact of) lust
of strangeness and imagine doing all sorts of
things by dividing up the hurricane of love
into scanty creeks flowing back and forth
between two people
He had jumped up.
But how would one have to be?
Agathe asked pensively and simply. It pained
him that she could immediately appropriate
his half-loved and half-cursed idea. One
would have to be able to give, she went on,
without taking away. To be such that love
does not become less when its divided. Then
that would be possible too.

923/1856

Not to treat love as a treasureshe

laughedthe way its already laid down in
language!
Ulrich was picking up head-sized stones
and flinging them from the cliff into the sea,
which squirted up a tiny spray; he had not
exercised his muscles for a long time.
But? Agathe said. Isnt what youre
saying simply what one reads fairly often,
drinking the world in great drafts of desire?
To want to be a thousandfold, because once
isnt enough? She was parodying it a little
because she suddenly realized that she did
not like it.
No! Ulrich shouted back. Its never
what others say! He flung the large stone he
was holding in his hand so angrily to the
ground that the loose limestone exploded.
We forgot ourselves, he said gently, grasping Agathe under the arm and pulling her
away. It would still have to be a sister and a

924/1856

brother, even if theyre divided into a thousand pieces. Anyway, its just an idea.
***
Meanwhile days came when only the surface
stirred. On the sparkling damp stones in the
sea. A silent being: a fish, flowerlike in the
water. Agathe romped after it from stone to
stone until it dived under, darting into the
darkness like an arrow, and disappeared.
Well? Ulrich thought. Agathe was standing
out on the rocks, he on the shore; a melody
of eventfulness broke off, and a new one
must carry on: How will she turn around,
how smile back to the shore? Beautifully. like
all perfection. With total charm in her motion is how Agathe did it; the insights of the
orchestra of her beauty, though it seemed to
be making music without a conductor, were
always delightful.
And yet all perfected beautyan animal, a painting, a womanis nothing more

925/1856

than the final piece in a circle; an arc is completed, one sees it but would like to know the
circle. If it is one of lifes familiar circles, for
instance that of a great man, then a noble
horse or a beautiful woman is like the clasp
in a belt, which closes it and for a moment
seems to contain the entire phenomenon; in
the same way one can be smitten with a
lovely farm horse, because in him as in a focusing mirror the entire heavy-footed beauty
of the field and its people is repeated. But if
there is nothing behind it? Nothing more
than is behind the rays of the sun dancing on
the stones? If this infinitude of water and sky
is pitilessly open? Then one might almost believe that beauty is something that secretly
negates, something incomplete and incompletable, a happiness without purpose,
without sense. But what if it lacks
everything? Then beauty is a torture,
something to laugh and cry over, a tickling to

926/1856

make one roll around in the sand, with

Apollos arrow in ones side.
Hatred of beauty. Sense of urgent sexual desire: to destroy beauty.
The brightness of such days was like smoke,
which the clarity of the nights wiped away.
Agathe had somewhat less imagination than
Ulrich. Because she had not thought as much
as he had her emotions were not as volatile
as his, but burned like a flame rising straight
out of the particular ground on which she
happened to be standing. The daring nature
of their flight, the conscience made somewhat anxious by the fear of discovery, and finally this hiding place in a flower basket
between the porous limestone wall, sea, and
sky, at times gave her a high-spirited and
childlike cheerfulness. She then treated even

927/1856

their strange experience as an adventure: a

forbidden space within herself over whose
enclosure one spies, or into which one forces
ones way, with beating heart, burning neck,
and heavy soles weighed down with clods of
damp earth from the path one has hurriedly
followed in secret.
In this way very indirect suggestion of repeated coitus.
***
She sometimes had a playful way of allowing
herself to be touched, with opened-evenwhen-closed eyes; of reappearing; a tenderness that was not to be stilled. He secretly
observed her, saw this play of love with the
body, which has the captivation of a smile
and the oppressive quality of a force of
nature, for the first time, or was moved by it

928/1856

for the first time. Or there were hours when

she did not look at him, was cold, almost
angry with him; because she was too agitated; like someone in a boat not daring to
move, so it was in her bodyafterward, every
time. Because the connection does not function. Or after-reactions; at first a blocking
and then, for no apparent reason, an
after-flood. It was thrilling and charming to
let oneself be cradled by these inspirations;
they shortened the hours but they forced an
optic of nearness and minute observation.
Ulrich resisted this. It was a leftover piece of
earth drifting in the liquid fire and clouding
it; a temptation to explanations such as that
Agathe had never learned the proper connection between love and sex. As with most
people, the entire power of the sexual had
first come together with a spark of inclination at the time she had married Hagauer,
who was not yet abhorrent to her. Instead of
stumbling into a storm with someone /

929/1856

almost only in the company of / accompanied by someone almost as impersonal as the

elements, and only then noticing as a still
nameless surprise that this persons legs are
not clothed like ones own and that ones
soul is beckoning one to change ones hiding
place
But such thoughts, too, were like
singing in a false key. Ulrich did not allow
himself this kind of understanding. Understanding a person one loves cannot involve
spying on that person but must come pouring from an overflow of auspicious inspirations. One may only recognize those things
that enrich. One makes a gift of qualities in
the unshakable security of a predetermined
harmony, a separation that has never been
Especially when ethical magnanimity is
stimulated by it. Not the seeing or not seeing

930/1856

of weaknesses, but the large motion in which

they float without significance.
An ancient columnthrown down at
the time of Venice, Greece, or Romelay
among the stones and the broom; every
groove of its shaft and capital deepened by
the ray-sharp graving tool of the midday
shadows. Lying next to it belonged to the
great hours of love.
Four eyes watching. Nothing but noon,
column, four eyes. If the glance of two eyes
sees one picture, one world: why not the
glance of four?
When two pairs of eyes look long into
each other, one person crosses over to the
other on the bridge of glances, and all that
remains is a feeling that no longer has a
body.
When in a secret hour two pairs of eyes
look at an object and come together in
itevery object hovering deep down in a

931/1856

feeling, and objects standing only as firmly

as they do if this deep ground is hardthen
the rigid world begins to move, softly and incessantly. It rises and falls restlessly with the
blood. The fraternal twins looked at each
other. In the bright light it could not be made
out whether they were still breathing or had
been lying there for a thousand years like the
stones. Whether the stone column was lying
there or had risen up in the light without a
sound and was floating.
There is a significant difference in the
way one looks at people and the way one
looks at things. Every time after this when
they looked at someone in the hotel: the play
of facial expressions of someone with whom
one is talking becomes unspeakably alienating if one observes it as an objective process,
and not as an ongoing exchange of signals
between two souls; we are accustomed to see
things lying mutely where they are, and we
consider it a disturbing hallucination if they

932/1856

take on a more dynamic relation to us. But it

is only we ourselves who are looking at them
in such a way that the small changes in their
physiognomies are not answered by any alterations in our emotions, and to change this
nothing more is needed, basically, than that
we not look at the world intellectually but
that objects arouse in us our moral emotions
instead of our sense-based surveying equipment. At such moments the excitement in
which a glimpse brings us something and enriches us becomes so strong that nothing appears real except for a hovering condition,
which, beyond the eyes, condenses into objects, and on this side of the eyes condenses
into ideas and feelings, without these two
sides being separable from each other.
Whatever the soul bestows comes forward;
whatever loses this power dissipates before
ones eyes.
In this flickering silence among the
stones there was a panic horror. The world

933/1856

seemed to be only the outer aspect of a specific inner attitude, and interchangeable with
it. But world and self were not solid; a scaffolding sunk into soft depths; mutually helping each other out of a formlessness. Agathe
said softly to Ulrich: Are you yourself or are
you not? I know nothing of it. I am incognizant of it and I am incognizant of myself/
It was the terror: The world depended
on her, and she did not know who she was.
Ulrich was silent.
Agathe continued: I am in love, but I
do not know with whom. I am neither faithful nor unfaithful. What am I then? My heart
is at once full of love and emptied of love,
she whispered. The horror of a noontime silence seemed to have clutched her heart.
Over and over the great test was the sea.
Time and again, when they had climbed

934/1856

down the narrow slope with its many paths,

its quantity of laurel, its broom, its figs, and
its many bees, and stepped out onto the
powerful surface spread out above the ocean,
it was like the first great chord sounding
after the tuning up of an orchestra. How
would one have to be to endure this constantly? Ulrich proposed that they try setting
up a tent here. But he did not mean it seriously; it would have frightened him. There
were no longer any opponents around, up
here they were alone; the rebuffs one receives as long as one must contradict the demands of others and the habits of ones own
conscience were used up; in this final battle
it was a matter of their resolve. The sea was
like a merciless beloved and rival; every
minute was an annihilating exploration of
conscience. They were afraid of collapsing
unconscious before this expanse that swallowed up every resistance.

935/1856

This monstrously extended sight was

not to be borne without its becoming somewhat boring. This being responsible for every
slightest motion wasthey had to confessrather empty, if one compared it with
the cheerfulness of those hours when they
made no such claims on themselves and
their bodies played with the soul like a beautiful young animal rolling a ball back and
forth.
One day Ulrich said: Its broad and pastoral; theres something of a pastor about it!
They laughed. Then they were startled by the
scorn that they had inflicted upon
themselves.
The hotel had a little bell tower; in the
middle of its roof. Around one oclock this
bell rang for lunch. Since they were still almost the only guests, they did not need to respond right away, but the cook was indicating that he was ready. The bright sounds
sliced into the stillness like a sharp knife

936/1856

contacting skin, which had shuddered beforehand but at this moment becomes calm.
How lovely it is, really, Ulrich said, as they
climbed down on one of these days, to be
driven by necessity. The way one drives
geese from behind with a stick, or entices
hens from in front with feed. And where
everything doesnt happen mysteriously
The blue-white trembling air really
shuddered like goose pimples if one stared
into it for a long time. At that time memories
were beginning to torture Ulrich vividly; he
suddenly saw before him every statue and
every architectural detail of one of those cities overloaded with such things that he had
visited years ago; Nrnberg was before him,
and Amiens, although they had never captivated him; some large red book or other that
he must have seen years earlier in an exhibit
would not go away from before his eyes; a
slender tanned boy, perhaps only the counter
his imagination had conjured up to Agathe,

937/1856

but in such a way as if he had once really met

him but did not know where, preoccupied his
mind; ideas that he had had at some time
and long forgotten; soundless, shadowy
things, things properly forgotten, eddied up
in this south of stillness and seized possession of the desolate expanse.
The impatience that from the beginning
had been mingled with all this beauty began
to rage in Ulrich.
He could be sitting before a stone, lost
to the world, sunk in contemplation, and be
tortured by this raging impatience. He had
come to the end, had assimilated everything
into himself and ran the danger of beginning,
all alone, to speak aloud in order to recite
everything to himself once again. Yes,
youre sitting here, his thoughts said, and
you could tell yourself once again what
youre looking at. The stones are of a quite
peculiar stone-green, and their image is
mirrored in the water. Quite right. Exactly as

938/1856

one says. And the stones are shaped like

boxes.But its all no use, and Id like to
leave. It is so beautiful!
And he remembered: at home, sometimes only years later, and sometimes purely
by accident, if one no longer has any idea
how everything was, suddenly a light falls
from behind, from such past things, and the
heart does everything as if in a dream. He
longed for the past.
Its quite simple, he said to Agathe,
and everyone knows it, were the only ones
who dont: the imagination is stimulated
only by what one does not yet possess or no
longer has; the body wants to have, but the
soul does not want to have. Now I understand the tremendous efforts people make to
this end. How stupid it is for this ordinary
fellow, this art traveler, to compare this
flower to a jewel, or that stone over there to a
flower: as if the truly intelligent thing to do
wouldnt be to transform them for a brief

939/1856

moment into something else. And how stupid all our ideals would be, since every ideal,
if one takes it seriously, contradicts some
other ideal; thou shalt not kill, therefore perish? Thou shalt not covet thy neighbors
goods, so live in poverty? As if their sense
did not lie precisely in the impossibility of
carrying them out, which ignites the soul!
And how good it is for religion that one can
neither see nor comprehend God! But which
world? A cold, dark strip between the two
fires of the Not-yet and the No-longer!
A world to be afraid of oneself in,
Agathe said. Youre right. She said this
quite seriously, and there was real bitterness
in her eyes.
And if it is so! Ulrich laughed. It occurs to me for the first time in my life that we
would have to be terribly afraid of being
tricked if Heaven were not to dangle before
us an end of the world that does not exist.

940/1856

Evidently everything absolute, hundred-percent, true, is completely monstrous.

Between two people as well; you mean
between us?
I now understand so well what visionaries are: food without salt is unbearable, but
salt without food is a poison; visionaries are
people who want to live from salt alone. Is
that right?
Agathe shrugged her shoulders.
Look at our chambermaid, a cheerful
stupid creature smelling of
cheap soap. A short time ago I was watching
her as she made up the
room; she seemed to me as pretty as a
freshly washed sky.
It comforted Ulrich to confess this, and
a small worm of disgust crawled across
Agathes mouth. Ulrich repeated it; he did
not want to drown out this small disharmony

941/1856

with the great peal of the dark bell. It is a

disharmony, isnt it? And any trick will do for
the soul to keep itself fruitful. Sometimes it
dies from love several times in succession.
But and now he said something he believed to be a consolation, indeed a new
loveif everything is so sad and a deception, and one can no longer believe in anything: isnt that just when we really need one
another? The folk song about the little sisterhe smiledquiet, pensive music that
nothing can drown out; an accompanying
music; a love of loveless-ness that softly
reaches out its hands?
Time is the greatest cynic.
Here sexuality and camaraderie!
A cool, quiet, gray aneroticism?

942/1856

Agathe was silent. Something had been extinguished. She was inordinately tired. Her
heart had suddenly been snatched away from
her, and she was tortured by an unbearable
fear of a vacuum within, of her un-worthiness and her regressive transformation. This
is the way ecstatics feel when God withdraws
from them and nothing responds any longer
to their zealous appeals.
The art traveler, as they called him, was
a professor returning from Italian cities, who
had the butterfly-net skin and botanizing
drum-beating mind of the aspiring art historian. He had stopped over here for a few
days to rest before his return and to order his
notes. As they were the only guests, he had
already introduced himself to the pair on the
first day. They chatted briefly after meals, or
when they met in the vicinity of the hotel,
and there was no denying that although Ulrich made fun of him, at certain moments
this man brought them welcome relaxation.

943/1856

He was strongly convinced of his significance as man and scholar, and from their
first encounter, after finding that the couple
were not on their honeymoon, he had courted Agathe with great determination. He said
to her: You resemble the beautiful in the
painting by , and all the women who
have this expression, which repeats itself in
their hair and in the folds of their gowns,
have the quality of : As she was telling
this to Ulrich Agathe had already forgotten
the names, but for a stranger to know what
one was was as pleasant as the firm pressure
of a masseur, while one knew oneself to be so
diffuse that one could barely distinguish oneself from the noontime silence.
This art traveler said: Womens function is to make us dream; they are a
stratagem of nature for the fertilization of
the masculine mind. He gleamed with selfsatisfaction at his paradox, which inverted
the sense of fertilization. Ulrich replied: But

944/1856

there are still distinctions in kind among

these dreams!
This man asserted that in embracing a
really great female one must be able to
think of Michelangelos Creation. You pull
the blanket of the Sistine ceiling over yourself and underneath it youre naked except
for the blue stockings, Ulrich ridiculed. No.
He admits that carrying this out calls for
tact, but in principle such people could be
twice as big as others. In the last analysis,
the goal of all ethical life is to unite our actions with the highest that we bear within
us! It was not so easy to contradict this theoretically, although practically speaking it
was ridiculous.
I have discoveredthe art historian
saidthat there are, and in the course of history always have been, two sorts of people. I
call them the static and the dynamic. Or, if
you prefer, the Imperial and the Faustian.
People who are static can feel happiness as

945/1856

something present. They are somehow characterized by balance, equilibrium. What they
have done and what they will do blends into
what they are doing at the moment, is harmonized, and has a shape like a painting or a
melody; has, so to speak, a second dimension, shines in every moment as surface. The
Pope, for example, or the Dalai Lama; it is
simply unimaginable that they would do
something that was not stretched on the
frame of their significance. On the other
hand, the dynamic people: always tearing
themselves loose, merely glancing backward
and forward, rolling out of themselves, insensitive people with missions, insatiable,
pushy, lucklesswhom the static ones conquer over and over in order to keep world
history going: in a word, he hinted that he
was capable of carrying both strains within
himself.
Tell meUlrich asked, as if he were
quite seriousare not the dynamic people

946/1856

also those who in love seem not to feel anything because they have either already loved
in their imagination or will only love what
has slipped away from them again? Couldnt
one say that too?
Quite right! the professor said.
They are immoral and dreamers,
these people, who can never find the right
point between future and past
Its enough to make them throw up.
Well, I dont think Id claim that
Yes, but you do. They would be capable of committing crazy good or bad deeds
because the present means nothing to them.
He really ought to say: they could commit
crazy deeds out of impatience.

947/1856

The art historian did not quite know

how to answer this, and found that Ulrich
did not understand him.
The restlessness grew. The summer
heat increased. The sun burned like a fire to
the edge of the earth. The elements filled existence completely, so that there was hardly
anyplace left for anything human.
It happened that toward evening, when
the burning air already cast light, cooling
folds, they went strolling on the steep banks.
Yellow bushes of broom sprang up from the
embers of the stones and stood there directly
before the soul; the mountains gray as donkeys backs with the washed-out green that
the grass growing on the white limestone
cast over them; the laurels hot dark green.
The parched glance resting on the laurel
sank into cooler and cooler depths. Countless
bees hummed; it fused into a deep metallic

948/1856

tone that shot off little arrows whenever, in a

sudden turn, they flew by ones ear. Heroic,
tremendous, the approaching line of mountains, in three waves one behind the other,
smoothly canted, breaking off steeply.
Heroic? Ulrich asked. Or is it only
what we have always hated because it was
supposed to be heroic? Endlessly portrayed,
this painted and engraved, this Greek, this
Roman, this Nazarene, classicistic landscapethis virtuous, professorial, idealistic
landscape? And ultimately it impresses us
only because weve now encountered it in
reality? The way one despises an influential
man and is nevertheless flattered because
one knows him?
But the few things here to which the
space belonged respected each other; they
kept their distance from each other and did
not saturate nature with impressions, as they
do in Germany. No mocking helped; as only
high in the mountains, where everything

949/1856

earthly keeps diminishing, this landscape

was no longer a place of human habitation
but a piece of the sky, to whose folds a few
species of insects still clung.
And on the other side (of this humility)
lay the sea. The great beloved, adorned with
the peacocks tail. The beloved with the oval
mirror. The opened eye of the beloved. The
beloved become God. The pitiless challenge.
The eyes still hurt and had to look away,
pierced by the shattering spears of light
speeding back from the sea. But soon the sun
will be lower. It will only be a circumscribed
sea of liquid silver, with violets floating on it.
And then one must look out over the sea!
Then one has to look at it. Agathe and Ulrich
feared this moment. What can one do to prevail against this monstrous, observing, stimulating, jealous rival? How should they love
each other? Sink to their knees? As they had
done at first? Spread out their arms?
Scream? Can they embrace each other? It is

950/1856

all so ridiculous, as if one were trying to

shout angrily at someone while nearby all the
bells of a cathedral are pealing! The fearful
emptiness again closed in on them from all
sides.
So it ends the way it begins!
But at such a moment one can shoot the other, or stab him, since his death cry will be
muffled.
Ulrich shook his head. One must be
somewhat limited to find nature beautiful.
To be someone like that fellow down there,
who would rather talk himself than listen to
someone better. One is forcibly reminded by
nature of school exercises and bad poems,
and one has to be capable of transforming it
at the moment of observation into an anointing. Otherwise one collapses. One must

951/1856

always be stupider than nature in order to

stand up to it, and must gossip in order not
to lose the language.
Fortunately, their skin could not stand
the heat. Sweat broke out. It created a diversion and an excuse; they felt themselves relieved of their mission.
But as they were walking back Agathe
noticed that she was looking forward to the
certainty of meeting the traveling stranger
down below in front of the hotel. Ulrich was
certainly right, but there was a great consolation in the babbling, insistently pushy company of this person.
***
Afternoons, in the room, there were fearful
moments. Between the extended red-striped
awning and the stone railing of the balcony
lay a blue, burning band the width of ones
hand. The smooth warmth, the severely attenuated
brightness,
had
dislodged

952/1856

everything from the room that was not fixed.

Ulrich and Agathe had not brought along
anything to read; that had been their plan;
they had left behind ideas, normal circumstances, everything having any connectionno matter how sagaciouswith the ordinary human way of living: now their souls
lay there like two hard-baked bricks from
which every drop of water has escaped. This
contemplative natural existence had made
them unexpectedly dependent on the most
primitive elements.
Finally, a day of rain came. The wind
lashed. Time became long in a cool way.
They straightened up like plants. They kissed
each other. The words they exchanged refreshed them. They were happy again. To always be waiting every moment for the next
moment is only a habit; dam it up, and time
comes forth like a lake. The hours still flow,
but they are broader than they are long.
Evening falls, but no time has passed.

953/1856

But then a second rainy day followed; a

third. What had seemed a new intensity
glided downward as a conclusion. The smallest help, the belief that this weather was a
personal dispensation, an extraordinary fate,
and the room is full of the strange light from
the water, or hollowed out like a die of dark
silver. But if no help comes: what can one
talk about? One can still smile at the other
from far apartembrace weaken the other
to the point of that fatigue which resembles
death, which separates the exhausted like an
endless plain; one can call across: I love you,
or: You are beautiful, or: I would rather die
with you than live without you, or:
What a miracle that you and I, two such
separate beings, have been blown together.
And one can weep from nervousness when,
quite softly, one begins to fall prey to
boredom
Fearful violence of repetition, fearful
godhead! Attraction of emptiness, always

954/1856

sucking in like the funnel of a whirlpool

whose walls yield. Kiss me, and I will bite
gently and harder and harder and wilder and
wilder, ever more drunken, more greedy for
blood, listening into your lips for the plea for
mercy, climbing down the ravine of pain until at the end we are hanging in the vertical
wall and are afraid of ourselves. Then the
deep pantings of breath come to our aid,
threatening to abandon the body; the gleam
in the eye breaks, the glance rolls from side
to side, the grimace of dying begins. Astonishment and a thousandfold ecstasy in each
other eddy in this rapture. Within a few
minutes concentrated flight through bliss
and death, ending, renewed, bodies swinging
like howling bells. But at the end one knows:
it was only a profound Fall into a world in
which it drifts downward on a hundred steps
of repetition. Agathe moaned: You will leave
me! No! Darling! Conspirator! Ulrich was
searching for expressions of enthusiasm, etc.

955/1856

NoAgathe softly fended him offI cant

feel anything anymore! Since it had now
been spoken, Ulrich became cold and gave
up the effort.
If we had believed in GodAgathe
went onwe would have understood what
the mountains and flowers were saying.
Are you thinking of Lindner? Ulrich
probed / What? Lindner ! Ulrich immediately interjected jealously.
***
It ends in excrement and vomiting like the
first time!
No. I was thinking of the art historian. His
thread never breaks. Agathe gave a pained
and wan smile. She was lying on the bed; Ulrich had torn open the door to the balcony,
the wind flung water in. What difference
does it make, he said harshly. Think of

956/1856

whomever you want. We have to look around

for a third person. Wholl observe us, envy
us, or reproach us. He remained standing
before her and said slowly: There is no such
thing as love between two people alone!
Agathe propped herself on an elbow and lay
there, wide-eyed, as if she were expecting
death. We have yielded to an impulse
against order, Ulrich repeated. A love can
grow out of defiance, but it cant consist of
defiance. On the contrary, it can only exist
when it is integrated into a society. Its not
the content of life. But a negation of, an exception to, all lifes contents.
But an exception needs whatever it is
the exception to. One cant live from a negation alone. Close the door, Agathe asked.
Then she stood up and arranged her dress.
So shall we leave?
Ulrich shrugged his shoulders. Well,
its all over.

957/1856

Dont you remember any more our

proviso when we came here?
Ashamed, Ulrich answered: We wanted
to find the entrance to paradise!
And kill ourselvesAgathe saidif we
didnt!
Ulrich looked at her calmly. Do you
want to?
Agathe might perhaps have said yes.
She did not know why it seemed more honest
to slowly shake her head and say no.
Weve lost that resolve too, Ulrich
stated.
She stood up in despair. Spoke with her
hands on her temples, listening to her own
words: I was waitingI was almost decadent
and ridiculousBecause in spite of the life
Ive led I was still waiting. I could not name
it or describe it. It was like a melody without
notes, a picture with out form. I knew that

958/1856

one day it will come up to me from outside

and will be what treats me tenderly and what
will hold no harm for me anymore, either in
life or in death
Ulrich, who had turned violently toward
her, cut in, parodying her with a spitefulness
that was a torture to himself: Its a longing,
something thats missing: the form is there,
only the matter is missing. Then some bank
official or professor comes along, and this
little beastie slowly fills up the emptiness
that was stretched out like an evening sky.
My love, all movement in life comes
from the evil and brutal; goodness dozes off.
Is a drop of some fragrance; but every hour
is the same hole and yawning child of death,
which has to be filled up with heavy ballast.
You said before: If we could believe in God!.
But a game of patience will do as well, a
game of chess, a book. Today man has discovered that he can console himself with
these things just as well. It just has to be

959/1856

something where board is joined to board in

order to span the empty depths.
But dont we love each other any
longer, then? Agathe exclaimed.
Now they are again talking as they had earlier. It is very lovely.
You
cant
overlookUlrich
answeredhow much this feeling depends
on its surroundings. How it derives its content from imagining a life together, that is, a
line between and through other people.
From good conscience, because everyone
else is so pleased at the way these
two love each other, or from bad conscience
as well
What is it then that we experienced?
We mustnt pretend to something untrue: I
wasnt a fool for wanting to seek paradise. I
could determine it the way one can deduce

960/1856

an invisible planet from certain effects. And

what happened? It dissolved into a spiritual
and optical illusion and into a physiological
mechanism that is repeatable. As with all
people!
Its true, Agathe said. For the
longest time weve been living from what you
call evil; from restlessness, small distractions, the hunger and satiety of the body.
And yetUlrich answered, as in an
extremely painful vision when its forgotten, youll be waiting again. Days will come
where behind many doors someone will beat
on a drum. Muffled and insistently: beat,
beat. Days, as if you were waiting in a brothel
for the creaking of the stairs; it will be some
corporal or bank official. Whom fate has sent
you. To keep your life in motion. And yet you
remain my sister.
But what is to become of us? Agathe
saw nothing before her.

961/1856

You must marry or find a loverI

said that before.
But are we no longer one person? she
asked sadly.
One person also has both within
himself.
But if I love you? Agathe shouted.
We must live. Without each otherfor each other. Do you want the art historian? Ulrich said this with the coldness of
great effort. Agathe dismissed it with a small
shrug of her shoulder. Thank you, Ulrich
said. He tried to grasp her slack hand and
stroke it. Im not soso firmly convinced
either.
***
Once again, almost the great union. But it
seems to Agathe that Ulrich does not have
sufficient courage.

962/1856

They were silent for a while. Agathe

opened and closed drawers and began to
pack. The storm shook at the doors. Then
Agathe turned around and asked her brother
calmly and in a different voice:
But can you imagine that tomorrow
or the next day well get home and find the
rooms the way we left them, and begin to
make visits?
Ulrich did not notice with what enormous resistance Agathe struggled against this
idea. He could not imagine all that either.
But he felt some new kind of tension, even if
it was a melancholy task. At this moment he
was not paying enough attention to Agathe.
Continuation: The day after this dismal
conversation Clarisse arrived.

Worked-Out Sketches from

the 1920s
New Sketches, 1930/
31-1933/34

On Kakania
A digression on Kakania. The crucible of the
World War is also the birthplace of the poet
Feuermaul
It may be assumed that the expression Crucible of the World War has, since this object
existed, been used often enough, yet always
with a certain imprecision as to the question
of where it is located. Older people who still
have personal memories of those times will
probably think of Sarajevo, yet they

964/1856

themselves will feel that this small Bosnian

city can only have been the oven vent
through which the wind blew in. Educated
people will direct their thoughts to political
nodal points and world capitals. Those even
more highly educated will, moreover, have
the names of Essen, Creuzot, Pilsen, and the
other centers of the armaments industry
confidendy in mind. And the most highly
educated will add to these something from
the geography of oil, potash, and other raw
materials, for thats the way one often reads
about it. But what follows from all this is
merely that the crucible of the World War
was no ordinary crucible, for it was located
in several places simultaneously.
Perhaps one might say to this that the
expression is to be understood only metaphorically. But this is to be assented to so
completely that it immediately gives rise to
even greater difficulties. For, granting that
crucible
is
intended
to
mean

965/1856

metaphorically approximately the same

thing that origin or cause means
non-metaphorically, while on the one hand
one knows that the origin of all things and
events is God, on the other it leaves one
empty-handed. For origins and causes
are like a person who goes searching for his
parents: in the first instance he has two, that
is indisputable; but with grandparents its
the square of two, with great-grandparents
two to the third, and so on in a powerfully
unfolding series, which is totally unassailable
but which yields the remarkable result that
at the beginning of time there must have
been an almost infinite number of people
whose purpose was merely to produce a
single one of todays individuals. However
flattering this may be, and however it may
correspond to the significance that the individual feels within himself, today one calculates too precisely for anyone to believe it.
Therefore, with heavy heart, one must give

966/1856

up a personal series of ancestors and assume

that starting from someplace one must
have a common descent as a group. And this
has a variety of consequences. Such as that
people consider themselves in part
brothers, in part from alien tribes,
without a person knowing how to determine
where the boundary is, for what is called
nation and race is results and not causes.
Another consequence, no less influential
even if not as obvious, is that Mr. Whats-hisname no longer knows where he has his
cause. He consequently feels himself like a
snipped thread that the busy needle of life
incessantly pulls back and forth because
making a button for it was somehow overlooked. A third consequence, just now dawning, is for instance that it has not yet been
calculated whether and to what extent there
might be two or multiple other Mr. Whatshis-names; in the realm of what is hereditarily possible it is entirely conceivable, only

967/1856

one does not know how great the probability

is that it could actually happen with oneself;
but a dim oppressiveness of the idea that given mans nature today this cannot be entirely
excluded lies, as it were, in the air.
And surely it would not even be the
worst thing. Count Leinsdorf, speaking with
Ulrich for a moment, held forth on the aristocratic institution of chamberlains. A
chamberlain needs to have sixteen noble
forebears, and people are upset at that being
the height of snobbery; but what, I ask you,
do people do themselves? Imitate us with
their theories of race, thats what they do,
he explained, and immediately exaggerate it
in a fashion that has nothing at all to do with
nobility. As far as Im concerned we can all
be descended from the same Adam, a
Leinsdorf would still be a Leinsdorf, for its a
damn sight more a matter of education and
training than a matter of blood! His Grace
was irritated by the intrusion of populist

968/1856

elements into the Parallel Campaign, which

for a variety of reasons had to be countenanced up to a certain point. At that time nationalism was nearly ready to put forth its
first bloody blossoms, but no one knew it, for
despite its imminent fulfillment it did not
seem terrible but only seemed ridiculous: its
intellectual aspect consisting for the most
part of books pasted together with the wellread busyness of a scholar and the total incoherence of untrained thinking by compilers
who lived in some rural backwater as
elementary-school teachers or petty customs
officials.
/ Preliminary sketch: continuation after
first paragraph above / Therefore the obvious reservation will probably be put forward
that the expression crucible of the World
War is to be understood merely metaphorically, and this is to be subscribed to so wholeheartedly that it will immediately lead to new
difficulties; if on the other hand one

969/1856

maintains that crucible signifies the same

as causation complex, and such a thing is
complicated and extensive in all human endeavors, then it must be contradicted
straightaway. For if one pursues causes back
in a straight line they lead right back to God
as the Prima Causa of everything that happens; this is one of the few problems about
which centuries of theology have left no
doubt. But on the other hand its like a person going from his father to his fathers father, from his fathers father to his father and
fathers father of the fathers father, and so
on in this series: he will never arrive at a
complete notion of his descent. In other
words: the causal chain is a warp on a loom;
the moment a woof is put in, the causes disappear into a woven texture. In science, research into causes was abandoned long ago,
or at least greatly reduced, to be replaced by
a functional mode that called for observing
relationships. The search for causes belongs

970/1856

to household usage, where the cooks being

in love is the cause of the soups being oversalted. Applied to the World War, this search
for a cause and a causer has had the extremely positive negative result that the
cause was everywhere and in everyone. This
demonstrates that one can truly say
crucible just as well as cause of or guilt
for the war; but then one would have to supplement this entire mode of observation with
another. For this purpose, let us proceed experimentally from the problem of why the
poet Feuermaul should suddenly pop up in
the Parallel Campaign, and even whyleaving behind a decisive but merely trivial contribution to its historyhe will immediately
and permanently drop out of it again. The
answer is that this was apparently necessary,
that there was absolutely no way of avoiding
itfor everything that happens has, as we
know, a sufficient causebut that the reasons for this necessity are themselves,

971/1856

however, completely meaningless or, more

properly, were important only for Feuermaul
himself, his girlfriend, Professor Drangsal,
and her envier, Diotima, and only for a brief
period. It would be sheer extravagance were
one to relate this. If Feuermaul had not striven to play a role in the Parallel Campaign,
someone else would have done so in his
place, or if this other person had not shown
up, something else would have; in the interweavings of events there is a narrow insert
where this or that influences its success with
the differences they make; but in the long
run, the things represent each other completely, indeed they somehow also represent
the characters, with very few exceptions.
Arnheim, too, could have been replaced in
the same way; perhaps not for Diotima, but
probably as the cause of the changes she underwent and, further, the effects that these
led to. This view, which today might almost
be called a natural one, seems fatalistic but is

972/1856

so only so long as one accepts it as a destiny.

But the laws of nature were also a destiny before they were investigated; after that
happened, it was even possible to subordinate them to a technology.
/Belongs here: Feuermaul, like all the
characters in the story except for Ulrich (and
perhaps Leo Fischel), denies the value of
technical projects, among others/
As long as this has not happened, one
can also say that B., the birthplace of the
poet Feuermaul, was also the original crucible of the World War. And that is why it is
by no means capricious; what it amounts to,
really, is that certain phenomena, which
were to be found everywhere in the world
and belonged to the crucible that, stretching
over the entire planet, was everywhere and
nowhere, condensed in B. in a fashion that
prematurely brought out its meaning.

973/1856

Instead of B. one could say the whole of

Kakania, but B. was one of the special points
within it. These phenomena were that in B.
the people could not stand each other at all,
and on the other hand that the poet Feuermaul, born in their midst, chose as the basic
principle of his work the assertion that Man
Is Good and one need only turn direcdy to
the goodness that dwells within him. Both
signify the same thing.
***
It would have been a lie had one tried to
maintain that even the smallest part of what
has been described was present in Feuermaul at the time in any real way, or that it
was present at any time in such detail. But
life is always more detailed than its results:
creating, as it were, a vegetarian diet, mountains of leaves, around a tiny pile ofThe
results are a few dispositions of individual
conduct.

974/1856

1930-1934

While Agathe and Ulrich were living behind

closed crystal panels by no means abstractly and without looking at the world, but
looking at it in an unusual, unambiguous
light, this world bathed every morning in the
hundredfold light of a new day. Every morning cities and villages awaken, and wherever
they do it happens, God knows, in more or
less the same way; on the other hand, people
are conceived and slain in an instant, and
small birds fly from one branch to another
with the same right to existence that a giant
ocean liner expresses as it swims straight
between Europe and America. Somehow
everything in the world happens uniformly
and with statutory monotony, but varied in
countless ways, which, depending on the

976/1856

mood in which one observes them, is as

much blissful abundance as ridiculous superfluity. And perhaps even the expression law
of naturethis exalted regency of mechanical laws, which we worship shiveringis
still a much too personal expression; laws
have something of the personal relationship
an accused has with his judge or a subject
with his king; there is in them something of
the con-trat social and the beginnings of liberalism too. Nietzsche already noted the
more modern view of nature when he wrote:
Nature has a calculable course not because
it is ruled by laws but because they are lacking, and every power draws its ultimate consequences at every moment. That is a statement which fits in with the ideas of contemporary physics but was really coined from
biological events, and an intimation of such
emotions lies over contemporary life. Once,
You can do what you like meant following
your drives; but one was not supposed to do

977/1856

what one liked, and moral laws conceived in

sublimity interfered with it. Today everyone
feels in some way that these moral laws are a
heap of contradictions, and that to follow
them would amount to being able to pander
to every one of his drives, and he feels a wild,
extraordinary freedom. This freedom permits him a path that only leads forward:
that, like the orbits of atoms, this chaos must
somehow finally yield a specific value, and
that with more precise knowledge of how
things cohere one would again be able to give
life a meaning.
That is more or less the sense of the
transition from individualism to the collective view of the world / mission of the world
(there is in this no supposition that the value
of the individual should cease, only that it be
more precisely evaluated).
***

978/1856

One day, the General was sitting before the

two of them and said in astonishment to Ulrich: What, you dont read the newspapers?
Brother and sister blushed as deeply as
if the good Stumm had discovered them in
flagrante, for even though in their condition
everything might have been possible, that
they might have been able to read the newspapers was not.
But one must read the newspapers!
said / admonished the General in embarrassment, for he had stumbled upon an incomprehensible fact, and it was discretion that
caused him to add reproachfully: There have
been big demonstrations against the Parallel
Campaign in B.!
Truly, while Ulrich and Agathe had
been living behind closed crystal panelsby
no means abstractly and without looking at
the world, but looking at it in an unusual,
unambiguous lightthis same world bathed

979/1856

every morning in the hundredfold light of a

new day. Every morning cities and villages
awaken, and wherever they do it happens,
God knows, in more or less the same way;
but with the same right to existence that a giant ocean liner expresses when it is under
way between two continents, small birds fly
from one branch to another, and thus
everything happens simultaneously, in a
fashion as uniform and simplified as it is
uselessly varied in innumerable ways, and in
a helpless and blessed abundance reminiscent of the glorious but limited picture books
of childhood. Ulrich and Agathe also both
felt their book of the world open before
them, for the city of B. was none other than
the one where they had found each other
again after their father had lived and died
there.
And it had to happen precisely in B.!
the General repeated meaningfully.

980/1856

You were once stationed in the garrison there, Ulrich affirmed.

And thats where the poet Feuermaul
was born, Stumm added.
Right! Ulrich exclaimed. Behind the
theater! Thats apparently what gave him his
ambition to be a poet. Do you remember that
theater? In the 8os or 90s there must have
been an architect who plunked down such
theatrical jewel boxes in most of the bigger
cities, with every available nook and cranny
plastered with decoration and ornamental
statues. And it was right that Feuermaul
came into the world in this spinning-andweaving city: as the son of a prosperous
agent in textiles. I remember that these
middlemen, for reasons I dont understand,
earned more than the factory owners themselves; and the Feuermauls were already one
of the wealthiest families in B. before the
father began an even grander life in Hungary
with saltpeter or God knows what murderous

981/1856

products. So youve come to ask me about

Feuermaul? Ulrich asked.
Not really, his friend responded. Ive
found out that his father is a great supplier of
powder to the Royal Navy. Thats a restraint
on human goodness that was laid on his son
from the beginning. The Resolution will remain an isolated episode, I can guarantee
you that!
But Ulrich was not listening. He had
long been deprived of the enjoyment of hearing someone talk in a casual, everyday fashion, and Agathe seemed to feel the same way.
Besides, this old B. is a rotten city, he
began to gossip. On a hill in the middle
theres an ugly old fortress whose barbettes
served as a prison from the middle of the
eighteenth to the nineteenth century and
were quite notorious, and the whole city is
proud of them!

982/1856

Marymount, the General affirmed

politely.
What a very merry mount! Agathe exclaimed, becoming irritated at her need for
die ordinary when Stumm found the wordplay witty and assured her that he had been
garrisoned at B. for two years without having
made this connection.
The true B., of course, is the ring of the
factory quarter, the textile and yarn city! Ulrich went on, and turned to Agathe. And
what big, narrow, dirty boxes of houses with
countless window holes, tiny alleys consisting only of yard walls and iron gates, a
spreading tangle of bleak, rutted streets!
After the death of his father he had
wandered through this area several times.
He again saw the high chimneys hung with
dirty banners of smoke, and the streets
/roadways covered with a film of oil. Then
his memory wandered without transition to
the farmland, which in fact began right

983/1856

behind the factory walls, with heavy,

charged, fruitful loam that in spring the plow
turned over black-brown; wandered to the
low, long villages lying along their single
street, and houses that were painted in not
only screaming colors but colors that
screamed in an ugly, incomprehensible
voice. It was humble and yet alien-mysterious farmland, from which the factories
sucked their male and female workers because it lay squeezed between extensive
sugar-beet plantations belonging to the great
landed estates, which had not left it even the
scantest room to thrive. Every morning the
factory sirens summoned hordes of peasants
from these villages into the city, and in the
evening scattered them again over the countryside; but as the years went by, more and
more of these Czech country people, fingers
and hands turned dark from the oily cotton
dust of the factories, stayed behind in the

984/1856

city and caused the Slavic petite bourgeoisie

that was already there to grow mightily.
This led to strained relations, for the
city was German. It even lay in a Germanlanguage enclave, if at its outermost tip, and
was proud of its involvement since the thirteenth century in the annals of German
history. In the citys German schools one
could learn that in the vicinity the Turk Kapistran had preached against the Hussites, at
a time when good Austrians could still be
born in Naples; that the hereditary bond
between the houses of Habsburg and Hungary, which in 1364 laid the groundwork for
the Austro-Hungarian monarchy, was forged
nowhere else but here; that in the Thirty
Years War the Swedes had besieged this
brave town for an entire summer without being able to take it, the Prussians in the Seven
Years War even less so. Of course this made
the city just as much part of the proud Hussite memories of the Czechs and the

985/1856

independent historical memories of the

Hungarians, and possibly, too, even part of
the memories of the Neapolitans, Swedes,
and Prussians; and in the non-German
schools there was no lack of indications that
the city was not German and that the Germans were a pack of thieves who steal even
other peoples pasts. It was astonishing that
nothing was done to stop it, but this was part
of Kakanias wise tolerance. There were
many such cities, and they all resembled one
another. At the highest point they were
lorded over by a prison, at the next highest
by an episcopal residence, and scattered
around in them were some ten cloisters and
barracks. If one ranked what were indeed
called the necessities of state, one would
not, for the rest, encompass its homogeneity
and unity, for Kakania was inspired by a
hereditary mistrust, acquired from great historical experiences, of every Either/Or, and
always had some glimmering that there were

986/1856

in the world many more contradictions than

the one which ultimately led to its demise,
and that a contradiction must be decisively
resolved. The principle of its government
was This-as-well-as-that, or even better, with
wisest moderation, Neither/Nor. One was
therefore also of the opinion in Kakania that
it was not prudent for simple people who
have no need of it to learn too much, and
they did not regard it as important that economically these people should be immodestly prosperous. One preferred to give to
those who already had a great deal, because
this no longer carried any risks, and one assumed that if among those other people
there was some skill or capacity, it would
find a way of making itself known, for resistance is well suited to developing real men.
And so it turned out too: men did develop from among the opponents, and the Germans, because property and culture in B.
were German, were helped by the state to

987/1856

receive more and more capital and culture. If

one walked through the streets of B., one
could recognize this in the fact that the beautiful architectural witnesses of the past that
had been preserved, of which there were several, stood as a point of pride for the prosperous citizens among many witnesses to the
modern period, which did not content themselves with being merely Gothic, Renaissance, or Baroque but availed themselves of
the possibility of being all these things at
once. Among the large cities of Kakania, B.
was one of the wealthiest, and also displayed
this in its architecture, so that even the surroundings, where they were wooded and romantic, got some of the little red turrets, the
crenallated slate-blue roofs, and the rings of
embrasured-like walls that the prosperous
villas had. And what surroundings! Ulrich
thought and said, hostile to but settled in his
home region. This B. lay in a fork between
two rivers, but it was a quite broad and

988/1856

imprecise fork, and the rivers were not quite

proper rivers either but in many places
broad, slow brooks, and in still others standing water that was nevertheless secretly flowing. Nor was the landscape simple, but it
consisted, leaving aside the farmland considered above, of three further parts. On one
side a broad, yearningly opening plain,
which on many evenings was delicately
tinged in tender shades of orange and silver;
on the second side shaggy, good old German
wooded hills with waving tree-tops (although
it happened not to be the German side),
leading from nearby green to distant blue; on
the third side a heroic landscape of Nazarene
bareness and almost splendid monotony,
with gray-green knolls on which sheep
grazed, and plowed brown fields over which
hovered something of the murmured singing
of peasants grace at table as it pours out of
humble windows.

989/1856

So while one might boast that this cozy

Kakanian region in the middle of which B.
lay was hilly as well as flat, no less wooded
than sunny, and as heroic as it was humble,
there was nevertheless everywhere a little
something missing, so that on the whole it
was neither this way nor that way. Nor could
it ever be decided whether the inhabitants of
this town found it beautiful or ugly. If one
were to say to one of them that B. was ugly,
he would be sure to answer: But look how
pretty Red Mountain is, and Yellow Mountain tooand the black fields! and as he
toted up these names, which were so sensual,
one had to concede that it was indeed a quite
respectable landscape. But if one called it
beautiful, an educated B.er would laugh and
say that he was just back from Switzerland or
Singapore, and that B. was a lousy hole that
couldnt even stand comparison with
Bucharest. But this, too, was merely Kakanian, this twilight of the emotions in which

990/1856

they took up their existence, this restless

sense of having been all too prematurely laid
to rest, in which they felt themselves
sheltered and buried. If one puts it this way:
for these people everything was simultaneously lack of pleasure and pleasure, one will
notice how anticipatorily contemporary it
was, for in many respects this most gentle of
all states was secretly raging ahead of its
time. The people who inhabited B. lived from
the production of textiles and yarn, from the
sale of textiles and yarn, from the production
of and trade in all those things people use
who produce or sell textile and yarn, including the production and management of legal
disputes, diseases, acquired skills, diversions, and such other things as belong to the
needs of a big city. And all the well-off people
among them had the quality that there was
no beautiful or famous place in the whole
world where someone who was from this city
would not meet someone else who was also

991/1856

from this city, and when they were home

again the consequence of this was that they
all bore within themselves as much of the
wide world as they did the amazing conviction that everything great ultimately led only
to B.
Such a condition, which derives from
the production of textiles and yarn, from industriousness, thrift, a civic theater, the concerts of touring celebrities, and from balls
and invitations, is not to be conquered with
these same means. That might have succeeded in the struggle for political power
against a refractory working class, or the
struggle against an upper class, or an imperialistic struggle for the world market of the
kind other states conductedin short, being
rewarded not according to merit but by a
remnant of the animalistic pouncing on prey,
a process in which the warmth of life keeps
itself alert. But in Kakania, while it was true
that a great deal of money was unlawfully

992/1856

earned, there could be no pouncing, and in

that country, even if crimes had been permitted, it would have been with strict attention
to their being committed only by officially
certified criminals. This gave all cities like B.
the appearance of a great hall with a low ceiling. A ring of powder arsenals in which the
army kept its guns surrounded every fairly
large town; big enough, if struck by lightning, to reduce an entire quarter of the city
to rubble: but at every powder arsenal provision had been made by means of a sentry
and a yellow-and-black sentry pole that no
disaster should befall the citizenry. And the
police were furnished with sabers as tall as
the officers and reaching to the ground, no
one knew why anymore, unless it was from
moderation, for it was only with their right
hand that the police were the instruments of
justice; with their left they had to hang on to
their swords. Nor did anyone know why on
promising building sites in growing cities the

993/1856

state, peering far into the future, constructed

military hospitals, warehouses for uniforms,
and garrison bakeries, whose giant unwalled
rectangles later interfered with development.
That is in no way to be taken for militarism,
of which old Kakania was thoughtlessly accused; it was only common sense and
prudence: for order cannot be otherwise
than in order / more properly: it is, so to
speak, already by its very nature in order /
while, with every other kind of conduct the
state engages in, this remains eternally uncertain. This order had become second
nature in Kakania in the Franzisco-Josephenian era, indeed it had almost become landscape, and it is quite certain that if the quiet
times of peace had lasted longer, the priests,
too, would have got swords just as long, as
the university professors had got them after
the finance authorities and the postal officials, and if a world upheaval with entirely
different views had not intervened, the

994/1856

sword would perhaps have developed in

Kakania into a spiritual weapon.
When the conversation had proceeded
to this point, partly in an exchange of views,
partly in the reminiscences that were their
silent accompaniment, General Stumm put
in: That, by the way, is something Leinsdorf
said already, that the priests really must receive their swords at the next concordat, as a
sign that they, too, are performing a function
in the state. He then hedged this with the
less paradoxical remark that even small daggers might suffice, with mother-of-pearl and
a gold handle, of the kind officials used to
wear.
Are you serious?
He was, the General replied. He
pointed out to me that in Bohemia during
the Thirty Years War priests rode around in
mass-robes of gilt that were leather belowin other words, proper mass-dragoons.

995/1856

He is simply exasperated at the general hostility directed against the state, and recalled
that in one of his casde chapels he still has
such a garment preserved. Look, you know
how hes always talking about the constitution of 61 having given capital and culture
the lead here, and that this has led to a big
disappointment
How did you actually happen to meet
Leinsdorf? Ulrich interrupted him with a
smile.
Oh, that came about when he was on
his way back from one of his estates in Bohemia, Stumm said, without going into
greater detail. Moreover, he has asked you
to come see him three times, and you havent
gone. In B. on the way back, his car
blundered into the riots and was stopped. On
one side of the street stood the Czechs,
shouting: Down with the Germans! on the
other side the Germans shouted: Down with
the Czechs! But when they recognized him

996/1856

they stopped that and asked in chorus in

both German and Czech: *Whats going on
with the Commission to Ascertain the
Desires of the Concerned Sections of the
Population, Count? and some screamed
Phooey! at him and others Shame! This
stupid Resolution, that one should let oneself
be killed for ones own ideas but not other
peoples, appears to have spread by word of
mouth, and because we suppressed it were
now suspected of wanting to be the murderer
of nationalities! Thats why Leinsdorf said to
me: Youre his friend; why doesnt he come
when I call him? And all I could do was offer: If you wish to entrust me with
something, I will inform him! Stumm
paused.
And what? Ulrich asked.
Well, you know its never really easy to
understand what he means. First he talked to
me about the French Revolution. As is well
known, the French Revolution lopped off the

997/1856

heads of many of the nobility, and astonishingly he finds that quite proper, although
stones had almost been thrown at him in B.
For he says that the ancien regime had its
mistakes, and the French Revolution its true
ideas. But what ultimately resulted from all
the effort? Thats what he was asking himself. And then he said the following: Today,
for example, the mail is better and quicker;
but earlier, while the mail was slow, people
wrote better letters. Or: Today clothing is
more practical and less ridiculous; but earlier, when it was like a masquerade, far better
materials were used. And he concedes that
for longer trips he himself uses an automobile because its faster and more comfortable than a horse-drawn coach, but he maintains that this box with springs on four
wheels has deprived traveling of its true nobility. All thats funny, I think, but its true.
Didnt you yourself once say that as mankind
progresses one leg always slides backward

998/1856

whenever the other slides forward? Involuntarily, each of us today has something
against progress. And Leinsdorf said to me:
General, earlier our young people spoke of
horses and dogs, but today the sons of factory owners talk of horsepower and chassis.
So since the constitution of 61, liberalism
has shoved the nobility aside, but everything
is full of new corruption, and if against expectations the social revolution should ever
happen, it will lop the heads off the sons of
factory owners, but things wont get any better either! Isnt that something? You get the
impression that something is boiling over in
him. With someone else, one might perhaps
think that he doesnt know what he wants!
But in the meantime weve only got as far as
the national revolution?

999/1856

Do you know what he wants? Ulrich

asked.
After the business in B., Drangsal tried
to have him informed that now one would
really have to let oneself be unconditionally
swept up in the Ideal of Man, and Feuermaul
is supposed to have expressed himself to the
effect that its better as an Austrian not to
master the resistance of the nationalities
than it is as a German to transform ones
country into a field for army maneuvers. To
this Leinsdorfs only response was that that
wasnt realpolitik. He wants a proclamation
of power; which is to say, of course it should
also be a proclamation of love; that, after all,
had been the original idea of the Parallel
Campaign. *We must, Generalthese were
his wordsproclaim our unity; that is less
contradictory than it seems, but also not as
easy!
Hearing this, Ulrich forgot himself and
gave a rather more serious response. Tell

1000/1856

me, he asked, doesnt all the talk about the

Parallel Campaign ever seem rather childish
to you?
Stumm looked at him with astonishment. Well, yes, he replied hesitantly.
When Im talking this way with you, or with
Leinsdorf, it does sometimes seem to me that
Im talking like an adolescent, or that youre
philosophizing about the immortality of
cockchafers; but doesnt that come with the
subject? Where its a question of sublime
missions, one never has the feeling of being
able / allowed to talk the way one really is.
Agathe laughed.
Stumm laughed along with her. Im
laughing too, dear lady! he affirmed in a
worldly-wise way, but then seriousness returned to his face and he went on: But
strictly speaking, what the Count means is by
no means so wrong. For instance, what do
you understand by liberalism? With these

1001/1856

words he again turned to Ulrich, but without

waiting for a reply he went on again: What I
mean is that people ought to be left to themselves. And it will also have struck you that
thats now going out of fashion. Its given rise
to a lot of nonsense. But is that all it is? It
seems to me people want something more.
They arent content with themselves. Im not
either; I used to be an amiable person. You
didnt really do anything, but you were satisfied with yourself. Work wasnt bad, and
after work you played cards or went hunting,
and there was in all of that a certain kind of
culture. A certain wholeness. Doesnt it seem
so to you too? And why isnt it like that anymore today? As far as I can judge from myself, I believe that people feel too clever. If
you want to eat a schnitzel, it occurs to you
that there are people without one. If
someone is after a pretty girl, it suddenly
goes through his mind that he really ought to
be thinking about settling some conflict or

1002/1856

other. Thats this insufferable intellectualism

that you cant ever shake off today, and thats
why theres no going forward anywhere. And
without knowing it themselves, people again
want something. That means they no longer
want a complicated intellect, they dont want
a thousand possibilities for living; they want
to be satisfied with what theyre doing anyway, and for this all they need is to get back
some belief or conviction orwell, how to
describe what they need to do that? Id like
to hear your opinion about all this!
But that was only self-satisfaction on
the part of the animated and excited Stumm,
for before Ulrich could even pull a face, he
sprang his surprise: Of course one can just
as well call it belief as conviction, but Ive
thought a lot about it and prefer to call it
single-mindedness!
Stumm paused, with the idea of garnering applause before he unveiled further insights into the workshop of his mind, and

1003/1856

then there mingled with the weighty expression on his face another, which was as superior as it was tired of enjoyment. We used to
talk a lot about the problems of order, he reminded his friend, and so we dont have to
stop over them today. So order is to a certain
extent a paradoxical notion. Every decent
person has a yearning for internal and external order, but on the other hand, you cant
bear too much of it; indeed, a perfect order
would be, so to speak, the ruination of all
progress and pleasure. That is (already) inherent, as it were, in the concept of order.
And so you have to ask yourself: what is order after all? And how does it happen that we
imagine were not able to exist without it?
And what kind of order is it that were looking for? A logical, a practical, an individual, a
general order, an order of the emotions, of
die mind, or of actions? De facto, theres a
heap of orders all mixed up: taxes and customs duties are one, religion another,

1004/1856

military regulations a third; theres no end of

searching them out and enumerating them.
Ive been preoccupied with this, as you know,
and I dont believe that there are many generals in the world who take their profession
as seriously as Ive had to do this past year.
Ive helped after my fashion in the search for
an encompassing idea, but you yourself
ended up proclaiming that to order the spirit
one would need an entire global secretariat,
and even youll have to admit that we cant
wait for such an ordering. But on the other
hand, one cant use that to let everyone do
whatever he wants!
Stumm leaned back and drew breath.
The most difficult part had now been said,
and he felt the need to excuse himself to
Agathe for the gloomy dryness of his behavior, which he did with the words: You must
excuse me, but your brother and I had an old
and difficult account to settle; but from now
on it will also be more suitable for ladies, for

1005/1856

Im again back to where I was, that people

dont have any use for complicated intellect,
but would like to believe and be convinced.
For if you analyze this, youll find that the
least important thing about the order to
which man aspires is whether reason will approve of it or not; there are also totally ungrounded kinds of orders: for instance, the
one thats always asserted in the military
about ones superior always being right,
meaning, of course, so long as his superior
isnt around. How I puzzled over this as a desecration of the world of ideas when I was a
young officer! And what do I see today?
Today its called the principle of the leader
Where did you get that? Ulrich asked,
interrupting the lecture, for he had the distinct suspicion that these ideas were not just
taken from a conversation with Leinsdorf.
Everyone wants strong leadership!
And partly from Nietzsche, of course, and his
interpreters, Stumm replied nimbly and

1006/1856

learnedly. Whats already being called for is

a double philosophy and morality: for leader
and for led! But as long as were talking
about the military, I must say that the military excels not only in and for itself, as an element of order, but also in always making itself available when all other order fails!
The decisive things are happening
above and beyond reason, and the greatness
of hfe is rooted in the irrational! Ulrich
brought up, imitating his cousin Diotima
from memory.
The General grasped this immediately
but did not take offense. Yes, thats the way
she used to talk, your cousin, before she started investigating the proclamations of love
in, as it were, too great detail. With this explanation he turned to Agathe.
Agathe was silent, but smiled.
Stumm again turned to Ulrich. I dont
know whether Leinsdorf has perhaps said it

1007/1856

to you too; at any rate, its marvelously right:

he maintains that the most important thing
about a belief is that one always believe the
same thing. Thats something like what Im
calling single-minded-ness. But can civilians
do that? I asked him. No, I said. Civilians
wear different suits every year, and every few
years there are parliamentary elections so
they can choose differently every time; the
spirit of single-mindedness is much rather to
be found in the military!
So you convinced Leinsdorf that a
strengthened militarism is the true fulfillment of his aims?
God forbid, I didnt say a word! We
merely agreed that in the future we would do
without Feuermaul because his views are too
unusable. And for the rest, Leinsdorf has given me a whole series of assignments for
you
Thats superfluous!

1008/1856

You should quickly get him access to

socialist circles
My gardeners son is a zealous member
of the partythat I can do!
Thats just fine! Hes only doing it out
of conscientiousness, because he once got
the idea in his head. The second thing is that
you should go see him as soon as possible
But Im leaving in a few days!
Then as soon as you get back
It doesnt look as if Im ever coming
back!
Stumm von Bordwehr looked at Agathe;
Agathe smiled, which encouraged him.
Crazy? he asked.
Agathe
indecisively.

shrugged

her

shoulders

Well, let me summarize once more

Stumm said.

1009/1856

Our friend has had enough philosophy! Ulrich interrupted him.

You certainly cant say that about me!
Stumm angrily defended himself. Its just
that we cant wait for philosophy. And I dont
want to lie to you: of course whenever I visit
Leinsdorf I have orders to influence him in a
certain way if its possible, that you can imagine. And when he says that the most important thing about a belief is that one always believe the same thing, hes thinking
above all of religion; but Im already thinking
of single-mindedness, for thats more comprehensive. I dont hesitate to assert that a
truly powerful philosophy of life cant wait
around for reason; on the contrary, a true
philosophy of life must be absolutely directed against reason, otherwise it would not
get into the position of being able to force its
submission. And the civilian world seeks
such a single-mindedness in constant
change, but the military has, so to speak, an

1010/1856

enduring single-mindedness! Madame,

Stumm interrupted his ardor, you should
not believe that Im a militarist; quite the
contrary, the military has always been even a
little on the raw side for my taste: but the
way the logic of these ideas grabs hold of you
is like playing with a large dog: first he bites
for fun, and then he gets carried away and
goes wild. And I would like to grant your
brother, as it were, one last opportunity
And how do you connect that with the
proclamation of power and love? Ulrich
asked.
God, in the meantime Ive forgotten,
Stumm replied. But of course these eruptions of nationalism that were now experiencing in our fatherland are somehow eruptions of the energy of an unhappy love. And
also in this area, in the synthesis of power
and love, the military is, in a certain sense,
exemplary. A person has to have some kind
of love for his fatherland, and if he doesnt

1011/1856

have it for his fatherland, then he has it for

something else. So you just need to grab hold
of that something else. As an example that
just occurs to me, take the term conscriptvolunteer. Who would ever think that a conscript is a volunteer? Thats the last thing he
is. And yet he was and is, according to the
sense of the law. In some such sense people
have to be made volunteers again!

On the Young Socialist

Schmeisser
Conversations with Schmeisser
[Schmeisser (the name
means flinger or
hurler) is the leftwing counterpart to the
proto-Fascistic Hans
Sepp. Peter Lindner
seems to represent
apolitical, amoral
youth.]

It was not the first time that Count Leinsdorf

had expressed the opinion that a practitioner
of realpolitik had to make use even of socialism in its search for allies against progress as
well as nationalism, for he had repeatedly
begged Ulrich to cultivate this connection,
since out of political considerations he did

1013/1856

not just now wish to be caught doing it himself. He advised starting by approaching not
the leaders but the young up-and-comers,
those who were not completely corrupted
and whose vitality permitted the hope that
through them one might acquire a patriotically rejuvenating influence over the party.
Then Ulrich remembered cheerfully that
there lived in his house a young man who
never greeted him but looked away disdainfully whenever they met, which happened
rarely enough. This was Schmeisser, a doctoral student in technical sciences; his father
was a gardener, who had already been living
on the property when Ulrich took it over and
who had since, in exchange for free lodging
and occasional gifts, kept the small old
grounds in order partly with his own hands
and partly by indicating and supervising any
work that became necessary. Ulrich appreciated the fact that this young man, who lived
with his father and earned the money for his

1014/1856

studies by tutoring and doing a little writing,

regarded him as one of the idle rich, who was
to be treated with contempt; the experiment
of inaction to which he was subject sometimes made him regard himself in this fashion, and he found pleasure in challenging his
faultfinder when, one day, he stopped to talk
with Schmeisser. It turned out that the student, who, moreover, seen from closer up,
might already be twenty-six years old, had
also been waiting for this moment, and immediately discharged the tension of the encounter in violent attacks, which ended
between an attempt at conversion and the
proffering of personal contempt. Ulrich told
him about the Parallel Campaign, and
thought he was doing the right thing by making his assignment out to be as ridiculous as
it was while at the same time indicating the
advantages a determined person might be
able to draw from it. He was expecting Schmeisser to fall in with this scheme, which

1015/1856

then with Gods help might develop in rather

strange directions; this young man, however,
was no bourgeois romantic and adventurer,
but listened with a crafty look around the
mouth until Ulrich ran out of things to say.
His chest was narrow between broad-boned
shoulders, and he wore thick glasses. These
really thick glasses were the beautiful part of
his face, which had a sallow, fatty, blotchy
skin; these thick glasses, made necessary by
hard nights over his books and assignments
and made stronger by poverty, which had
not permitted him to consult a doctor at the
first sign that he needed them, had become
for Schmeissers simple emotions an image
of self-liberation: when he spied them in the
mirror, shining over his pimpled countenance with its saddle nose and sharp proletarian cheeks, it seemed to him like Poverty
crowned by Intellect, and this had happened,
especially often since, against his will, he had
come to admire Agathe from afar. Since then

1016/1856

he had also hated Ulrich, to whom he had

previously paid scant attention, for his athletic build, and Ulrich now read his damnation in these glasses and had the impression
of chattering away like a child playing in
front of the barrels of two cannons. When he
had finished, Schmeisser answered him with
lips that could barely separate themselves for
satisfaction at what they were saying: The
party has no need of such adventures; well
arrive at the goal in our own way!
That was really giving it to the
bourgeois!
After this rebuff it was hard for Ulrich
to find more to say, but he went straight at
his attacker and finally said with a laugh: If
I were the person you take me for, you ought
to pour poison in my water pipes, or saw
down the trees under which I stroll: why
dont you want to do something of that sort
in a case where it might really be called for?

1017/1856

You have no idea what politics is all

about, Schmeisser retorted, for you are a
social-romantic member of the middle class,
at most an individual anarchist! Serious revolutionaries arent interested in bloody
revolutions!
After that, Ulrich often had brief conversations with this revolutionary who didnt
want to start revolutions. I already knew
when I was a cavalry lieutenant, he told
him, that in the short or long run mankind
is going to be organized according to socialist
principles in some form; it is, as it were, the
final chance that God has left to it. For the
fact that millions of people are oppressed in
the most brutal way, in order for thousands
of others to fail to do anything worthwhile
with the power that derives from this oppression, is not only unjust and criminal but also
stupid, inappropriate, and suicidal!
Schmeisser responded sarcastically:
But youve always settled for knowing that!

1018/1856

Havent you? Theres the bourgeois intellectual for you! Youve spoken to me a few times
about a bank director whos a friend of
yours: I assure you, this bank director is my
enemy, Ill fight him, Ill show him that his
convictions are only pretexts for his profits;
but at least he has convictions! He says yes
where I say no! But you? In you everything
has already dissolved, in you the bourgeois
lie has already begun to decompose!
Ulrich objected peaceably: It may be
that my way of thinking is bourgeois in origin; to some extent its even probable. But:
Inter faeces et urinam nascimurwhy not
our opinions as well? What does that prove
against their correctness?
Every time Ulrich spoke this way, reasoning politely, Schmeisser could not contain
himself and exploded anew. Everything
youre saying springs from the moral corruption of bourgeois society! he would then
proclaim, or something similar, for there was

1019/1856

nothing he hated more than that form of

goodness opposed to reason which is found
in amiability; indeed, all form, even that of
beauty, was for him an object of suspicion.
For this reason he never accepted even one
of Ulrichs invitations, but at most let himself
be treated to tea and cigarettes, as if in Russian novels. Ulrich loved to provoke him, although these conversations were completely
meaningless. Since the year of liberation in
48 and the founding of the German Empire,
events that only a minority now personally
remembered, politics probably seemed to the
majority of educated people more an atavism
than an important subject. There was next to
no sign that behind these external processes
that plodded along out of habit, intellectual
processes were already preparing for that deformation, for that propensity for decline,
and for the suicidal willingness arising from
self-loathing, which undermine a state of affairs and apparently always form the passive

1020/1856

precondition to periods of violent political

change. Thus his whole life long Ulrich, too,
had been accustomed to expect that politics
would bring about not what needed to happen but at best what ought to have happened
long since. The image it presented to him
was mostly that of criminal neglect. The social question too, which formed the whole of
Schmeissers universe, appeared to him not
as a question but merely as an omitted answer, though he could list a hundred other
such questions on which the mental files
had been closed and which, as one might say,
were waiting in vain for manipulative treatment in the Office of Dispatch. And when he
did that, and Schmeisser was in a gentle
mood, the latter said: Just let us first come
to power!
But then Ulrich said: Youre too kind
to me, for what Im asserting isnt true at all.
Almost all intellectual people have this prejudice that the practical questions they

1021/1856

understand nothing about would be easy to

solve, but when they try, of course it turns
out that they just havent thought of
everything. On the other handhere I agree
with youif the politician were to think of
everything, he would never get around to
acting. Perhaps thats why politics contains
as much of the wealth of reality as of the
poverty of spirit (lack of ideas)
This gave Schmeisser the opportunity
for a jubilant interruption, with the words:
People like you never get around to acting
because they dont want the truth! The
bourgeois so-called mind is in all its works
only a procrastination and an excuse!
But why dont people like me want?
Ulrich asked. Why couldnt they want?
Wealth, for example, is certainly not what
they really desire. I hardly know a prosperous man who doesnt have a small weakness
for it, myself included, but I also dont know
a single one who loves money for its own

1022/1856

sake, except for misers, and greed is a disturbance of personal conduct which is also
found in love, in power, and in honor: the
pathological nature of greed really proves
that giving is more blessed than receiving. By
the way, do you believe that giving is more
blessed than receiving? he asked.
You can raise that question in some
aesthetes salon! was Schmeissers response.
But I fear, Ulrich maintained, that all
your efforts will remain pointless as long as
you dont know whether giving or receiving
is more blessed or how they complement
each other!
Schmeisser crowed: You no doubt intend to talk mankind into being good?
Besides, in the socially organized state, the
proper relationship of giving and receiving
will be a foregone conclusion!
Then I will maintainUlrich completed his sentence with a smilethat you

1023/1856

will just come to grief on something else, for

instance that we are capable of cursing
someone as a dog even when we love our dog
more than our fellowmen!
A mirror calmed Schmeisser by showing him the image of a young man wearing
thick glasses under a stubborn forehead. He
gave no answer.
Ulrich had picked out this young man for the
General and proposed that they go with the
General to visit Meingast, for Schmeisser
knew about this prophet, and even if he was
a false one, still it was nothing new for Schmeisser to visit the gatherings of opponents;
but Ulrich had correctly guessed about his
friend Stumm that at various times he was
secretly gathering impressions from Clarisse,
and through her had also made the acquaintance of the Master, who had made no small
impression. But when Ulrich told Agathe

1024/1856

about his plan, she didnt want to hear about

it.
Ulrich began to jest. I bet that this
Schmeisser is really in love with youhe
maintainedand its no secret that Lindner
is. Both are/or-men. Meingast, too, is a/orman. Youll end up winning him over too.
Agathe naturally wanted to know what/
or-men were.
Lindner is a good person, isnt he? Ulrich asked.
Agathe confirmed it, although for a long
time she had not been as enthusiastic on this
count as she had been at the beginning.
But he lives more/or religion than in
a religious state?
Agathe didnt contest this at all.
Thats just what a/or-man is, Ulrich
explained. The extensive activity he bestows upon his faith is perhaps the most

1025/1856

important example, but its just one example

of the technique thats always used to make
ideals tenable and available for everyday use.
So he explained to her in detail his spontaneously invented notion of living/or and in
something.
Human life appears to be just long
enough so that in it, if one lives/or
something, one can accomplish the trajectory from neophyte to Nestor, patriarch, or
pioneer; and in doing so it matters less for
human satisfaction what one lives for than
that one can live/or something: a Nestor of
the German brandy trade and the pioneer of
a new worldview enjoy, besides similar honors, the same advantage, which consists in
the fact that life, despite its fearful wealth,
contains not a single problem that would not
be simplified by being brought into contact
with a worldview, but would be simplified
just as much by being brought into contact
with the production of brandy. Such an

1026/1856

advantage is precisely what one calls, using a

fairly recent term, rationalization, except
that what is rationalized is not skilled actions
but ideas, and who today would not already
be able to survey what that implies? Even in
the slightest case this life for something is
comparable to owning a notebook in which
everything is entered and things that have
been disposed of are neatly crossed out.
Whoever does not do this lives in a disorderly fashion, never finishes things, and is
bothered by their comings and goings; whoever, on the other hand, has a notebook resembles the thrifty paterfamilias who saves
every nail, every piece of rubber, every scrap
of material, because he knows that someday
such a stock will come in handy in his household economy. But this solid, civic/or
something, as it was handed down from
ones fathers generation as the height of
worthy endeavor, often too as a hobbyhorse
or a secret detail one always keeps ones eye

1027/1856

on, represented at that time something

which was already somewhat old-fashioned;
for a propensity for the broad scale, a yen for
developing the living-for-some-thing in
mighty associations, had already replaced it.
By this means what Ulrich had begun in
jest took on, as he uttered it, more serious
significance. The distinction he had hit upon
tempted him with its inexhaustible prospects, and became for him at this moment
one of those views that make the world fall
asunder like a split apple under the knife, exposing what lies within. Agathe objected that
one also often says that a person is completely subsumed by something, or lives and
breathes it, although it was certain that according to Ulrichs nomenclature such ardent livers and breathers were doing it for
whatever their affair might be; and Ulrich
conceded that it would be more precise to
proceed by distinguishing between the notions of finding oneself in the state of ones

1028/1856

ideal and finding oneself in the state of

working for ones ideal, but in which the
second in was either unreal and in truth a
for, or the claimed relationship to working/
or it would have to be an unusual and ecstatic one. Language, moreover, has its good
reasons not to be so precise about this, since
living/or something is the condition of
worldly existence, in, on the contrary, always
that which one imagines and pretends to
live, and the relation of these two states to
each other is extremely refractory. People,
after all, do secretly know, without, of
course, being able to admit it, of the miraculous fact that everything its worth living
for would be unreal if not actually absurd
the moment one tried to immerse oneself in
it completely. Love would never again arise
from its lair; in politics, the slightest proof of
sincerity would necessarily lead to the mortal
destruction of ones opponent; the artist
would spurn all contact with less perfect

1029/1856

beings, and morality would have to consist

not of perforated prescriptions but of taking
one back to that childlike condition of love of
the good and abhorrence of the bad which
takes everything literally. For whoever really
abhors crime would not find it too little to
hire trained professional devils to torture
prisoners as in old paintings of hellfire, and
whoever loves virtue with his whole life
ought to eat nothing but goodness until his
stomach rises into his throat. Whats remarkable is that at times things really do go
that far, but that such periods of Inquisition
or its opposite, gushing over the goodness of
man, are in bad odor / bad memories / remain memories.
That is why it is simply to preserve life
that mankind has succeeded in inventing, in
place of what its worth living for, living/or
it or, in other words, putting its idealism in
place of its ideal condition. It is a living before something; now, instead of living, one

1030/1856

strives and is henceforth a being that with

all its energies presses on just as much toward fulfillment as it is exonerated from arriving at it. Living for something is the permanent principle of the in. All desires, and
not just love, are sad after they are fulfilled;
but in the moment in which the activity for
the desire fully takes the place of the desire,
it is canceled out in an ingenious way, for
now the inexhaustible system of means and
obstacles takes the place of the goal. In this
system even a monomaniac does not live
monotonously but constantly has new things
to do, and even whoever could not live at all
in the content of his lifea case that is more
frequent today than one thinks: for example,
a professor at an agricultural college who has
set the management of stall wastes and dung
on new pathslives for this content without
complaint, and enjoys listening to music or
other such experiences, if he is a capable person, always, as it were, in honor of managing

1031/1856

stables. This doing something else in honor

of something is, moreover, somewhat further removed from the something than
from the for and consequently is the method most frequently applied, because it is as it
were the cheapest, of doing in the name of an
ideal all those things that cannot be reconciled with it.
For the advantage of all for and in
honor of consists in the fact that through
serving the ideal, everything which the ideal
itself excludes is again brought to life. The
classic example of this was furnished by the
traveling knights of chivalric love, who fell
like mad dogs upon every equal they encountered in honor of a condition in their
heart that was as soft and fragrant as dripping church wax. But the present, too, is not
lacking in small peculiarities of this kind.
Thus, for example, it organizes luxurious
festivals for the alleviation of poverty. Or the
large number of strict people who insist on

1032/1856

the carrying out of public principles from

which they know themselves exempt. Then,
too, the hypocritical admission that die end
justifies the means belongs here, for in reality it is the always active and colorful means
for whose sake one usually puts up with ends
that are moral and insipid. And no matter
how playful such examples may appear, this
objection falls silent before the disturbing
observation that civilized life doubtless has a
tendency toward the most violent outbursts,
and that these are never more violent than
when they take place in honor of great and
sacred, indeed even of tender, emotions! Are
they then felt to be excused? Or is the relationship not rather the opposite?
Thus, by many interrelated paths, one
arrives at the conclusion that people are not
good, beautiful, and truthful, but rather
would like to be, and one has a sense of how
the serious problem of why this is so is veiled
by the illuminating pretense that the ideal is,

1033/1856

by its very nature, unattainable. This was

more or less what Ulrich said, without sparing attacks on Lindner and what he stood
for. Right thinking that was the effortless
result of this. It was certain, he maintained,
that Lindner was ten times more convinced
of two-times-two or the rules of morality
than he was of his God, but by working for
his conviction about God, he largely evaded
this difficulty. For this purpose he put himself into the condition of belief, an attitude in
which what he wanted to be convinced of
was so ingeniously combined with what he
could be convinced of that he himself was no
longer able to separate them
Here Agathe noted that all acting is
questionable. She reminded herself of the
paradoxical assertion that the only people
who remain real and good in their hearts are
those who do not do many good deeds. This
now seemed to her extended, and thus confirmed, by the agreeable possibility that the

1034/1856

condition of activity was fundamentally the

adulteration of another condition, from
which it arose and which it pretended to
serve.
Ulrich affirmed this once more. We
have on the one side, he repeated by way of
summary, people who live for and, without
taking the word too literally, in something,
who are constantly on the move, who strive,
weave, till, sow, and harvest, in a word the
idealists, for all these idealists of today are
really living/or their ideals. And on the other
side are those who would like to live in some
fashion in their gods, but for these there is
not even a name
What is this in? Agathe asked
emphatically.
Ulrich shrugged his shoulders and then
gave a few indications. One could relate
for* and in* to what has been called experiencing in a convex and experiencing in a

1035/1856

concave way. Perhaps the psychoanalytic legend that the human soul strives to get back
to the tender protection of the intrauterine
condition before birth is a misunderstanding
of the In/ perhaps not. Perhaps in is the
presumed descent of all life from God. But
perhaps the explanation is also simply to be
found in psychology; for every affect bears
within it the claim of totality to rule alone
and, as it were, form the in* in which
everything else is immersed; but no affect
can maintain itself as primary for long
without by that very fact changing, and thus
it absolutely yearns for opposing affects in
order to renew itself through them, which is
pretty much an image of our indispensable
for* Enough! One thing is certain: that all
sociable life arises from the for* and unites
mankind in the aim of apparently living/or
something; mankind mercilessly defends
these aims; what we see today by way of
political developments are all attempts to put

1036/1856

other fors in place of the lost community of

religion. The living for something of the individual person has lagged behind with the
paterfamilias and the age of Goethe. The
middle-class religion of the future will perhaps be satisfied with bringing the masses
together in a belief that might have no content at all but in which the feeling of being
for it together will be that much more
powerful
There was no doubt that Ulrich was
evading a decision (about the question), for
what did Agathe care about political
development!

On Agathe
Agathe at Lindners
During this entire time Agathe was continuing her visits to Lindner.
This made extravagant claims on his
Account for Unforeseen Loss of Time, and all
too often this overdraft meant a reduction in
all his other activities. Moreover, empathy
for this young woman also demanded a great
deal of time when she was not there:
Thus Lindner had found a soul, but
deep tones of discontent were intermingled
with it and kept him in a state of constant
irritation.
Agathe had simply ignored his forbidding her to visit.

1038/1856

Does my visiting embarrass you? she

asked the first time she showed up again.
And what does your brother say to
this? Lindner replied earnestly every time.
I havent told him anything about it,
Agathe confided in him, because it might be
that he wouldnt like it. Youve made me
anxious.
Of course one cannot withhold a helping hand from a person seeking help.
But every time they made an appointment Agathe was late. It was no use telling
her that unpunctuality was the same as
breaking a contract or as lack of conscience.
It indicates that the rest of the time, too,
your will is in a slumbering state, and that
youre dreamily giving yourself up to things
that turn up by chance, instead of breaking
away at the right time with collected and focused energy! Lindner conjectured severely.

1039/1856

If only it were dreamily! Agathe

replied.
But Lindner declared sharply: Such a
lack of self-control makes one suspect every
other kind of undependability!
Apparently. I suspect that too, was
Agathes response.
Dont you have any will?
No.
Youre
discipline!

fantasist

and

have

no

Yes. And after a short pause she added, smiling: My brother says that Im a
person of fragments; thats lovely, isnt it?
Even if its not clear what it means. One
might think of an unfinished volume of unfinished poems.
Lindner was resentfully silent.

1040/1856

My husband, on the other hand, is now

impolitely asserting that Im pathological, a
neuropath or something like that, Agathe
went on.
And thereupon Lindner exclaimed sarcastically: You dont say! How pleased
people are today when moral tasks can apparently be reduced to medical ones! But I
cant make things that comfortable for you!
The only pedagogical success that Lindner was able to achieve he owed to the principle that five minutes before the end of each
visit, which was always set and agreed upon
beforehand, without regard to its delayed
start and however much the conversation
might absorb him, he began to fall silent and
gave Agathe to understand that he now
needed to devote his time to other obligations. Agathe not only greeted this rudeness
with smiles; she was grateful for it. For such
minutes of the conversation, framed on at
least one side as if by a metal edge and

1041/1856

ticking sharply, also imparted to the remainder of the day something of their incisiveness. After the extravagant conversations
with Ulrich, this had the effect of leanness or
tightly belted straps.
But when she once said this to Lindner,
thinking to be nice to him, it immediately
made him miss a quarter of an hour, and the
next day he was quite indignant with
himself.
In these circumstances he was a strict
teacher for Agathe.
But Agathe was an odd pupil. This man,
who wanted to do something to help her, although most recently he was having difficulties himself, still gave her confidence and
even consolation whenever she was on the
point of despairing of making any progress
with Ulrich. She then sought Lindner out,
and not only because, for whatever external
reasons, he was Ulrichs adversary, but also

1042/1856

and even more because he revealed as clearly

as he did involuntarily the jealousy that came
over him at the mere mention of Ulrichs
name. It was obviously not personal rivalry,
for Agathe was aware that the two men
hardly knew each other, but rather a rivalry
between intellectual species, the way species
of animals have their particular enemies,
whom they already recognize when they
meet them for the first time and whose
slightest approach makes them agitated. And
remarkably, she could understand Lindner;
for something that might be called jealousy
was also among her feelings toward Ulrich, a
not being able to keep up, or an offended fatigue, perhaps too, simply put, a feminine
jealousy of his masculine pleasure in ideas,
and this made her happy to listen, shivering
with pleasure, whenever Lindner contested
some opinion or other that could be Ulrichs,
and this he especially loved to do. She could
go along with this the more safely in that she

1043/1856

felt closer to Lindners level than to her

brothers, for however militant Lindner appeared, indeed even though he might intimidate her, there always remained working
within her a secret mistrust, which was really
/ sometimes of the kind that women feel
against the endeavors of other women.
Agathe still felt her heart beating
whenever she sat alone for a moment in
Lindners surroundings, as if she were exposed to the rising of vapors that enchanted
her mind. The temptation, the unease she
felt at making herself feel at ease, the illusive
possibility that it might happen, always
evoked in her the story of an abducted girl
who, educated among strangers, changed
places as it were within herself and became a
different woman: this was one of the stories
that, reaching back to her childhood and
without being especially important to her,
had sometimes played a role in the temptations of her life and their excuses. But Ulrich

1044/1856

had given her a particular interpretation of

these stories, from which otherwise it would
be easy to deduce merely a deficient spiritual
constitution, and she believed more passionately in his interpretation than he did himself. For in the length and breadth of time,
God has created more than this one life that
we happen to be leading; it is in no way the
true one, it is one of His many hopefully systematic experiments, into which He has
placed no compulsion of necessity for those
of us who are not blinded by the light of the
passing moment, and Ulrich, talking this way
about God and the imperfection of the world
and the aimless, meaningless facticity of its
course, stripping away its false order to reveal the true vision of God that represented
the most promising approach to Him, also
taught her the meaning of the tentative claim
of this way of understanding how one could,
in a shadowy figuration alongside oneself,
also be another.

1045/1856

So as she attentively observed Lindners

walls, which were equipped (hung) with pictures of divine subjects, Agathe felt that Ulrich was hovering in the vicinity. It occurred
to her that she found Raphael, Murillo, and
Bernini in individual engravings on the
walls, but not Titian, and nothing at all from
the Gothic period; on the other hand, there
predominated in many of the pictures
present-day imitations of that style a la Jesuit Baroque that had sucked up vast quantities of sugar like a puffy omelet. If one followed only these pictures around the walls,
the piling up of billowing robes and vacant,
uplifted oval faces and sweetish naked bodies
was disquieting. Agathe said: There is so
much soul in them that the total effect is of a
monstrous despiritualization. And look: the
heavenward gaze has become such a convention that all the irrepressible human vitality
has taken refuge in the less prominent details and hidden itself there. Dont you find

1046/1856

these garment hems, shoes, leg positions,

arms, robe folds, and clouds loaded down by
all the sexuality that isnt openly recognized?
This isnt too far removed from fetishism!
Well, Agathe ought to know about this
phenomenon of being loaded down. This
yearningly leaning out from a balcony into
the void. Or its really the other way around:
an infinite pressing inward. With horror, one
could see it right here on the borderline
between
pathological
crotchet
and
exaltation.
Lindner had no inkling of this. But the
reproach dismayed him, and he first tried
speaking of this beauty in a belittling way.
The artist must make use of the material and
the fleshly, and clings to it; this leads to a
lower order of art. Agathe overestimated it.
Art might well propagate the great experiences of mankind but could not turn them
into experience.

1047/1856

Agathe then angrily accused him of having too many such pictures. The freedoms
that, according to what he said, had to be
conceded to the lower humanity in the artist
still seemed by that measure to have some
meaning even for him. What? Agathe
asked.
Cornered, Lindner gave his views on
art. True art is spiritualization of matter. It
can represent nakedness only when the superiority of soul over matter speaks from the
representation.
Agathe objected that he was mistaken,
for it was the superiority not of soul that was
speaking, but of convention.
Suddenly he burst out: Or did she think
that could justify to a serious person painters and sculptors cult of nakedness? Is the
naked human really such a beautiful thing?
Something so scandalous! Arent the transports of aesthetes simply ridiculous, even if

1048/1856

one doesnt even try to apply serious moral

concepts (to them)?
Agathe: The naked body is beautiful!This was a he, for heavens sake, whose
only purpose was to enrage her partner.
Agathe had never paid any attention to the
beauty of male bodies; women today regard a
mans body for the most part only as an
armature to support the head. Men are accustomed to pay somewhat more attention to
beauty. But let one gather all the naked bodies with which our museums and exhibitions
are filled and put them in a single place, and
then seek out from among this confusion of
white maggots those that are truly beautiful.
The first thing one would notice is that the
naked body is usually merely naked: naked
like a face that for decades has worn a beard
and is suddenly shaven. But beautiful? That
the world stops in its tracks whenever a truly
beautiful person appears reveals beauty to be
a mystery; because beauty-love and love are

1049/1856

a mystery, it is true for the whole. Likewise

that the concept of beauty has been lost
(assembly-line art). So she sits there, and Ulrich speaks through her mouth.
But Lindner immediately jumps at the
challenge. Well! he exclaimed. Oh, of
course, the modern cult of the body! It excites the imagination in just one direction
and inflames it with claims that life cant fulfill! Even the exaggerated concern with physical culture that the Americans have wished
on us is a great danger!
Youre seeing ghosts, Agathe said
indifferently.
Lindner to this: Many pure women,
who welcome and participate in such things
without a deeper knowledge of life, dont
consider that in doing so they are conjuring
up spirits that might perhaps destroy their
own lives and the lives of those closest to
them!

1050/1856

Agathe retorted sharply: Should one

bathe only once every two weeks? Bite off
ones nails? Wear flannel and smell of chilblain ointment?It was an attack on these
surroundings, but at the same time she felt
imprisoned and ridiculously punished for
having to argue over such platitudes.
Their conversations often took the form
of Agathes mocking and irritating him so
that he would lose his temper and bark.
This was how she was acting now, and Lindner took on the adversary.
A truly manly soul will regard not
only the plastic arts but also the whole institution of the theater with the greatest reservation, and calmly suffer the scorn and
mockery of those who are too effeminate to
rigorously forbid themselves every tickling of
the senses! he asserted, immediately adding
novels with the remark that most novels, too,
unmistakably breathe the sensual enslavement and overstimulation of their authors

1051/1856

and stimulate the readers lower aspects precisely through the poetic illusion with which
they gloss over and cover up everything!
He seemed to assume that Agathe despised him for being inartistic, and was
anxious to show his superiority. It is after
all dogma, he exclaimed, that one must
have heard and seen everything in order to
be able to talk about it! But how much better
it would be if one would be proud of ones
lack of culture and let others prattle! One
shouldnt convince oneself that its part of
culture to look at filth under electric light.
Agathe looked at him, smiling, without
answering. His observations were so dismally obtuse that her eyes misted over. This
moist, mocking glance left him uncertain.
All these observations are not, of
course, directed at great and true art! Lindner qualified / assured her / he retreated.

1052/1856

Since Agathe continued her silence, he

yielded another step.
Its not prudery, he defended himself.
Prudery would itself be only a sign of corrupted imagination. But naked beauty
evokes the tragic in the inner person and, at
the same time, spiritual powers, which the
tragic strives to absolve and unbind: do you
understand what Im feeling? He stopped
before her. He was again captivated by her.
He looked at her. Thats why one must
either conceal nakedness or so associate it
with mans higher longings that it isnt enslaving and arousing but calming and liberating. This was what had always been attempted at the high points of art, in the figures of the frieze on the Parthenon, in
Raphaels
transcendent
figuresMichelangelo associates transfigured
bodies with the supra-sensual world, Titian
binds covetousness through a facial

1053/1856

expression that does not stem from the

world of natural drives.
Agathe stood up. Just a minute! she
said. You have a thread in your beard, and
she reached up rapidly and seemed to remove something; Lindner could not make
out whether it was real or pretended, since
he spontaneously and with signs of chaste
horror fell back, while she immediately sat
down again. He was extremely upset at his
clumsy lack of self-control, and attempted to
mask it through a blustering tone. He rode
around like a Sunday rider on the word
tragic, which suited him so badly. He had
said that naked beauty evokes the tragic in
the inner man, and now supplemented this
by saying that this tragic sense repeats itself
in art, whose powers in spite of everything
did not suffice for complete spiritualization.
This was not very illuminating, but it quite
clearly amounted to saying that the soul of
man is not a protection against the senses

1054/1856

but their powerful echo! Indeed, sensuality

acquired its power only in that its false pretenses conquered and usurped mans soul!
Is that a confession? Agathe asked
dryly, unabashed.
How so, a confession? Lindner exclaimed. And he added: What an arrogant
way of looking at things you have! What megalomania! And besides: What do you think
of me? But he fled, quit the field, he actually
physically retreated before Agathe.
One discovers nothing so quickly as anothers inner insecurity, and pounces on it
like a cat on a grubbing beetle: it was really
the capricious technique of the girls boarding school, with its passions between the admired big ones and adoring smaller ones,
the eternal basic form of spiritual dependency, which Agathe was using against Lindner by appearing to respond understandingly
and ardently to his words as often as she fell

1055/1856

upon him coldly and frightened him just

when he thought he was secure in a shared
feeling.
From the corner of the room his voice
now boomed like an organ, with an artificially fearless bass; he acted as if he were the
aggressor by proposing: Lets talk about
this, for once, freely and frankly. Realize how
inadequate and unsatisfying the entire process of procreation is as a mere natural process. Even motherhood! Is its physiological
mechanism really so indescribably marvelous and perfect? How much horrible suffering it involves, how much senseless and
unbearable contingency! So lets just leave
the deification of nature to those who dont
know what life is, and open our eyes to reality: the process of procreation is ennobled
and raised above apathetic servitude only by
being endowed with loyalty and responsibility, and subordinated to spiritual ideals!

1056/1856

Agathe seemed to be reflecting silently.

Then she asked relentlessly: Why are you
talking to me about the process of
procreation?
Lindner had to take a deep breath: Because I am your friend! Schopenhauer has
shown us that what we would like to think of
as our most intimate experience is the most
impersonal of arousals. But the higher emotions are exempted from this deception of
the drive to procreate: loyalty, for instance,
pure, selfless love, admiration and serving/
Why? Agathe asked. Certain feelings
that suit you are supposed to have some supernatural origin, and others to be mere
nature?
Lindner hesitated; he struggled. I cant
marry again, he said softly and hoarsely. I
owe that to my son Peter.
But whos asking that of you? Now I
dont understand you, Agathe replied.

1057/1856

Lindner shrank back. I meant to say

that even if I could do it, I wouldnt, he said
defensively. Moreover, in my opinion
friendship between man and wife demands
an even more elevated frame of mind than
love! He made another try: You know my
principles, so you must also understand that
in accord with them I would like nothing better than to offer to serve you as a brother,
even to awaken, so to speak, in the woman
the counterweight to the woman: Id like to
reinforce the Mary in the Eve! He was close
to breaking out in a sweat, so strenuous was
it to pursue the strict line of his reasoning.
So youre offering me a kind of eternal
friendship, Agathe said quietly. Thats
lovely of you. And you surely know that your
present was accepted in advance.
She seized his hand, as is appropriate at
such a moment, and was a little taken aback
at this epidermal piece of strange person that
lay in the lap of her hand. Lindner was not

1058/1856

able to withdraw his fingers either: it seemed

to him that he should, and yet also that he
didnt have to. Even Ulrichs lack of resolution sometimes exercised this natural impulse to flirt with her, but Agathe also despaired if she saw that she was doing it successfully herself, for the power of flirtation is
united with the notion of bribery, cunning,
and compulsion, and no longer with love;
and while she was reminded of Ulrich, she
looked at this unsteady creature, who was
now bobbing up and down inwardly like a
cork, in a mood, shot through with evil
thoughts, that was close to tears.
I would like you to open your refractory and taciturn heart to me, Lindner said
timorously, warmly, and comically. Dont
think of me as a man. Youve missed having a
mother!
Fine, Agathe responded. But can you
stand it? Would you be prepared to entrust
me with your friendshipshe withdrew her

1059/1856

hand even if I were to tell you that I had

stolen and that I had incest on my conscience? therefore (or) something on account of which one is ruthlessly expelled
from the community of others?
Lindner forced himself to smile. What
youre saying is strong, of course; its even
extremely unfeminine to venture such a
jest, he scolded. Honestly! Do you know
what you remind me of at such moments? Of
a child whos made up its mind to annoy a
grownup! But this isnt the moment for that,
he added, offended because he was just now
reminding himself of it.
But suddenly Agathe had something in
her voice that cut through the conversation
to the bottom when she asked: You believe
in God; reveal to me: In what way does He
answer when you ask Him for advice and a
decision about a heavy sin?

1060/1856

Lindner rejected this question with the

appalled severity that a decorous palace employee shows / puts on when asked about the
married life of the Royal Couple.
Agathe: God in association with crime,
specifically the Augustinian God, the abyss.
Maybe really as Augustinian as possible: I
see no possibility of being good on my own. I
dont understand when I am doing good or
evil. Only His grace can tear me away, or
something similar. Seems to assume that she
had recently been worrying about this. For
the moment remains open.
Lindner did feel something of the passion of her words, therefore his answer
gentle and father-confessorial: I dont know
your life, youve only given me a few hints.
But I consider it possible that you could act
in a way similar to the way a bad person
would act. You havent learned in the small
things to take life seriously, and therefore
you perhaps wont hit it right when it comes

1061/1856

to big decisions. Youre probably capable of

doing evil and disregarding all standards for
no other reason than that its a matter of indifference to you what the other person feels,
but that only because, while you feel the impulse to the good, you dont know how much
wisdom and obedience it involves. He seized
her hand and asked: Tell me the truth.
The truth is more or less what Ive
already told you, Agathe repeated soberly
and emphatically.
No!
Yes. There was something in this
simple yes that made Lindner suddenly
push away her hand.
Agathe said: You wanted to make me
better, didnt you? If Im like a gold piece
twisted out of shape that youd like to bend
back, Im still a gold piece, arent I? But
youre losing your courage. The challenge
(from God?) presented to you in my person

1062/1856

collides with your conventional division of

actions into light and darkness. And I say to
you: to identify God with a human morality
is blasphemy!
The voice in which she exclaimed this
had, at least for Lindner, the sound of trumpets, something oddly arousing; he also felt
Agathes wild youthful beauty, and suffered
enough as it was, whenever he reproached
her, from an unutterable anxiety and insinuation. For his principles, where were his
principles? They were round about him, but
far off. And in the empty space whose innermost vacuum was now his breast, something
stirred that was despicable but as alive as a
basket full of puppies. Certainly, the only
reason he wanted to strike to the heart of this
obdurate young woman was in order to do
her a service, but the heart he was aiming at
looked like a piece of flower flesh. Since
Lindner had become a widower he had lived
ascetically and avoided prostitutes and

1063/1856

frivolous women on principle, but, to say it

straight out, the more ardent he was about
saving Agathe, the more grounded his fear
became that in the process he would one day
experience himself in a state of impermissible arousal. For this reason he often rapidly
counted to fifty inwardly, in moments of anger as well as love. But his success was a remarkable one: the more this enabled him to
drive his arousal from the point of
threatened breach, the more it gathered in
his whole body, until his body seemed to
shine inside. He chose words of blame, but
inwardly they were, ultimately, as soft as dying candles. He himself simply no longer believed what he was saying, for while externally he separated good from evil, inwardly
everything was as mixed up together as it
had been in Paradise before the Fall. And
with a horrifying clarity for which there are
no words, he was reminded of that grimly
edifying
experience
which,
in
his

1064/1856

adolescence, had warned him once and for

all against the power of the emotions. Lindner felt punished by a bitter self-contempt
when he had to think that what at that time
had clothed itself with devilish cunning in
the appearance of God was now emerging in
his mature years as common lust of the flesh,
precisely in the way that the Enlighteners
shallow view had said it would.
Get away from me with this lie! he
begged.
The will? Agathe said. Its not a lie.
Ive falsified a will.
Lindner seized her by the arm in sudden anger as if she were a pupil and shouted:
Out!
No, Agathe replied. In our struggle
against each other we have a secret pact to
drive out each others devils!

1065/1856

You are arrogant and vain! Lindner

exclaimed. But behind it lies suffering and
disappointment and humiliation! And again
he nearly had it right.
But he only nearly had it right, and
Agathe suddenly became tired of it (him) and
left him standing.

Museum Pre-Chapter
At the lawyers

Were their souls two doves in a world of

hawks and owls? Ulrich would never have
been able to contemplate letting such a view
prevail, and he was therefore fond of remarking, and even found a land of security in
doing so, that external events took no account of the ravishments and anxieties of the
soul but followed their own logic. Since
Hagauers letters had compelled him to consult a lawyer, Hagauer too had turned to a
counselor, and since both attorneys were
now exchanging letters, a case had begun,
independent of personal origins and furnished, as it were, with suprapersonal
powers of attorney. This case compelled Ul-

1067/1856

richs lawyer to ask for a personal consultation with Agathe and to be surprised when
she did not appear and, later, when she still
did not appear, to raise serious questions
that finally put Ulrich in the extreme position of having to overcome his sisters resistance by painting the unpleasant consequences. When they appeared at their advisers, this already put the course of events
on a certain path. They found before them a
secure and adroit man not much older than
they, who was accustomed to smiling and
preserving a polite composure even in the
halls of the court and who, in consulting with
his clients, proceeded from the principle that
the first thing to do was gain his own picture
of all things and people and take care to let
himself be influenced as little as possible by
the client, who was always undependable
and wasted time.
And indeed Agathe did declare afterward that the whole time, she had felt like a

1068/1856

law patient, and this was true to the extent

that all her answers to the introductory and
basic questions of her lawyer were of a
nature to reinforce the latters doubts. His
task was difficult. A departure from bed and
board, the easily arranged separation, did
not suffice for his clients wishes, and a divorce of the conjugal bond, the true annulment of the Catholic marriage concluded
with Hagauer, was, according to the laws of
the land, impossible; it could be managed
only by a roundabout route through various
other countries and their legal interconnections, as well as through complicated acquisitions and renunciations of citizenship,
which did open a path that ought to lead
safely to the goal but was by no means
without difficulty or easily surveyed in advance. So Agathes lawyer had undertaken to
substitute a more valid reason for her all too
ordinary grounds for divorce, which she indicated simply as aversion.

1069/1856

Insurmountable aversion wouldnt be

enough; dont you have something else
against your husband? he probed.
Agathe said, curtly, no. There was much
she could have reproached Hagauer with,
but she became red and pale, for it all belonged in this place as little as she did herself. She was angry with Ulrich.
The lawyer looked at her attentively.
Impolite treatment, frivolous management
of property, flagrant neglect of conjugal obligationshow about those? He tried to get
her to have an idea. The surest grounds for
divorce, of course, is always marital
infidelity!
Agathe looked at her interlocutor and
answered in a clear, composed, low voice: I
have none of those grounds!
Perhaps she ought to have smiled. Then
the man who sat opposite her, in impeccably
correct clothes that in no way contradicted

1070/1856

his capacity for high spirits, would have been

convinced that he had before him a lovely
and undefinably captivating woman. But the
seriousness of her expression left him no
room at all, and his lawyers brain became
dull. He recalled from the files, which contained not only the correspondence of the
opposing attorney but also the letters from
Hagauer to Ulrich, Hagauers carefully documented complaints that the desire for a divorce was unjustified and capriciously frivolous, and the thought went through his mind
that he would much rather be representing
this apparently reasonable and dependable
man. Then it occurred to him that somewhere the term psychopathic woman occurred, but he rejected it not so much on account of Agathe as because it might have
prevented him from taking on this rewarding
commission. Nervous, of course: The kind
of nervousness thats capable of anything,
not at all uncommon! he thought, and

1071/1856

cautiously began to direct his questioning at

the point that had impressed him as most in
need of explanation when he had gone over
the situation. In the correspondence in the
files there wereboth in Hagauers letters to
Ulrich and, more significantly, in the correspondence of the opposing lawyermore or
less clear allusions that gave the sense that
the two men might know of irregularities
which had taken place in the management of
the estate, or might even be of a mind to suspect the relations that had since ensued
between brother and sister: these results,
noted from the point-by-point checklist of
Ulrichs brother-in-laws reflections, were intended to be understood as indicating that
the pair might well consider whether it
would not be better to change their resolve
before they went too far in an affair that held
all sorts of danger for them. Agathes new adviser now brought up these unambiguous allusions by turning to Ulrich, as the person

1072/1856

more familiar to him, with the politeness of a

man who cannot spare another the repetition
of a superfluous unpleasantness; but every
so often he turned to Agathe and gave her to
understand that although it was only a question of pure formality, still she, too, as his
client, had to give him some assurance about
these objections, which in certain circumstances, when brought unscrupulously out
into the open, could weigh so heavily, an assurance on which he could base his further
actions.
But Agathe had neither read Hagauers
letters nor informed Ulrich of what she had
been doing during the time she had been
alone following the so-called falsifying of
the willinvoluntarily, at this moment, he
was speaking thus cautiously to himself! This
led to a short, embarrassed pause that had a
quite peculiar effect. Ulrich sought to bring it
to an end by a gesture whose calm superciliousness sought to characterize the lawyers

1073/1856

request as superfluous and already accommodated, but his sister disturbed this plan
somewhat by asking the lawyer out of curiosity what her husband really thought he knew.
The lawyer looked from one to the other.
My sister will, of course, give you the assurance you desire in any form, Ulrich declared
quickly and with the greatest indifference. I
have informed her of the precise content of
the letters, but for quite personal reasons she
herself has read them only in part. Agathe
now smiled in time, having caught her error,
and confirmed that this was so. I was too
out of sorts, she asserted calmly.
The attorney reflected for a moment. It
went through his mind that this incident
could quite well be an unwished-for confirmation of the adversarys assertion that Agathe
was under her brothers baleful influence. Of
course he did not believe this to be the case,
but felt, even so, a slight aversion toward Ulrich. This moved him to answer Agathe with

1074/1856

the greatest politeness: I must sincerely beg

your pardon, madame, but my profession
compels me to insist on the request that you
examine the matter for yourself. And with
these words, gently insisting, he handed the
file over to her.
Agathe hesitated.
Ulrich said: You must formally examine it yourself.
The lawyer smiled politely and added:
I beg your pardon, not only formally.
Agathe let her glance dip twice into the
pages, pulled a wry face, and slapped the file
shut again.
The lawyer was satisfied. These allusions are meaningless, he assured her.
Thats what I assumed from the start. My
colleague simply should not have given in to
his clients unpleasant irritability. But it
would of course be embarrassing if during

1075/1856

the civil procedure a criminal indictment

should suddenly be entered. If that happens,
one would immediately have to respond with
a counter-complaint on grounds of slander,
or something similar. Seemingly without his
wishing it, what he was saying again passed
from the unreal to the possible, and it
seemed to Ulrich that in these assurances a
question was still lurking.
Of course it would be extremely embarrassing, he confirmed dryly, and thought
he would consult, aside from this celebrated
divorce lawyer, a proper criminal lawyer, one
with whom one could speak more openly in
order to address all the possibilities contained in such an unfortunate story. But he
did not know how to find such a man. A
battle of this dirty kind is always embarrassing for people who are clean, he added. But
is there something else one can do besides
wait?

1076/1856

The lawyer acted as if he needed to

think this over for a moment, smiled, and
said that he was sorry, but he must very
strongly advise that they go back to his original proposal and show that their adversary
had transgressed marital fidelity. The length
of time the separation had already lasted
gave grounds for assuming the factual basis
of such a complaint; there was no lack of investigators who took care of these things dependably and discreedy, and with this, as it
were, classical ground for divorce, one would
inevitably and most rapidly arrive at their
goal, which would be of the greatest advantage in a struggle where one must not leave
the adversary any time to develop his
intrigues.
Ulrich also seemed to see the necessity
of this.
But Agathe, who had completely lost
the confidence she had once had in her dealings with lawyers and other persons of the

1077/1856

law, said no. Whether she had imagined that

one orders a divorce from a lawyer the way
one orders a cake from the baker, which is
selected and delivered to ones house, or
whether it happened that she held it against
Ulrich for having put her in a situation where
her sense of responsibility for the embarrassments being visited upon the innocent
Hagauer was awakened, or whether she
simply could not bear the collapse of her
world in the continuance of such conferences; enough, she refused vehemendy.
She also considered this proposal to be
a convenience on the part of the lawyer, and
might perhaps have let herself be talked out
of it; but Ulrich did not do so, merely excusing her smilingly with the jest that even
through a detective she had no desire to find
out any more about her husband, and the divorce lawyer suddenly gave a sigh of chivalric
defeat, for he wanted to bring the conference
to an end. He now assured them that they

1078/1856

would try to attain their goal this way, and

pushed over to Agathe the power of attorney
for her to sign.
Addendum. Possibly: Ulrich asks whether
there were any proposals from Hagauer for
an amicable settlement, and declares the
continuation of the conference in this sense
otherwise undesirable.
Even as they were descending the steps,
Ulrich took Agathes arm in his, and in that
moment they involuntarily stopped.
We were in reality for an hour! he
said.
Agathe looked at him. Pain closed off
the background of her light eyes like a stone
wall.
Are you very depressed? he asked
sympathetically.

1079/1856

It involves such humiliation that we

must withdraw from it, she replied slowly.
Thats very much the question, Ulrich
said.
A real humiliation, like falling with
ones mouth in the dust! Something we have
forgotten how to imagine lately! Agathe added in a soft, urgent voice.
I mean, the question is whether we will
be allowed to withdraw from this humiliation, Ulrich responded. Perhaps there are
even greater ones threatening us. I must confess to you that my sense of our situation
today is that its bad. For, granted we give in:
perhaps we could claim it had been an error,
hastily repair it, cover things up. But it would
be up to him to accept it or not, and he isnt
going to give you up; indeed, now that hes
become suspicious, he wont put down his
weapons until youve submitted to him unconditionally. Thats simply his sense of

1080/1856

order! Ulrich said, since Agathe did not

seem to want to wait for him to finish. On
the other hand, we could of course follow our
lawyers proposal or some similar plan and
try to wear him down. But what does that get
us? Increased danger, for the enemy will feel
himself absolved from all restraint by our attack, and in the best case our success would
be that besides the divorce we would have
maliciously harmed a person to whom we are
profoundly indifferent.
And the guilt of existence? Agathe objected passionately, although she violently
forced herself to make a jest of it. What you
yourself have often said, that the only woman who remains pure is the one who has
her lovers head chopped off?
Did I say that? One would have to blow
up the planet, Ulrich said calmly, if one
wanted to get rid of all the witnesses to ones
mistakes! And he added seriously: Youre
still misjudging the degree of ordinariness,

1081/1856

the tangible difficulty, of the situation were

in: one way or the other, were threatened
with disaster and have only the choice of remaining so or
Killing ourselves! Agathe said curtly
and decisively.
Oh come on! How that echoes in the
stones of such a staircase! I hope no one
heard it! he rebuked her angrily, and looked
cautiously around. Youre so stupid! Its not
even sure that death is better than prison.
But we could remove ourselves from the
choice by running away.
Agathe looked at him, and in this split
second her eyes involuntarily resembled
those of a child who has been romping wildly
and been picked up.
To an island in the South Seas, Ulrich
said, and smiled. But perhaps an island in
the Adriatic would do as well. Where once a
week a boat will bring us what we need.

1082/1856

When they stood below at the gateway,

they were benumbed and struck by the shock
of the summery street. A whitish fire in
which bright shadows lived seemed to be
waiting for them. People, animals, curbs,
even they themselves lost something of their
bodily constraints in the hot rays of light.
Agathe had said: Youve never wanted to!
For that I mean too little to you? Ulrich responded: Oh, lets not talk about it this way!
Its harder than the resolve to deny the
world. For once weve run away, everything
here in the real world, which was imposed on
us as ours, will turn really bad, and theres
hardly any turning back, although we have
no idea whether where we want to go theres
solid ground on which people can stand differently from the way they do in dreams. If I
still keep thinking about it, its because I
have doubts not about you or myself but
about whats possible!

1083/1856

[?] But on the other hand its also quite practical! The lawyer has his instructions, the client is away: either both attorneys will come
to an agreement in order to wind it up, or
theyll procrastinate.
When they finally do come back, everything
is in quite good shape: the automatism of life
that protects itself against catastrophes. They
were merely on a trip, the lawyers were still
procrastinating, etc.

C. 1932
52
THE THREE SISTERS
Ulrich asked: What is it you want from me:
my clothes, my books, my house, my views
about the future? What should I give you? Id
like to give you everything I have.
Agathe replied: Cut off your arm for
me, or at least a finger!
They were in the reception room on the
ground floor, whose high, narrow windows,
arched at the top, let in the soft new morning
light, which mingled with the shade of trees
as it fell into its own reflection on the floor. If
one looked down at oneself it was like seeing
beneath ones feet the discolored sky with its

1085/1856

brightness and clouds through a brownish

glass. Brother and sister had so retired from
the world that there was hardly danger any
longer of their being disturbed by a visit.
Youre too modest! Ulrich went on.
Go ahead, ask for my life! I believe I could
discard it for you. But a finger? I must confess: a finger is of no importance to me at
all!
He laughed, his sister along with him;
but her face retained the expression of
someone who sees another joking about
something that is serious to him.
Now Ulrich turned the tables: When
one loves one bestows, one keeps nothing
for oneself, one doesnt want to possess anything by oneself: why do you want to possess
Lindner for yourself? he asked.
But I dont possess him at all! Agathe
retorted.

1086/1856

You possess your secret emotions for

him and your secret thoughts about him.
Your error about him!
And why dont you cut off an arm?
Agathe challenged.
We will cut it off, was Ulrichs response. But for the moment Im still asking
myself what land of life would result if I
really gave up my sense of self, and others
did likewise? Everyone would have a self in
common with everyone else; not only the
feeding bowl and the bed would be shared,
but truly the self, so that every one would
love his neighbor as himself and no one
would be his own neighbor.
Agathe said: That must somehow be
possible.
Can you imagine sharing a lover with
another woman? Ulrich asked.

1087/1856

I could, Agathe asserted. I can even

imagine it being quite beautiful! I just cant
imagine the other woman.
Ulrich laughed.
Agathe made a parrying gesture. I have
a particular personal dislike of women, she
said.
Of course, of course! And I dont like
men!
Agathe felt his mockery was somewhat
insulting because she felt that it was not unjustified, and she did not go on to say what
she had intended.
In the resulting pause Ulrich, to encourage her, began to relate something he had recently dreamed up in the distracted condition of shaving. You know that there were
times when aristocratic women, he said, if
a slave pleased them, could have him castrated so that they might have their pleasure

1088/1856

of him without endangering the aristocracy

of their progeny.
Agathe did not know it, but she gave no
sign. On the other hand, she now recalled
having once read that among some uncivilized tribes every woman married all her husbands brothers along with him and had to
serve them all, and every time she imagined
such servile humiliation, an involuntary and
yet not quite unwelcome shudder made her
shrink. But she did not reveal any of this to
her brother either.
whether
something
like
that
happened often, or only exceptionally, I
dont know, nor does it matter, Ulrich had
meanwhile been saying. For, as I must confess, I was thinking only of the slave. More
precisely, I was thinking of the moment
when he left his sickbed for the first time and
encountered the world again. At first, of
course, the will to resist and defend himself,
which had been paralyzed at the start of what

1089/1856

happened, rouses and thaws out again. But

then the awareness must set in that its too
late. Anger wants to rebel, but there follow
one after the other the memory of the pain
suffered, the cowardly awakening of a fear
from which only consciousness was removed, and finally that humility signifying a
now irrevocable humiliation, and these emotions now hold down the anger, the way the
slave himself was held down while the operation was being performed. Ulrich interrupted this odd recital and searched for words;
his eyelids were lowered in meditation.
Physically, he could doubtless still pull himself together, he continued, but a strange
feeling of shame will keep him from doing
so, for he must recognize its futility in a way
that embraces everything; he is no longer a
man, he has been debased to a girl-like existence, to the existence of a towel, a handkerchief, a cup, of some kind of being that, not
without affection, is allowed to serve. I would

1090/1856

like to know the moment when he is then

called for the first time before the lady who
tortured him and reads in her eyes what she
proposes to do with him.
Agathe laughed mockingly. Youve
been thinking some really strange thoughts,
Ulo! And when I think that before he was
castrated your slave was perhaps a butcher
or a stylish domestic
Ulrich laughed innocently along with
her. Then I myself would probably find my
depiction of the awakening of his soul disturbingly comical, he admitted. He himself
was happy that this disreputable emotional
report was brought to an end. For without
his noticing, various things must have come
into his mind that didnt belong there: as if
something of the mythological goddesses
who consume their devotees, or the Siamese
twins, up to masochism or the castration
complex, had been drawn with fingernails
across
the
dubious
keyboard
of

1091/1856

contemporary psychology! When he had

stopped laughing he immediately made an
embittered face.
Agathe laid her hand on his arm. The
tiny shadows of a concealed excitement
twitched in her gray eyes. But why did you
tell me that? she asked.
I dont know, Ulrich said.
I believe you were thinking of me, she
asserted.
Nonsense! Ulrich retorted, but after a
while he asked: Do you know that another
letter from Hagauer came today? and so apparently began talking about something else.
The letters from Hagauer that were
then arriving became more threatening from
one to the next. I dont understand why, under these circumstances, he doesnt get on
the train and come here to confront us, Ulrich went on.

1092/1856

He wont find the time, Agathe said.

And that was indeed how it was. At the
beginning Hagauer had resolved several
times to do just that, but every time
something intervened, and then he had become rather accustomed to being alone. It
seemed to him not a bad thing to live for a
while without his wife: man ought not to be
too happy or too comfortablethat is a heroic conception of life. So Hagauer confronted
his misfortune energetically, and was able to
note the compensation that not only time
can heal wounds, but lack of time as well. Of
course this did not prevent him from continuing to insist that Agathe return; indeed,
he could dedicate himself to this question of
order with the unruffled mind of a man who
has shipped the children of his emotions off
to bed. Once again he thoroughly reviewed
all the documents, which he preserved in
careful order, and evening after evening read
through all the personal papers of his

1093/1856

deceased father-in-law without finding in a

single one any indication of the surprise that
had been visited upon him. That a man
whom he had always revered as a model
could have changed his mind at the last
minute, or out of negligence not adapted his
will to changed circumstances over the years,
seemed the more improbable to Hagauer the
more often he untied the ribbons and removed the labeled covers with which he kept
his correspondence and other papers in order. He avoided thinking about how, then,
the result had come about that finally had
come about, and reconciled himself by saying that some error, some carelessness, some
guilty or innocent negligence, some lawyers
stratagem, must lie behind it. In this opinion, which permitted him to spare his feelings without wasting his time over it, he contented himself with demanding precise statements and documents, and, when these did
not come, calling upon a lawyer for advice;

1094/1856

for as an order-loving person, he assumed

that in their spiteful endeavor Agathe and
Ulrich must obviously have done the same,
and he did not want to lag behind them. The
lawyer now took over the writing of letters
and repeated the demand for an explanation,
combining with it the demand that Agathe
return: in part because that was the preference of Hagauer, who imputed his wifes
conduct to her brothers influence, and in
part because it seemed a requisite in this obscure and perhaps shady affair that one
should first stick to the established factual
basis of malicious abandonment; the rest
was to be left to the future, and to cautious
evaluation of whatever points of attack might
develop. From then on Ulrich started reading
the antagonistic letters again and did not
burn them. But no matter how often since
then he had argued with his sister that arming themselves likewise for the legal struggle
could not be put off, she would hear nothing

1095/1856

of it; indeed, she did not even want to listen

to his reports, and finally he had had to undertake the first steps without her, until at
last his own lawyer insisted on hearing
Agathe himself and receiving his power of attorney from her. This was what Ulrich now
informed her of all at once, adding that what
he had first, out of consideration, called
merely a communication from Hagauer
was actually a singularly unpleasant legal letter. Its apparently unavoidable, and
without our realizing it its become high time
that we confide to our lawyer, as cautiously
and with as much reserve as we can,
something about the dangerous business
with the will, he finished.
Agathe looked at him for a long time
and irresolutely, with a look hooded from
within, before she softly answered him with
the words: I did not want that!
Ulrich made a gesture of excuse and
smiled. It was possible to live in the fire of

1096/1856

goodness without the necessity of arson, and

the criminal trick they had carried out on
their fathers will had long since become superfluous: but it had happened, and nothing
could be done about it without their being
exposed. Ulrich understood the connection
between resistance and despondency in his
sisters answer. Agathe had meanwhile stood
up and was moving back and forth among
the objects in the room without speaking;
she sat down on a chair some distance off
and went on looking at her brother in silence. Ulrich knew that she wanted to draw
him back into the silence, which was like a
bed of rest consisting of tiny points of flame,
and a sweet martyrdom demanded his heart
back.
As in music or in a poem, by a sickbed
or in a church, the circle of what could be
uttered was oddly circumscribed, and in
their dealings with each other a clear distinction
had
formed
between
those

1097/1856

conversations that were permissible and

those they could not have. But this did not
happen through solemnity or any other kind
of elevated expectation, but appeared to have
its origin outside the personal. They both
hesitated. What should the next word be,
what should they do? The uncertainty resembled a net in which all unspoken words
had been caught: the web was stretched taut,
but they were not able to break through it,
and in this want of words glances and movements seemed to reach further than usual,
and outlines, colors, and surfaces to have an
unstoppable weight: A secret inhibition,
which usually resides in the arrangement of
the world and sets limits to the depth of the
senses, had become weaker, or from time to
time disappeared entirely. And inevitably the
moment came when the house they were in
resembled a ship gliding outward on an infinite waste reflecting only this ship: the
sounds of the shore grow fainter and fainter,

1098/1856

and finally all motion ceases; objects become

completely mute and lose the inaudible
voices with which they speak to man; before
they are even thought, words fall like sick
birds from the air and die; life no longer has
even the energy to produce the small, nimble
resolutions that are as important as they are
insignificant: getting up, picking up a hat,
opening a door, or saying something.
Between the house and the street lay a nothingness that neither Agathe nor Ulrich could
cross, but in the room space was polished to
an utmost luster, which was intensified and
fragile like all highly perfected things, even if
the eye did not directly perceive it. This was
the anxiety of the lovers, who at the height of
their emotion no longer knew which direction led upward and which downward. If
they looked at each other, their eyes, in sweet
torment, could not draw back from the sight
they saw, and sank as in a wall of flowers
without striking bottom. What might the

1099/1856

clocks be doing now? suddenly occurred to

Agathe; and reminded her of the small, idiotic second hand of Ulrichs watch, with its
precise forward motions along its narrow
circle; the watch was in the pocket under the
bottommost rib, as if that were where reasons last place of salvation lay, and Agathe
yearned to draw it out. Her glance loosened
itself from her brothers: a painful retreat!
They both felt that it bordered on the comic,
this shared silence under the pressure of a
heavy mountain of bliss or powerlessness.
And suddenly Ulrich said, without having previously thought of saying exactly this:
Poloniuss cloud, which sometimes appears
as a ship, sometimes as a camel, is not the
weakness of a servile courtier but characterizes completely the way God has created us!
Agathe could not know what he meant;
but does one always know what a poem
means? When it pleases us it opens its lips
and causes a smile, and Agathe smiled. She

1100/1856

was lovely with her bowed lips, but this gave

Ulrich time, and he gradually recalled what it
was he had been thinking before he had
broken the silence. He had imagined as an
example that Agathe was wearing glasses. At
that time, a woman with glasses was still regarded as comical and looked quite risible, or
pitiable; but a time was already coming when
a woman wearing glasses, as is still true
today, looked enterprising, indeed positively
young. There are firmly inherited habits of
consciousness behind this, which change but
which in some connection or another are always present and form the pattern through
which all perceptions pass before they arrive
at consciousness, so that in a certain sense
the whole that one thinks one is experiencing
is always the cause of what it is that one experiences. And one rarely imagines to oneself how far this extends, that it extends from
ugly and beautiful, good and evil, where it
still seems natural that one mans morning

1101/1856

cloud should be another mans camel,

through bitter and sweet or fragrant and noisome, which still have something material
about them, to the things themselves with
their precise and impersonally attributed
qualities, the perception of which is apparently quite independent of intellectual prejudices but in truth is so only in the main. In
reality, the relation of the outer to the inner
world is not that of a die which impresses its
image on a receptive material, but that of a
matrix which is deformed in the process, so
that its diagram, without its coherence being
destroyed, can produce remarkably diverse
images. So that Ulrich too, if he was able to
think that he was seeing Agathe before him
wearing glasses, could think just as well that
she loved Lindner or Hagauer, that she was
his sister or the being half united with him
in twinlike fashion, and it was not a different Agathe each time that was sitting before
him but a different sitting there, a different

1102/1856

world surrounding her, like a transparent

ball dipping into an indescribable light. And
it seemed to them both that here lay the
deepest sense of the support which they
sought in each other and which one person
always seeks in another.
They were like two people who, hand in
hand, have stepped out of the circle that had
firmly enclosed them, without being at home
in another one. There was in this something
that could not be accounted for in ordinary
notions of living together.

C. 1934
48
THE SUN SHINES ON JUST AND
UNJUST
The sun shines with one and the same merciful glance on just and unjust; for some reason Ulrich would have found it more comprehensible if it did so with two: one after the
other, first on the just and then on the unjust, or vice versa. Sequentially, man too is
living and dead, child and adult, he punishes
and pardons; indeed this ability of only being
able to do contradictory things in sequence
could really be used to define the essence of
the individual, for supra-individual entities,
like humanity or a people or the population
of a village, are able to commit their contradictions not only one after the other, but also

1104/1856

simultaneously and all mixed up with each

other. So the higher a being stands on the
scale of capabilities, the lower he stands on
the scale of morality? In any case: you can
rely on a tiger, but not on mankind! This
was what Ulrich said. If his friendship with
Stumm had been flourishing, how fruitful
such conversations might have been! With
Agathe they always ended in a plea to excuse
their superfluity and led to new and vain resistance. Theres no sense in talking that
way, he conceded, and began from the beginning. For there are many problems, he
instructed, that make no sense, and they
ought always to be suspected of being important ones. There are questions of the
kind: Why do I have two ears but only one
tongue? Or: Why is man symmetrical only
frontally and not hexagonally? Sometimes
these questions come straight from the nursery or the madhouse, but sometimes, too,
they later achieve scientific respectability.

1105/1856

Its different, and yet basically the same, with

the problem: Why do people die? We already
find in textbooks of logic this model of a
reasoned conclusion: All men are mortal.
Caius is a man. Therefore Caius is mortal/
But one can also give a scientific answer, and
all such answers would leave such a problem
in exceptionally rational condition: and yet
the irrational way we stare at this problem,
Ulrich maintained, an irrational, indeed entirely shameless way of refusing to understand nature, is itself almost morality, philosophy, and literature!
Agathe, by nature easygoing, tolerant,
and averse to cloud castles of thought, responded: Nature has no morality!
Ulrich
moralities!

said:

Nature

has

two

Agathe said: I dont care how many it

has. Its not a problem. Youre only trying to
needle and upset me!

1106/1856

But its all the same! Ulrich answered.

Because since we surely call that good which
pleases us and to which we give preferencethats not morality, but it is the beginning and end of morality!wouldnt evil
then have to die out in due course, the way
snakes or diseases are more or less stamped
out and the jungle dies? Why does it survive
and thrive so mightily?
Thats no concern of mine! Agathe declared, thereby defending her intention of
not taking the conversation seriously when it
was conducted in this fashion.
But Ulrich replied: We simply cant do
without evil. And what does concern you is
even more absurd and profound! For mustnt
something exist that is worse than the rest, if
only for the reason that we wouldnt know
what to do with ourselves if one of our feelings were just as beautiful as any other one,
or even if each of our actions were better
than its predecessors?

1107/1856

Agathe looked up, for this was serious.

This was the way it often happened now;
they were uncertain about where their adventuresome plans were leading them, and
avoided talking about it because they did not
know how to begin; but suddenly they were
to some extent in the midst of it. At that time
Ulrich was receiving letters from Professor
Schwung, his deceased fathers old enemy,
entreating him on the head of the revered
departed to engage himself in bringing about
greater accountability in the world; and he
was receiving letters from Professor
Hagauer, his embittered brother-in-law, in
which his sister and he were sternly suspected of being guilty of profoundly dubious
conduct. At first he had answered these letters evasively, then not at all; finally, Agathe
even asked him to burn them without opening them. She explained this by saying that it
was impossible to read such letters, and in
the condition in which they found

1108/1856

themselves, that was the truth. But to burn

them unread, and not even to listen to what
other people were complaining about: how
did it happen that this did not move her conscience, although at that time it was so sensitive in every other respect?
That was the time when they were beginning to comprehend what an equivocal
role other people played in their feelings.
They knew that they were not in accord with
the general public; in the thousand kinds of
busyness that filled up night and day there
was not a single activity in which they could
have participated wholeheartedly, and
whatever they might venture upon themselves would most certainly have been met
with contempt and disdain. There was a remarkable peace in this. Apparently one can
(probably) say that a bad conscience, if it is
big enough, provides almost a better pillow
than a good one: the minds incidental activity, incessantly expanding with a view to

1109/1856

ultimately deriving a good individual conscience from all the wrong that surrounds it
and in which it is implicated, is then shut
down, leaving a boundless independence in
the emotions. At times this caused a tender
loneliness, a limitless arrogance, to pour its
splendor on the pairs excursions through the
world. Alongside their ideas the world could
just as easily appear clumsily bloated, like a
captive balloon circled by swallows, as it
could be humbled to a background as tiny as
a forest at the rim of the sky by the intensification of the solipsistic condition of their
egos. Their social obligations sounded like a
shouting that was reaching them, sometimes
rude, sometimes from far away; they were
trivial, if not unreal. An enormous arrangement, which is finally nothing but a monstrous absurdity: that was the world. On the
other hand, everything they encountered on
the plane of ideas had the tensed, tightropewalking nature of the once-and-never-again,

1110/1856

and whenever they talked about it they did

so in the awareness that no single word
could be used twice without changing its
meaning.
Likewise,
everything
that
happened to them was connected with the
impression of being a discovery that permitted of no repetition, or it happened on precisely the right occasion, as if it had been
conjured up by magic.
This gentle mania, which was nothing
but an extremely elevated form of the involvement of two people with each other,
also unleashed a deepened sympathy, a sinking into togetherness; the change also became apparent in their relation to the world,
but in such a manner that along with the arrogance there began to predominate at times
a peculiar immersion in the nature and doings of other people, and in the claim this involved to recognition and love. A temperate
explanation, such as that this was merely the
expression of an overflowing mood,

1111/1856

sometimes amicable, sometimes arrogant,

did not suffice. For the happy person is no
doubt friendly, and with cheerful complaisance wants to let everyone know it, and Ulrich or Agathe, too, felt lifted up at times by
such gaiety, like a person being carried on
someones shoulders and waving at everyone: yet this actively outward-striving amicability seemed to them harmless beside the
kind that overcame them passively and almost hauntingly at the sight of others as
soon as they made room to be ready for what
they had called walking two miles with
them. Ulrich might also have wondered that
he had often seen himself approaching other
people as if they were a generality, with theories and emotions that applied to them all;
but now it was happening even in a constrained way on a small individual scale, with
that silent insatiability of his which had once
made Agathe herself suspect that it was more
a longing for empathy on the part of a nature

1112/1856

that never involves itself with others than it

was the expression of confident benevolence.
To be sure, Agathe was now reacting as he
did: although she had, for the most part,
spent her life without either love or hate, but
merely with indifference, she felt the same
inclination toward others, quite divorced
from any possibility of action, indeed from
any idea that might have given comprehensible shape to her almost oppressive empathy.
Ulrich analyzed it: If you like, you can
just as well call it a bifurcated egotism as the
start of loving everyone.
Agathe joked: As love, its still rather
timid at the start/
Ulrich went on: In truth, it has as little
to do with egotism as with its opposite.
Those are later concepts, indispensable for
decocted souls. In the Eudemian ethics,
however, it still runs: Self-love is not selfishness but a higher condition of the self, with

1113/1856

the consequence that one loves others, too,

in a higher way. Also, more than two thousand years ago the notion was formulated,
apparently just for us, and then lost again, a
linking of goal and cause into a goal-cause
that motivates what is loved as it does the
lover. An unreal idea, and yet as if created in
order to distinguish the sympathetic awareness of the emotions from the dead truth of
reason!
He touched her hand with his fingertips. Agathe looked around her shyly; they
were in one of the busiest streets; there probably werent many other people roaming
around whose concerns reached back to the
fourth century B.C. Dont you think that
were behaving extremely strangely? Agathe
asked. She saw women in the latest fashions,
and officers with red, green, yellow, and blue
necks and legs; many necks and legs stopped
suddenly behind her and turned to look at
her or some other woman, expecting an

1114/1856

advance. A ray of light from the heavenly

vaults of truth had fallen on all this activity,
and it looked somewhat precarious.
I think so, Ulrich said dryly. Even if I
might have been mistaken.
For he could no longer recall exactly the
passage that had once made an impression
on him.
Agathe laughed at him. Youre always
so truth-loving, she mocked, but secretly
she admired him.
But Ulrich knew that what they were
commanded to seek had as little to do with
truth in the ordinary sense as it did with
egotism or altruism, so he replied: Love of
truth is really one of the most contradictory
formulations there is. For you can revere
truth in God knows how many ways, but the
one thing you cant do is love it. If you do, it
begins to waver. Love dissolves truth like
wine the pearl.

1115/1856

Do pearls really dissolve in wine?

Agathe asked.
I have no idea, Ulrich conceded with a
sigh. Tin pretty far gone. Im already using
expressions I cant account for! I meant to
say: To the person who loves, truth and deception are equally trivial!
This observation, that truth is dissolved
by lovethe opposite of the more fainthearted assertion that love cannot bear the
truth!contains nothing new. The moment a
person encounters love not as an experience
but as life itself, or at least as a kind of life,
he understands that there are several truths
about everything. The person who judges
without love calls this opinions and
subjectivity; the person who loves denies
that with the sages saying: We cant know
the meaning of even the simplest words if we
dont love! He is not being insensitive to
truth, but oversensitive. He finds himself in a
kind of enthusiasm of thinking, in which

1116/1856

words open up to their very core. The person

judging without love calls something an illusion that is merely die consequence of the
excited involvement of the emotions. He
himself is free of passion, and truth is free of
passion; an emotion is injurious to its truth,
and to expect to find truth where something
is a matter of the emotions seems to him
just as wrongheaded as demanding justice
from wrath. And yet it is precisely the general content of existence and truth that distinguishes love as an experiencing of the world
from love as an experience of the individual.
In the special world of love, contradictions
do not raise each other to nothing and cancel
each other out, but raise each other to the
heights. They dont adapt to each other,
either, but are in advance a part of a higher
unity, which, the moment they come into
contact, rises from them as a transparent
cloud. Therefore, in love as in life itself, every
word is an event and none is a complete

1117/1856

notion, and no assertion is needed, nor any

mere whim.
It is hard to account for this, because
the language of love is a secret language, and
in its ultimate perfection as silent as an embrace. Ulrich was capable of walking beside
Agathe and seeing the reliable line of her
profile in sparkling clarity before the swarm
of his thoughts; then he perhaps recalled
that in every delimitation there resides a tyrannical happiness. This is apparently the basic happiness of all works of art, of all
beauty, of whatever is formed by earth at all.
But it is perhaps, too, the basic hostility, the
armor between all beings. And Agathe
looked away from Ulrich into the stream of
people and sought to imagine what cannot be
imagined, what happiness it would be to do
away with all limits. In thought they contradicted each other, but they would also have
been able to change sides, since on earlier
occasions they had, at times alone, at times

1118/1856

together, experienced one side as well as the

other. But they did not speak about this at
all. They smiled. That was enough. They each
guessed what the other meant. And if they
guessed wrongly, it was just as good as if it
were right. If, on the contrary, they said
something that cohered more firmly, they almost felt it as a disturbance. They had
already spoken so much about it. A certain
indolence, indeed paralysis, of thought was
part of their silent insatiability as they now
observed people and sought to enclose them
within the magic circle that surrounded
themselves, just as fluid and fleeting mobility
belonged to this thinking. They were like the
two halves of the shell of a mussel opening
itself to the sea.
And at times they suddenly laughed at
each other.
Its not as simple as one would like to
think, loving ones fellow man like oneself!
Ulrich sighed mockingly once again.

1119/1856

Agathe took a deep breath and told him

with satisfaction that it was his fault. Youre
the one whos always destroying it! she
complained.
Theyre the ones! Look at them! Ulrich countered. Look how theyre watching
us! Theyd say Thanks a lot! to our love!
And in truth this made them laugh with
a kind of abashed shame, for unfortunately
nothing is more amusing than raising ones
eyes when they are still tender with sentiment. So Agathe laughed beforehand. But
then she replied: And yet what were looking for cant be far away. Sometimes one
feels ones own breath against a veil as warm
as a pair of strange lips. This seems to me
that close too.
Ulrich added: And there is a circumstance that could lead one to believe that
were not simply chasing chimeras. For even
an enemy can be divined only if youre able

1120/1856

to feel what he feels. So there is a love your

neighbor; it even has a postscript: so you get
a cleaner shot at him! And quite generally,
you never understand people entirely
through knowing and observing them; it also
calls for understanding of a kind you have
with yourself; you must already have that
understanding when you approach them.
But I usually dont understand them at
all, Agathe said, surveying the people.
You believe in them, Ulrich replied.
At least you want to. You lend them credence. Thats what makes them seem worthy
of loving.
No, Agathe said. I dont believe in
them in the least.
No, Ulrich said. Belief isnt an accurate expression for it.
But then what should it really be
called, Agathe asked, when you think you

1121/1856

understand people without knowing anything about them, and when you have an irresistible inclination for them, although you
can be almost certain that you wouldnt like
to know them?
One usually lives in the cautious balance between inclination and aversion one
keeps ready for ones fellowmen, her brother responded slowly. If, for whatever reason, the aversion seems to be dormant, then
only a desire to yield must remain, a desire
that cannot be compared to anything one
knows. But its no longer an attitude that
corresponds to reality.
But youve said so often that its the
possibility of another life! Agathe reproached him.
An awareness of the world as it could
be is what it is, Ulrich said, shot through
with an awareness of the world as it is!
No, thats too little! Agathe exclaimed.

1122/1856

But I cant say that I really love these

people, Ulrich defended himself. Or that I
love the real people. These people are real
when theyre in uniform and civilian clothes;
thats the norm, so its our attitude thats
unreal!
But among themselves they think of it
the same way! Agathe responded, on the attack. Because they dont love each other in a
real way, or really dont love each other, in
exactly the same way youre claiming about
our relation to them: their reality consists in
part of fantasies, but why should that degrade ours?
Youre thinking with such strenuous
sharpness today! Ulrich fended her off,
laughing.
Im
so
sad,
Agathe
replied.
Everything is so uncertain. It all seems to
shrink to nothing and expand again endlessly. It wont let you do anything, but the

1123/1856

inactivity is also unbearable because it really

presses in all directions against closed walls.
And in this or similar fashion the preoccupation of brother and sister with their surroundings always broke off. Their involvement remained unarticulated: there was
nowhere an accord in opinion or activity in
which it could have expressed itself; the feeling grew all the more, the less it found a way
of acting that corresponded to it, and the desire to contradict appeared as well: the sun
shone on the just and unjust, but Ulrich
found that one might better say, on the unseparated and not united, as the real origin
of mankinds being evil as well as good.
Agathe concurred in this opinion: Im
always so sad whenever we have to laugh at
ourselves, she asserted, and laughed, because along with everything else an old saying had occurred to her, which sounded quite
strange, as idle as it was prophetic. For it
proclaimed: Then the eyes of the soul were

1124/1856

opened, and I saw love coming toward me.

And I saw the beginning, but its end I did not
see, only its progression.

49
SPECIAL MISSION OF A GARDEN
FENCE
Another time Agathe asked: By what right
can you speak so glibly of an Image of the
world/ or even of a world of love? Of love as
life itself? Youre being frivolous! She felt as
if she were swinging back and forth on a high
branch that was threatening to break under
the exertion at any moment; but she went on
to ask: If one can speak of a cosmic image of
love, could one not also finally speak of an
image of anger, envy, pride, or hardness?
All other emotions last for a shorter
period, Ulrich replied. None of them even
claims to last forever.

1126/1856

But dont you find it somewhat odd of

love that it should make that claim? Agathe
asked.
Ulrich countered: I believe one might
well say that it also ought to be possible for
other emotions to shape their own images of
the world: as it were, one-sided or monochrome ones; but among them love has always enjoyed an obscure advantage and has
been accorded a special claim to the power of
shaping the world.
During this exchange they sought out a
place in their garden where they could look
through the fence at the street, with its rich
variety of human content, without exposing
themselves, as far as possible, to the glances
of strangers. This usually led them to a low,
sunny rise whose dry soil gave footing to several larches, and where if they lay down they
were camouflaged by the play of light and
shadow; in this half hiding place they were
on the one hand so near the street that the

1127/1856

people passing by gave them the peculiar impression of being alive in that merely animalistic way that attaches to all of us when we
believe ourselves unobserved and alone with
our demeanor, and on the other hand any
eyes that were raised could see brother and
sister and draw them into the events that
they were observing with interest and a reserve for which the fence, a solid barrier but
transparent to the glance, served as a positively ideal image.
Now lets try whether we really love
them or not, Agathe proposed, and smiled
mockingly or impatiently.
Her brother shrugged his shoulders.
Stop, O you hastening past, and bestow for a moment your precious soul upon
two people who intend to love you! Ulrich
said, pushing it to absurdity.

1128/1856

You cant bestow yourself for a moment; you have to do it without end! Agathe
corrected him threateningly.
A park. A mighty fence. Us behind it,
Ulrich affirmed. And what might he be
thinking when we called him, after he had involuntarily slowed his steps and before he
timidly doubles them? That hes walking by
the garden fence of a private madhouse!
Agathe nodded.
And we, Ulrich went on, wouldnt
even dare! Dont you absolutely know we
wont do it? Our inmost harmony with the
world warns us that were not allowed to do
such a thing!
Agathe said: If we were to address the
brother hastening past, instead of as our
good friend or dear soul, as dog or
criminal, he probably wouldnt consider us
mad but would merely take us for people
who think differently and are mad at him!

1129/1856

Ulrich laughed and was pleased with his

sister. But you see how it is, he declared.
General rudeness is unbearable today. But
because it is, goodness too must be false! Its
not that rudeness and goodness depend on
each other as on a scale, where too much on
one side equals too little on the other; they
depend on each other like two parts of a
body that are healthy and sick together. So
nothing is more erroneous, he went on,
than to imagine, as people generally do, that
an excess of bad convictions is to blame for a
lack of good ones; on the contrary, evil evidently increases through the growth of a false
goodness!
Weve heard that often, Agathe
replied with pleasantly dry irony. But its
apparently not simple to be good in the good
way!
No, loving is not simple! Ulrich
echoed, laughing.

1130/1856

They lay there looking into the blue

heights of die sun; then again through the
fence at the street, which, to their eyes
dazzled by the sunny sky, was spinning in a
hazily excited gray. Silence descended. The
feelings of self-confidence that the conversation had raised were slowly transformed into
an undercutting, indeed an abduction, of the
self. Ulrich related softly: Ive invented a
magnificent sham pair of concepts: egocentric and allocentric. The world of love is
experienced either egocentrically or allocentrically; but the ordinary world knows
only egotism and altruism, a coupled pair
that, by comparison, are quarrelsomely rational. Being egocentric means feeling as if
one were carrying the center of the world in
the center of ones self. Being allocentric
means not having a center at all anymore.
Participating totally in the world and not laying anything by for oneself. At its highest
stage, simply ceasing to be. I could also say:

1131/1856

turning the world inward and the self outward. They are the ecstasies of selfishness
and selflessness. And although ecstasy appears to be an outgrowth of healthy life, one
can evidently say as well that the moral notions of healthy life are a stunted vestige of
what were originally ecstatic ones.
Agathe thought: Moonlit night two
miles And much else drifted through her
mind as well. What Ulrich was telling her
was one more version of all that; she did not
have the impression that she would be losing
anything if she did not pay really close attention, although she listened gladly. Then she
thought of Lindners asserting that one had to
live for something and could not think of
oneself, and she asked herself whether that,
too, would be allocentric. Losing oneself in
a task, as he demanded? She was skeptical.
Pious people have enthusiastically pressed
their lips to lepers sores: a loathsome idea!
an exaggeration that is an affront to life, as

1132/1856

Lindner liked to call it. But what he did consider pleasing to God, erecting a hospital, left
her cold. Thus it happened that she now
plucked her brother by the sleeve and interrupted him with the words: Our man has
shown up again! For partly out of fun, partly
from habit, they had fastened on a particularly unpleasant man to use for their mental
experiment. This was a beggar who conducted his business for a while every day in front
of their garden fence. He treated the stone
base as a bench that was awaiting him; every
day he first spread out beside himself a
greasy paper with some leftover food on it,
with which he casually regaled himself before putting on his business expression and
packing away the rest. He was a stocky man
with thick, iron-gray hair, had the pasty,
spiteful face of an alcoholic, and had defended his location a number of times with great
rudeness when other beggars unsuspectingly
came near: Ulrich and Agathe hated this

1133/1856

parasite who offended against their propertyand further refined what was proper to
them, their lonelinesshated him with a
primitive instinct of possessiveness that
made them laugh, because it seemed to them
totally illicit; and for just that reason they
used this ugly, spiteful guest for their boldest
and most dubious conjurations of loving
ones neighbor.
Hardly had they caught sight of him
than Ulrich said, laughing: I repeat: If you
just, as people say, imagine yourself in this
situation or feel any kind of vague sense of
social responsibility for himindeed, even if
you only see him as a picturesque, tattered
paintingtheres already a small percentage
of the genuine putting oneself in anothers
place. Now you have to try it one hundred
percent!
With a smile, Agathe shook her head.

1134/1856

Imagine you were in accord with this

man about everything the way you are with
yourself, Ulrich proposed.
Agathe protested. Ive never been in
accord with myself!
But you will be then, Ulrich said. He
took her hand.
Agathe let it happen and looked at the
beggar. She became strangely serious and
after a while declared: Hes stranger to me
than death.
Ulrich enclosed her hand in his more
completely and asked again: Please try!
After a while Agathe said: I feel as if
Im hanging on this figure; I myself, and not
just my curiosity! From the tension of concentration, and its focus on a single object,
her face had taken on the involuntary expression of a sleepwalker.

1135/1856

Ulrich helped out: Its like in a dream?

Raw-sweet, alien-self, encountering oneself
in the shape of another?
Agathe dismissed this with a smile. No,
its certainly not as enchantingly sensual as it
is in such dreams, she said.
Ulrichs eyes rested on her face. Try, as
it were, to dream him! he counseled persuadingly. Cautious hoarders, in our waking
state we consist mostly of giving out and taking back; we participate, and in doing so preserve ourselves. But in dreams we have a
trembling intimation of how glorious a world
is that consists entirely of prodigality!
That may be so, Agathe answered hesitantly and distractedly. Her eyes remained
fixed on the man. Thank God, she said
slowly after a while, hes become an ordinary monster again! The man had got up,
gathered his things together, and left. He
was getting uncomfortable! Ulrich claimed,

1136/1856

laughing. When he fell silent, the constant

noise of the street rose and mingled with the
sunshine in a peculiar feeling of stillness.
After a while Ulrich asked pensively: Isnt it
strange that almost every single person
knows himself least of all and loves himself
most? Its evidently a protective mechanism.
And Love thy neighbor as thyself means in
this fashion too: love him without knowing
him, before you know him, although you
know him. I can understand ones taking this
merely for an extreme expression, but I
doubt that it will satisfy the challenge; for,
pursued seriously, it asks: love him without
your reason. And so an apparently everyday
demand, if taken literally, turns into an ecstatic one!
Agathe responded: Truly, the monster
was almost beautiful!
Ulrich said: I think one not only loves
something because its beautiful, but its also
beautiful because one loves it. Beauty is

1137/1856

nothing but a way of saying that something

has been loved; the beauty of all art and of
the world has its origin in the power of making a love comprehensible.
Agathe thought of the men with whom
she had spent her life. The feeling of first being overshadowed by a strange being, and
then opening ones eyes in this shadow, is
strange. She pictured it to herself. Was it not
alien, almost hostile things that fused together in the kiss of two lives? The bodies remained unitedly separated. Thinking of
them, you feel the repulsive and ugly with
undiminished force. As horror, even. You are
also certain that spiritually you have nothing
to do with each other. The disparity and separation of the persons involved is painfully
clear. If there had been some illusion of a
secret accord, a sameness or likeness, this
was the moment it vanished like a mist. No,
you werent under the least illusion, Agathe
thought to herself. And yet the sense of an

1138/1856

independent self is partially extinguished,

the self is broken; and amid signs signifying
an act of violence no less than a sweet sacrifice, it submits to its new state. All of that
causes a skin rash? Doubtless the other
ways of loving are not able to do as much.
Perhaps Agathe had so often felt the inclination to love men she didnt like because this
is when this remarkable transformation happens most irrationally. And the remarkable
power of attraction that Lindner had lately
exercised on her signified nothing else, that
she did not doubt. But she hardly knew that
this was what she was thinking about; Ulrich, too, had once confessed that he often
loved what he didnt like, and she thought
she was thinking of him. She recalled that all
her life she had believed only in surroundings that rushed past, with the hopeless hope
that they could remain the same; she had
never been able to change herself by her own
volition, and yet now, as a gift, a hovering

1139/1856

borne by the forces of summer had taken the

place of vexation and disgust. She said to Ulrich gratefully: You have made me what I
am because you love me!
Their hands, which had been intertwined, had disengaged themselves and were
now just touching with their fingertips; these
hands awakened to consciousness again, and
Ulrich grasped his sisters with his own. You
have changed me completely, he responded.
Perhaps I have had some influence on you,
but it was only you who were, so to speak,
flowing through me!
Agathe nestled her hand in the hand
that embraced it. You really dont know me
at all! she said.
Knowing people is of no consequence
to me, Ulrich replied. The only thing one
ought to know about a person is whether he
makes our thoughts fruitful. There shouldnt
be any other way of knowing people!

1140/1856

Agathe asked: But then how am I

real?
Youre not real at all! Ulrich said with
a laugh. I see you the way I need you, and
you make me see what I need. Who can say
so casually where the first and fundamental
impulse lies? We are a ribbon floating in the
air.
Agathe laughed, and asked: So if I disappoint you it will be your fault?
No doubt! Ulrich said. For there are
heights where it makes no sense to discriminate between 1 have been mistaken in you
and I have been mistaken in myself/ For instance, the heights of faith, of love, of magnanimity. Whoever acts from magnanimity,
or, as it can also be called, from greatness,
doesnt ask about illusion, or about certainty
either. There are some things he may even
not want to know; he dares the leap over
falsehood.

1141/1856

Couldnt you also be magnanimous toward Professor Lindner? Agathe asked

rather surprisingly, for ordinarily she never
spoke of Lindner unless her brother brought
up his name. Ulrich knew that she was holding something back. It was not exactly that
she was concealing that she had some sort of
relationship with Lindner, but she did not
say what it was. He more or less guessed it
and, with some displeasure, acquiesced in
the necessity of allowing Agathe to go her
own way. The instant that, for God knows
what reasons, such a question sprang from
her lips, Agathe had immediately realized
once more how ill the term Professor Lindner accorded with the term magnanimity.
She felt that in some way or other, magnanimity could not be professed, much as she
felt that Lindner was good in some unpleasant way. Ulrich was silent. She sought to look
into his face, and when he turned it away as
far as he could, she plucked his sleeve. She

1142/1856

used his sleeve as a bell rope until Ulrichs

laughing countenance again appeared in the
doorway of grief and he delivered a small admonishing speech on how the person who in
his magnanimity too soon abandons the firm
ground of reality can easily become ridiculous. But that not only related to Agathes
readiness for magnanimity in relation to the
dubious Lindner, but also directed a scruple
at that true and not-to-be-deceived sensibility in which truth and error signify far less
than the enduring emanation of the emotions and their power to seize everything for
themselves.

49
MUSINGS
Since that scene, Ulrich thought he was being borne forward; but really all that could
be said was that something new and incomprehensible had been added, which he perceived, however, as an increase in reality. He
was acting perhaps a little like a person who
has seen his opinions in print and is ever
after convinced of their incontrovertibility;
however he might smile at this, he was incapable of changing it. And just as he had
been about to draw his conclusions from the
millennial book, or perhaps he merely
wanted once more to express his astonishment, Agathe had retaliated and cut off the
discussion by exclaiming: Weve already

1144/1856

spent enough time talking about this! How

Ulrich felt that Agathe was always in the
right, even when she wasnt! For although
nothing could be less the case than that there
had been enough discussion between them
not to mention anything true or decisiveindeed, precisely such a saving event or magic
formula for which one might have initially
hoped had not materialized; yet he knew,
too, that the problems that had dominated
his life for die better part of a year were now
bunched together dense and compact around
him, and not in a rational but in a dynamic
fashion. Just as if there would soon be
enough talk about them, even if the answer
did not happen to come out in words.
He could not even altogether remember
what he had thought and said about these
problems over the course of time; indeed, he
was far from being able to do so. He had
doubtless set out to converse about them
with all mankind; but it lay, too, in the

1145/1856

nature of the reproach itself that nothing one

could say about it was joined in a forwardlooking way to anything else but that
everything was as widely scattered as it was
connected. The same movement of die mind,
clearly distinguished from the ordinary,
arose again and again, and the treasure of
the things it reached out to include grew; but
no matter what Ulrich might remind himself
of, it was always as far from one inspiration
to a second as it would have been to a third,
and nowhere did a dominant assertion
emerge. In this way he recalled, too, that a
similar equally far, of the kind that was
now almost burdensomely and depressingly
affecting his thoughts, had once existed in
the most inspiring way between himself and
die whole world around him: an apparent or
actual suspension of the spirit of separation,
indeed almost of the spirit of space. That had
been in the very first years of his manhood,
on the island where he had taken refuge

1146/1856

from the majors wife but with her image in

his heart. He had probably described it in almost the same words too. Everything had
been changed in an incomprehensibly visual
way through a condition of fullness of love,
as if all he had known previously had been a
condition of impoverishment. Even pain was
happiness. His happiness, too, almost pain.
Everything was leaning toward him, suspended. It seemed that all things knew about
him, and he about them; that all beings knew
about each other, and yet that there was no
such thing as knowing at all, but that love,
with its attributes of swelling fullness and
ripening promise, ruled this island as the one
and perfect law. He had later used this often
enough as a model, with slight changes, and
in recent weeks, too, he might have been able
to refresh this description to some extent; it
was by no means difficult to go on in it, and
the more one did so without thinking, the
more fruitful it turned out to be. But it was

1147/1856

precisely this indefiniteness that now meant

the most to him. For if his thoughts were
connected in such a way that nothing of substance could be added to them which they
would not have absorbed, the way an arriving person disappears into a crowd, still that
only proved their similarity to the emotions
by which they had been summoned into Ulrichs life die first time; and this correspondence of an alteration of the sphere of the
senses, experienced now a second time
through Agathe, which seemed to affect the
world with an altered way of thinkingof
which it might also be said that it catches the
wind in infinite dreams without stirring from
the spot and had already exhausted itself
once in the process!this remarkable correspondence, to which Ulrich was only today
fully attentive, inspired in him courage and
apprehension. He still recalled that on that
earlier occasion he had used the expression
of having come to the heart of the world.

1148/1856

Was there such a thing? Was it really anything more than a circumlocution? Only by
excluding his brain was he inclined to mysticisms claim that one must give up ones self;
but did he not have to admit to himself just
for that reason that he did not know much
more about this than he had before?
He walked farther along these expanses, which nowhere seemed to offer access to their depths. Another time he had
called this the right life; probably not long
ago, if he was not mistaken; and certainly if
he had been asked earlier what he was up to,
even when he was busy with his most precise
work he would ordinarily not have found any
answer except to say that it was a preliminary study for the right life. Not to think about
it was simply impossible. Of course one
could not say what it should look likeindeed, not even if there was such a thingand
perhaps it was just one of those ideas that
are more a badge of truth than a truth; but a

1149/1856

life without meaning, a life that obeyed only

the so-called necessities, and their contingency disguised as necessity, in other words
a life lived eternally moment to momentand here again an expression occurred to him that he had once made up: the
futility of the centuries!such a life was for
him a simply unbearable idea! But no less
unbearable than a life for something, that
sterility of highways shaded by milestones
amid unsurveyed expanses. He might call all
that a life preceding the discovery of morality. For that, too, was one of his views, that
morality is not made by people and does not
change with them but is revealed; that it unfolds in seasons and zones and can actually
be discovered. This idea, which was as out of
fashion as it was current, expressed perhaps
nothing but the demand that morality, too,
have a morality, or the expectation that it
have one hidden away, and that morality was
not simply tittle-tattle revolving on itself on a

1150/1856

planet circling to the point of implosion. Of

course he had never believed that what such
a demand contained could be discovered all
at once; it merely seemed to him desirable to
think of it at times, which is to say at a time
that seemed propitious and relatively accommodating, after some thousands of centuries
of aimless circling of the question, whether
there was not some experience that might be
derived from it. But then, what did he really
know about it even now? On the whole,
nothing more than that this group of problems, too, had in the course of his life been
subjected to the same law or fate as the other
groups, which closed ranks in all directions
without forming a center.
Of course he knew more about it! For
instance, that to philosophize as he was doing was considered horribly facile, and at this
moment he fervently wished to be able to refute this error. He knew, too, how one goes
about such a thing: he had some

1151/1856

acquaintance with the history of thought; he

could have found in it similar efforts and
how they had been contested, with bitterness
or mockingly or calmly; he could have
ordered his material, arranged it, he could
have secured a firm footing and reached beyond himself. For a while he painfully recalled
his earlier industriousness, and especially
that frame of mind that came to him so naturally that it had once even earned him the
derisive appellation of activist. Was he
then no longer the person constantly
haunted by the idea that one must work toward the ordering of the whole? Had he
not, with a certain stubbornness, compared
the world to a laboratory, an experimental
community; had he never spoken of
mankinds negligent condition of consciousness, which needed to be transformed into
will; demanded that one had to make history; had he not, finally, even if it had been
only ironically, actually called for a General

1152/1856

Secretariat of Precision and Soul? That was

not forgotten, for one cannot suddenly
change oneself; it was merely suspended for
the moment! There was also no mistaking
where the reason lay. Ulrich had never kept
accounts on his ideas; but even if he had
been able to remember them all at the same
time, he knew that it would have been impossible for him to simply take them up,
compare them, test them for possible explanations, and so, ultimately, bring forth from
the vapors the little tissue-thin metal leaf of
truth. It was a peculiarity of this way of
thinking that it did not contain any progress
toward truth; and although Ulrich basically
assumed that such progress might sometime,
through a slow and infinite process, be
brought about in the totality, this did not
console him, for he no longer had the patience to let himself be outlived by whatever
it was to which he was contributing
something, like an ant. For the longest time

1153/1856

his ideas had not stood on the best footing

with truth, and this now seemed to him
again the question most urgently in need of
illumination.
But this brought him back once again to
the opposition between truth and love, which
for him was nothing new. It occurred to him
how often in recent weeks Agathe had
laughed at his, for her taste much too
pedantic, love of truth; and sometimes it
must also have caused her grief! And suddenly he found himself thinking that there is
really no more contradictory term than love
of truth. For one can raise truth up high in
God knows how many ways, but love it you
cant, because truth dissolves in love, he
thought. And this assertion, by no means the
same as the fainthearted one that love cannot bear the truth, was for him as familiar
and unachievable as everything else. The
moment a person encounters love not as an
experience but as life itself, or at least as a

1154/1856

kind of life, he knows several truths. The person who judges without love calls this opinions, personal views, subjectivity, caprice;
but the person who loves knows that he is
not insensitive to truth, but oversensitive. He
finds himself in a land of enthusiasm of
thinking, where the words open themselves
up to their very core. Of course that can be
an illusion, die natural consequence of an all
too excitedly involved emotion, and Ulrich
took that into account. Truth arises when the
blood is cold; emotion is to be deducted from
it; and to expect to find truth where
something is a matter of feeling is, according to all experience, just as perverse as demanding justice from wrath. Nevertheless,
there was incontestably some general content, a participation in being and truth, that
distinguished love as life itself from love as
individual experience. And Ulrich now reflected on how clearly the difficulties that ordering his life presented to him were always

1155/1856

connected with this notion of a super-powerful love that, so to speak, overstepped its
bounds. From the lieutenant who sank into
the heart of the world to the Ulrich of this
past year, with his more or less assertive conviction that there are two fundamentally distinct and badly integrated conditions of life,
conditions of the self, indeed perhaps even
conditions of the world, the fragments of recollection, so far as he was able to call them
to mind, were all in some form connected
with the desire for love, tenderness, and
gardenlike, struggle-free fields of the soul. In
these expanses lay, too, the idea of the right
life; as empty as it might be in the bright
light of reason, it was richly filled by the
emotions with half-born shadows.
It was not at all pleasant for him to encounter so unequivocally this preference for
love in his thinking; he had really expected
that there were more and different things his
thinking would have absorbed, and that

1156/1856

shocks such as those of the past year would

have carried their vibrations in different directions; indeed, it seemed to him really
strange that the conqueror, then the engineer of morality, that he had expected himself
to be in his energetic years should have finally matured into a mooning seeker of love.

Clarisse / Walter / Ulrich

MID 1920s
CLARISSE
Ulrich did not think about Walter and
Clarisse. Then one morning he was urgently
called to the telephone: Walter. Why didnt
he come out to see them; they knew he was

1157/1856

back. A lot had changed, they were waiting

for his visit.
Ulrich declined with the curt excuse
that after his long absence he had a lot of
work to do.
To his surprise, Walter appeared soon
afterward; he had taken off from work. The
manner in which he inquired after Agathe
and the experiences of the trip gave the impression of uncertainty or embarrassment;
he seemed to know more than he wanted to
let on. Finally, the words came out. He had
only now realized that it is insanity to doubt
the faithfulness of a woman one loves. One
has to be able to let oneself be deceived but
know how to be deceived in a fruitful way;
for example: he had been wrong to be jealous
of Ulrich
Ah, so hes talking about Clarisse, Ulrich said to himself, suddenly breathing
easier.

1158/1856

WrongWalter went oneven if of

course he had never thought of it in any
terms other than as mental unfaithfulness;
but it hurt so much to have to admit the
simple bodily empathy.
Of course, of course. Ulrich nodded.
Meingast has left, Walter added.
Ulrich looked up; it really didnt interest him, but he had the feeling that this
was something new. Why?
Simply, it had been time. But for several
days afterward Clarisse had been out of sorts
in a way that gave grounds for anxiety. A real
depression. But that was just it; that was
what first made him grasp the whole business. ImagineWalter saidthat you love a
woman, and you meet a man you admire,
and you see that your wife loves and admires
him too; and both of you feel that this man is
far superior to you, unreachable

1159/1856

That I cant imagine. Ulrich raised his

shoulders with a laugh. Walter looked at him
with annoyance; both friends felt that they
were simulating an old game they had often
played with each other.
Dont pretend, Walter said. Youre
not so swellheaded to the point of insensitivity that you believe no one is better than you!
All right. The formulation is false.
Who is objectively superior? Engineer A or
Aesthetician B, a master wrestler or a sprinter? Lets drop that. So youre saying that a
person becomes emotionally dependent on
someone and the beloved does too: then
what happens? You would have to play along
with her role as well as your own. The man
plays the mans role and the womans role;
the woman has womanly feelings for the superior man and a more manly inclination for
her earlier and still-loved lover. So this gives
rise to something hermaphroditic, doesnt it?
Assuming that no jealousy is involved. A

1160/1856

spiritual intertwining of three people, which

appears mysterious, and at times almost
mystic? God on six legs.
Ulrich had improvised this reflection
and was himself astonished at the conclusion
it had involuntarily reached. Walter looked
at him in surprise. He did not agreeagain
there was too much intellect in itbut Ulrich
had come surprisingly close to the truth, and
Walter admired the lightness of Clarisses instinct when she had asked that Ulrich be let
in on what was going on. He now began to
talk a little. Yes, Clarisse had been swept
away by Meingast, and quite rightly, since
only a new community of wills and hearts
that embraced more than just one couple
would be capable of again forging a humanity out of chaos. These ideas had had a
powerful effect on her. After Meingast had
left she had confessed to Walter: the whole
time he had been therehe had really
changed in a strange wayshe had

1161/1856

continually been bothered by the idea that he

had taken her and Walters sins upon himself
and overcome them; it only sounds crazy,
Walter said defensively, but it isnt at all, for
he and Clarisse behind their conflicts one
finds everywhere a pathological disorder of
the age. She would now like to speak to Ulrich on Moosbruggers account.
Ulrich was astonished. What brings the
two of you to Moosbrugger?
Well. Moosbrugger is of course only a
chance encounter. But when one has once
come into contact with something like that
one cant at the same time just ignore it.
Look, you talked with Clarisse about it
yourself a couple of times. Before. How can
you forget something like that?
Ulrich shrugged his shoulders, but the
next morning went to see Clarisse.

1162/1856

He felt that one of the two things was

not to his taste. He had not thought of Moosbrugger for weeks; yet earlier Moosbrugger
had for a time been a point of orientation in
his thinking! And after he had thought this
over for a while he noticed that once again
Clarisse had suddenly managed to fasten
onto him with this delicate claw, although he
had already become indifferent to her, indeed even found her repulsive. He was curious about what it was Clarisse wanted. When
he saw her, he knew that he would do
something for Moosbrugger in order to get
out of the anxious, reproachful, and unsettled state he was in on account of Agathe.
When Ulrich came in she was standing at the
window, her hands crossed in front of her
hips, legs spread apart as if playing ball. It
was a habitual stance of hers, from which her
smile emerged with paradoxical charm.
Our destinies are interwovenshe
saidyours and mine. Did Walter tell you?

1163/1856

she began. Ulrich replied that he had not

quite understood what Walter was after. I
must see Moosbrugger! Clarisse said. After
greeting him she held his hand in hers, moving his index finger downward, as if unintentionally. I can influence such destinies, she
added vaguely.
In the intervening time some quite specific constellation of ideas must have formed
in her; one felt it by the way the walls
pulsated. With no other person Ulrich knew
did everything internal become so physical
as with Clarisse, and this, too, doubtless explained her extraordinary abihty to impart
her excitement to others.
Her brother had already been won over
to the idea, Clarisse related. He was a physician. Ulrich could not stand him. Because as
a child of the Wagner craze he had been baptized Wotan [Siegfried], he believed everyone would think he was Jewish, and emphasized in equal measure his distaste for Jews

1164/1856

and music. He had another peculiarity. Since

he had grown up among their other friends,
he had found himself when young compelled
to read Baudelaire, Dostoyevsky, Huysmans, and Peter Altenberg, to whom at that
time the spiritual expressiveness of youth
was attuned, and when in later years this
style eroded and his own nature came to the
fore, there arose a quite peculiar mishmash
oifleurs du mal and provincial hymns to the
Alps. He had come to visit his sister today
too, and Clarisse said that he was working
somewhere in the garden or in the
(adjoining) vineyards. Since even his proximity was enough to put Ulrich out of sorts,
he responded with some disappointment.
But Clarisse seemed to have been expecting
this. We need him, she said, and tried to
give this sentence an emphasis from the back
of her eyes, as if to mean: its really too bad
hes bothering us, even if were lucky that
Walter isnt here

1165/1856

(but it has to be!) Be reasonable, Ulrich said: Why do you want to see
Moosbrugger?
Clarisse went and shut the door, which
was open. Then she asked a question: Do you
understand railway accidents? (One never
happens because a locomotive engineer deliberately rams his engine into another
train.) Well, they all happen because in the
confusing network of tracks, switches, signals, and commands, fatigue makes a person
lose the power of conscience. He would only
have needed to check one more time whether
he was doing the right thing isnt that
right?
Ulrich shrugged his shoulders.
So the accident comes about because
one allows something to happen, Clarisse
went on. She cautiously closed her fangs
around Ulrichs hand, smiled in embarrassment, and drilled her glance into his the way

1166/1856

one drives a thumbtack into wood. Thats

right, Ulrich, I see it in Walter! (You already
know what.) (Every time Ive yielded we were
destroyed. We just didnt know that in doing
it we were drinking a drop of the greatest
poison in the world.)
Oh? Ulrich said. So its like that
again between you?
Clarisse flashed at him from her eyes,
pulled out the thumbtack again, and nodded.
It is and it isnt; Im already a lot further. Whats the extreme opposite of letting
things happen; that one yields to impressing? You understand, he wants to impress;
nothing else! She did not wait for a response.
To make a mark! she said. Her tiny figure
had been striding up and down the room
with supple energy, her hands at her back;
now she stopped and sought with her eyes to
hold fast to Ulrichs, for the words she was
now searching for made her mind somewhat

1167/1856

unsteady. To inscribe himself, Im saying.

Lately Ive discovered something else thats
really uncanny, it sounds so simple: Half our
life is expression. (The) impressions are
nothing. A heap of earthworms! When do
you understand a piece of music? When you
yourself create it inwardly! When do you understand a person? When for a moment you
make yourself just like him! In art, in politics, but also in love, were trying painfully to
express ourselves. We re-deem ourselves to
the outside. You seewith her hand she described an acute angle lying horizontally,
which involuntarily reminded Ulrich of a
phalluslike this. That is the expression; the
active form of our existence, the pointed
form, the She became quite excited by the
effort to make herself understandable to Ulrich. Ulrich must have been rather taken
aback, for Clarisse went on to declare:
Thats already in the words re-deem and
redemption, both, the deeming and the

1168/1856

active re- Now you understand, of course

one has to practice it, but ultimately
everything will be like an arrow.
Dear ClarisseUlrich pleadedplease
speak so that I can understand you.
/Continuation:
murderer/

The

Dionysiac.

The

At this moment Siegfried came in. Ulrich had not interrupted Clarisse. She had
nonetheless retreated and was standing excitedly, as if he were crowding her, against
the wall. Ulrich was accustomed to how hard
it was for her to find the right words and how
she often tried to seize them with her whole
body, so that the meaning for which the
words were lacking lay in the movement. But
this time he was a little astonished. Clarisse,
however, was not yet satisfied, there was still

1169/1856

something she had to say. You know, if Im

unfaithful to himor lets assume anyway
that he is to methen its like digging into
ones own raw flesh. Then you cant do anything that doesnt cut deep. Then you cant
talk about that table over there without there
being a feeling of bleeding. A smile forced its
way through her excitement because
Siegfried was listening, but Siegfried was
watching her calmly, as if it were a gymnastics exercise. He had taken off his jacket
while working, and his hands and shoes were
full of dirt. He had been accustomed since
Clarisses marriage to be the confidant of
surprising secrets, and used a glance at his
watch to urge haste in a businesslike way.
Ulrich felt that this last gesture was directed
very much at him.
Clarisse quickly changed her dress. The
door remained open, and it hardly seemed
accidental that he could see her, standing
among her skirts like a boy. Siegfried was

1170/1856

saying: The assistant at the clinic was a fellow student. You dont say, Ulrich said.
What do you really want of him? Siegfried
shrugged his shoulders. Either this Moosbrugger is mentally ill or hes a criminal.
Thats correct. But if Clarisse imagines that
she can help him ? Im a doctor, and I also
have to let the hospital chaplain imagine the
same thing. Redeem! she says. Well, why
shouldnt she at least see him there?
Siegfried went through his calm routine,
brushed off his pants and shoes, and washed
his hands. Looking at him, it was hard to believe his broad, modishly trimmed mustache.
Then they drove to the clinic. Ulrich was in a
state in which he would, without resisting,
have let far crazier things happen to him.
The physician to whom Wotan conducted them was an artist in his profession.
This is something that exists in every
profession that depends on working with

1171/1856

ones head and consists of unsatisfied

emotions.
In earlier decades there were photographers who placed the leg of the person to
be immortalized on a cardboard boulder;
today they strip him naked and have him
emote at the sunset; at that time they were
wearing curled beards and flowing neckties,
today they are clean-shaven and underline
their arts organ of procreationin precisely
the same way a naked African emphasizes
her pudenda with a loincloth of mussel
shellsby means of glasses. But there were
also such artists in the sciences, on the General Staff, and in industry. In such professions they are considered interesting notjust-experts and often, too, as liberators
from the narrowness of the craft. In, for instance, the biology of the general doctrine of
life, it has been discovered that mechanical,
dead, causal explanations and functional
laws are inadequate, and that life has to be

1172/1856

explained by life or, as they call it, the life

force; and in the War they sacrificed entire
divisions, or had the population of whole regions shot, because they were generous /
thought they owed something to a certain
heroic generosity.
With doctors, this romanticism often
takes only the harmless form of the family
adviser who prescribes marriage, automobile
trips, and theater tickets, or advises a neurasthenic who is deeply depressed by his failing business not to pay any attention to the
business for a period of two months. It was
only psychiatry that occupied a special position, for in science the slighter the success in
precision, the greater, generally speaking, is
the artistic component, and up until a few
years ago psychiatry was by far the most
artistic of all modern sciences, with a literature as ingenious as that of theology and a
success rate that could not be discerned in
the earthly realm here below / was to be as

1173/1856

little discerned here below as theologys. Its

representatives were therefore often /
frequently /, and today to some extent still
are, great artists, and Dr. Fried, Wotans university friend, was one of these. If one asked
him about the prospects for a cure he would
dismiss it with an ironic or a fatigued gesture, while on the other hand there was always lying on his desk a cleanly prepared
and beautifully dyed section of brain on a
slide, beside the microscope through which
he would look into the incomprehensible astral world of cell tissue, and on his face there
was the expression of a man practicing a
black art, a notorious but admired craft that
brings him into daily contact with the incomprehensible and with depraved desires. His
black hair was plastered down demoniacally,
as if it would otherwise stand on end; his
movements were soft and unnatural, and his
eyes those of a cardsharp, hypnotist, master
detective, gravedigger, or hangman.

1174/1856

Of the three visitors, he devoted himself

from the beginning exclusively to Clarisse.
He showed Ulrich the least possible politeness. Since this left Ulrich free to observe
him in peace and with annoyance, he soon
discovered the mans major points. Clarisse,
on the other hand, who from the beginning
regarded her desire as fulfilled, was charging
ahead too impetuously, and as clinical assistant and instructor, Dr. Fried saw himself
compelled to raise obstacles. Clarisse was a
woman and not a doctor, and science demands strictly circumscribed limits. Wotan
wanted to assume the responsibility of having his sister let in with false documents. But
since this was stated openly, the assistant
could only smile wearily. Since we arent
doctorsUlrich askedcouldnt we be a pair
of writers, who for research purposes ?
The doctor dismissed this with a gesture: If
you were Zola and Selma Lagerlof I would be
charmed by your visit, which of course I am

1175/1856

anyway, but here only scientific interests are

recognized. Unlesshe made a smiling gesture of yieldingthe ambassadors of your
countries had made application for you to
the administration of the clinic.
Then I know what we can do, Ulrich
said: Well invent some charitable motivation. If the lady is not permitted to see the
patients, she can at least visit the prisoner.
Its no trouble for me to get her the legitimation of a charitable organization and permission of the district court.
That would be fine. Come here to my
official residence; the best time would be
after the Chief Physicians rounds. As long as
youre in my company nobody would, of
course, think of asking to see your credentials. But naturally I have to have a cover for
my conscience.
Clarisse, excited by the difficulties that
had to be overcome, beamed, and Dr. Fried

1176/1856

spoke of his conscience at the last in a highly

patronizing way, rather in the tone of a
prince giving an order to the lowest of his
subjects.
About a week passed.
Clarisse was as excited as a nervous
child in the week before Christmas. It gave
the impression that she was imparting a
symbolic importance to her encounter with
Moosbrugger, Hke the meeting of two rulers.
I believe I have the strength to help
him when I see him, she asserted.
Why dont you take him a sausage insteadUlrich answeredand cigarettes.
Wotan laughed and proffered a medical
joke; but afterward he again gave the impression of being grateful for the greater energy
that radiated into his darkness from

1177/1856

Clarisses ideas, like a thunderstorm below

the horizon.
Clarisse was tinglingly strengthened
when she felt her influence over him.
If you had first met him a hundred
years ago, you would have fallen weeping on
his breast, Ulrich remarked.
Wotan of course added that at that time
the emotions were not as disturbed as they
are today.
Quite the contrary, Ulrich maintained. All the weeping and embracing was
a sign that people never really possessed
these emotions; thats why they were forced.
Isnt it truehe turned to Wotanthat this is
the same mechanism as in hysteria?
Wotan made a joke about his wife, who
he said was hysterical, and all the medical
theories he had no idea what to do with. He
already had three children.

1178/1856

When shes playing the piano fortissimoWalter defended Clarissewhen shes

excited and has tears in her eyes: isnt she
absolutely right in refusing to get on the
streetcar, travel to the clinic, and behave
there as if it had been just music and not
real tears?
He had, incidentally, excluded himself
and did not go along to the clinic.
Shes completely wrong, Ulrich responded.For Moosbruggers sentiments toward a sausage are unaffected and healthy,
while on the other hand, Clarisses importunate behavior will only make him regret
not being able to plunge a knife into her
belly.
You really think so? Clarisse liked
that. She thought it over and said: It was
only the substitute women he was angry at;
thats what it was.

1179/1856

Hes an idiot, Ulrich said clearly and

calmly. Struggling around Clarisses mouth
were a laugh, a difficulty, and the desire to
let Ulrich know that she was reaching an understanding with him. Youre a pessimist!
she finally said; and nothing else, except: Nietzsche! Would Ulrich understand this?
Would Walter intuit what had just taken
place? Her thoughts had squeezed into a very
small package, into a sentence and into a
word, inserted into the smallest space as miraculously as the burglars tool that nothing
can resist; she was strangely excited. Every
evening now she took a volume of Nietzsche
to bed with her. Is there a pessimism of
strength? That was the sentence that had
occurred to her; it continues: an intellectual predilection for what is hard, gruesome,
evil, and problematical in existence? She
did not remember it exactly anymore, but an
unarticulated essence of these qualities
hovered before her, associated with Ulrich,

1180/1856

who fromindeed, now this expression

popped updepths of anti-moral inclination, while she constantly had to struggle
against the moral inclination to feel sympathy for Walter, made everything look ridiculous and therefore strangely allied with
her. She was half fainting as these connections crackled like lightning, half philosophy
and half adultery, and all squeezed into a
single word as into a hiding place. And like a
new avalanche, a sentence rolled down and
engulfed her, the desire for the horrible as
the worthy enemy, and fragments from a
long quotation swirled around her: Is insanity perhaps not necessarily the symptom of
degeneration? Are there perhaps neuroses of
health? What does the synthesis of god and
he-goat in the satyr indicate? Out of what experience of the self did the Greeks have to
think of the enthusiast and primitive person
as satyr? All that lay in a laugh, a word,
and a twisting of the mouth. Walter noticed

1181/1856

nothing. Ulrich looked at her with calm merrimentwhat hardness lay in this unconcern!and said they should hurry up.
As they were walking to the terminus of
the streetcar, she asked Ulrich: If hes only
an idiot/ why are you going? Oh, for heavens sake, he replied, I always do what I
dont believe in. He was surprised because
Clarisse did not look at him but stared radiantly straight ahead and gave his hand a
strong squeeze.
***
[Clarisse drags Ulrich to a concert of
avant-garde music in the studio of some
painter friends of hers. This scene is
sketched out more fully later.] From the
study of law Walter was driven to music;
from music to the theater; from the theater
to an art gallery; from the art gallery back to
art; from art ? Now he is stuck, no longer

1182/1856

has the energy to make another change, is

contentedly unhappy, curses us all, and goes
punctually to his office. And while he is in his
office something may perhaps happen
between Clarisse and Ulrich, but if he were
to find out about it, it would put him in an
enormous uproar, as if the whole ocean of
world history were surging. Hes as blind as
the moon about what goes on behind his
back. To Ulrich, on the other hand, all this
was far more a matter of indifference. Or: He
almost envied him. Clarisse, sitting there
hunched over and holding her fingers
clenched while the other sounds sifted and
shook, he found almost as unpleasant as a
caricature of the sensibility of genius, of the
revolutionary, the activist; that no emotion,
no idea, is worth being the ultimate one, that
one should not linger over anything because
the sky leads endlessly upward. He is sleepy,
but she will not let him rest. But there is
something surrounding her! She always has

1183/1856

to be doing something. Simply from tension,

to get rid of something, to get past the last
minute. And Walter? He is the born talented
mediocrity; unhappy, but lucky, and everyone likes him; everyone invites him to stick
around; with titanic effort he is constantly
pulling his feet out of soil where they could
take root so beautifully. Ulrich smiled maliciously. Hes really not a weak character at
all. Its unbelievably difficult to achieve nothing if you dont have any talent!
And finally he will be happy.
Clarisse would be making a bad exchange.
During the intermission Clarisse sat
down beside Ulrich. I cant take any more,
she said. When I hear music Id like to
either laugh or cry or run away.
With Meingast? Ulrich asked.

1184/1856

That was only an experiment. She

seized his hand and held it fast. No, with
someone who could make music. Without
conscience. A world. I hear that world
sometimes.
Ulrich said angrily: Youre primitive,
you musicians. What kind of subtle,
unheard-of motivation does it take to produce a raging outburst after sinking into oneself in silence! You do it with five notes!
Its something you dont understand,
Uli. Clarisse laughed.
And it doesnt bother you? Ulrich
challenged her scornfully.
You dont understand itClarisse said
tenderlythats just why youre so hard. You
dont have a soft conscience. You were never
sick.
Id cheat on you, Ulrich said.

1185/1856

Being cheated is meaningless to us.

We have to give everything weve got. We can
only cheat ourselves. Her fingers snaked
around his hand. Music either is or it isnt.
Youll run out on me with somebody
from the circus, Ulrich said pensively. He
stared gloomily into the confusing tangle of
people. Youll be disappointed. For me its
all a tissue of contradictions among which
there is no resolution. But perhaps youre
right. A few blasts on the trumpet. Fantasized ones. Run to them.
Evening was coming on. Wandering
dark-blue clouds were in the sky beyond the
studio windows. The tips of a tree reached up
from below houses stood with the backs of
their roofs turned upward. How should
they stand otherwise? Ulrich thought, and
yet there are moments when the small sorrow that one feels falls into the world as if
onto a muffled giant drum. He thought of
Agathe and was unspeakably sad. This small

1186/1856

creature at his side was rushing forward at

an unnatural speed. As if under the pressure
of some kind of program. That wasnt the
natural way for love to develop. And anyway,
there could be no talk of love. He was quite
clear about that. And yet he yielded without
resistance. He was consoled by a vague
thought; something like this: a person is insulted and makes a great invention; thats
how die real deeds of the human will come
about. Never in a straight line. I love Agathe
and am letting myself be seduced by Clarisse.
Clarisse believes that the small stir she
makes is her will, but mine lies motionless
beneath it like the water beneath the waves.
The music, which kindled peoples eyes
like lights in the darkening room and blew
their bodies through each other like smoke,
had started up again.

1187/1856

The cleaning woman had already left; Walter

was in the middle of his day in the office; Ulrich now chose such hours for his visits,
without thinking about the significance of his
choice. Yet until a particular Sunday, nothing
happened. Walter had received an invitation
that called him into town until evening, and
half an hour before, after lunch, Ulrich had
shown up without suspecting anything and
in a bad mood, for the prospect of an afternoon in the presence of his friend had enticed him so little that he really only started
out from habit. But when Walter immediately began to say good-bye, Ulrich felt it as a
signal. Clarisse had the same thought. They
both knew it.
She would play for him, Clarisse said.
Clarisse began. From the window Ulrich
waved to Walter, who waved back. Keeping
his eyes in the room, he leaned farther and
farther out, after the vanishing figure.
Clarisse suddenly broke off and came to the

1188/1856

window too: Walter was no longer to be seen.

Clarisse returned to playing. Ulrich now
turned his back to her, as if it did not concern him; leaning into the window frame.
Clarisse again stopped playing, ran into the
hall; Ulrich heard her putting the chain on
the door. When she came back he slowly
turned around; said nothing; swayed for a
moment. She played on. He went up to her
and laid his hand on her shoulder. Without
turning her head, she pushed his hand away
with her shoulder. Scoundrel! she said;
played on. Strange? he thought. Does she
want to feel force? The idea that urged itself
upon him, that he ought to seize her by both
shoulders and pull her down off the piano
stool, seemed to him as comical as rocking a
loose tooth. This constrained him. He went
into the middle of the room. Alerted his
hearing and sought an opening. But before
anything occurred to him his mouth said:
Clarisse! That had cut loose, detached itself

1189/1856

gurgling from his throat, had grown out of

his throat like a strange creature. Clarisse
obediently stood up and came over to him.
Her eyes were wide open. At this moment he
understood for the first time that Clarisse
was trying artificially, perhaps without
knowing it, to evoke the excitement of a tremendous sacrificial act. Since she was standing beside him, the decision had to be made
in an instant, but Ulrich was overcome by all
the force of these inhibitions; his legs would
no longer support him, he could not utter a
word, and threw himself on the sofa.
This excitement infecting him really ought to
be made more appealing.
At the same instant, Clarisse threw herself
on his lap. Her lizard arms slung themselves
around his head and neck. She seemed to be
tearing at her arms, but without being able to

1190/1856

loosen them from the embrace. Heated air

came from her mouth and burned words into
his face that he could not understand. There
were tears in her eyes. Then everything of
which he was normally constituted collapsed. He, too, uttered something that had
no meaning, but before the eyes of them
both; veins shivered and stood out like bars
on a cage, their souls went at each other like
bulls, and this riot was accompanied by the
feeling of a tremendous moral decision. Now
neither of them restrained words, faces,
hands any longer. Their faces pressed themselves on each other, wet with tears and
sweat, as pure flesh; all the words of love
that were to be rehearsed tumbled over each
other, as if the contents of a marriage had
been shaken out upside down; the lascivious,
hardened words that come only with long intimacy came first, unmediated, inciting, and
yet bringing horror with them. Ulrich had
half sat up; everything was so slippery (from

1191/1856

their faces to their words) that their gliding

into each other no longer made a sound.
Clarisse tore her hat from the hook and
stormed out. He with her. Wordless. Where
to? This question was ridiculously lonely in
his brain, swept clean by the storm.
Clarisse rushed over paths, across
meadows, through hedges, through woods.
She was not one of those women who are
broken softly, but became hard and angry
after the fall. They finally found themselves
in a quiet remote corner of the zoo that adjoined the woods. A small rococo summerhouse stood there. Empty. Here she presented herself to him once again. This time with
many words and confessions. Driven by the
impatience of desire and the fear that people
might come by. It was horrible. This time Ulrich became quite cold and hard with remorse. Ulrich left her there. He did not care
how she would get home, but rushed off.

1192/1856

***
When Ulrich got back to the house
later, he found Walter there. Clarisse was
still angry, and making a gentle show of marital concord. But with a single pouting look
she made Ulrich feel that the two of them
still belonged together. Only afterward did it
occur to him how strange the expression of
her eyes had been twice that afternoon: delirious and mad.
***
In the excitement, Ulrich had agreed to
participate in freeing Moosbrugger. Now he
fell in with this idea because it had already
gone so far. He did not believe in it, and
made the preparations convinced that it
would not be possible to carry them out.
***
Attending physician: Stay in a sanatorium advised; a little rest-and-diet cure. Its

1193/1856

not good for the nerves to lie there without

any fatafter he had observed Clarisses
body, which had become totally boyish.
To Walters joyful surprise, Clarisse
offered no resistance. (She felt: None of them
amount to much: Walter, Ulrich, Meingast.)
I have to take it upon myself alone. Her head
felt like the peak of a mountain around
which clouds gather; she felt a longing for
the horizontal, to stretch out, lie down, in a
more bracing air than that of the city.
Greenness, vine-twistingness, light-dapplingness hovered before her; countryside,
like a strong hand compelling sleep.
***
She has come through the first phase;
now it is a good idea for her to rest and
strengthen herself. Moreover, she had the
feeling: I have to do everything by myself.
***

1194/1856

Wotan had offered to take her; Walter

couldnt get away from work; suffered as under a knife when he saw the two of them
leave. Suffered as if his heart had been put
through a meat grinder / stone crusher.
***
When Clarisse entered the sanatorium,
she inspected it like a general. A feeling of
mission and divinity was already mingling
again with her depression; she confidently
tested the arrangements and the doctors on
the question of whether they would be able
to shelter and protect the revolution in world
ideas that would now be emanating from this
place.
***
So it was also the need to collect herself that
had led her there.
***

1195/1856

The diagnosis put forward for her was

general exhaustion and neurasthenia;
Clarisse lived quiedy and was solicitously
cared for. The persistent blows that had
shaken her body like a railway journey
ceased; she suddenly came to realize that she
had been ill, while the ground beneath her
feet was becoming firmer and more elastic
again; she felt tenderness for her healing
body, which was also now solicitously
caring for her mind, as she ascertained, delighted at this unity of events.
***
Previously lack of appetite, diarrhea, etc.
But the most recent events suddenly appeared problematical to her.
She got hold of writing materials and
proceeded to write down her experiences.
She wrote for a whole day, almost from
morning to evening. Without the need for

1196/1856

fresh air or food; it struck her that her bodily

activities receded almost entirely, and only a
certain timidity about the strict house rules
of the sanatorium moved her to go to the
dining hall. Some time earlier she had read
somewhere an article on Francis of Assisi; he
showed up again in the notebook she was
working on, in whole paragraphs that were
repeated with trivial individual changes
without this bothering her. The originality of
intellectual achievements is judged falsely
even today. The traditional idea of the hero
still battles for priority with every new idea
and new invention, although we have long
known from the history of these controversies that every new idea arises in several
minds at the same time, but that for some
reason the heroic sense finds it more fitting
to imagine genius as a bubbling spring instead of a broad current made up of many
tributaries and combinations, although the
greatest ideas of genius are nothing more

1197/1856

than modifications of other ideas of genius,

with minor additions. That is why on the one
hand we no longer have any geniusesbecause we think we see the point of origin all
too clearly and will not abandon ourselves to
believing in the genius of an accomplishment
composed of nothing but ideas, emotions,
and other elements that, taken singly, we
must have unavoidably already encountered
here and there. On the other hand, we exaggerate our imaginings about the nature of
geniuss originalityespecially where the
testing by facts and by success is lacking; in
short, wherever it is a question of nothing
less than our soulin such a senseless and
perverted way that we have a great many
geniuses whose heads have no more content
than the page of a newspaper, but a flashy
and original makeup byway of compensation. This makeupallied with the false belief in the inescapable originality of genius, at
odds with the obscure feeling of there being

1198/1856

nothing behind it, which climaxes in a total

incapacity to take the countless elements of
an age and create structures of intellectual
life that are nothing more than experiments,
yet have the full seriousness of impartialitybelongs to that tepid mood full of doubts
about the possibility of genius and the adoration of many ersatz geniuses that prevails
today.
In spite of her many weaknesses,
Clarisse, for whom genius was a matter of
the will, belonged neither to the shrilly gotup people nor to the disheartened ones. She
wrote down with great energy what she had
read, and in doing so had the right feeling of
originality in assimilating this material and
feeling it mysteriously becoming part of her
inmost being, as in the vividly leaping flames
of an immolation. By accident, she wrote,
while I was already thinking of my departure, memories clashed in my head. That the
Sienese (Perugia?) in the year carried a

1199/1856

portrait into the church, that Dante

names the fountain that is still standing
today in the Piazza And that Dante said
about the piety of Francis of Assisi, who was
canonized shortly afterward: It rose among
us like a shining star.
Where she no longer remembered the
names she put in periods. There was time for
that later. But the words rose like a shining
star she felt in her body. That sheincidentallyhad hit upon the article she had read
had come about because she longed for better times; not as an escape, but becauseas
she feltsomething active had to happen.
This Francis of Assisishe wrotewas
the son of prosperous Sienese citizens, a
draper, and before that a smart young man
about town. People of today like Ulrich, who
have access to science, are reminded by his
later behavior (after his religious awakening)
of certain manic states, and it cannot be
denied that they are right in doing so. But

1200/1856

what in 1913 is mental illness can in 13

(periodic insanity, hysteria, of course not illnesses with an anatomical course, only those
that coexist with health!!) merely have been
seen as a one-sided debit of health. The etiology of certain diseases is not only a personal but also a social phenomenon she underlined this sentence. In parentheses she threw
in a few additional words: (Hysteria. Freud.
Delirium: its forms are different according to
the society. Mass psychology offers images
that do not differ greatly from the clinical).
Then came a sentence that she also underlined: It is by no means excluded that what
today becomes mere inner destruction will
one day again have constructive value.
If the healthy person is a social phenomenon, then so is the sick person.
It went through her mind that Dante
and Francis of Assisi were actually one and

1201/1856

the same person; it was a tremendous discovery. She did not, however, write it down
but undertook to look into this problem
later, and the next moment her splendor,
too, was extinguished. The decisive thing
isshe wrotethat at that time a person,
whom today we would in good conscience
put in a sanatorium, could live, teach, and
lead his contemporaries! That the best of his
contemporaries saw him as an honor and an
illumination! That at that time Siena was a
center of culture. But she wrote in the margin: All people are one person? Then she
went on more calmly: It fascinates me to
imagine how things looked then. That age
did not have much intelligence. It did not
test things; it believed like a good child,
without bothering itself about what was improbable. Religion went along with local patriotism; it was not the individual Sienese
who would enter into heaven, but one day
the whole city of Siena that would be

1202/1856

transplanted there as a unit. For one loved

heaven by loving the city. (The cheerfulness,
the sense of ornament, the broad vistas of
small Italian cities!) Religious eccentrics
were few; people were proud of their city;
what they shared was a common experience.
Heaven belonged to this city, how should it
be otherwise? The priests were considered
not particularly religious people but merely a
kind of official; for in all religions God was
always something far away and uncertain,
but the faith that the Son of God had come to
visit, that one still had the writings of those
who had seen Him with their own eyes, imparted an enormous vitality, nearness, and
security to the experience, which the priests
were there to confirm. The officer corps of
God.
If in the midst of this one is brushed by
God, as Saint Francis was, it is only a new reassurance, which does not disturb the civic
cheerfulness of the experience. Because

1203/1856

everyone believed, a few could do so in a particular way, and thus intellectual wealth was
added to simple, legitimate security. For in
sum more energies flow from opposition
than from agreement.
Here deep furrows formed on Clarisses
forehead. Nietzsche occurred to her, the enemy of religion: here there were still some
difficult things for her to reconcile. I do not
presume to know the enormous history of
these emotionsshe told herselfbut one
thing is certain: today the religious experience is no longer the action of all, of a community, but only of individuals. And apparently that is why this experience is sick.
Feeling of solitude in the sea of the spirit,
which is in motion in all directions.

1204/1856

/ Note: Mass experience connected with

Meingast. /
She stopped writing and walked slowly
up and down the room, excitedly rubbing her
hands against each other or rubbing her
forehead with a finger. It was not from despondency that she fled into past and remote
times; it was absolutely clear to her that she,
striding up and down in this room, was connected with the Siena of the past. Thoughts
of recent days were intermingled with this:
she was in some fashion or other not only
destined but already actually involved in taking over the mission that recurred over the
centuries, like God in every new Host. But
she was not thinking of God; remarkably
enough, this was the only idea she did not
think of, as if it had no role in it at all; perhaps it would have disturbed her, for
everything else was as vivid as if she had to
get on a train tomorrow to travel there. By
the windows great masses of green leaves

1205/1856

waved in at her; tree balls; they steeped the

whole room in a watery green. This color,
with which at that time my soul was filled,
as she said later, played a great role in her as
the chief color of these ideas.
This connection to the past, which Ulrich
lacks.
Feeling! Pealing of bells. Processions
march with banners to the Virgin and gorgeous robes. She was walking in the middle.
When they stopped, however, the crowd did
not stop. But that was not upsetting.
***
[Clarisse flees to Italy, where she joins
Ulrich on the Island of Health:]
In PompeiiUlrich saidthe cast of a
woman has been found sealed in a fraction of
a second into the cooling lava like a statue by
the gases into which her body dissolved

1206/1856

when the terrible stream of fire enveloped

her. This nearly naked woman, whose shift
had slid up to her back, had been overtaken
as she was running and fallen facedown with
her arms outstretched, while her small hairknot, untidily put up, still sat firmly on the
back of her head; she was neither ugly nor
beautiful, neither voluptuous from living
well nor gnawed by poverty, neither twisted
by horror nor unwittingly overpowered
without fear; but just because of all that, this
woman, who many centuries ago jumped out
of bed and was thrown on her stomach, has
remained as incredibly alive as if at any
second she could stand up again and run on.
Clarisse understood exactly what he meant.
Whenever she scratched her thoughts and
emotions in the sand, with some mark or
other that was as charged with them as a
boat that can hardly stay afloat for the multiplicity of its cargo, and the wind then blew
on it for a day, animal tracks ran over it, or

1207/1856

rain made pockmarks in it and eroded the

sharpness of the outlines the way the cares of
life erode a face, but most especially when
one had forgotten it completely and only
through some chance stumbled on it again
and suddenly confronted oneself, confronted
an instant compressed and full of emotions
and thoughts that had become sunken,
faded, small, and barely recognizable, overgrown from left to right but not vanished,
with grasses and animals living around it
without shyness, when it had become world,
earth: then ? Hard to say what then; the island became populated with many Clarisses;
they slept on the sand, flew on the light
through the air, called from the throats of
birds; it was a lust to touch oneself everywhere, to run into oneself everywhere, an
unutterable sensitivity: a giddiness escaped
from the eyes of this woman and was able to
infect Ulrich, the way one persons lustful
glance can ignite the greatest lust in another.

1208/1856

God knows what it isUlrich thoughtthat

causes lovers to scratch the mystery of their
initials into the bark of trees, so that they
grow along with it; that has invented the seal
and the coat of arms, the magic of portraits
gazing out of their frames: to end ultimately
in the trace of the photographic plate, which
has lost all mystery because it is already
nearly reality again.
But it was not only that. It was also the
multiplicity of meaning. Something was a
stone and signified Ulrich; but Clarisse knew
that it was more than Ulrich and a stone,
that it was everything in Ulrich that was hard
as stone and everything heavy that was oppressing her, and all insight into the world
that one acquired, once one had understood
that the stones were like Ulrich. Exactly as if
one says: This is Max, but he is a genius. Or
the fork of a branch and a hole in die sand
say: this is Clarisse, but at the same time she
is a witch and is riding her heart. Many

1209/1856

emotions that are otherwise separate crowd

around such a sign, one never quite knew
which ones, but gradually Ulrich also recognized such an uncertainty in the world in his
own feelings. It threw into relief some of
Clarisses peculiarly invented trains of
thought, which he almost learned to
understand.
/ The uncertainty: / For a while Clarisse
saw things that one otherwise does not see.
Ulrich could explain that splendidly. Perhaps
it was insanity. But a forester out walking
sees a different world from the one a botanist
or a murderer sees. One sees many invisible
things. A woman sees the material of a dress,
a painter a lake of liquid colors in its stead. I
see through the window whether a hat is
hard or soft. If I glance into the street I can
likewise see whether it is warm or cold outside, whether people are happy, sad, healthy,
or ailing; in the same way, the taste of a fruit
is sometimes already in the fingertips that

1210/1856

touch them. Ulrich remembered: if one looks

at something upside downfor instance, behind the lens of a small cameraone notices
things one had overlooked. A waving back
and forth of trees or shrubs or heads that to
the normal eye appear motionless. Or one
becomes conscious of the peculiar hopping
quality of the way people walk. One is astonished at die persistent restlessness of things.
In the same way, there are unperceived
double images in the field of vision, for one
eye sees something differently from the other; afterimages crystallize from still pictures
like the most delicate-colored fogs; the brain
suppresses, supplements, forms the supposed reality; the ear does not hear the thousand sounds of ones own body: skin, joints,
muscles, the innermost self, broadcast a contrapuntal composition of innumerable sensations that, mute, blind, and deaf, perform the
subterranean dance of the so-called waking
state. Ulrich remembered how once, not

1211/1856

even very high up in the mountains, he had

been overtaken by a snowstorm early in the
year; he was on his way to meet some friends
who were supposed to be coming down a
path, and was surprised at not yet having
met up with them, when the weather suddenly changed; the clarity darkened, a howling storm came up, and thick clouds of snow
flung sharp icy needles at the solitary wanderer, as if for him it were a matter of life
and death. Although after a few minutes Ulrich reached the shelter of an abandoned
hut, the wind and the torrents of snow had
gone right through him, and the icy cold as
well as the exertions of his struggle against
the storm and the force of the snow had exhausted him within a very brief period.
When the storm passed as quickly as it had
come, he of course set out on his way again;
he was not the sort of person to let himself
be intimidated by such an event, at least his
conscious self was totally free of excitement

1212/1856

and any kind of overestimation of the danger

he had come through; indeed, he felt himself
in the highest of spirits. But he still must
have been shaken, for he suddenly heard his
party coming toward him and cheerfully
called to them. But no one answered. He
again called out loudlyfor it is easy to get
off the path in the snow and miss each otherand ran, as well as he could, in the direction indicated, for the snow was deep and he
had not been prepared for it, having undertaken the climb without either skis or snowshoes. After some twenty-five paces, at every
one of which he sank in up to his hips, exhaustion forced him to stop, but just then he
again heard voices in animated conversation,
and so near that he absolutely should have
seen the speakers, whom there was nothing
to conceal. And yet no one was there except
the soft, bright-gray snow. Ulrich collected
his senses, and the conversation became
more distinct. Im hallucinating, he said to

1213/1856

himself. Yet he called out again; without success. He began to fear for himself and
checked himself in every way he could think
of; spoke loudly and coherently, calculated
small sums in his mind, and carried out
movements of arms and fingers whose execution demanded total control. All these
things worked, without the phenomenon
vanishing. He heard whole conversations full
of surprising import and a harmonious multiplicity of voices. Then he laughed, found
the experience interesting, and began to observe it. But that did not make the phenomenon disappear either; it faded only
when he turned around and had already
climbed down several hundred yards, while
his friends had not taken this way back at all
and there was no human soul in the vicinity.
So unreliable and extensive is the boundary
between insanity and health. It really did not
surprise him when in the middle of the night

1214/1856

Clarisse, trembling, woke him up and

claimed she was hearing a voice. When he
asked her, she said it was not a human voice
and not an animal voice, but a voice of
something, and then he, too, suddenly
heard a noise that could in no way be
ascribed to a material being; and the next instant, while Clarisse was trembling more and
more violently and opened her eyes wide like
a night bird, something invisible seemed to
glide around the room, bumping into the
mirror in its glass frame and exerting a disembodied pressure, and in Ulrich, too,
fearsnot one fear, a bundle of fears, a world
of fearspoured out in panic, so that he had
to bring all his reason to bear in order to resist and to calm Clarisse down.
Dramatize! Make all this present!
***

1215/1856

But he was reluctant to apply his reason. One could feel strangely happy in this
uncertainty that the world assumed in
Clarisses vicinity. The sketchings in the sand
and the models made of stones, feathers, and
branches now took on meaning for him too,
as if here, on this Island of Health,
something was trying to come to fulfillment
that his life had already touched on several
times. The foundation of human life seemed
to him a monstrous fear of some kind, indeed really a fear of the indeterminate. He
lay on the white sand between the blue of the
air and the blue of the water on the small,
hot sandy platform of the island between the
cold depths of sea and sky. He lay as in snow.
If he were to have been blown away then,
this is the way it could have happened.
Clarisse was romping and playing like a child
behind the thistly dunes. He was not afraid.
He saw life from above. This island had
flown away with him. He understood his

1216/1856

past. Hundreds of human orders have come

and gone: from the gods to brooch pins, and
from psychology to the record player, every
one of them an obscure unit, every one an
obscure conviction that it was the ultimate,
ascendant one, and every one of them mysteriously sinking after a few hundred or a few
thousand years and passing into rubble and
building site: what else is this but a climbing
up out of nothingness, each attempt on a different wall? like one of those dunes blown by
the wind, which for a while forms its own
weight and then is blown away again by the
wind? What is everything we do other than a
nervous fear of being nothing: beginning
with our pleasures, which are no pleasures
but only a din, a chattering instigated to kill
time, because a dark certainty admonishes
us that it will in the end annihilate us, all the
way to those inventions that outdo each other, the senseless mountains of money that
kill the spirit, whether one is suffocated or

1217/1856

borne up by them, to the continually changing fashions of the mind, of clothes that
change incessantly, to murder, assassination,
war, in which a profound mistrust of
whatever is stable and created explodes:
what is all that but the restlessness of a man
shoveling himself down to his knees out of a
grave he will never escape, a being that will
never entirely climb out of nothingness, who
fearfully flings himself into shapes but is, in
some secret place that he is hardly aware of
himself, vulnerable and nothing?
To here: Role of human experiences that
spread not through rational transmission but
through contagion. A social (humanitys) experience in two people.
And no way at all of framing this in cycles!

1218/1856

Ulrich remembered the man he had observed with Clarisse and Meingast in the
green circle of the lantern. Here on the Island of Health even this distorted human
creation, this exhibitionist, this despairing
creature, this sexual desire stealing forth in a
crouch out of the darkness when a woman
passed by, was not basically different from
other people. What else but a solitary exhibitionism were Walters sentimental music, or
Meingasts political thoughts about the common will of the many? What is even the success of a statesman standing in the midst of
human bustle other than an anesthetizing
exercise that has the appearance of a gratification? In love, in art, in greed, in politics, in
work, and in play, we seek to articulate our
painful secret: A person only half belongs to
himself, the other half is expression. / This
quotation from Emerson is I think word for
word! / In the travail of their souls, all
people yearn for expression. The dog sprays

1219/1856

a stone with himself and sniffs his excrement: to leave a trace in the world, to erect in
the world a monument to oneself, a deed
that will still be celebrated after hundreds of
years, is the meaning of all heroism. I have
done something: that is a trace, a dissimilar
but immortal portrait. I have done
something binds parts of the material world
to myself. Even just expressing something
already means having one sense more with
which to appropriate the world. Even wheedling someone into something the way Walter
does has this sense. Ulrich laughed, because
it occurred to him that Walter would walk
around in despair with the thought: Oh, I
could say a thing or two about that! It is
the profound basic feeling of the bourgeois, a
feeling that is steadily being silenced and pacified. But on the Island of Health
Ulrich ended by taking back all the ambition of his life. What are even theories, other than wheedling? Discussions. And at the

1220/1856

conclusion of such hours Ulrich was no

longer thinking of anything but Agathe, the
distant, inseparable sister, of whom he did
not even know what she was doing. And he
sadly recalled her favorite expression: What
can I do for my soul, which lives in me like
an unsolved riddle? Which leaves visible
man free to make any kind of choice because
it cannot govern him in any way?
Here a settlement of accounts about Ulrichs
mood in regard to heroism.
The dog, which after long association with
man involuntarily caricatures him so splendidly in many ways.
The feeling of never being allowed to leave
here again.

1221/1856

Clarisse meanwhile was playing out her

game of signs; sometimes he saw her scurrying over the dunes like a fluttering cloth. We
are playing our story here, she claimed, on
the stage of this island. Basically it was only
the exaggerated form of this having to imprint oneself on uncertainty. Formerly, when
Clarisse had still been going to the opera
with Walter, she had often said: What is all
art! If we could act out our stories! She was
now doing this as well. All lovers ought to do
it. All lovers have the feeling that what we
are experiencing is something miraculous,
we are chosen people; but they ought to play
it before a large orchestra and a dark
hallreal lovers on the stage, and not people
who are paid: not only a new theater would
arise but also an entirely new kind of love,
which would spread, lighting up human gestures like a fine network of branches, instead
of, like today, creeping into the childs darkness. That was what Clarisse said. Please, no

1222/1856

child! Instead of accomplishing something,

people have children! Sometimes she called
the small keepsakes she put in the sand for
Ulrich her secret children, or so she called
every impression she received, for the impression melted into her like fruit. Between
her and things there existed a continual exchanging of signs and understandings, a conspiracy, a heightened thinking / heightened
correspondence / a burning, spirited life process. Sometimes this became so intense that
Clarisse thought she was being torn out of
her slender body and flying like a veil over
the island, without rest, until her eyes were
transfixed by a small stone or a shell and a
credulous astonishment rooted her to the
spot, because she had already been here once
and always, and had lain quietly as a trace in
the sand, while a second Clarisse had flown
over the island like a witch.

1223/1856

At times, her person seemed to her only

an obstacle, unnaturally inserted in the dynamic exchange between the world that affected her and the world she affected. In its
most intense moments, this self seemed to
tear apart and disintegrate. / Cf. piano scene.
BeethovenNietzsche quotation. Even then
Clarisse was serious about tearing apart. /
Even if she was unfaithful to Walter with this
body and this soul fastened to her skin, it
did not mean anything: there were many
hours in which the frigid, rejecting Clarisse
transformed herself into a vampire, insatiable, as if an obstacle had fallen away and for
the first time she could yield to this heretofore forbidden pleasure. She sometimes
seemed to plan things to suck Ulrich dry:
Theres still one more devil in you I have to
exorcise! she said. He owned a red sport
jacket, and she sometimes made him put it
on in the middle of the night and did not let
up until he turned pale under his tanned

1224/1856

skin. Her passion for him, and in general all

the emotions she expressed, were not
deepUlrich felt that distinctlybut somehow at times passed by depth on their precipitous fall into the abyss.
Nor did she entirely trust Ulrich. He did
not completely understand the greatness of
what she was experiencing. During these
days she had of course recognized and seen
through everything that had previously been
inaccessible to her. Formerly, she had experienced infinite heaviness, the enterprising
spirits fall from almost-attained heights of
greatness to the deepest anxiety and anguish.
It seems that a person can be driven out
from the ordinary real world we all know by
processes that take place not in her but
above or below the earth, and in the same
way the person can intensify them into the
incommensurable. On the island she explained it to Ulrich like this: One day
everything around Clarisse had been

1225/1856

enhanced: colors, smells, straight and

crooked lines, noises, her emotions or
thoughts, and the ones she aroused in others; what was taking place might have been
causal, necessary, mechanical, and psychological, but aside from that it was moved by a
secret driving force; it might have happened
precisely that way the day before, but today,
in some indescribable and fortunate way, it
was different. OhClarisse immediately
said to herselfI am freed from the law of
necessity, where every thing depends on
some other thing. For things depended on
her emotions. Or rather, what was at work
was a continual activity of the self and of
things penetrating and yielding to each other, as if they were on opposite sides of the
same elastic membrane. Clarisse discovered
that what she was acting from was a veil of
emotions, with things on the other side. A
little later she received the most terrible confirmation: she perceived everything going on

1226/1856

around her just as correctly as before, but it

had become totally dissociated and alienated. Her own emotions seemed foreign to
her, as if someone else were feeling them, or
as if they were drifting around in the world.
It was as if she and things were badly fitted
to each other. She no longer found any support in the world, did not find the necessary
minimum of satisfaction and self-moderation, was no longer able to maintain through
inner action the equilibrium with the events
of the world, and felt with unspeakable anguish how she was being inexorably
squeezed out of the world and could no
longer escape suicide (or perhaps madness).
Again she was exempted from ordinary necessity and subjected to a secret law; but
then she discovered, at the last moment
when she could possibly be saved, the law
that no one before her had noticed:
Wethat is, people lacking Clarisses
insightimagine
that
the
world
is

1227/1856

unambiguous, whatever the relationship

between the things out there and inner processes may be; and what we call an emotion
is a personal matter that is added to our own
pleasure or uneasiness but does not otherwise change anything in the world. Not just
the way we see red when we get angrythat
too, moreover; it is only erroneously that one
considers it something that is an occasional
exception, without suspecting what deep and
general law one has touched upon!but
rather like this: things swim in emotions the
way water lilies consist not only of leaves and
flowers and white and green but also of
gently lying there. Ordinarily, they are so
quiet about this that one does not notice the
totality; the emotions have to be calm for the
world to be orderly and for merely rational
associations to be dominant in it.
But assuming for instance that a person
suffers some really serious and annihilating
humiliation that would have to lead to his

1228/1856

destruction, it does happen that instead of

this shame a surpassing pleasure in the humiliation sets in, a holy or smiling feeling
about the world, and this is then not merely
an emotion like any other or a deliberation,
not even the reflection that we might perchance console ourselves that humility is virtuous, but a sinking or rising of the whole
person on another level, a sinking on the
rise, and all things change in harmony with
this; one might say they remain the same but
now find themselves in some other space, or
that everything is tinged with another sense.
At such moments one recognizes that aside
from everyones world, that solid world that
can be investigated and managed by reason,
there is a second world, dynamic, singular,
visionary, irrational, which is only apparently congruent with the first and which we
do not, as people think, merely carry in our
hearts or our minds, but which exists externally with precisely the same reality as the

1229/1856

prevailing world. It is an uncanny mystery,

and like everything mysterious it becomes,
whenever one tries to articulate it, easily
confused with what is most banal. Clarisse
herself had experienced when she was unfaithful to Walter, and although she had to
be, on which account she did not recognize
any remorsehow the world became black;
however, it was not a real color but a quite
indescribable one, and later this sense color of the world, as Clarisse called it, became
a hard, burnt brown.
Clarisse was very happy on the day
when she grasped that her new understanding was the continuation of her efforts on the
subject of genius. For what distinguishes the
genius from the healthy, ordinary person,
other than the secret involvement of the
emotions in everything that happens, which
in the healthy person is stable and unnoticed
but in the genius, on the other hand, is subject to incessant irritations? Moreover,

1230/1856

Ulrich too said that there are many possible

worlds. Rational, reasonable people adapt
themselves to the world, but strong people
adapt the world to themselves. As long as the
sense color of the world, as Clarisse called
it, remained stable, equilibrium in the world
also had something stable. Its unnoticed stability might even be considered healthy and
ordinarily indispensable, the way the body,
too, is not permitted to feel all the organs
that maintain its equilibrium. Also unhealthy
is a labile equilibrium, which tips over at the
first chance and falls into the inferior position. Those are the mentally ill, Clarisse told
herself, of whom she was afraid. But on top,
conquerors in the realm of humanity, are
those whose equilibrium is just as vulnerable
but full of strength and, constantly disturbed, is constantly inventing new forms of
equilibrium.
It is an uncanny balance, and Clarisse
had never felt herself as much a creature

1231/1856

perched on the razors edge between annihilation and health as she did now. But whoever has followed the development of
Clarisses thoughts up to this point will
already know that she had now come upon
the traces of the secret of redemption. This
had entered her life as the mission to liberate
the genius that was inhibited by all sorts of
relations in herself, Walter, and their surroundings, and it is easy to see that this inhibition comes about because one is forced
to yield to the repression the world practices
against every person of genius, and is submerged in obscurity; but here, on the other
side, it throws the world into relief in a new
color. This was for her the significance of the
soul color dark red, a marvelous, indescribable, and transparent shade in which air,
sand, and vegetation were immersed, so that
she moved everywhere as in a red chamber
of light.

1232/1856

She once called this the darkroom,

herself surprised by its similarity to a room
in which in the midst of acrid vapors one
bends tense and excited over the delicate,
barely recognizable images that appear on
the negative. It was her task to prefigure the
redemption, and Ulrich seemed to her to be
her apostle, who would after a while leave
her and go out into the world, and whose
first task would be to liberate Walter and
Meingast. From this point on, her progress
was much more rapid.
The blows of confused and anarchic
ideas that Ulrich received every day, and the
movement of these thoughts in an imprudent
but clearly palpable direction, had in fact
gradually swept him up, and the only thing
that still differentiated his life from that of
the insane was a consciousness of his situation, which he could interrupt by an effort.
But for a long time he did not do so. For
while he had always felt only like a guest

1233/1856

among rational people and those effectively

engaged in life, at least with one part of his
being, and as alien or meaningless as a poem
would be were he suddenly to start reciting
one at the general meeting of a corporation,
he felt here in this nothingness of certainty
an enhanced security, and lived with precisely this part of his being among the structures of absurdity in the air, but as securely
as on solid ground. Happiness is in truth not
something rational, which depends once and
for all on a specific action or the possession
of specific things, but much more a mood of
the nerves through which everything becomes happiness or doesnt; to this extent
Clarisse was right. And the beauty, goodness,
and quality of genius in a woman, the fire
she kindles and sustains, is not to be settled
by any legal determination of truth but is a
mutual delirium. One could maintain, Ulrich
told himself, that our entire beingwhich we
basically cannot find a basis for but

1234/1856

complacently accept on the whole as God,

while, acting from this assumption, it is easy
for us to deduce the detailsis nothing but
the delirium of many; but if order is reason,
then every simple fact, if we observe it outside of any order, is already the germ of a
madness. For what do facts have to do with
our mind? The mind governs itself by them,
but they stand there, responsible to no one,
like mountain peaks or clouds or the nose on
a persons face; there were times when it
would have been a pleasure to crush the nose
on the face of the lovely Diotima with two
fingers; Clarisses nose sniffed, alert, like the
nose of a pointer, and was able to impart all
the excitement of the invisible.
But soon he was no longer able to follow Clarisses idea of order. You scratch a
sign in a stone at the spot where you happen
to be: that this is art, just as the greatest is,
was a feeling one could sympathize with.

1235/1856

And Clarisse did not want to possess Ulrich,

buteach time in a new leap live with him.
I dont perceive trulyshe saidbut I perceive fruitfully. Her ideas scintillated, things
scintillated. One does not gather up ones insights in order to form a self out of them, like
a cold snowman, when like her one is growing into ever-new catastrophes; her ideas
grew in the open; one weakens oneself by
scattering everything, but spurs oneself on to
new, strange growth. Clarisse began to express her life in poems; on the Island of
Health Ulrich found this quite natural. In
our poems there is too much rigid reason;
the words are burned-out notions, the syntax
holds out sticks and ropes as if for the blind,
the meaning never gets off the ground everyone has trampled; the awakened soul cannot
walk in such iron garments. Clarisse discovered that one would have to choose words
that are not ideas; but since there dont seem
to be any, she chose instead the word pair. If

1236/1856

she said I, this word was never able to

shoot up as vertically as she felt it; but Ired is not yet imprisoned by anything, and
flew upward. Just as beneficial is freeing
words from their grammatical bonds, which
are quite impoverished. For example,
Clarisse gave Ulrich three words and asked
him to read them in any order he chose. If
they were God, red, and goes, he read
God goes red, or God, red, goesthat is,
his brain immediately either understood
them as a sentence or separated them by
commas in order to underline that it was not
making them into a sentence. Clarisse called
this the chemistry of words, that they always
cohere in groups, and showed how to
counter this. Her favorite bit of information
was that she worked with exclamation points
or underlining. God!! red!!! goes! Such accumulations slow one down, and the word
dams up behind them to its full meaning.
She also underlined words from one to ten

1237/1856

times, and at times a page she had written

this way looked like a cryptic musical score.
Another means, but one she used less frequently, was repetition; through it the weight
of the repeated word became greater than
the power of the syntactic bond, and the
word began to sink without end. God goes
green green green. It was an incredibly difficult problem to ascertain correctly the number of repetitions so that they would express
exactly what was meant.
One day, Ulrich showed up with a
volume of Goethes poems, which he
happened to have brought along, and proposed taking several words out of each of a
number of poems and putting them together,
to see what came out. Poems like this came
out:

1238/1856

It cannot be overlooked that an obscure, incoherent charm emanates from

these constellations, something with the
glowing fire of a volcano, as if one were looking into the bowels of the earth. And a few
years after Clarisse, a similar play with words
actually did become an ominous fashion
among the healthy.
Clarisse anticipated remarkable conclusions. Flakes of fire were stolen by poets
from the volcano of madness: at some point
in primeval times and later, every time a
genius revisited earth; these glowing connections of words, not yet constricted to specific
meanings, were planted in the soil of ordinary language to form its fertility, which as
we know comes from its volcanic origins.
Butso Clarisse concludedit follows from
this that the mind must decay to primal elements again and again in order for life to remain fruitful. This placed in Clarisses hands
the
responsibility
for
a
monstrous

1239/1856

irresponsibility; she knew that she was really

uneducated, but now she was filled with a
heroic lack of respect for everything that had
been created before her.
Ulrich was able to follow Clarisses
games this far, and youths lack of respect
made it easier for him to dream into the
shattered mind these new structures that
could be formed: a process that has repeated
itself among us several times, around 1900,
when people loved the suggestive and
sketchy, as after 1910, where in painting
people succumbed to the charm of the
simplest constructive elements and bid the
secrets of the visible world echo by reciting a
kind of optical alphabet.
But Clarisses decline progressed more
rapidly than Ulrich could follow. One day,
she came with a new discovery. Life withdraws powers from nature once and for all,
forevershe began, making a connection
with poems that tear words out of nature in

1240/1856

order slowly to make it barrenwhile life

transforms these powers withdrawn from
nature
into
a
new
condition,
consciousness, from which there is no return. It seemed obvious, and Clarisse was
surprised that no one before her had noticed
it. This was because peoples morality prevented them from noticing certain things.
All physical, chemical, and other such
stimuli that strike meshe declaredI
transform into consciousness; but never has
the reverse been achieved, otherwise I could
raise this stone with my will. So consciousness is constantly interfering with the system
of natures powers. Consciousness is the
cause of all insignificant, superficial movement, and redemption demands that it be
destroyed.
Leo Tolstoy: Consciousness is the greatest
moral misfortune that a man can attain.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky: All consciousness is a
disease.

1241/1856

From Gorkys diary.

Clarisse immediately made a further
discovery. The vanished forests of the carboniferous era, bubbling, rampant, gigantic,
fantastic, are being freed again today under
the influence of the sun as psychic forces,
and it is through the exploitation of the energy that perished in that earlier time that
die enormous spiritual energy of the present
age arises.
She says: Before, it was only a game,
now it has to get serious; here she becomes
uncanny to him.
It was evening. To cool off she and Ulrich went for a walk in the dark. Hundreds of
frogs were drumming in a small pond, and
the crickets were rasping shrilly, so that the
night was as animated as an African village

1242/1856

starting a ritual dance. Clarisse asked Ulrich

to go into the pond with her and kill himself
so that their consciousness would gradually
become swamp, coal, and pure energy.
Kill him!
This was a little too much. Ulrich was in
danger, if her ideas ran on in this fashion, of
having Clarisse slit his throat one of these
nights.
Another chapter: she really tries it!
He telegraphed Walter to come immediately, since his attempts to calm Clarisse
had failed and he could no longer assume the
responsibility.
A kind of settling of accounts takes place
between Walter and Ulrich.

1243/1856

Walter reproaches him: You fell in with

this redemption; do you want to be a redeemer? (Instead of subjecting Clarisse to
being cured by means of society.) Ulrich to
this: If I myself really had the redeeming
ideas, no one would believe them. If Christ
were to return, he wouldnt get through
today.
Rather paunchy belly, profound solidarity
with Clarisse.
Ulrich: Arent you jealous?
Walter: If I were, it would be a serious
mistake (crime). I cant have that to complain about too; there are deeper values
between people (husband and wife) than
faithfulness.
Ulrichwho was thinking of Agatheis
depressed, seems ordinary to himself. But
sensitive
personal
reactions
while

1244/1856

conforming to public norms belong to the

uncreative person. Tells himself with a
venomous clarity.
Walter sees him lying on the ground.
Wrecked person. Takes revenge.
***
A weak person who sees a strong person
on the ground loves him. Not because he
now has him in his power. Nor because the
envied person is now just as weak as he is.
But loving himself in the other. He feels
through him an enhancement of his self-love
and tortures him from a kind of masochism.
This weak egotist, who has pushed his
life hither and yon in trivial arrangements, is
in this instance, where everything is the way
he wants it to be and has often dreamed it,
filled with soft beauty.

1245/1856

It was decided to bring Clarisse back to

a new sanatorium; she accepted this without
resistance and almost in silence. She was terribly disappointed in Ulrich and realized that
she would have to go back into a clinicin
order to try to get the circulation working
once more; it was so sluggish that even she
had not been able to do it the first time.
She settled into her new abode with the
confidence of a person returning to a hotel
where he is a familiar guest. Walter stayed
with her for four days. He felt the blessing of
Ulrichs not being along and of being able to
control Clarisse alone, but did not admit this
to himself. The manner he had adopted toward Ulrich had, he thought, great loftiness,
and he also believed he had succeeded in
that; but now that it was over, something
quite unpleasant made its presence known:
that he had been afraid of Ulrich the whole
time. His body desired manly satisfaction.
He ignored Clarisses condition and

1246/1856

convinced himself that she was not sick but

would recover most quickly if, aside from the
physical care, she were treated psychologically as an ordinary woman as much as possible. But still he knew that he was only
telling himself this. To his astonishment, he
found less resistance in Clarisse than he was
accustomed to. He suffered. He felt disgusted with himself. In the first night he had got
a small cut that hurt: in his pain, and shuddering at his brutality, he thought he was
scourging both her and himself. Then his
leave was over. It did not occur to him to
desert his office. He had to pack his soul with
watch in hand.
Clarisse underwent a diet cure that had
been prescribed for her, since her nervous
overexcitement was regarded as die consequence of her physical deterioration. She
was emaciated and as unkempt as a dog that
has been wandering around free for weeks.
The unaccustomed nourishment, whose

1247/1856

effect she began to feel, impressed her. She

even put up with Walter, gently, as she did
with the cure that forced strange bodies on
her and compelled her to gulp down coarse
things. Dejectedly she put up with everything
in order to acquire in her own mind the attestation of health. Im only living on my
own credit, she told herself, no one believes in me. Perhaps its only a prejudice
that Im alive? It calmed her, while Walter
was there, to fill herself up with matter and
take on earthly ballast, as she called it.
But the day Walter left, the Greek was
there. He was staying at the sanatorium, perhaps he had been there longer than Clarisse,
but now he crossed her path. As Clarisse
passed by he was saying to a lady: A person
who has traveled as much as I have finds it
absolutely impossible to love a woman. It
might even be that he had said: A person
who comes from as far away as I do;
Clarisse immediately understood it as a sign

1248/1856

meant for her that this man had been led

onto her path. The same evening she wrote
him a letter. Its contents ran: I am the only
woman you will love. She went into detail.
You are a good height for a manshe
wrotebut you have a figure like a womans
and feminine hands. You have a vultures
beak, an aquiline nose from which the useless excess of energy has been drained; it is
more beautiful than an aquiline nose. You
have large, dark, deep eye sockets, painful
caves of vice. You know the world, the overworld, and the underworld. I noticed right
away that you wanted to hypnotize me, although your glance was really tired and timid. You guessed that I am your destiny.
I am not here because I am ill. But because, instinctively, I always choose the right
means. My blood courses slowly. No one has
ever been able to find a fever in me. At worst,
some undetectable local contamination; no
organically caused stomach illness, however

1249/1856

much I suffer the greatest weakness as the

result of complete exhaustion of my gastric
system. Whatever our doctor may tell you,
moreover, I am on the whole healthy, even
though I myself might be ill in part. Proof:
precisely that energy for absolute isolation
and detachment that brought me here. I
guessed with unerring accuracy what is
needed at the moment, while a typically sick
creature cannot become healthy at all, much
less make itself healthy. Pay attention to me.
This has also made me guess with unerring
accuracy what it is you need.
You are the great hermaphrodite everyone is waiting for. Upon you the gods have
bestowed male and female in equal measure.
You will redeem the radiant world from the
dark, unutterable schism of love. Oh, how I
understood when you exclaimed that no woman was able to claim you! But I am the
great feminine hermaphrodite. Whom no
man can satisfy. In solitude I bear being split

1250/1856

into two. Which you possess only in your

mind, and therefore still only as a longing
that we must overcome. With a black shield
before it. A divine encounter has brought us
here. We cannot evade our destiny and make
the world wait a hundred years !
The next day the Greek brought her letter back. Out of discretion he brought it himself. He told her he did not want to give her
any occasion to write such things to him. His
rejection was noble but firm. His hypnotists
face, cinematically demonic, masculine,
would, placed in any random crowd of
people, immediately have become the center
of attention. But his hands were weak like a
womans; the skin of his head twitched involuntarily at times beneath his thick, carefully
parted blue-black hair, and his eyes trembled
slightly while Clarisse observed them. Under
the influence of the diet cure and new
moods, Clarisse had indeed changed physically in the last few days; she had become

1251/1856

heavier and coarser, and her piano hands,

rough from work, which she was clenching
and unclenching in her excitement, aroused
in the Levantine a peculiar fear; he was constantly drawn to look at them, felt the impulse to flee, but could not stand up.
Clarisse repeated to him that he could
not evade his destiny, and reached out to
grab him. He saw the horrible hand coming
at him and could not stir. Only when her
mouth slid past his eyes to his own did he
find the strength to jump up and flee.
Clarisse held on to his pants and tried to embrace him. He uttered a soft cry of disgust
and fear and reached the door.
Clarisse was overjoyed. She was left
with the feeling that this was a man of incredible, rare, and absolutely demonic purity; but the indecencies that she herself had
committed also seemed to her tinged with
this feeling. Her breathing became broad and
free; the satisfaction at following the

1252/1856

command of her inner voice past the ultimate constraints stretched her breasts like
metal springs. For twenty-four hours she actually forgot everything that had brought her
here, mission and suffering; her heart no
longer shot arrows at the sky; all those she
had fired off previously came back one after
the other and drilled through it. Proudly she
suffered horrible pains of desire. For the
space of twenty-four hours. This frigid young
woman, who as long as she had been healthy
had never learned the frenzy of sex, received
this delirium like an agony that raged
through her body with such force that it
could not hold still for an instant, but was
driven back and forth by the terrible hunger
of her nerves, while her delighted mind determined by this violence that the boundless
power of all sexual desire, from which she
had to redeem the world, had entered into
her. The sweetness of this torture, the
restless impotence, a need to throw herself in

1253/1856

front of this man and weep with gratitude,

the happiness she could not forbid herself,
were for her a demonstration of how monstrous the demon was with whom she had to
take up the struggle. This mentally ill woman
who had not yet loved now loved with
everything that had been spared in her, like a
healthy woman but with desperate intensity,
as if, with the utmost possible strength of
which this emotion was capable, she wanted
to tear it away from the shadows that surrounded and irresistibly reinterpreted it.
Like all women, she waited for the return of the man who had spurned her.
Twenty-four hours passed, and thenapproximately at the same hour as previouslythe Greek actually did knock at
Clarisses door. A power he could not understand led this weak-willed man with the feminine sensibility to return to the situation in
which the brutal attack on him had been inconclusively broken off. He came impeccably

1254/1856

attired and coiffed, pleading carefully rehearsed excuses, and inwardly reinforced by
the reflection that one had to fully enjoy this
interesting woman; but when he looked at
Clarisse his pupils trembled like the breasts
of a girl being fondled for the first time.
Clarisse did not beat around the bush. She
repeated to him that he was not allowed to
duck out, God too had suffered on the Mount
of Olives, and went for him. His knees
trembled and his hands went up against hers
as helplessly as handkerchiefs to fend her off,
but Clarisse slung her legs and arms around
him and sealed his mouth with the hot phosphate breath of her own. In the extremity of
his fear the Greek defended himself by confessing that he was homosexual. The unfortunate man had no idea what to do when she
declared that that was precisely why he had
to love her.
He was one of those half-sick, half-sociable
people
who
wander
through

1255/1856

sanatoriums like hotels in which one meets

more interesting people than in the ordinary
kind. He spoke several languages and had
read the books that were on everyones
tongue. A southeastern European elegance,
black hair, and indolent dark eyes made him
the focus of admiration of all those women
who love intellect and the demonic in a man.
The story of his life was like a lottery of the
numbers of the hotel rooms to which he had
been invited. He had never worked in his life,
had been set up by his wealthy merchant
family, and was in accord with the idea that
after the death of his father his younger
brother would take charge of their affairs. He
did not love women but became their prey
out of vanity, and was not resolute enough to
follow his preference for men other than occasionally in the circles of big-city prostitution, where they disgusted him. He was
really a big fat boy in whom the predilection
of that indeterminate age for all vices had

1256/1856

never given way to anything subsequent, and

who had merely wrapped himself in the protection of a melancholy indolence and
irresolution.
This wretched man had never experienced from a woman an attack of the kind
Clarisse was now subjecting him to. Without
his being able to grasp it from anything specific, she addressed herself to his vanity.
Great hermaphrodite, she said again and
again, and there shone from her eyes
something that was like the King of the
Mountain, for him playful and yet frenzied.
Remarkable woman, the Greek said. You
are the great hermaphroditeshe saidwho
is not able to love either women or men! And
thats just why youve been called to redeem
them from the original sin that weakens
them!
Of the three men who influenced
Clarisses life, Walter, Meingast, and Ulrich,
Meingast, without its ever having become

1257/1856

clear to her, was the one who had through

his manner made the greatest impression on
her by most powerfully stimulating her ambitionif one may so characterize the desire
for wings of the uncreative mind banished to
an ordinary life. His league of men, from
which she was excluded, clanking in her imagination like archangels, had transformed
themselves into the idea that the strong and
redeemed person (and along with this: redeemed from marriage and love) was homosexual. God himself is homosexual, she
told the Greek. He penetrates the believer,
overpowers him, impregnates him, weakens
him, rapes him, treats him like a woman, and
demands submission from him, while excluding women from the Church. Impregnated by his God, the believer walks among
women as among petty, silly elements he
doesnt notice. Love is unfaithfulness to God,
adultery; it robs the spirit of its human dignity. The madness of sin and the madness of

1258/1856

bliss entice human action into the marriage

bed (bed of adultery). O my female king, assume along with me the sins of humanity in
order to redeem it by committing them, although we already see through them.
Crazycrazy, the Greek murmured,
but at the same time Clarisses ideas made
unresisting sense to him and touched a point
in his life that had never been treated with
such seriousness or such passion. Clarisse
roused his indolent soul like a dream raging
in deepest darkness but, in doing so, treated
him the way an older boy in puberty gets
hold of a younger one and fondles him in order to carry out on him the most insane sacrifices of the cult of first love. The Greeks
dignity as an interesting man was most violently compromised by this role being forced
upon him, but at the same time this role hit
upon fantasies buried deep within him, and
Clarisses ruthless visits aroused in him a
trembling condition of bondage. Nowhere

1259/1856

did he any longer feel safe from her; she invited him on outings in a carriage, during
which she molested him behind the drivers
back, and his greatest fear was that one day
she would do it in the sanatorium in front of
everybody, without his being able to defend
himself. Finally, he began to tremble as soon
as she came near him, but let her do
whatever she wanted. Cette femme est
follehe said this sentence softly, plaintively, incessantly, in three languages, like a
magic charm.
But at lastthis peculiar, half-transparent relationship was attracting attention, and
he imagined people were already making fun
of himhis vanity tore him out of it; weeping
almost from weakness, he gathered all his
strength to shake this woman off. When they
got into the carriage he said, averting his
face, that it was the last time. As they were
riding, he pointed out a policeman to her,
claimed that he was having a relationship

1260/1856

with him and that the policeman wanted him

to have nothing more to do with Clarisse; he
slung his glances around this massive man
standing in the street as if he were a rock,
but was torn away by the rolling carriage,
feeling nevertheless strengthened by his He,
as if someone had sent him some kind of
help. But it had the opposite effect on
Clarisse. To see the lover of her female king
affected her as a surprising concretization. In
poems she had already characterized herself
as a hermaphrodite, and now thought she
could distinguish hermaphroditic qualities in
her body for the first time. She could hardly
expect them to break through to the surface.
Its a divine constellation of love, she said.
The Greek was concerned about the
coachman and pushed her away. He
breathed into her face that this was their last
trip. Without looking around, the coachman,
apparently sensing that something was going

1261/1856

on behind him, whipped the horses on. Suddenly a thunderstorm came up from three
sides and surprised them. The air was heavy
and filled with an uncanny tension; lightning
flashed and thunder came crashing down.
This evening Im receiving a visit from my
lover, the Greek said. You may not come to
me! Were leaving tonight! Clarisse
answered. For Berlin, the city of tremendous energies! Just then, with a shattering
crash, a bolt struck the fields not far from
them, and the horses strained in a gallop
against the traces. No! the Greek shouted,
and involuntarily hid himself against
Clarisse, who embraced him. I deem myself
a Thessalian witch! she screamed into the
uproar that now broke loose from all sides.
Lightning blazes roared, mingled water and
earth flew up from the ground, terror shook
the air. The Greek was trembling like some
poor animal body jolted by an electric
charge. Clarisse was jubilant, embraced him

1262/1856

with lightning arms, and enveloped him.

That was when he jumped out of the
carriage.
When Clarisse got back, long after he
didshe had forced the coachman to drive
slowly through the storm, and slowly on after
the sun had come out again and fields,
horses, and the leather of the coach were
steaming, while she sang mysterious
thingsshe found in her room a note from
the Greek informing her once again that the
policeman was in his room, forbidding her to
visit, and declaring that he was leaving in the
morning. At dinner, Clarisse discovered that
his departure was the truth. She wanted to
rush to him, but became aware that all the
women were observing her. The restlessness
in the corridors seemed never to end. Women were passing by every time Clarisse
stuck her head out of the door in order to
scurry to the Greeks room. These stupid
people looked mockingly at Clarisse, instead

1263/1856

of comprehending that the policeman was

scorning all of them. And for some reason
Clarisse suddenly no longer trusted herself to
walk upright and innocently to the Greeks
door. Finally, it was quiet, and she slipped
out barefoot. She scratched softly at the
door, but no one answered, although light
was coming through the keyhole. Clarisse
pressed her lips to die wood and whispered.
It remained quiet inside; someone was
listening but not answering. The Greek was
lying in bed with his protector and despised her. / Or: a strange man angrily opens
the door. The Greek already gone? / Then
she, who had never loved, was overcome by
the nameless torment of submissive jealousy.
I
am
not
worthy
of
himshe
whisperedhe thinks Im sick, and, whispering, her lips slid down the door to the dust.
She was befuddled by a heartrending rapture; moaning softly, she pushed against the
door in order to crawl to him and kiss his

1264/1856

hand, and did not understand that her rapture had been thwarted.
When she awoke in her bed and rang
for the chambermaid, she discovered that the
Greek had left. She nodded, as if it had been
agreed upon between them. Im leaving
too, Clarisse said. Ill have to tell the doctorthe girl. Hardly had the girl left the
room when Clarisse sprang out of bed and,
in a frenzy, dumped her belongings into a
suitcase; what did not fit, and the rest of her
baggage, she left behind. The girl thought the
gentleman had taken the train for Munich.
Clarisse fled. Error is not blindness, she
murmured, error is cowardice! He recognized his mission but did not have enough
courage for it. As she slunk out of the building, past his abandoned room, she again encountered the pain and shame of the past
night. He thought I was sick! Tears
streamed down her cheeks. She even did
justice to the prison that she was escaping

1265/1856

from; she took leave of the walls and the

benches outside the door with compassion.
People had meant to help her here, the best
they could. They wanted to cure
meClarisse smiledbut curing is destroying! And when she was sitting in the express,
the energy of whose storming bounds permeated her, her resolves became clear.
How can one be mistaken? Only by not
seeing. But how can one not see what is there
to be seen? By not trusting oneself to see.
Clarisse recognized, like a broad field
without a boundary, the general law of human progress: Error is cowardice; if people
were to stop being cowardly the earth would
make a leap forward. / In an analogous way,
Ulrich recognizes why there is no radical
progress. / Good, the way the train sped on
with her without stopping. She knew that she
had to catch up with the Greek.

1266/1856

They had all been against her, the sick ones

too.
Clarisse took a sleeping compartment.
When she got into the carriage she immediately told the conductor: Three gentlemen
must be on this train, go and look for them, I
absolutely must speak with them! It seemed
to her that all her fellow passengers fell under the strong personal influence that emanated from her and were obeying her commands. The waiters in the dining car as well.
But nevertheless the conductor had to report
that he had not found the Greek, Walter, and
Ulrich. After that, with a completely clear
sensory impression, she recognized herself in
the mirror now as a white she-devil, now as a
blood-red madonna.
When she got off the train in Munich
the next morning, she went to an elegant
hotel, took a room, smoked the whole day,
drank brandy and black coffee, and wrote
letters and telegrams. Some circumstance or

1267/1856

other had led her to assume that the Greek

had traveled to Venice, and she issued instructions to him, the hotels, consular offices, and government bureaus. She displayed enormous industriousness. Hurry
up! she said to the page boys, who galloped
around for her the whole day. It was a mood
like at a fire when the fire trucks rattle up
and the sirens wail, or like a mobilization,
where horses trot and endless processions of
resolute, helmet-enclosed faces march
through the streets as if dreaming, the air
filled with thrown flowers and heavy with
gray tension.
That evening she herself went on to
Venice.
In Venice, she registered at a pension
frequented by Germans, where she had
stayed on her honeymoon; people there
dimly recalled the young woman. The same

1268/1856

life as in Munich began, with abuse of alcohol and alkaloids, but now she no longer sent
off any telegrams or messengers. From the
moment she had got to Venice, perhaps because the official emissaries were not already
waiting for her at the station with their reports, she had been convinced that the Greek
had slipped through her net and fled to his
homeland. The task now was to stem the
flood and prepare a final assault, without
haste and with the strictest measures toward
oneself.
It was clear that she would sail to
Greece, but first the frenzied desire for the
man, a desire that had pushed her almost too
far, had to be restrained. Besides coffee and
brandy, Clarisse took no meals; she stripped
naked and barricaded herself in her room,
into which she did not allow even the hotel
personnel. Hunger and something else,
which she was not able to make out, put her
in a state of fever-like confusion that lasted

1269/1856

for days, in which impatient sexual arousal

gradually faded to a vibrating mood in which
all sorts of delusions of the senses were
mingled. The abuse of strong substances had
undermined her body; she felt it beginning
to collapse under her. Constant diarrhea; a
cavity appeared in a tooth and bothered her
night and day; a small ugly wart began to
form on her hand. But all this drove her to
exert her mind more and more passionately,
like the moment just before the end of a race,
when one has to lift ones legs at every step
by willpower. She had got hold of brush and
paint pots, and from the arm of a chair, the
edge of the bed, and an ironing board that
she had found outside her door she built herself a scaffolding that she pushed along the
wall, and began to paint the walls of her
room with large designs. What she crisscrossed on the bare walls was the story of
her life; so great was this process of inner
purification that Clarisse was convinced that

1270/1856

in a hundred years humanity would make a

pilgrimage to these sketches and inscriptions
in order to see the tremendous works of art
with which the greatest of souls had covered
her cell.
Perhaps they really were great works for
someone who would have had to be in a position to disentangle the wealth of associations
that had become tangled up in them. Clarisse
created them with enormous tension. She
felt herself great and hovering. She was beyond the articulated expression of life that
creates words and forms, which are a compromise arranged for everyone, and had
again arrived at that magic first encounter
with herself, the madness of her first astonishment at those gifts of the gods, word and
image. What she created was distorted, was
piled up in confusion and yet impoverished,
was unrestrained and yet obeyed a rigid
compulsion; externally. Internally, it was for
the first time the expression of her entire

1271/1856

being: without purpose, without reflection,

almost without will, becoming literally a
second thing, enduring, greater, the transubstantiation of the human being into a piece
of eternity: finally, the fulfillment of
Clarisses longing. While she painted she
sang: I am descended from luminous gods.
/ Noted outside the novel: Does greatness
never he in content? In a way of ordering
things? /
When they broke into her room, uncomprehending eyes stared at these walls
like the eyes of hostile animals. Clarisse had
bought a boat ticket and laid out a blanket
and a towel twisted into a turban as her imperial attire, which she was going to take on
board with her. Then it occurred to her that a
person who finds himself on sacred paths is
not allowed to have any money with him
without falling victim to a ridiculous

1272/1856

incongruity, so she gave away her money and

jewelry to laughing gondoliers. As she was
about to give a speech in the Piazza of St.
Marks to the people assembled for her departure, a man spoke to her and gently
brought her back to her pension. But since
this man was unwise enough to recommend
her to the protection of her hosts, everyone
now poured into her room; the padrona
screamed about the damage, gave orders to
seize Clarisses property, swore in vulgar language when none was to be found, and the
staff tittered. A horrendous cruelty stared at
Clarisse from every side, that primal hatred
of inert matter, one part of which pushes another from the spot unless attraction and understanding mold them together into one. Silently Clarisse took her turban and cloak in
order to leave this land and go on board. But
at the canal steps the always friendly brownblack chambermaid came after her and
begged her to wait, because a gentleman

1273/1856

wanted to have the honor of showing her

something before she left. Clarisse stopped
in silence; she was tired and really no longer
had the strength to travel. When the gondola
with the man and two strange men appeared
she stared gravely into the girls friendly
eyes, which were now almost floating in a
moist shimmer, and thought the grievous
word: Iscariot. She had no time to reflect on
this shattering experience. In the gondola
she calmly and seriously kept her eyes on the
strange man and had the distinct impression
that he was shrinking from her. This satisfied
her. They came to the Colleone monument,
and now the strange man spoke to her for
the first time. Why dont we go in here, he
said, indicating a building beside the church
that stood there. Theres something particularly nice to look at. Clarisse suspected the
trap being set for her by the official of public
security. But this suspicion had no value for
her, no causal valency, so to speak. Im tired

1274/1856

and ill, she said to herself. He wants to lure

me into the hospital. Its unreasonable of me
to go along. But my madness is merely that I
fall out of their general order and my causality isnt theirs: only disturbance in a subordinate function, which they overestimate.
Their behavior is the crassest lack of ethics /
In their causal associations what I do and
how I do it is sick; because they dont see the
other.
When they entered the building she divided the rest of her jewelry and her towel
among the matrons, who accepted them,
seized her, and strapped her to a bed.
Clarisse began to cry, and the matrons said
poveretta!
After Confinement
This time, it was Wotan who went to get her
and brought her back; he took her to Dr.
Frieds clinic. When she was brought in, the

1275/1856

doctor on duty merely looked at her and had

her taken to the ward for the distracted.
The very first scream of a madman
forced on her the idea of the migration of
souls; the ideas of reincarnation, of the attainable Nirvana, were not far away.
Mother! Mother! That was the cry of a
girl who was covered with horrible wounds.
Clarisse longed for her mother on account of
the many sins with which her mother had
sent her out into the world. Her parents were
now sitting around the table at breakfast;
there were flowers in the room; Clarisse was
covered with all their sins, they felt good; her
migration of souls began.
Clarisses first walk led to the bath,
since she had been excited by being brought
in. It was a square room with a tile floor and
a large pool. filled with water and without a
raised edge; from the doorway steps led into
it. Two wasted bodies fastened longing

1276/1856

glances on her and screamed for redemption.

They were her best friends, Walter and Ulrich, in sinful form.
During the night the Pope lay beside
her. In the shape of a woman. Church is
black nightClarisse said to herselfnow it
longs for the woman. There was a dim light,
the patients were sleeping, when the Pope
fumbled at her blanket and wanted to slip into bed with her. He was longing for his woman; Clarisse had no objection. The black
night longs for redemption, she whispered,
as she yielded to the Popes fingers. The sins
of Christendom were extirpated. King Ludwig of Bavaria was lying opposite her, etc. It
was a night of crucifixion. Clarisse looked toward her dissolution; she felt free of all guilt,
her soul floated weightless and bright as
these visions crept to her bed like poems and
vanished again without her being able to
seize their shapes and hold them fast. The
next morning, Nietzsches soul in the shape

1277/1856

of the chief doctor was for her the most glorious sight. Beautiful, kindly, full of profound
seriousness, his bushy beard grayed, his eyes
seeing as from another world, he nodded to
her. She knew it had been he who during the
night had bidden her extirpate the sins of
Christendom; hot ambition, like the ambition of a schoolgirl, soared in Clarisse.
During the next two weeks she experienced Faust, Part II. Three characters represented Antiquity, the Middle Ages, and
Modernity. Clarisse trampled them with her
feet. That happened in the water chamber.
For three days. Cackling screams filled the
enclosed room. Through the vapors and
tropical fogs of the bath naked women crept
like crocodiles and gigantic crabs. Slippery
faces screamed into her eyes. Scissor arms
grasped at her. Legs twined around her neck.
Clarisse screamed and fluttered above the
bodies, striking her toenails into the damp,
slippery flesh, was pulled down, suffocated

1278/1856

beneath bellies and knees, bit into breasts,

scratched flabby cheeks bloody, worked herself to the top again, plunged into the water
and out, and finally plunged her face into the
shaggy wet lap of a large woman and on the
shell of the Triton goddess roared out a
song until hoarseness stifled her voice.
One should not think that insanity has
no sense; it merely has the turbid, fuzzy, duplicating lens of the air above this bath, and
at times it was quite clear to Clarisse that she
was living among the laws of a different but
by no means lawless world. Perhaps the idea
explicidy governing all these minds was
nothing other than die striving to escape the
place of interdiction and compulsion, an unarticulated dream of the body rebelling
against its poisoned head. While Clarisse was
trampling with her feet the less agile in the
slippery knot of people, there was in her
head a sinless Nirvana like the broad white
air outside a window, the longing for a

1279/1856

painless and unconflicted state of rest, and

like a buzzing insect she bumped with her
head against the wall that sick bodies erected
around her, fluttering aimlessly, driven from
one moments inspiration to the next, while
the conviction hovered like a golden halo behind her head, a halo she could not see and
could not even imagine but which was nevertheless there, that a profound ethical problem had been laid upon her, that she was the
Messiah and the Ubermensch joined in the
same person, and would enter her rest after
she had redeemed the others, and she could
redeem them only by forcing them down. For
three days and three nights she obeyed the
irresistible will of the community of the mad,
let herself be pushed and pulled and
scratched till the blood came, threw herself
symbohcally on the cross on the tiles of the
floor, uttered hoarse, disconnected, incomprehensible words and answered similar
words with actions, as if she not only

1280/1856

understood them but wanted to stake her life

on the communication. They did not ask,
they had no need of meaning that dumps
words into sentences and sentences into the
cellar of the mind; they recognized one another among themselves, and like animals
differentiated themselves from the attendants or from anyone who was different, and
their ideas produced a chaotic common
thread, as during the revolt of a crowd where
no one knows or understands anyone else,
no one thinks any longer except in fragmented beginnings and endings, but powerful
tensions and blows of the oblivious common
body unite everyone with one another. After
three days and nights, Clarisse was exhausted; her voice was only a bare whisper,
her tiber- strength had conquered, and she
became calm.
She was put to bed and for a few days
lay in a state of profound fatigue, interrupted
by attacks of tortured, shapeless resdessness.

1281/1856

A disciple, a rosy blond woman of twentyone, who had regarded her from the first day
as a liberator, finally gave her her first redemption. This woman came to her bed and
said something or other; for Clarisse it
meant: I am taking over the mission. Clarisse
later found out that the rosy blonde had, in
her stead, exorcised the devil through song
in the water chamber day and night. But
Clarisse stayed in the big hall, took care of
the sick, and lay in wait for their sins. The
communication between her and her confessing charges consisted of sentences like
dolls, implausible, wooden little sentences,
and God alone knows what they originally
meant by them; but if children playing with
dolls would have to use concrete words in order to be able to mean the same thing and
understand each other, then the magic
sleight of hand that pretends a shapeless
stick of wood is a living being would never
succeed, a trick that excites the soul more

1282/1856

than the most passionate lovers are later able

to do. Finally, one day, an ordinary woman,
who had earlier pounded on Clarisses back
with her fists, spoke to Clarisse, saying this:
Gather your disciples in the coming night
and celebrate your Last Supper. What kind
of food does the great lord desire? Speak,
that it shall be prepared for you. But we intend to leave, and will no longer appear before your eyes! At the same time another
woman, who suffered from catatonia, passionately kissed Clarisses hands, and her
eyes were transfigured by approaching death
like a star that in the night outshines all others. Clarisse felt: It is really not a miracle
that I believed I had to fulfill a mission, but
in spite of this already more focused feeling,
she was uncertain about what it was she had
to do. Fortunately, this was the day on which
she was transferred to the ward for calm
patients.
On Clarisse

1283/1856

1. Impoverished lifeThis is a
concept that makes an impression on
her, like decadence. Her version of
the fin de Steele mood. Drawn from
her experience with Walter.
2. Along with Walter she adores
Wagner, but with rising opposition;
whenever he has played Wagner his
hands are covered by a cold dampness, so this petit-bourgeois heroism
comes out at his fingers, this heroic
petit-bourgeois posturing. She imagines an Italian music that is driven
beyond itself by the cruel cheerfulness of the blue Italian sky (omen!),
the destiny over her: Her happiness is brief, sudden, unannounced,
without pardon. (Omen, but Ulrich
at first sees only what is usual for the
times.) The tanned one, cynical
(omen!). She criticizes how empty

1284/1856

Walters face becomes in so many

ways when he is making music.
3. Love is to be understood as fate,
innocent and therefore cruel thats
how it hovers before her. She means
by this: thats how she would like to
be so filled by her own destiny that
she would not think at all of the man
who had unleashed it. Walters love is
for her only a finer parasitism, a
nesting oneself in an alien soul; she
would like to shake it off.
4. Being able to forbid oneself
something harmful is a sign of vitalityshe will not allow Walter into
her bed. The harmful lures the exhausted person.
5. Later: Illness itself can be a
stimulus to life, but one has to be
healthy enough for this stimulus.

1285/1856

6. Decadence is for instance the

agitated perspective that Wagnerian
art compels, which forces one to
change ones position in regard to it
at every moment. That is directed
squarely at Ulrich, who sees in this
changing of positions the energy of
the future.
7. But then she disconcerts him
with things that he believes too:
What characterizes all literary decadence? That life no longer dwells in
the whole. The word becomes sovereign and jumps out of the sentence,
the sentence reaches out and obscures the sense of the page, the page
takes on life at the expense of the
wholethe whole is no longer a
whole. Thats the sign of eveiy decadent style: Anarchy of the atoms,
dispersion of the will life pushed
back into the smallest structures

1286/1856

the remainder poor in vitality (Voluntarism. A direct power against

what is soft, boyish in Ulrich.)
8. Prophetic: that in cultures in
decline, that everywhere where the
power of decision falls into the hands
of the masses, what is genuine becomes superfluous, disadvantageous,
ignored. Only the actor still evokes
great enthusiasm. This means that
the golden age for the actor is dawning. Talma: What is supposed to affect one as true can be not true.
9. Against Walter: The healthy organism does not fight off illness with
reasonsone does not contradict a
diseasebut with inhibition, mistrust, peevishness, disgust, as if
there were a great danger slinking
around in it.

1287/1856

10. Against Ulrich: Innocence

among oppositions this is almost a
definition of modernity. Biologically,
modern man represents a contradiction of values, he sits between two
stools, in the same breath he says yes
and no All of us have, against our
knowledge, against our will, values,
statements, formulas, and moralities
of
opposing
Uneages
within
usphysiologically regarded, we are
false a diagnostic of the modern
soulwhere would it begin? With a
decisive incision into this contradictoriness of instinct
11. Everything that is good makes
me fruitful. I have no other gratitude

Clarisse
Nietzsche asks: Is there a pessimism of
strength? An intellectual preference for the

1288/1856

hardness, the horrible, evil, problematic aspects of existence? (from fullness of existence) Ulrich and Clarisse come together in
this intellectual preference. It separates
Clarisse from Walter. So that here the problem of adultery starts right off with the intellect. Depth of the anti-moral propensity.
The desire for the terrible as the worthy
foe is one of the forebodings that seize her as
she reads Nietzsche. Predisposition to her
falling sick.
Nietzsche regards dialectic, the contentedness of the theoretically oriented person,
as signs of decline, science as a delicate selfdefense against truth, an evasion. Here Ulrich distances himself from Nietzsche, for he
is enthusiastic about this theoretical person.
Indeed, otherwise one would arrive at an imbecilic idolatry of life; but Ulrich runs
aground with the ultimate ataraxia [stoical
indifference] of the theoretically oriented
person.

1289/1856

This could already be initiated in [Part]

I and determine the situation in which he encounters Agathe.
What fascinates him so about Nietzsche, and fascinates Clarisse as well, is Nietzsches intervention on behalf of the artistic
person. He writes for artists who have the
ancillary disposition of analytic and retrospective capacities, an exceptional kind of
artisttherefore really for Ulrich. That Nietzsche says he really does not want to appeal
to this kind of artist (but apparently to ones
who are less divided) is something Ulrich
passes over; that is something which youth
reserves to itself as an achievement that it
will reveal.
Is madness perhaps not necessarily the
symptom of the degeneration, the decay, of a
superannuated civilization? Are there perhaps neuroses of health? Of the youth and
youthfulness of the Volk? What does the synthesis of god and he-goat in the satyr show?

1290/1856

From what experience of the self, in response

to what impulse, was the Greek led to imagine the Dionysian enthusiast and primal
man as a satyr? And concerning the origin of
the chorus in tragedy: were there perhaps in
those centuries in which the Greek body
blossomed, and the Greek soul overflowed
with life, endemic transports? Visions and
hallucinations that imparted themselves to
entire communities, whole gatherings of
cults? What if the Greeks, precisely in the
abundance of their youth, had the will to the
tragic and were pessimists? What if it was
precisely madness, to employ a term of
Platos, that brought the greatest blessings to
Hellas? And if, on the other hand and inversely, what if it was precisely in the periods
of their dissolution and weakness that the
Greeks became increasingly optimistic, more
superficial, more theatrical, also, according
to the logic and logicizing of the world, more

1291/1856

ardentthat is to say, at once more cheerful

and more scientific?
In the Preface addressed to Richard
Wagner[Musil is referring to Nietzsches
Birth of Tragedy], artand not moralityis
already posited as the real metaphysical
activity of mankind; in the book itself, the
pertinent sentence that the existence of the
world is justified only as an aesthetic phenomenon recurs several times.
betrays a spirit that will at some
point, at whatever risk, set itself against the
moral explication of existence.

The World of Ideas in Clarisses Insanity 1

Life is motion. Therefore never-ending. After
death, life again dissolves into motion.
Since the motion is never-ending, nothing remains unrevenged. To break out of this
chain, the mind must dissolve into harmony
before it dies and enters cosmic space. That
is the idea of Nirvana, which therefore, accordingly, also issues unrevenged from the
feeling of guilt; the longing for harmony is
the desire to emerge from this condition.
Do you believe in the migration of
souls, hell, purgatory? she exclaims. Perhaps
some individuals have attained Nirvana in
their earthly life, but then they were the final
links in a long chain of peoplein their person the ring closed (Wagners magic world
again comes to life). But everyone else runs
around laden with guilt and shame, tortured,
reviled, from the first day of their lives

1293/1856

onward, sacrifices to a crime committed before their birth.

But there is justice. What we call injustice is only the path to eternal justice.
The earth cannot perish before Nirvana
has been attained.
She also explains it mathematically:
births and deaths balance each other (everyone who is born dies, a tremendous discovery!), therefore the souls of modern people
are the souls of ancient people. There are no
free souls!
Even Darwinism agrees with this: in
human beings, animal instincts are in many
people reincarnated animal faces. They are
still burdened with the animal soul.
Liquidation
Ideas become clearer and more banal.
Clearing, boring sky. Only a deep sadness
remains.

1294/1856

The World of Ideas in Clarisses Insanity 2

King Ludwig was lying facing her already in
Venice.
This is associated with the idea:
Between Wagner and Nietzsche stood the
snake. This snake is Ludwig, the feminine
king, who loves the artist and in doing so
robs him of his only dignity. Evidently the
reflex of her resistance against her sexual
role as a woman for Walter; the same thing
disappointed her in Ulrich, and in the Greek
it struck her so strongly that he was free of it.
Therefore a single line of action. Even in Munich, Walter and Ulrich appeared to her in
their sinful shapes.
Nietzsche, the great friend, turned away
horrified from this ignominy, and from that
time on had to follow his solitary path alone.
Here she identifies herself with Nietzsche.
What was done to him and to her is a
sin against the holy spirit/ It must be

1295/1856

reconciled by a human sacrifice. Nietzsches deatha second Christ.

Yet neither Christ nor Nietzsche could
redeem mankind from evil: People remain
people.
Destiny hovers over us, a second reality, is how she expressed her impotence
simultaneously with the thought that in spite
of her predecessors she had to suffer.
In between, the thought crosses her
mind: Between Nietzsche and Wagner stood
Jewry!
The thought later goes on: There are
two realities!
One is called: The way I see it
The Other: The way I dont see it.
They are the same ideas as before, but
they no longer have the components of manic redemption.

1296/1856

The World of Ideas in Clarisses Insanity 3

In the clinic in Munich she sees a fat blond
woman with a masculine voice, a Polish woman. Immediately the thought Overwoman
springs to her mind. She thinks it over. This
person before her is a primitive example. She
thinks of Semiramis, Catherine the Great, Elizabeth of Austria. She is helpless because
she has no books.
Such
strength.

women

have

superhuman

Her thoughts veer off: even before Nietzsche there were Overmen, she discovers:
Napoleon, Jesus Christ. Suddenly she thinks:
Christ was ignorant. Like her. Thats why in
our reckoning of time, our epoch, he is one of
the most mysterious figures. For she is
locked up.
The World of Ideas in Clarisses Insanity 4

1297/1856

Sometimes she slips into confused cursing.

Men today are horrible idiots, cowards,
weaklings, with no backbone, without courage, bravery, or stamina.
They are either brutal or soft. They have
lost the skill of using the whip with dehcacy.
Their dress is unaesthetic. Their manner of
thinking cowarUy, stupid. Their eyes blue or
black (Ulrich and Walter).
If from time to time one comes across a
man of chivalric appearance, with steely
muscleshe is certainly abnormal, therefore
no man either.
Suddenly she realizes: The woman puts
on the secret trousers. Thats why. She becomes only half natural. She no longer understands how to be a mother. She longs for
motherhood. Divine pregnancy is a reminder
of Nietzsche. Longingly she imagines the degenerate women on whose physical beauty
the sucking pulls. She would like to feel it.

1298/1856

Later these two words occur again, in

another context in which no one understands
them. Helplessness of the expression.
Menwomen and womenmen.
***
Dlire deux: Its a question of two people,
one of whom is insane and the other predisposed to insanity. The former usually has
some talent, the latter not a great deal of intelligence. Through constant contact, by being constantly bombarded with confused and
inchoate ideas, the predisposed person ends
up acting like his companion, and gradually
the same madness shows up in him. A dependent relationship establishes itself
between the two unfortunates; one is the
echo of the other:
The impact of confused and inchoate
ideasis not only a danger for the inferior
person. Cf. enjoyment of Expressionism and
poetry in general.

1299/1856

Being together with Clarisse in Italy often makes Ulrich feel like a hot-air balloon
that can be released at any moment. He lives
through the essence of Expressionism. He,
who is so precise, writes such poems. At that
time poetry had not got to that point.
Happiness
communicable!

is

madness,

the

not-

LATE 1920s

Ulrich wanted to see Meingast once more;

this eagle, who had floated down from
Zarathustras mountains into the domestic
life of Walter and Clarisse, made him curious. Following a sudden inspiration, he invited Schmeisser to go with him; he hoped to
summon up in his adversary reasons to
soften the latters opposition to him through
the impression made by his friends. He said
nothing to Agathe about the expedition; he
knew she would not come along.
Meingast had now been whiling away a
considerable amount of time with his admirers and adherents Walter and Clarisse,
part of whose home consisted of a separate,
empty room whose windows looked out on

1301/1856

the narrow side of the house. Somewhere the

couple had dug up an iron bedstead; a kitchen stool and a tin pail served as bath, and
aside from these objects the only other thing
in the room, which had no curtains, was an
empty dish cupboard, in which there were
some books, and a small table of unpainted
soft wood. Meingast sat at this table and
wrote. That was enough to lend the room,
even when he was not in it and Clarisse or
Walter glanced in in passing, that ineffable
quality of an old cast-off glove that has been
worn on a noble and energetic hand. But
now, as Meingast was sitting in the room
writing, he knew (moreover) that Clarisse
was standing beneath his window. Working
in such a situation was splendid. Meingasts
will formed words on the paper, abandoned
them, flowed over the windowsill, and arrived at Clarisse, who, wrapped in the invisible cloak of an electric northern light, was
staring obsessively and absently before her.

1302/1856

Meingast did not love Clarisse, but this ambitious pupil whom he paralyzed gave him
pleasure. Meingasts pen was driven across
the paper by a mysterious power; the nostrils
of his sharp, narrow nose quivered like a
stallions, and his beautiful dark eyes glowed.
What he had begun under these conditions
was one of the most important sections of his
new book; but one ought not call this book a
book: it was a call, a command, a mobilization order for New People. When Meingast
heard a strange male voice beside Clarisse,
he interrupted himself and went down.
Ulrich had seen Clarisse right away as
he and Schmeisser turned in at the garden
gate. She was standing by the fence beside
the vegetable garden, with her back to the
house, quite stiffly and gazing into the distance, blind to the new arrivals. It did not
seem that she was aware of her (frozen) position; her attitude seemed more the involuntary copy of significant ideas with which she

1303/1856

was inwardly preoccupied. And so it was. She

was thinking: This time Meingast is transforming himself in our house. He had come
to them without saying a word about it, but
Clarisse knew that his life contained several
of the most remarkable transformations, and
was certain that the work he had begun here
had something to do with this. The memory
of an Indian god, who before every purification settles down somewhere, mingled in
Clarisses mind with the memory that insects
choose a specific spot to change into a
chrysalis and the memory of the fragrance of
espaliered peaches ripening against the
sunny wall of a house; the logical result was
that Clarisse was standing in the burning
sunshine beneath the window of the shadowy cave into which the prophet had withdrawn. The day before, he had explained to
her and Walter that Knecht signified [The
English cognate is knight, but knecht now
means farmhand, laborer], according to its

1304/1856

original meaning, youth, boy, page, a man

capable of bearing arms, hero; and Clarisse
said: I am his Knecht! She didnt need any
words, she merely stood fast, motionless, her
face blinded, against the arrows of the sun.
When Ulrich called out to her she
turned slowly toward the unexpected voice,
and he immediately discovered that she was
disappointed at his coming. There was no
longer any mention of her telling him her
childhood stories; she had completely forgotten that. Her eyes, which before he went on
his trip had always snatched love for him
from the very sight of him, observed him
now with that insultingly purposeless indifference that is like an extinguished mountain
range after one has seen it in the sunlight.
Indeed, this is a petty and also quite common experience, this extinction of light in
the eyes when they no longer want anything
from what they are looking at; but it is like a
small hole in the veil of life through which

1305/1856

nothingness gazes / but it has something of

the absolute coldness that is concealed beneath the warm blankets of life, in the absence of the sympathy of empty space.
As Meingast was on his way down, Walter joined him, and it was decided, without
making many inquiries of the guests, that
they would all walk together to the hill with
the pine trees that lay halfway between the
house and the edge of the woods. When they
reached it, Meingast was charmed. The treetops hovered on their coral-colored trunks as
dark-green islands in the burning blue ocean
of the sky: hard, insistent colors created
room and respect for themselves alongside
each other; ideas that are as impossible in
words as islands on coral trunks, which one
does not trust oneself to think without a cowardly smile, were visible and real. Meingast
pointed upward with his finger and spoke
with Nietzsche: A yes, a no; a straight line:
formula of my happiness! Clarisse, who had

1306/1856

thrown herself down on her back, understood him instantly and answered, with her
eyes in the blueness, holding the words
firmly between her teeth like a character in
the last act where there is a lot of disjointed
talking anyway: Light-showers of the
south! Cheerful cruelty! Destiny hovering
over one! What need was there to paste sentences together when nature was like an
echoing stage; she knew that Meingast would
understand her! Walter understood her too.
But as always he also understood something
more. He saw the feminine softness of his
wife lying in the feminine softness of the
landscape; for all around, meadows sloped to
the valley in soft billows, and aside from the
group of pines, a small quarry was the only
heroic thing in the midst of a good-natured
corporeality that moved him to tears because
Clarisse saw nothing of it and knew nothing
about herself but had of course chosen just
the one place where the landscape was in

1307/1856

weighty contradiction to itself. Walter was

jealous of Meingast, but he was not jealous in
the ordinary way; he was as proud as
Clarisse was of their new old friend, who
had, after all, returned laden with fame as, in
a way, her own messenger whom she had
sent out into the world. Ulrich noticed that
in this brief time Meingast had acquired
enormous influence over Clarisse, and that
jealousy of Meingast tortured Walter far
more than had his previous jealousy of him,
Ulrich, for Walter felt Meingasts superiority,
while he had never felt Ulrichs, except physically. At any rate, these three people seemed
to be deeply entangled in their affairs; they
had already been talking to each other for
days, and their guests were as little able to
catch up with them as with people who have
gone into a jungle. Then too, Meingast did
not seem to attach any importance to orienting the newcomers, for without any consideration he went on talking at the point where

1308/1856

the discussion might have been broken off

hours or days ago.
Musiche declaredmusic is a
supra-spiritual phenomenon. Not the bandmasters or nickelodeon music, of course,
which rules the theater; and also not the music of the erotics, upon which a lightningbright explication followed as to who such an
erotic person was, in a great zigzag from the
beginnings of art to the present; but absolute
music. Absolute music is suddenly, like a
rainbow, from one end to the other, in the
world; it is radiantly vaulted, without advance notice; a world on whirring wings, a
world of ice, which hovers like a hailstorm in
the other world.
Clarisse and Walter listened attentively,
flattered. Clarisse, moreover, made note of
the chain of ideas music-ice-hailstorm in
order to use it in the next domestic musical
struggle with Walter.

1309/1856

Meingast meanwhile, having worked

himself up to a high pitch, explained himself
by way of examples from the old Italian stillhealthy music. He whistled it for them. He
had stepped a little to the side and was
standing in the meadow like a totem pole,
the describing hand long-limbed, his words
an interminable monologue. This really had
nothing to do anymore with mere art or an
exchange of aesthetic views: Meingast
whistled metaphysical examples, absolute
shapes, and phenomena of sound that occur
only in music and nowhere else in the world.
He whistled hovering curves or ineffable images of grief, anger, love, and cheerfulness;
challenged the couple to test the extent to
which this resembled what in life is understood under the name of music, and expected of Clarisse and Walter that they, pursuing their own feelings, would arrive at the
end of a bridge that breaks off in the middle,
from which point they would first glimpse

1310/1856

the absolute melodic figure as it drifted away

in its total ineffability.
Which was also, as it appeared, what
happened, diffusing a fixed shudder of happiness over the three of them. Once its
been pointed out, you yourself feelsaid
Meingastthat music cannot arise out of us
alone. It is the image of itself, and just for
that reason not merely an image of your feelings. So its not an image at all. Not anything
that would receive its existence through the
existence of something else. It is itself simply
existence, being, scorning every motivation.
And then, with a motion of his hand, Meingast pushed music far behind him, where it
became the fragment of something greater,
forhe saidart does not idealize, but
realizes. One must, to come to the essential
point, break entirely with the view that art
lifts up, beautifies, or the like, something
within us. It is precisely the other way
around. Take greed, greatness, cheerfulness,

1311/1856

or whatever you like: it is only the hollow

earthly characterization of processes that are
far more powerful than their ridiculous trailing thread, which our understanding seizes
in order to pull them down to us. In truth, all
our feelings are inexpressible. We press them
out in drops and think that these drops are
our feelings. But they are clouds rushing
away! All our experiences are more than we
experience of them. I could now simply apply
the example of music to this; all our experiences would then be of the essence of music,
were it not surrounded by a still greater
circle. For
But here an interruption ensued, for
Schmeisser, whose lips had long mated dryly
together, could no longer restrain the birth
of an objection. He said loudly: If you derive the birth of morality from the spirit of
music, youre forgetting that all the emotions
you might care to talk about receive their

1312/1856

meaning from middle-class

middle-class assumptions!

habits and

Meingast turned amicably to the young

man. When, ten years ago, I came to
Zurich for the first timehe said
slowlysomething of that sort would have
been considered revolutionary. At that time
you would have had great success with your
interjection. I may tell you that it was there
that I received my first spiritual training, in
the left wing of your party, which had members from all the countries of the world. But
today it is clear to us that the creative accomplishment of Social Democracyhe emphasized the component Democracyhas so far
remained zero, and will never get beyond
whitewashing the cultural content of liberalism as neo-revolutionary!
Schmeisser had no intention of responding to this. It was sufficient that he
threw back his hair with a shake of his neck
muscles and smiled with sternly closed lips.

1313/1856

One could perhaps also say: Oh, dont let me

bother you! He was thinking that a few lines
in The Shoemaker, a few juicily pointed sarcastic comments, would be appropriate anytime as warning yet again against bourgeois
like these, who never stuck it out for long in
the movement. But Ulrich interrupted:
Dont run him through with a quotation
from Marx; Herr Meingast would answer
with Goethe, and wed never get home today!
But still Schmeisser let himself be carried
away, because he had to say something.
Since he lacked the will to do battle his answer was too modest. He simply said: The
new culture that socialism has brought into
the world is the feeling of solidarity. The
response was not immediate; Meingast
seemed to be leaving himself time. He
replied slowly: Thats correct. But its precious little. Now Schmeisser lost his patience: So-called academic learninghe exclaimedhas long since lost its right to be

1314/1856

taken seriously as an intellectual center!

Poking around among antiquities, pasting
together treatises about the poems of some
fifth-rate writer, cramming Roman un-Law;
that only breeds empty arrogance. The workers movement, with its definable goals, has
long been developing the real intellectual
workers, the fighters in the class struggle
with their clear aims, who are going to do
away with the barbarism of exploitation, and
they are the ones who will create the foundations for a culture of the future!
Now it was Meingasts turn to get
angry; for years he had not felt as warmly
about the culture of the present as he did
now, faced with this battler for the future.
But with a good-natured motion, Meingast
cut off his counterattack. We are really not
at all as far apart as you think, he answered
Schmeisser. I dont think much of academic learning either, and I, too, believe that a
new feeling of community, a turning away

1315/1856

from the individualism of the most recent

age, signifies the most important development under way today. But And again
Meingast stood in the meadow like a totem
pole, stretching out the hand that descriptively accompanied his words, and could continue precisely where he had been interrupted: But that had happened before his new
doctrine of the will. By will one was not, of
course, to understand something like the intention of seeking out a specific business because its drawing paper is cheaper, or composing a poem meant to be arrhythmic because up to then all other poems had been
rhythmic. Nor was trampling on a superior
in order to get ahead a sign of will. On the
contrary, thats merely the scum of will,
caused by the many obstacles that today
stand in the way of will, and is, therefore,
broken will. That one applies the word will
to such things is a sign that its true meaning
is no longer felt. Meingasts charter was the

1316/1856

unbroken cosmic stream of will. He illustrated its appearance by great men like Napoleon. Compare Shaws assertion that it is
only great men who do anything, and that in
vain. The will of such people is uninterrupted
activity, an art of burning up like breathing,
it must incessantly produce heat and movement, and for such natures standing still and
turning back are equivalent to death. But one
can illustrate this just as well by the will of
primeval mythic times; when the wheel was
invented, language, fire, religion: those were
breakthroughs with which nothing since can
be compared. At most in Homer there are
perhaps the last traces of this great simplicity of the will and collected creative energy.
Now Meingast brought together with extraordinary force these two discrepant examples: It was no accident that they were
talking about a statesman and an artist.
For, if you all remember what I was telling
you about music, the aesthetic phenomenon

1317/1856

is that which needs nothing in addition to itself; as a phenomenon it is already all that it
can possibly be: in other words, purely realized will! Will belongs not to morality but to
aesthetics, to unmotivated phenomena.
There are three conclusions that can be
drawn from this: First, the world can be justified only as an aesthetic phenomenon;
every attempt to give it a moral basis has
failed up to now, and now we can understand
why it must be that way. Second, our statesmen must, as the ancient wisdom of Plato
already demanded, learn music again; and
Plato drew his impetus for this from the wisdom of the East. Third, systematically executed cruelty is the only means now available for the European peoples, still stupefied
by humanitarianism, to find their strength
again!
Even though this conversation might at
times have been rather opaque to ear and
understanding, it was different with eye and

1318/1856

feeling; it came tumbling down from a philosophical height where everything is in any
case One, and Clarisse felt its onrush. She
was enthusiastic. All the emotions in her
were stirred up and swam, if one may put it
this way, once more in feeling. For a while
she had placed herself in the meadow not far
from Meingast in order to hear better and to
be able to conceal her excitement behind a
glance that appeared to be distractedly gazing into the distance. But the inner burning
of the world of which Meingast spoke opened
her thoughts like nuts bursting with flames.
Strange things became clear to her: summer
noons, freezing with the fever of light; starry
nights, mute as fish with gold scales; experiences without reflection or preparation that
sometimes overcame her and remained
without response, indeed really without content; tension, whenever she made music, certainly, today, worse than any concert pianist,
but to the absolute best of her ability and

1319/1856

clearly, with the uncanny feeling that

something titanic, nameless experiences, a
still-nameless person, greater than the
greatest music can encompass, was forcing
itself against the limits of her fingers. Now
she understood her battles with Walter: they
were suddenly moments as when a boat
glides over an infinite chasm; in words, perhaps not comprehensible to anyone else.
Clarisses fingers and wrists began barely
perceptibly to play along; one saw the young
woman translating the prophets wisdom into her own bodily will. The effect he had on
her was related to the essence of a dance, a
dancing wandering. Her feet released themselves from the impoverished and hardened
present; her soul released itself from the uncertainty of instinct and weakness; the distance reared up; she held a flower with three
heads in her hand; to follow after Meingast,
following Christ, to redeem Walter, those
were the three heads; if they were not, then

1320/1856

Clarisse was not thinking it the way one

counts or reads, from left to right, but like a
rainbow from one end to the other; out of
this rainbow arose the smell of the closet in
which she kept her traveling clothes, then
the three flowers consisted of the three terms
I seek, self-search, self-seekingClarisse had
already forgotten what the flower had consisted of before. Walter was a stem, even
Meingast was just a stem, from the soles of
her feet Clarisse grew taller and taller, it
happened with dizzying speed, before one
could hold ones breath, and Clarisse threw
herself down in the grass, horrified at her enthusiasm for herself. Ulrich, who was already
lying there, had misunderstood her movements, and thoughtlessly tickled her with a
blade of grass. Clarisse shot out sparks of
loathing.
Walter had been observing Clarisse, but
something he had to talk about drew him
more strongly to Meingast. This was Homer.

1321/1856

Homer already a phenomenon of decay? No,

decay first set in with Voltaire and Lessing!
Meingast was probably the most important
person one could encounter today, but what
he said about music only showed what a misfortune it was that throughout his life Walter
had felt too crippled to put his own views in
the form of a book. He could understand
Clarisse so well; he had long seen how she
was carried away by Meingast; he felt so
sorry for her; she was wrong, for despite
everything she put the fortissimo of her enthusiasm into unimportant things; this coupling pregnant with destiny made his feelings
for her flare up in great flames. While he was
walking over to Meingast, Clarisse lay
stretched out in the grass, Ulrich at her side
not understanding anything at all, only, by
lying there, pushing the optical center of
gravity of the picture somewhat in his direction; Walter felt totally like an actor walking
across a stage; here they were playing out

1322/1856

their destiny, their story; in the seconds before he spoke to Meingast he felt lifted out of
himself and frozen to icy silence, performer
and poet of his self.
Meingast saw him coming. Four paces
away like four ages of the world to be strode
through. He had recently called Walters
helplessness that of a democracy of feelings,
and with that given him the key to his condition, but he had no desire to carry this discussion further, and before Walter reached
him he turned to the quarrelsome stranger.
Perhaps you are a SocialistSchmeisser answered himbut you are an enemy of
democracy!
Well, thank God you noticed! Meingast turned completely to face him and succeeded in forgetting Walter and Clarisse. I
was, as you heard, a Socialist too. But you
say that a new culture will arise by itself out
of the workers movement; and I say to you:

1323/1856

on the path that socialism has taken among

us, never!
Schmeisser shrugged his shoulders.
The world is certainly not going to be put
on a better path by talking about art, love,
and the like!
Whos talking about art? It seems that
you havent understood me in the least. I am
of the same opinion as you that the present
condition will not last much longer. The culture of bourgeois individualism will perish
the way all previous cultures have perished.
Of what? I can tell you: Of the increase of all
quantities without a corresponding increase
of the central quality. Of there being too
many people, things, opinions, needs, wills.
The firming energies, the perfusing of the
community with its mission, its will to get
ahead, its community feeling, the connective
tissue of public and private institutions:
these are not all growing at the same rate; it
is rather left far too much to accident and

1324/1856

falls further and further behind. The point

comes in every culture where this disproportion gets to be too much. From then on, the
culture is vulnerable like a weakened organism, and it takes only a push to bring it
down. Today the growing complexity of relations and passions can still barely be
maintained.
Schmeisser shook his head. Well give
the push, when the time comes.
When it comes! It will never come!
The materialistic view of history produces
passivity! The time will perhaps be here tomorrow. Perhaps its already here today! You
wont take advantage of it, for with democracy you ruin everything! Democracy produces neither thinkers nor doers, but gabblers. Just ask yourself what the characteristic creations of democracy are! Parliament
and newspapers! What an ideaMeingast
exclaimedtaking over from the whole

1325/1856

despised bourgeois world of ideas precisely

the most ridiculous one, democracy!
Walter had stood irresolute for a moment and then, since politics repelled him,
joined Clarisse and Ulrich. Ulrich was saying: Such a theory functions only when it is
false, but then its a tremendous machine for
happiness! The two of them seem to me like
a ticket machine arguing with a candy machine. But he found no echo.
Schmeisser had stood up to Meingast
smiling, without responding. He told himself
that it made no difference at all what an individual person thought.
Meingast was saying: A new order,
structure, cohesion of energy, is whats
needed; that is correct. Pseudohistorical individualism and liberalism have been ruined
by mismanagement; that is correct. The
masses are coming; that is correct. But their
agglomeration must be great, hard, and with

1326/1856

the power to do things! And when he had

said that he looked probingly at Schmeisser,
turned around, plucked a handful of grass,
and silently strode away.
Ulrich felt himself superfluous and
went off with Schmeisser. Schmeisser did
not say a word. Were each carryingUlrich thought to himselfbeside each other
two glass balloons on our necks. Both transparent, of different colors, and beautifully,
hermetically sealed. For heavens sake dont
stumble, so they dont break!
Walter and Clarisse remained behind
on their stage.
***
Addendum: Clarisse notices criminal instincts everywhere (which later lead to war).
The blue parasol of the sky stretched
above the green parasol of the pines; the
green parasol of the pines stretched over the

1327/1856

red coral trunks; at the foot of one of the coral trunks Clarisse was sitting, feeling the
large, armadillo-like scales of the bark
against her back. Meingast was standing to
one side in the meadow. The wind was playing with his leanness as it does around the
fence of a steel tower; Clarisse thought: If
one could bend ones ear that way one would
hear his joints sing. Her heart felt: I am his
younger brother.
The struggles with Walter, those attempted embraces from which she had to
push her way outchiseling herself out, she
called it, although she herself was not made
of stonehad left behind in her an excitement that at times chased over her skin in a
flash, like a pack of wolves; she had no idea
where it had broken out from or where it
vanished to. But as she sat there, her knees
drawn up, listening to Meingast, who was
speaking of mens groups, her panties under

1328/1856

her thin dress lying as tight as boy s trousers

against her thighs, she felt calmed.
A league or covenant of menMeingast was sayingis armed love that one can
no longer find anywhere today. Today one
knows only love for women. A covenant of
men demands: loyalty, obedience, standing
one for all and all for one; today the manly
virtues have been turned into the caricature
of a general obligatory military service, but
for the Greeks they were still living eros.
Male eroticism is not restricted to the sexual;
its original form is war, alliance, united energies. Overcoming the fear of death! He stood
and spoke into the air.
When a man loves a woman it is always the start of his becoming a bourgeois:
Clarisse completed the thought, convinced.
Tell me, does one have any business wishing for a child in a time like ours?

1329/1856

Oh God, a child! Meingast warded her

off. Well, yes; only children! You should
desire a child. This eroticism of the bourgeoisie, its all people know today, and the
only possibility leading to suffering and sacrifice is by means of a child. And anyway,
childbearing is still one of the few great
things in life. A certain rehabilitation.
Clarisse slowly shook her head. They
had recently begun addressing each other
again with the familiar Du and had recalled
their friendship of long ago, but not in the
sensual form it had had before. If it were
only a child of yours! Clarisse said with a
smile. But Walter isnt fit for that.
Me? Thats a really new idea! Besides,
Im going back to Switzerland in a few days.
My book is finished.
Im coming with you, Clarisse said.
Thats out of the question! My friends
are expecting me. Theres hard work to be

1330/1856

done. Were subject to all sorts of dangers

and have to stick together like a phalanx.
Meingast said this with a quiet, inward-directed smile. Thats no job for women!
Im not a woman! Clarisse exclaimed,
and jumped up. (Didnt you call me little
fellow when I was fifteen years old?)
The philosopher smiled. Clarisse
jumped up and went over to him. I want to
go away with you! she said.
Love can be revealed in any of the following
relationsthe
philosopher
answeredservant to master, friend to
friend, child to parents, wife to spouse, soul
to God.
Clarisse put her hand on his arm; with a
wordless request and awkwardly, but as
deeply moving as a dogs faithfulness.
Meingast bent down and whispered
something in her ear.

1331/1856

Clarisse whispered back hoarsely: Im

no
woman,
Meingast!
I
am
the
hermaphrodite!
You? Meingast made no effort to hide
a little contempt.
Im traveling with you. Youll see. Ill
show you the first night. We wont become
one, but you will be two. I can leave my body.
You will have two bodies.
Meingast shook his head. Duality of
bodies with a certain cancellation of the emphasis on self: a woman can accomplish that.
But a woman will never lose herself in a
higher community
You dont understand me! Clarisse
said. I have the power of transforming myself into a hermaphrodite. Ill be very useful
to you in your band of men. You hear that
Im speaking very calmly, but pay attention
to what Im saying: Look at these trees and
this round sky above them. Your breath goes

1332/1856

further, your heart goes further, health is

working in your viscera. But the longer you
look, the more the picture sucks you out of
yourself. Your body remains standing in its
place alone. The world sucks you up, I say.
Your eyes make you a woman. And if all your
feelings could reach the top, for the world
you would be dead and your body decayed.
Am I right? But there are other days.
Then all your muscles and thoughts become
urgent. Then Im a man. Then I stand here
and raise my arm, and the sky shoots down
into my arm. As if I were tearing down a banner, I say to you. Im not a megalomaniac.
My arm, too, tears me away from the place
where Im standing. Whether I dance, fight,
weep, or sing: all thats left are my movements, my song, my tears; the world and I
are blown up.
Now do you believe that I belong in
the league of men?

1333/1856

Meingast had been listening to Clarisse

with an uncertain and almost anxious expression. Now he bent down and kissed her
on the forehead. His words inspired Clarisse.
I did not know you! he said. But it still
wont do. A womans love renders me
infertile.
With this, he walked slowly with his
high gait through the meadows on the
shortest way back to the house. Clarisse did
not run after him and did not let any word
run after him. She knew that he was leaving.
She wanted to wait, to spare him the leavetaking. She was certain that he needed time
to come to terms with her proposal, and that
a letter would soon call her. Her lips were
still murmuring words, like two little sisters
talking over an exciting event; she reprimanded them, and closed them.
Addition to hermaphrodite: For the first
time again like it used to be, when young
girls had secrets. You really know what it

1334/1856

means to be married, and you know how

Walter is. (Each of these sentences occurs to
her as at the beginning.) And Im sometimes
a man. Ive never perished in a mans arms;
I push! I permeate him! I dont belong to
anyone; Im so strong that I could have a
friendship with several men at once. A woman loves like an enormous pot that draws
all the fire into itself. Clarisse says of herself:
To love not like a woman but the way a brave
little fox loves a big dog against which it is
helpless. Or like a brave dog its master.
Thats what you love. Or: Im a soldier, I disarm you, then disarm you just one degree
more. Cant move a limb because of so much
superior strength. Thats the way you love
boys. Young people. But Im a person too,
why then just a woman.
But isnt she stillhermaphroditea
woman too? Perhaps depict it this way: as if
a man would think it beautiful.

1335/1856

I go my way, I have my tasks; but you

open my dress and fall upon me and draw
my helplessness out of me. And I lean on
you, unhappy at what youre doing to me but
unable to resist. And go on and wear a black
crepe on my helmet.
***

She would like to have intercourse (possibly with Walter too).

It is weakening.
From this the idea: You will weaken me,
make me a woman, so that you remain radiant (at times)
We struggle hand to hand and are like the
bath after the battle.
Concretely: I have the character and duties
of a man. I dont want (this time) a child and
dont want love, but I want the deep phenomenon of desire, of purification
(salvation) through weakness. I-you like youme? even if servant and master.
[?] Ill press one leg against yours and
wind the other around your hips, and your
eyes will mist over.

1337/1856

Ill be insolent and forget my shyness

toward you.
The woman has feminine feelings for
the superior man, masculine feelings for the
subordinate man. Therefore something
hermaphroditic arises, a spiritually intertwined threesome.
Clarisse waited for Meingasts letter;
the letter did not arrive. Clarisse became
agitated. Ulrich, whom she suddenly thought
of again, was away. She did not want to talk
to Walter.
One morning, something strange
happened. Clarisse was reading the newspaper; Walter had not yet left for the office.
Suddenly Clarisse asked: Wasnt there
something in the paper yesterday about a
train wreck near Budweis? Yes, said

1338/1856

Walter, who was reading another part of the

paper. How many dead? Oh, of course I
cant remember; I think two or three; it was a
small accident. Why are you asking? Nothing. Reading on for a while, Clarisse said:
Because theres been an accident in America too. Wheres Pennsylvania? I dont
know. In America. They went on reading.
Clarisse saw strands like railroad tracks fanning out before her, which went on tangling
wildly. Had she not seen these strands of
tracks weeks or months ago? She reflected.
Little trains shot out on the tracks, roared
through curves, and collided. Clarisse said:
The engineers never mean for their locomotives to collide. Of course not, Walter
said, without paying attention. Clarisse
asked whether her brother Siegfried was
coming later that afternoon. Walter
answered, he hoped so. He was bothered, it
was time for him to be off, and Clarisse was
constantly interrupting his reading.

1339/1856

Suddenly Clarisse said: I want to talk

with Siegfried about taking me to see
Moosbrugger.
Who is Moosbrugger?
You mean you dont remember? Ulrichs friend the murderer.
Now Walter understood whom she
meant. She had once talked about this man.
But Ulrich knows him either not at all or
only very slightly, he corrected Clarisse.
Well, in any case
You really shouldnt be so eccentric.
Clarisse did not dignify this with a response. Walter leafed through the paper
once more and thought he was surprised at
not finding any mention of this person; he
had assumed that Clarisse had been moved
to make her comment because of some article; but he didnt have time for a question or
genuine surprise, because he had to find his

1340/1856

hat and rush off. Clarisse made an unpleasant face when he kissed her on the forehead;
two arrogant long lines ran down alongside
her nose, and her chin jutted forward. This
very unreal face, which Walter did not notice, might have been grounds for anxiety.
But the strange thing that happened
was this. While Clarisse was asking her question, she had recognized that an accident
happens not because of evil intent but because in the confused network of tracks,
switches, and signals that she saw before her,
the human being loses the power of conscience with which he ought to have checked
over his task once more; had that happened,
he would certainly have done whatever was
necessary to avoid die accident. At this moment, where she saw this before her eyes like
a childs toy, she felt an enormous power of
conscience. So she possessed it. She had to
half close her eyes so that Walter would not
notice their flashing. For she had recognized

1341/1856

instantly that when one said letting things

prevail, it was only another expression for
it. She understood that one was forced to let
things have their way. But she did not let
Walter have his, and would not do so.
That was the moment when Moosbrugger had occurred to her.
Everyone is familiar with what a miracle it is when a long-forgotten name, and
one that moreover may be unimportant, suddenly pops up in ones memory. Or a face,
with details that one is not at all aware of
having seen. Evoked by some accidental
stimulus. It is really as if a hole were to open
in the sky. Clarisse was by no means wrong
when she felt it as a process with two ends,
Moosbrugger at one end, and far away, looking at him, herself; although one could of
course say that in general this is not correct,
because memory outside ourselves is
nothing.

1342/1856

But precisely if something is not true in

general, but is in particular, then this was
something for Clarisse. It now occurred to
her that Moosbrugger was a carpenter. And
we know who else was a carpenter? Right. So
at one end there was the carpenter, and at
the other, Clarisse. Clarisse, who was not
permitted to let things prevail, who had a
black mole on her thigh that fascinated every
man. For there was no question that Meingast had run away from her; it had come too
suddenly, he had wanted to save himself.
One cannot expect everything to be
equally clear in the first moment. Somehow,
of course, the carpenter was also connected
with Ulrich; when a person whom one has almost forgotten after having loved him suddenly walks in the door, without, so to speak,
being inwardly announced, as Ulrich now
did, even though in the company of other
people, this is in and of itself something of
the kind that makes one have to hold ones

1343/1856

breath for a moment. Nor was it clear what

all this had to do with the hermaphrodite
that Clarisse was in order to enter the league
of men; but she would get to that, she felt,
and at the root of the emotion there most
certainly was a connection; that could be
seen in the manner of activity among these
thoughts, which up there, on the outside, remained isolated for now.
For all these reasons Clarisse
considered it her duty to meet Moosbrugger.
That certainly wouldnt be difficult. Her
brother was a physician and could help her
with it. She waited for him, and the time
passed quickly. She considered how little
Meingast had meant to her when she had
known him beforehand how great he had become since. While he was present,
everything here in the house had been elevated. She had the feeling that he had simply
taken her and Walters sins upon himself,
and that was what had made everything so

1344/1856

easy. Perhaps now, in the next phase, she

would have to take Meingasts sins upon
herself.
But what are sins? She used this word
perhaps too often, without thinking enough
about it. It is a poisonous Christian word.
Clarisse could not discover what she herself
meant, precisely. A butterfly occurred to her,
which suddenly falls motionless to the
ground and becomes an ugly worm with
dead wings. Then naturally Walter, who
sought the milk of love at her breast and
thereafter became stiff and lazy. Besides, had
she not once known quite clearly that she
would redeem this carpenter from his sins?
She had, had she not, once written a letter?
It was uncanny to recall that only so dimly. It
obviously signified that something was still
to come.
***

1345/1856

No letter came from Meingast, the business

with the league of men remained out of
Clarisses purview; sometimes she forgot it
because of the new things that were happening. She had to think how she might get into
the clinic again in spite of Dr. Friedenthal,
who had forbidden her to return. She realized that it would be difficult. Climb over the
wall surrounding the grounds? she thought;
this idea of penetrating the forbidden space
like a warrior appealed to her greatly, but
since the clinic was not in open country but
in the city, if it was to be done without being
seen it could be risked only at night, and
then, once on the grounds, how was Clarisse
to find her way among the many locked
buildings? She was afraid. Although she
knew that it would have to be considered out
of the question, she was frightened by the
image of falling into the hands of a madman
among the black trees and being raped or
strangled by him. She still had the screams of

1346/1856

the maniacs in her ears: at the last station,

before she went past the lovely ladies and returned once more to rational life. She often
saw before her the naked man standing in
the center of a totally empty room that had
nothing in it but a low cot and a toilet that
were of a piece with the floor. He had a blond
beard and light-brown pubic hair. He ignored both the opening of the door and the
people looking at him; he stood with his legs
spread apart, kept his head lowered like a
savage, had thick saliva in his beard, and repeated like a pendulum the same motion
again and again, throwing his upper body
around in a shallow circle, always with a
push, always toward the same side, his arms
forming an acute angle to his body, and the
only thing that changed was that with every
one of these motions another finger jumped
up from his clenched fist; it was accompanied by a loud, panting scream, forced out by
the requisite monstrous exertion of the

1347/1856

whole body. Dr. Friedenthal had explained

that this went on for hours, and had allowed
Clarisse to look into other cells, where for the
moment quiet reigned. But this had been if
anything even more horrifying. He showed
her the same bare cement room containing
nothing but a person whose fit was imminent, and one of these people was sitting there
still in his street clothes; only his tie and collar had been removed. It was a lawyer with a
lovely full beard and carefully parted hair; he
sat there and glanced at the visitors as if he
had been on the point of going to court and
had sat down on this stone bench only because he was compelled, for God knows what
reason, to wait. Clarisse was especially horrified by this person because he looked so natural; but Dr. Friedenthal said that just a few
days before, in his first fit, he had killed his
wife, and almost all the transient inhabitants
of this section were murderers. Clarisse
asked herself why she was afraid of them,

1348/1856

when it was precisely these patients who

were best secured and supervised? She
feared them because she did not understand
them. There were several others in her
memory who affected her the same way.
But thats still no reason for my having to
meet them if Im walking through the
grounds at night! she said to herself.
But it was like this. It was almost certain that she would meet them; that was an
idea it was impossible to eradicate, for no
matter how often Clarisse imagined the process of climbing over the wall and then walking forward through the gloomy, widely
spaced trees, sooner or later it came to a
gruesome encounter. This was a given fact
one had to reckon with, and therefore it was
reasonable to ask what it meant. Even as solid a man as the famous old American writer
Ralph Waldo Emerson, whom she had read
in her adolescence because her friends told
her he was marvelous, maintained that it is a

1349/1856

general law of nature and man that like is attracted by like. Clarisse remembered a sentence which went, roughly, that everything
that comes to a person tends toward him of
itself, so that cause and effect only apparently succeed each other but in reality are
simply two sides of the same thing, and all
cleverness is bad because with every precautionary rule against danger one is put in the
power of this danger. All Clarisse had to do,
when she remembered this, was to apply it to
herself. If it was established that she, even if
at first only in some mysterious fashion in
her mind, was continually meeting murderers, then she was attracting these murderers.
But is like being attracted by like? That
meant that she bore within herself the soul of
a murderer. One can imagine what it means
when such extraordinary thoughts suddenly
find solid ground beneath their feet! Meingast had run away from her; she was apparently too strong for him. It was like lightning

1350/1856

bolts striking each oilier! Walter was attracted by her to murder his talent again and
again in her, no matter how much she
pushed him away. She carried a black medallion at the crease of her hip, and the insane
divined it: perhaps such people can see
through clothes and came toward her rejoicing. In a confusing way, all the facts fit.
Laughter and difficulties struggled
around Clarisses mouth; it alternately
opened and clamped tight. She had got up
too early; Walter was still sleeping; she had
hastily thrown on a light dress and gone outside. The singing of birds reached her from
the woods through the empty morning stillness. The hemisphere of the sky had not yet
filled with warmth. Even the light was still
shallowly dispersed. It only reaches as far
as my anklesClarisse thoughtthe cock of
the morning has just been wound up.
Everything was before its time. Clarisse was
deeply moved that she was wandering

1351/1856

through the world before its time. It almost

made her cry. She fervently regretted that
during her visit to the madhouse she had
seen through Moosbruggers situation too
late. What she had seen being played out before her was worthless devils gambling for a
soul. She heard herself being called to turn
back there once more, but Dr. Friedenthal
blocked her path. She felt quite ashamed,
and went on like that for a ways. But at some
point a thought took shape that released her
from this depression: Many great men had
been in insane asylums. And they had been
derided by those who had remained in possession of their reason. They had now become incapable of explaining themselves to
those for whom earlier they had had only
contempt. She remembered the muteness of
the late Nietzsche, whom she worshiped.
And what had vexed her just now because
she had not seen through it in time, how the
three devils had intentionally brought her

1352/1856

before Moosbrugger in so miserably casual a

fashion in order to get the better of her
through cunning and paralyze her, indeed
that she had really shown herself to be stupid
and weak, now slowly made her understand
as a sign that the fate of the great man
among the repulsive jailers of the world
would be laid upon her too. Her heart was
filled by a drifting rain of light and tears. It
was uncanny, putting oneself on an equal
footing with the insane; but being on the
same footing with the uncanny is to cast
ones lot for genius! She decided to free
Moosbrugger from his jailers. Thoughts regarding how she might do this flitted around
in her mind. The swallows had meanwhile
begun to flit through the air. In some way it
would have to work. Clarisse was so absorbed in these thoughts that she felt the
depths like the narrow incline of an abyss.
She had to draw in her shoulders and could
only cautiously venture a smile. It occurred

1353/1856

to her that this would be the depth of

anti-moral inclination that Nietzsche demanded of his disciples. She was astonished
at this, for she had not expected that it was
possible to experience it so palpably. It was a
path
through
a
landscape
of
counter-morality.
The landscape of counter-morality lies
deep beneath that of ordinary life, not deep
in yards but many octaves deeper. That is
how it seemed to her. Everything great lives
in the landscape of counter-morality (there).
It goes the same ways others go, but without
touching them. Against that Clarisse said to
herself half aloud: I am following in Nietzsches footsteps. She could also imagine that
Moosbrugger had taken Nietzsches sorrow
upon himself and was Nietzsche in the shape
of a sinner. But that was not her object at the
moment. Now she had to take the sorrow
upon herself: this is what preoccupied her.
She felt it hovering, otherworldly, in the

1354/1856

vacancy of the morning. She was carrying

something that towered up hugely from her
shoulders. But then she thought something
over and went home.
***
When she got there, Walter was not yet up,
although he ought to have been on his way to
the office already. He slept so badly that he
could not get up on time in the morning.
Dreams tortured him, leaving behind when
he woke up, although he could not remember
them, a feeling of being inwardly wiped out.
Walter felt like a piece of paper that has been
rolled up by an unpleasant warmth, and so
dried out that it cracks at the slightest touch.
That was the effect of Clarisse, who slept beside him, dressed and undressed beside him,
but hardly permitted him to kiss her. His
blood stagnated and became restless. It was
dammed up like a crowd of people that is
stopped at its head, while behind, where
people no longer see the cause, they begin to

1355/1856

push forward until theyre out of control.

Walter pulled himself together; he did not
want to hurt Clarisse, he understood her, she
moved him with her childish resolve, there
was nobility in her agonized exaggerating.
But perhaps, too, that nervous exaltation
which stigmatized everything she did. It
seemed to Walter that it was his duty to clear
away the obstacles she erected, even with
force, if need be. It would be necessary to go
through such brutality in order to restore
normal intellectual opposition, if opposition
there had to be. He felt it in himself; both
their minds needed a surgeon: a mental
growth had proliferated wildly and needed to
be cut out. But he was convinced that a sorrow such as had been laid upon them would
not be any less deep or strange than Tristan
and Isoldes.
Only his most extreme personal need
had prompted him, a few days before, to seek
a consultation with Clarisses brother

1356/1856

Siegfried. You know Clarissehe had

saidthat is, of course you dont know her,
but you know a lot about her, and perhaps
you can just this once, as a doctor, also give
some advice. Siegfried gave this advice. It
was remarkable how much patronizing he
accepted from Walter. Life is full of such relationships, where one person humiliates
and brushes aside another, who offers no
resistance. Perhaps only healthy life. The
world would probably already have perished
at the time of the great migrations if people
had all defended themselves to the last drop
of blood; instead of which the weaker gave in
and moved on, preferring to seek other
neighbors, whom they in turn could brush
aside. This is the model on which human relationships are still carried on, and with time
everything works out by itself. In the circle
where Walter was thought to be a genius who
had not yet found his definitive expression,
Siegfried was considered a lout and a

1357/1856

blockhead. He had accepted that, never argued against it, and even today, if it should
come to an intellectual collision with Walter,
Siegfried would be the one to yield and pay
homage. But for years he had as good as never been in this situation, for they had grown
apart, and the old relations had become
quite insignificant in comparison with new
ones. Siegfried not only had his practice as a
doctorand the doctor rules differently from
the bureaucrat, through his own intellectual
power and not that of others, and comes to
people who are waiting for his help and accept it obedientlybut he also possessed a
wife with means, who within a short time
had been required to present him with three
children and whom he cheated on with other
women, if not often at least now and then,
when he felt like it. Siegfried was quite logically also in a situation where he could give
Walter
the
advice
he
demanded.
Clarissehe diagnosedis excessively

1358/1856

nervous. It was always her way to charge

through walls, and now her head has got
stuck in a wall. You have to give a good tug,
even if she resists. It is against her own advantage if you let her get away with too
much. Neurotic people demand a certain
strictness. Walter had answered that doctors
understand absolutely nothing about spiritual processes, but meanwhile he managed to
put Siegfrieds advice in a form that was personally agreeable to him: that two people
had to suffer in order to accomplish their
burdensome destiny of loving each other. As
far as the situation itself was concerned, this
amounted to the same thing. And he said to
Clarisse: Please, Clarisse, be reasonable!
Clarisse had just got home, had called
out: You layabout! to Walter, filled the bath
with cold water, and slipped out of her thin
dress, when she felt Walter behind her. He
was standing there the way he had got out of
bed, in a long nightshirt that fell down to his

1359/1856

bare feet, and had warm cheeks like a girls,

while Clarisse, in her brief panties and with
her skinny arms, looked like a boy. She put
her hand on his chest and shoved him back.
But Walter reached out for her. With one
hand he seized her arm, and with the other
sought to grasp her by the crotch and pull
her to him. Clarisse tore at the embrace, and
when that didnt help shoved her free hand
into Walters face, into his nose and mouth.
His face turned red and the blood trembled
in his eyes while he struggled with Clarisse.
He did not want to let her see that she was
hurting him, but when he was in danger of
suffocating he had to strike her hand from
his face. Quick as lightning, she went at it
again, and this time her nails tore two bleeding furrows in his skin. Clarisse was free.
Just then Walter again snatched at her, this
time with all his strength. He had become
angry, and feared nothing in the whole world
so much as becoming rational again. Clarisse

1360/1856

struck at him. She had lost her shoe and

kicked at him. She understood that this time
it was for real. Walter was gasping out meaningless sentences. The voices of loneliness, as
if a robber had jumped on them. She felt she
had the strength of giants. Her clothing tore;
Walter seized the shreds; she reached for his
neck. She would have liked to kill him. She
did not know what she was doing. Naked,
slippery, she struggled like a wriggling fish in
his arms. She bit Walter, whose strength was
not sufficient to overpower her calmly; he
swung her this way and that, and painfully
sought to block her attacks. Clarisse got
tired. Her muscles became numb and slack.
There were pauses where she was pressed by
Walters weight against the wall or the floor
and could no longer defend herself. Then
again there would come a series of defensive
movements and ruthless attacks against
sensitive parts of the body and face. Then
suffocation again, powerlessness, and the

1361/1856

hearts beating. Walter was intermittently

ashamed. The pain hit him like a ray of light:
Reasonable people dont act this way! He
thought that Clarisse looked as ugly as a
madwoman.
But it had taken so much to get himself
this far that the acting man ran on by himself, paying no attention to the feeling man.
Clarisse, too, no longer had the feeling that
she was being raped by Walter; she had only
the feeling that she was not able to insist on
her will, and when she was forced to yield
she uttered a long, shrill, wild cry, like a locomotive. She herself found this inspiration
quite strange. Perhaps her will was escaping
in this cry, now that it was of no more use to
her. Walter was scared. And while she had to
endure his will she had the consolation: Just
wait, Ill get my revenge!
The moment this repulsive scene was
over, shame crashed down on Walter.
Clarisse sat in a corner, naked as she was,

1362/1856

with a thunderous face and made no response to his pleas for forgiveness. He had to
get dressed; blood and tears flowed through
his shaving foam. He had to leave in a hurry.
He felt that he could not leave the beloved of
all the days since his youth in this condition.
He sought to at least move her to get
dressed. Clarisse countered that she could
just as well remain sitting this way until
Judgment Day. In his despair and helplessness, his whole life as a man shrank back; he
threw himself on his knees and with hands
raised begged her to forgive him, as he had
once prayed against blows; he could not
think of anything else to do.
Ill tell Ulrich everything! Clarisse
said, slighdy reconciled.
Walter begged her to forget it. There
was something in his lack of dignity that
called for reconciliation: he loved Clarisse;
the shame was like a wound from which real,
warm blood was flowing. But Clarisse did not

1363/1856

forgive him. She could forgive him as little as

an emperor who bears the responsibility for
a kingdom can forgive; such people are
something other than private individuals.
She made him swear never to touch her
again before she gave him permission. Walter was expected at a meeting; he gave his
oath quickly, with the clock in his heart.
Then Clarisse gave him the additional task of
sending Ulrich over; she agreed to keep silent, but she needed the calming presence of
a person she could trust.
***
During a break at work Walter took a taxi to
Ulrichs, to get there as quickly as possible.
Ulrich was at home. His life wearied
him. He did not know where Agathe was.
Since she had separated herself from him he
had had no news of her; he was tortured by
worries about what might be happening to
her. Everything reminded him of her. How

1364/1856

short a time ago he had restrained her from a

rash decision. Yet he did not believe she
would do it without speaking to him once
more.
Perhaps for that very reason: for the intoxicationa real intoxication, an enchantment!was over. The experiment they had
undertaken to shape their relationship had
failed irrevocably. Vast regions of emotions
and fancies that had endowed many things
with a perennial splendor of unknown origin,
like an opalizing sky, were now desolate. Ulrichs mind had dried out like soil beneath
which the layers that conduct the moisture
that nourishes all green things had disappeared. If what he had been forced to wish
for was follyand the exhaustion with which
he thought of it admitted of no doubts about
that!then what had been best in his life had
always been folly: the shimmer of thinking,
the breath of presumption, those tender
messengers of a better home that flutter

1365/1856

among the things of the world. Nothing remained but to become reasonable; he had to
do violence to his nature and apparently submit it to a school that was not only hard but
also by definition boring. He did not want to
think himself born to be an idler, but would
now be one if he did not soon begin to make
order out of the consequences of this failure.
But when he checked them over, his whole
being rebelled against them, and when his
being rebelled against them, he longed for
Agathe; that happened without exuberance,
but still as one yearns for a fellow sufferer
when he is the only one with whom one can
be intimate.
With distracted politeness, Walter inquired about Ulrichs absence; Ulrich waited
with embarrassment for him to ask about
Agathe, but fortunately Walter forgot to. He
had recently come to realize that it is insanity to doubt the love of a woman whom one
loves oneself, he began. Even if one should

1366/1856

be disappointed, it was only a matter of letting oneself be disappointed fruitfully, in

such a way that the inner lives of all concerned be raised a degree. All feelings that
are only negative are unfruitful; on the other
hand, there was nothing in which one could
not find a core of fruitfulness if one peeled
off the layers of world community. For instance: He had often committed the wrong of
being jealous of Ulrich.
Were you really jealous of me? Ulrich
asked.
Yes, Walter confessed, and for an instant, in an unconsciously significant but ridiculously chilling fashion, he bared two
teeth. Of course I never thought of it in any
other way than intellectually. Clarisse feels a
certain sensual kinship with your body. You
understand: its not that your body attracts
her body, or your mind her mind, but your
body attracts her mind; youll have to admit

1367/1856

thats not so simple, and that it wasnt always

easy for me to behave properly toward you.
And Meingast?
Meingast has leftWalter began by
sayingbut that was different. I admire
Meingast myself. Nobody today can compare
with him, all in all. Theres no way I could
forbid Clarisse to love him.
Yes, you could. First you would have
to tell her that Meingast is a woolgatherer
Cut it out! Today I need your friendship, not a quarrel!
Then you could always say to Clarisse
that its not the mission of a great man to
draw the nails out of every marriage like a giant magnet; therefore, on the side of the
marriage, there has to be something that
cant be changed by the superiority of this
third person. Youre conservative, youll no
doubt be able to work that out. Moreover, its

1368/1856

an absorbing question. Just consider: Today

every writer, musician, philosopher, leader,
and boss finds people who think hes the
greatest thing on earth. The natural consequence, especially for women who are
more easily moved, would be that they flock
to him as a whole person. Their own personal, bodily philosopher or writer! These words
have a right to be taken literally; for where
else should one wish to go with soul and
body if not to this ultimate refuge? But its
just as certain that this doesnt happen.
Today only hysterical women run after great
minds. And why?
Walter answered reluctantly. You said
yourself that there are other reasons for living together. Children, the need for a solid
place; and then theres a suitability of two
people for each other thats greater than the
meeting of their minds!
Those are just excuses! The agreement youre talking about is nothing more

1369/1856

than trusting opinions even less than a life of

habit that has turned out to be not entirely
unbearable. Its just lucky that one doesnt
quite trust the person one admires. The confusion through which one is always robbed of
vitality by the other has obviously become a
means of preserving life. The inclination for
each other holds together through a delicate
remnant of disinclination against the third
person. And altogether, of course, its nothing but the soul of the Pharisee, which, once
its got inside a body, imagines that every
other body has secret defects!
I started out by sayingWalter exclaimed indignantlythat if Clarisse really
loved Meingast I could not forbid it.
Then why dont you permit her to love
me? Ulrich asked, laughing. Because you
dont like me. And you dont like me because
when we were children I beat you up a
couple of times. As if I had never run into
stronger boys who beat me up! Thats so

1370/1856

absurd, so narrow-minded and petty. Im not

reproaching you; we all have this weakness
of not being able to shake off such things, indeed that such idiotic chance happenings actually form the inner building blocks of our
personalities, while our knowledge is no
more than the breeze that blows around
them. Whos stronger, then: you or I? Engineer Short or Art Historian Long? A master
wrestler or a sprinter? I think that (the individual) this business has lost a lot of its
meaning today. None of us are isolated or individual. To speak in your language: Were
instrumentalists who have come together in
expectation of playing a marvelous piece, the
score for which has not yet been located. So
what would happen if Clarisse were to fall in
love with me? The idea that one can love
only one other person is nothing but a legal
(civil law) prejudice that has totally overrun
us. She would love you, too, and in those circumstances precisely in the way that suits

1371/1856

you best, because she would be free of die

gnawing anger that you dont have certain
qualities which she also considers important.
The only condition would be that you would
really have to behave toward me as a friend;
that doesnt mean you have to understand
me, for I dont understand the cells in my
brain either, although something far more
intimate exists between us than understanding! And you could contradict me with all
your emotions and thoughts, but only in a
certain way: for there are contradictions that
are continuations, for example those within
ourselves; we love ourselves along with
them.
This seemed to Walter like a bucket being emptied down a flight of steps. What Ulrich said spread out and at some point had to
stop; he, meanwhile, paced back and forth in
the room but couldnt wait for that to happen. He stopped and said: I must interrupt
you. I dont want to either contradict you or

1372/1856

agree with you. I have no idea why youre

saying these things; it seems to me that
youre talking into the air. Both of us are
some thirty years old, everything isnt hovering in the air the way it was when we were
nineteen, one is something, one has
something/and everything youre saying is
infinitely humdrum. But whats horrible is
that Ive had to promise Clarisse to send you
out to see her today. Promise me that youll
speak less unreasonably with her than with
me!
But for that Id have to first promise
that Ill go. Today I dont have the slightest
desire to! Excuse me, I dont feel well either.
But you must say yes! It doesnt matter to you, you can put up with it; but for
days Clarisse has been in an alarming state.
And on top of that Ive let myself be guilty of
a great mistake, repulsive, I assure you; one
is sometimes like an animal. Im worried
about her! For a moment the memory

1373/1856

overwhelmed him. He had tears in his eyes

and looked at Ulrich angrily through the
tears. Ulrich placated him and promised to
go.
Go right now, Walter begged. I had
to leave her all upset. And he hurriedly told
Ulrich that Meingasts unexpected departure, which had strangely affected him too,
had obviously shaken Clarisse, because since
then she was strikingly changed. You know
what shes likeWalter said, a veil of tears
again and again running over his eyesher
whole nature keeps her from allowing
something she doesnt think right to prevail;
letting things happen, which our whole civilization is full of, is for her a cardinal sin! He
reported the incident with the newspaper,
which he himself suddenly saw in a new
light. Then he added softly that after Meingasts departure, Clarisse had confessed to
him that while he had been there she had often suffered from obsessive ideas, which all

1374/1856

added up to her regarding the entire peculiar

progression to greatness that Meingast had
gone through, since he had left them long
ago as an ordinary young Lothario, as having
their basis in his taking upon himself the sins
of all the people with whom he came into
contact and, it turned out, also the sins of
Clarisse and Walter himself.
Ulrich must have looked involuntarily
at his childhood friend in inquiry, for Walter
instantaneously added a defense. That only
sounds unsettling, he asserted, but it hasnt
by any means gone too far. Everyone rises by
taking on other peoples mistakes and improving them in himself. It was only that
Clarisse had an unusually vehement intensity when such problems suddenly got hold of
her, and a way of expressing them without
making any concessions. But if you knew
her as well as I do, you would find that behind everything that seems strange in her
there is an incomparable feeling for the

1375/1856

deepest questions of life! Love made him

blind, while it made Clarisse transparent for
him, all the way to the bottom, where ones
thoughts lie, while all distinctions between
bright and stupid, healthy and sick minds
take place in the shallower layers of what one
says and does.
***
After the scene with her husband, Clarisse
had washed her whole body and run out of
the house. The blue line of the edge of the
woods attracted her; she wanted to crawl in.
And while she was running, the sparkling,
shining, drop-spraying of the white water
was around her, like a hedgehog with
outward-pointing needles. She was pursued
by an obsessively irritating need for cleanliness. But when she had reached the woods,
she plopped down between the first tree
trunks behind the bushes at the edge. From
there she looked straight into the small,
dark, nostril-like open windows of her house,

1376/1856

and this already made her feel much better.

The smell of herbs burned in the morning
sun; growths tickled her; she was comforted
by natures sticking, hard, hot inconsiderateness. She felt removed from the restrictiveness of her personal bonds. She could think.
It had become obvious that Walter was being
destroyed by the attraction she radiated; he
hardly needed to sink much further than he
had today. So it was up to her to make the
sacrifice! (Clarisse got up and walked deeper
into the woods.) What was it, this sacrifice?
Such words pop up like a poem (but she
wished to conceal herself with this word, in
order to get behind it). The word sacrifice
followed (first) the same way it followed that
she bore within herself the soul of a murderer, and, especially after the scene with her
husband, she had to assume that she also
concealed in herself the soul of a satyr, a hegoat. Like is, after all, only attracted by like.
But whoever sees must sacrifice himself: that

1377/1856

is the merciless law by which greatness lives.

Clarisse began to understand; but at the
same time that she realized that she bore
within herself the soul of a he-goat, the fright
that had rolled into her like a block of ice
began to melt, and the excitement caused by
the body and inhibited by the soul thawed
out in her limbs. It was a marvelous condition. The contact with the bushes pressed
deep into her nerves through her skin; the
swelling of the moss under her soles, the
twittering of the birds, became sensual and
covered the interior of the world with
something like the flesh of a fruit. You will
all deny me when you recognize me! Clarisse
thought. As soon as that was thought, it also
came to her that Walter would really have to
learn to deny her, for that was the only way
he could be freed from her. At this thought
she was overcome by an immense sadness.
Everyone will deny me, she said once
again. And only when you have all denied

1378/1856

me will you be grown up. Only when you

have all grown up will I return to you! she
added. That was like the beginnings of splendid poems, whose second lines were already
lost in an excess of excitement and beauty.
Golgotha Song, she called it. A tension as if
she would have to break out in a stream of
tears at any moment accompanied this incredible achievement. What she admired
most deeply was the incredible compulsion
in this storm of freedom. If I were only a
little superstitious and not so hardy she
thoughtI would really have to be afraid of
myself! Her thoughts went now one wayas
if she were only an instrument on which a
strange and higher being were playing, her
beautiful idol that gave her answers before
she had managed to ask the questions, and
built up ideas that came to her like the outlines of whole cities, so that she stopped in
astonishmentand now another way, so that
Clarisse herself seemed quite empty, a

1379/1856

feathery light something that had to restrain

its steps with effort, for everything upon
which her eye fell, or every recollection the
ray of memory illuminated, led her hurriedly
forward and handed her on to the next thing
and the next idea, so that Clarisses thoughts
seemed at times to be running alongside her,
and a wild race with her body began, until
the young woman in her mental alienation
was forced to stop and, exhausted, throw
herself into some berry bushes.
She had found a clearing into which the
sun shone, and while she felt the warm earth
on which she lay, she stretched herself out as
if on a cross, and the nails of the suns rays
penetrated her upward-turned hands.
She had left a note for Ulrich in the
house, which said nothing but that she was
waiting for him in the woods.
After the conversation with Walter, Ulrich had set out and had indeed found the

1380/1856

note. He automatically assumed that Clarisse

was hiding somewhere and would make her
presence known when he entered the woods.
Oppressed by the hot morning, he set out
(listlessly) on the path that they were accustomed to taking when they went to the
woods, and when he did not find Clarisse, he
pushed on at random farther into the forest.
From everything Walter had said, what most
stuck in his mind was the news that Clarisse
was preoccupied with Moosbrugger. As far as
he was concerned, Moosbrugger could have
been long dead and hanged, for he had not
thought about him for weeks, which was
quite remarkable when he thought that not
all that long ago the image of this crude figure of fantasy had been one of the focal
points in his life. One truly feels, as a socalled normal personhe told himselfjust
as incoherent as someone who is insane. The
heat relaxed his collar and the pores of his
face, and slowly entered and emerged from

1381/1856

his softened skin. Meeting Clarisse aroused

no particularly pleasant expectations. What
could he say to her? She had always been
what one calls crazy without meaning it seriously; if she were now really to become so,
she might perhaps be ugly and repellent, that
would be simplest; but what if she was not
repellent to him? No; Ulrich assumed that
she would have to be. The deranged mind is
ugly. In this way he suddenly almost tripped
over her, for they both had spontaneously
followed the direction of a broad path that
was the continuation of the one that had led
them to the woods. Clarisse, a patch of color
among the colorful weeds and concealed
from his glance, had seen him coming. She
had quickly crawled out into his path and lay
there. The many unconscious, manly, and
resolute shifts in his face, which believed itself unobserved and was living in no more
than vegetative rapport with the obstacles
through which it was coming toward her,

1382/1856

gave her a marvelous sensation. Ulrich only

stopped, surprised, when he discovered her
lying almost directly beneath him, her smiling glance lifted up to him. She was not in
the least ugly.
We have to free Moosbrugger,
Clarisse declared, after Ulrich had asked her
to explain the sudden inspirations he had
heard about. If theres no other way, we
have to help him escape! Of course I know
youll help me!
Ulrich shook his head.
Then come! Clarisse said. Lets go
deeper into the woods, where well be alone.
She had jumped up. The senselessly raging
will that emanated from this small being was
like clouds of unfamiliar insects buzzing and
swarming among blackberry shoots exhaling
their odors in the sun, inhuman but pleasant.
-But youre all hot! Clarisse exclaimed.
Youll catch cold among the trees! She took

1383/1856

a kerchief from her warm body and swiftly

threw it over his head; then she climbed up
him, disappearing likewise under the kerchief, and, before he could throw her off,
kissed him like a high-spirited little girl.
Clarisse stumbled, and fell to a sitting position. I havent forgiven youUlrich
threatened grumblingly that during the
time you were in love with this muddlehead
Meingast I simply didnt exist for you! Oh?
Clarisse answered. You dont understand.
Meingast is homosexual. So you didnt understand me at all!
But whats this chatter about redeeming all about? Ulrich asked severely. That
only blossomed because of him, didnt it?
Oh, Ill explain that to you. Come!
Clarisse assured him.
Ulrich started with what Walter had
already told him.

1384/1856

All right. But thats not the main

point. The main point is the bear.
The bear?
Yes; the pointed muzzle with the teeth
that tear everything to pieces. I arouse the
bear in all of you! Clarisse showed with a
gesture what she meant, and smiled innocently. But, Clarisse! Of course! Clarisse
said. You deny me when Im being honest!
But even Walter believes that every person
has an animal in him whom he resembles.
From which he has to be redeemed. Nietzsche had his eagle, Walter and Moosbrugger
have the bear.
And I? Ulrich asked, curious.
I dont know yet.
And you?
Im a he-goat with eagles wings.
So they wandered through the woods,
eating berries now and then, heat and

1385/1856

hunger making them as dry as violin wood.

Sometimes Clarisse broke off a small dry
twig and handed it to Ulrich; he didnt know
whether to throw it away or keep it in his
hand; as with children, when they do such
things, there was something else behind it,
for which there was no articulated notion.
Now Clarisse stopped in the wilderness, and
the light in her eyes shone. She declared:
Moosbrugger has committed a sexual
murder, hasnt he? Whats that? Desire separated in him from whats human! But isnt
that the same in Walter too? And in you?
Moosbrugger has had to pay for it. Isnt
one obliged to help him? What do you say to
that? From the foot of the trees came the
smell of darkness, mushrooms, and decay,
from above of sunlit fir twigs.
Will you do that for me? Clarisse
asked.

1386/1856

Ulrich again said no, and asked Clarisse

to come back to the house.
She meandered along beside him and
let her head droop. They had gone quite far
from the path. Were hungry, Clarisse said,
and pulled out a piece of old bread she was
carrying in her pocket. She gave Ulrich some
of it too. It produced a remarkably pleasantunpleasant feeling, which quieted hunger
and tortured thirst. The mills of time grind
drylyClarisse poetizedyou feel grain after
grain falling.
And it occurred to Ulrich without thinking about it much that among these totally
meaningless annoyances he felt better than
he had in a long time.
Clarisse set about once more to win him
over. She would do it herself. She had a plan.
She only needed a little money. And he
would have to speak to Moosbrugger in her

1387/1856

stead, because she wasnt allowed in the clinic anymore.

Ulrich promised. This derring-do
fantasy filled up the time. He guarded himself against all consequences. Clarisse
laughed.
As they were on the way home, chance
had it that they caught up with a man leading
a tame bear. Ulrich joked about it, but
Clarisse grew serious and seemed to seek
protection in the closeness of his body, and
her face became deeply absorbed. As they
passed the man and the bear, she suddenly
called out: Ill tame every bear! It sounded
like an awkward joke. But she suddenly
reached for the bears muzzle, and Ulrich
had difficulty pulling her back quickly
enough from the startled, growling beast.
***
The next time, Ulrich met Clarisse at the
painters studio of friends of hers, where a

1388/1856

circle of people had gathered and was making music. Clarisse did not stand out in these
surroundings; the role of odd man out fell to
Ulrich instead. He had come reluctantly and
felt repugnance among these people, who,
contorted, were listening ecstatically. The
transitions from charming, gentle, and soft
to gloomy, heroic, and tumultuous, which
the music went through several times within
the space of a quarter hour, musicians dont
notice, because for them this progression is
synonymous with music and therefore with
something of the highest distinction!but to
Ulrich, who at the moment was not at all under the sway of the prejudice that music was
something that had to be, this music seemed
as badly motivated and unmediated in its
progression as the carryings-on of a company of drunks that alternates periodically
between sentimentality and fistfights. He
had no intention of imagining what the soul
of a great musician might be like and passing

1389/1856

judgment on it, but what was usually considered great music seemed to him much like
a chest with a beautifully carved exterior and
full of the contents of the soul, from which
one has pulled out all the drawers, so that
the contents he all jumbled together inside.
He usually could not understand music as an
amalgam of soul and form, because he saw
too clearly that the soul of music, aside from
rarely encountered pure music, is nothing
but the conventional soul of Jack and Jill
whipped to a frenzy.
He was, notwithstanding, supporting
his head in both hands like the others; he
just did not know whether it was because he
was thinking of Walter or closing his ears a
little. In truth, he was neither keeping his
ears entirely closed nor thinking of Walter.
He merely wanted to be alone. He did not often reflect about other people; apparently
because he also rarely thought about himself
as a person. He usually acted on the

1390/1856

opinion that what one thinks, feels, wants,

imagines, and creates could, in certain circumstances, signify an enrichment of life;
but what one is signifies under no circumstances more than a by-product of the process of this production. Musical people, on
the other hand, are quite often of the opposite opinion. They do produce something, to
which they apply the impersonal name of
music, but what they produce consists for
the most part, or at least for the part that is
most important to them, of themselves, their
sensations, emotions, and their shared experience. There is more momentary being
and less lasting duration in their music,
which among all intellectual activities is
closest to that of the actor. This intensification, which he was being forced to witness,
aroused Ulrichs antipathy; he sat among
these people like an owl among songbirds.
And of course Walter was his exact opposite. Walter thought passionately and a

1391/1856

great deal about himself. He took everything

he encountered seriously. Because he encountered it; as if that were a merit that can
make one thing into another. He was at every
moment a complete individual and a complete human being, and because he was, he
became nothing. Everybody had found him
captivating, brought him happiness, and invited him to remain with them, with the end
result that he had become an archivist or
curator, had run aground, no longer has the
strength to change, curses everyone, is contentedly unhappy, and goes off punctually to
his office. And while he is in his office
something will perhaps happen between
Clarisse and Ulrich that could arouse in the
person he is, if he should find out about it, an
agitation as if the entire ocean of world history were pouring into it; while Ulrich, on
the other hand, was far less agitated. But
Clarisse, immediately after she had come
inWalter was not therehad sat down

1392/1856

beside Ulrich; with her back bent forward,

her knees drawn up, in the darkness, for the
lights had not yet been turned on, right after
the first beats they heard she had spread her
hand over his, as if they belonged together in
the most intimate fashion. Ulrich had cautiously freed himself, and that was also a
reason for supporting his head with both
hands; but Clarisse, when she saw what he
was up to, and saw him from the side sitting
there just as moved as everyone else, had
gently leaned against him, and she had been
sitting that way for half an hour now. He was
not happy either.
He knew that what he committed over
and over was nothing but the opposite error
from Walters. This error gave rise to a dissolution without a center; the person was subsumed in an aura; he ceased to be a thing,
with all its limitations, as precious as they
were accidental; at the highest degree of intensification he became so indifferent toward

1393/1856

himself that the human, as opposed to the

supra-human, had no more significance than
the little piece of cork to which is attached a
magnet that draws it back and forth through
a network of forces. At the last it had been
like that for him with Agathe. And nowno,
it was a calumny to put these things next to
each otherbut even between himself and
Clarisse something was now going on, was
under way, he had blundered into a realm of
effects in which he and Clarisse were being
moved toward each other by forces, forces
that showed no consideration for whether,
on the whole, they felt an inclination for each
other or not.
And while Clarisse was leaning on him,
Ulrich was thinking about Walter. He saw
him before him in a particular way, as he often secretly saw him. Walter was lying at the
edge of some woods, wearing short pants
and unbecoming black socks, and in these
socks had neither the muscular nor the

1394/1856

skinny legs of a man, but those of a girl, of a

not very pretty girl, with smooth, unlovely
legs. His hands crossed behind his head, he
was looking at the landscape over which, one
day, his immortal works would roll, and he
radiated the feeling that talking to him would
be an interruption. Ulrich really loved this
image. In his youth, Walter had actually
looked that way. And Ulrich thought: What
has separated us is not the musicfor he
could quite well imagine a music rising as
impersonally and beyond things and eachtime-once-only as a trail of smoke that loses
itself in the skybut the difference in the attitude of the individual to music; it is this image that I love because it is left over, a remainder, while he surely loves it for the opposite reason, because it swallows up within
itself everything that he might have become,
until finally it became precisely Walter.
And reallyhe thoughtall that is nothing
but a sign of the times. Today socialism is

1395/1856

trying to declare the beloved private self to

be a worthless illusion, which should be replaced by social causes and duties. But in
this it had long since been preceded by the
natural sciences, which dissolved precious
private things into nothing but impersonal
processes such as warmth, light, weight, and
so forth. The object as a matter of importance to private individuals, as a stone that
falls on their head or one they can buy in a
gold setting, or a flower they smell, does not
interest up-to-date people in the least; they
treat it as a contingency or even as a thing
in itself, that is, as something that is not
there and yet is there, a quite foolish and
ghostly personality of a thing. One might
well predict that this will change, the way a
man who deals daily with millions happens
to take with great astonishment a single
banknote in his hand; but then object and
personality will have become something different. But meanwhile there exists a quite

1396/1856

comical juxtaposition. Morally, for instance,

one still looks at oneself somewhat as physics looked at bodies three hundred years ago;
they fall because they have the quality of
avoiding heights, or they become warm because they contain a fluid: moralists are still
attributing such good or bad qualities and
fluids to people. Psychologically, on the other
hand, one has already gone so far as to dissolve the person into typical bundles of typical averages of behavior. Sociologically, he is
treated no differently. But musically, he is
again made whole.
Suddenly the light was turned on. The
final notes of the music were still swinging
back and forth like a branch someone has
just jumped off; eyes sparkled; and the silence before everyone started talking set in.
Clarisse had promptly moved away from Ulrich, but now new groups formed, and she
pulled him into a corner and had something
to tell him.

1397/1856

What is the extreme opposite of letting something prevail? she asked him. And
since Ulrich did not respond, she herself
gave the answer. To impose oneself! The
tiny figure stood elastically before him, her
hands behind her back. But she tried to keep
her eyes fixed on Ulrichs, for the words she
now had to look for were so difficult that
they made her small body stagger. Inscribe
yourself onto something! I say. I thought of
that before while we were sitting next to each
other. Impressions are nothing; they press
you in! Or a heap of earthworms. But when
do you understand a piece of music? When
you yourself create it inwardly! And when do
you understand a person? When you do as
he does. You seewith her hand she described an acute angle lying horizontally,
which involuntarily reminded Ulrich of a
phallusour entire life is expression! In art,
in love, in politics, we seek the active, the
pointed form; Ive already told you that its

1398/1856

the bears muzzle! No, I didnt mean that impressions dont mean anything: theyre the
half of it; its marvelously in the word
redeem, the active re and the deem; she
became quite excited by the effort of making
herself comprehensible to Ulrich.
But just then the music making started
up againit had been only a short intermissionand Ulrich turned away from Clarisse.
He looked out at the evening through the
large studio window. The eye first had to adjust to the darkness again. Then wandering
blue clouds appeared in the sky. The tips of a
tree reached up from below. Houses stood
with their backs upward. How should they
stand otherwise? Ulrich thought with a
smile, and yet there are minutes when
everything appears topsy-turvy. He thought
of Agathe and was unspeakably depressed.
This new, small creature, Clarisse, at his
side, was rushing forward at an unnatural
speed. That was not a natural process, he

1399/1856

was quite clear about that. He considered her

crazy. There could be no talk of love. But
while behind his back the music seemed to
him like a circus, it pleased him to imagine
running alongside a circling horse jumping
hurdles, with Clarisse standing on it erect
and shouting Aie-ya and cracking her
whip.

1930-1934
ON CLARISSEWALTER
She comes upon Walter in the studio; bare,
chilly space. He is half-dressed and has a
dressing gown on. The brushes are dry, he is
sitting over some sketches. He really should
have been at the office already.
He is irritated that Meingast went off
without saying good-bye, and Clarisse is
secretly excited. Possibly here: He really
wanted as long as Meingast was in the
house
Already from the doorway Clarisse
called out to him: Come, come! Were going
to Dr. Friedenthal to ask him to entrust
Moosbruggers care to us.

1401/1856

Walter cant turn his head away from

her and looks at her.
Dont ask! Clarisse commands.
Could Walter have any more doubts at
this moment that her mind was disturbed?
The answer to this question will always be
quite dependent on the circumstances.
Clarisse looked impetuous and beautiful. The
fire in her eyes looked exactly like that of a
healthy will. And so what her brother
Siegmund had said of her, and had recently
repeated when Walter again asked him about
it, took hold of Walter: She is excessively
nervous, you just have to grab her
vigorously.
But for the moment it was Clarisse who
was doing the vigorous grabbing: She
hopped around Walter incessantly, repeating: Come, come, come! Dont make me have
to ask you!

1402/1856

The words seemed to fly around Walters ears, they confused him. One might
have said that he was laying back his ears
and digging his feet into the ground the way
a horse, a donkey, a calf does, with the obstinacy that is the weak creatures strength of
will: but to him it represented itself in the
form: Now youll show her whos master!
Just come along, Clarisse said, then
youll see why!
No, exclaimed Walter. Youll tell me
right this instant what youre up to!
What Im up to? Im up to something
weird. She had meanwhile begun to gather
up in the neighboring room what she needed
to go out; now she pulled off her gardening
gloves, held them in her hand for a moment,
and with a sudden heave flung them among
her husbands paint and brush jars. Something fell over, something rolled,
something clattered. Clarisse observed the

1403/1856

effect on Walter and burst out laughing. Walter got red in the face; he had no desire to hit
her but was ashamed of this very lack.
Clarisse went on laughing and said: Youve
been crouching over these jars for a year and
a day and havent produced a thing. Ill show
you how its done. Ive told you Ill bring out
your genius. Ill make you restless, impatient, daring! Suddenly she was quiet and
said seriously: Its weird, putting oneself on
the same level as the insane, but its resolving for genius! Do you believe that well ever
amount to anything the way weve been going along? Among these jars that are all so
nicely round and picture frames that are so
nicely rectangular? And with music after
supper! Why, then, were all gods and goddesses antisocial?
Antisocial?
astonishment.

Walter

asked

in

If you must be precise: uncriminally antisocial. Because they werent thieves or

1404/1856

murderers. But humility, voluntary poverty,

and chastity are also the expression of an antisocial mentality. And how otherwise could
they have taught mankind how the world is
to be improved but have denied the world for
themselves?
Now Walter was so constituted that in
spite of his initial astonishment he was capable of finding this assertion correct. It reminded him of the question: Can you imagine Jesus as director of a mine? A question
that would obviously have to be answered
simply and naturally no, if one could not
just as well say official of the Bureau for
Monuments in place of mine director, and
if one didnt feel the accompanying flash of a
ridiculously warm spark of ambition. Obviously there was hot only a contradiction but
a more profound incompatibility separating
two world systems between nurturing the
middle class and nurturing the divine, but
Walter, despite his already long-determined

1405/1856

inclination to the middle class, wanted both,

or wanted, what is even worse, to renounce
neither, and Clarisse possessed what he had
once already felt as calling upon God, the
decisiveness of a resolve that shows no consideration for anything. And so it happened
that after she had spoken, he felt exactly as
she had said, as if he were jammed up to his
knees into the life he had created for himself,
like a wedge in a block of wood, while she
flitted about in front of him as the restless,
impatient, daring one who was experimenting with him. As a man of many talents, he
knew that genius lay not so much in talent as
in willpower. To the person being overtaken
by paralysis, which he intuitively understood
himself to be, it seemed related to the fermenting, the must, indeed even to the mere
foam. He enviously recognized in her the improbable, the zigzag dots of variations
around the mean, the creature that at the
edge of the crowd half goes along ahead of it

1406/1856

and is half lost within it, which lies in the notion of genius. Clarisse was the only person
in whom he loved this, who still linked him
to it, and because her association with genius
was pathological, his fear for her was also a
fear for himself. This was how the desire not
to listen to her, indeed to show her the
man, as Siegmund, the brother and physician, had advised him to do, arose out of his
assent to the words with which she was persuading him and explaining her intention,
and out of her powerful charm in pleasing
him, which she exercised in an apparently
natural way and without any awareness of
contradiction.
***
So after a short pause Walter said rather
roughly: But now be reasonable, Clarisse,
stop that nonsense and come over here!
Clarisse had meanwhile taken off her clothes
and was in the process of drawing a cold
bath. In her short panties and with her thin

1407/1856

arms, she looked like a boy. She felt the stale

warmth of Walters body close behind her
and immediately understood what he was
after. She turned around and put her hand
on his chest. But Walter reached out to grab
her. With one hand he held her arm, and
sought with the other to grasp her by the
crotch and pull her to him. Clarisse tore at
the embrace, and when that didnt help
shoved her free hand into Walters face, into
his nose and mouth. His face turned red and
the blood trembled in his eyes while he
struggled with Clarisse, but he did not want
to let her see that she was hurting him. And
when he threatened to suffocate, he had to
strike her hand from his face. Quick as lightning she went at it again, and this time her
nails tore two bleeding furrows in his skin.
Clarisse was free.
They stood this way opposite each other. Neither of them tried to speak. Clarisse
was startled by her cruelty, but she was

1408/1856

beside herself. Some intervention from

above had torn her out of herself; she was
totally turned to the outside, a bush full of
thorns. She was in ecstasy. None of the
thoughts that had preoccupied her for weeks
was any longer in her mind; she had even
forgotten what she had just been talking
about and what it was she wanted. Her whole
self was gone, with the exception of what she
needed to defend herself. She felt incredibly
strong. Just then Walter again snatched at
her, this time with all his strength. He had
become angry and feared nothing in the
whole world so much as becoming rational
again. Clarisse struck at him. She was instantly ready to scratch again, to bite, to knee
him in the groin or shove her elbow in his
mouth, and it was not even anger or dislike
that determined this, let alone any rational
consideration; rather, in some wild way, this
struggle made her like him, even though she
was ready to kill him. She wanted to bathe in

1409/1856

his blood. She did so with her nails and with

the short glances, which, shocked, followed
his efforts and the small red gutters that
opened up on his face and hands. Walter
cursed. He swore at her. Vulgar words, which
had no relation to his usual self, came from
his mouth. Their pure, undiluted masculinity
smelled like brandy, and the need for common, insulting speech suddenly revealed itself to be just as primeval as the need for tenderness. Apparently what was coming out
was nothing but a grudge against all the
higher ambition that had tortured and humiliated him for decades and was finally raising
its head against him once more in Clarisse.
Of course he had no time to think about this.
But he still felt distinctly that he was not
merely on the point of breaking her will because Siegmund had advised him that way,
but was also doing it on account of the
breaking and snapping itself. In some fashion the ridiculously beautiful motions of a

1410/1856

flamingo went through his mind. Well see

whats left after a bulldog gets hold of it!
was his thought about the flamingo mind,
but what he muttered half aloud between his
teeth was: Stupid goose!
And Clarisse, too, was inspired by the
one idea: He cant be allowed to have his
way! She felt her strength still growing. Her
clothes tore, Walter seized the shreds, she
seized hold of the neck in front of her. Half
naked, slippery as a wriggling fish, she
struggled in her husbands arms. Walter,
whose strength was not sufficient simply to
overpower her, flung her to and fro and painfully sought to block her attacks. She had lost
her shoe and kicked at him with her bare
foot. They fell. They both appeared to have
forgotten the goal of their struggle and its
sexual origin, and were fighting only to assert their will. In this utmost, convulsive
gathering of their selves they really disappeared. Their perceptions and thoughts

1411/1856

gradually took on a totally indefinable texture, as in a blinding light. They almost felt
amazement at still being alive / that their
selves were still there.
Clarisse especially was worked up to
such a pitch that she felt insensitive to the
pain inflicted on her, and when she came to
herself again this intoxicated her in the conviction that the same spirits that had recently
illuminated her were now standing by her in
her mission and fighting on her side. So she
was all the more horrified when she was
forced to notice that with time she was growing fatigued. Walter was stronger and heavier than she; her muscles became numb and
lax. There were pauses where his weight
pressed her to the ground and she could not
defend herself, and the succession of defensive maneuvers and ruthless attacks against
sensitive face and body parts, during which
she caught her breath, were succeeded more
and more frequently by powerlessness and

1412/1856

suffocating poundings of her heart. So that

what Walter had anticipated happened:
nature conquered, Clarisses body left her
mind in the lurch and defended its will no
longer. It seemed to her as if she were hearing within herself the cocks crowing on the
Mount of Olives: incredibly, God was
abandoning her world, something was about
to happen that she could not divine. And at
moments Walter was already ashamed of
himself. Like a bolt of lightning, remorse
struck him. It also seemed to him that
Clarisse looked horribly distorted. But he
had already risked so much that he no longer
wanted to stop. To continue anesthetizing
himself, he used the excuse that the brutality
he was exercising was his right as a husband.
Suddenly Clarisse screamed. She made an effort to utter a long, shrill, monotone cry as
she saw her will escaping, and in this final,
desperate defense it was in her mind that
with this cry and what remained of her will

1413/1856

she could perhaps slip out of her body. But

she no longer had much breath left; the cry
did not last long and brought no one rushing
in. She was left alone. Walter was alarmed at
her cry but then angrily intensified his efforts. She felt nothing. She despised him.
Finally, she thought of an expedient: she
counted as quickly and as loudly as she
could: One, two, three, four, five. One, two,
three, four, five, over and over. Walter
found it horrible, but it did not stop him.
And when they separated and
straightened up, in a daze she said: Just
wait. Ill have my revenge!

1936
NEW IDEAS ABOUT THE
CLARISSE-WALTER-ULRICH
COMPLEX
To make Clarisse human, use the problem of
genius. Or instead of genius, one can also
say: the will to greatness, to goodness. A
miserable Prometheus. Genius in that case
about the same thing: a person who is an exception. The person who sees the errors, sees
what is out of joint in the world, and has the
will not to let the matter drop. In her case
she doesnt have the strength.
This defines part of Walters problem:
what has to happen if the
strength is lacking? island, discussion.

1415/1856

The fact already that she always clung

to older men!
The relation to her parents: here she
learned to see the world as exception to her.
[Part] I, or wherever her early history is
recounted.
The whole development of her insanity
would then fallwhich makes Clarisse more
human and motivates the conclusionunder
the tide: Struggle for Walter as struggle for
genius.
In order not to have to speak of Ulrich:
she gave him a name, from the beginning.
The leader? The Buddha? The Great One?
The Eternal One? The Mysterious One? The
Redeemer? Or several names? The
Beloved? The Healthy One? The Great
Friend?
Clarisse in Rome

1416/1856

Clarisse, however, could not bear to stay in

Rome long. Even the square in front of the
railway station, with its palm trees, its shops,
and the proximity of big hotels, repelled her.
Nevertheless, she walked to the center
of the city and checked into a small albergo.
In the meantime her impression had
changed. The evening sky was orange almost
to the zenith; the trees stood black and
feathered before it. The air in the Ludovisi
quarter, that unique, deliciously light mixture of sea and mountain air, refreshed her.
She inhaled the acquaintance of a new
strength. Prophecy of fascism. She began to
notice the pretentious splendor of the elevated private gardens that rested on walls
five to eight yards high above the heads of
ordinary pedestrians, and the giant gates and
high windows, which in this neighborhood
were a feature even of the apartment buildings. Behind a park wall a donkey brayed.
How the donkeys bray here! Clarisse

1417/1856

thought. Differently from home. They

dont go hee-haw, they go ya! It was a
metallic, persisting trumpet call. She thought
she could tell at first glance that there were
no philistines in this city. Or there were, but
a whirling energy threatened them. As she
approached the center, everything was full of
energy, rush, and noise: cars raced unexpectedly around corners and crossed the plazas
on unpredictable paths; bicyclists cheerfully
and at risk of their lives teemed their way
through between them; from the bursting
trams clusters of young men who were trying
to ride hung like grapes, clinging to each other in bold and impossible positions. Clarisse
felt that this was a city after her own temperament, she was experiencing such a place
for the first time. At night she could not sleep
because a small bar had placed its tables in
the narrow alley under her windows; people
sang popular songs into the early morning
and after every verse screamed a cheerfully

1418/1856

dissonant refrain. This completely electrified

Clarisse. Although it was still relatively early
in the year, it was already quite warm, and
Clarisse got diarrhea from the heat; it was an
enchanting state, as light as elder pith,
fledged, and fatiguingly exciting.
Clarisse ordered all the impressions
Rome made on her under the color red.
When she thought back to her experiences in
the sanatorium they had changed from a watery green, a color belonging to the present,
the color of the German woods, into this red,
which had been the red of the processions in
her imagination; but it must be said that
Clarisse did not clearly remember the experiences that had driven her to make this journey, but had the clear feeling of running
from a green state into one that was glowing
red. Unfortunately, it was quite impossible
for Clarisse to hit upon the idea that she was
suffering from mad delusions. For green
states even have their composers, who set

1419/1856

them to music; these days sounds are

painted, poems form sensory spaces,
thoughts are danced: this is a vague kind of
associating that has become popular because
thinking has lost its authority; its about one
eighth sensible and seven eighths nonsensical, and Clarisse could still regard herself as
being very cautious and deliberate. So it was
with calm, anticipatory attentive-ness that
she found herself on the way from a green
state into a red one.
On an excursion through Romes
palaces she encountered the marvelous,
totally red portrait of Innocent X by
Velazquez; the sight shot through her like a
bolt of lightning. Now she saw clearly that
this burning color of life, red, was at the
same time the color of Christianity, which, in
Nietzsches phrase, had given classical Eros
poison to drink, the color of ascesis and inculpation of the senses. Oh my friends
Clarisse thoughtyou will not catch me! Her

1420/1856

heart beat as if she had recognized a mortal

danger at the last moment. She had discovered the ambivalent countenance of this
city. It was the city of the Pope, and she remembered that Nietzsche had attempted to
live here and had fled. She went to the house
where he had lived. She took in nothing. The
house was spiritually closed. She walked
home smiling, outwitting this city at every
step. It was a double city. Here the dark
pessimism of Christianity flared up to cardinal red, and here the blackness of insanity
had flowed into Nietzsches red blood. But
what she thought was not so important to
Clarisse; the main thing was the smiling ambivalence in everything she saw. She went
past palaces, excavations, and museums; she
had still seen only the least part of them, and
her impressions had not sunk to the measure
of reality; she had assumed that the most
marvelous treasures of the world were here
set up side by side, but they were laid out like

1421/1856

a bait; she had to remove this beauty from its

hook very, very carefully. And everything
that is beautiful in youth depends on the
things around which people circle having one
aspect that is known only to oneself.
In some way or other, the idea had
seized Clarisse that she had to take up the
mission at which Nietzsche had failed here in
a different way, by beginning with the north.
Evening had come. Once more she looked
out the window of her small room: in the bar
below, the first guests were already beginning to shout and sing, and if you leaned
your body way outabove their heads, like a
northern gargoyleand craned your neck,
you could see the round serrated shape of a
gray church standing like a tiara before the
still-darker gray of the night.
From what remained of her money she
bought a ticket that took her back to one of
the small towns through which she had
passed on her way down. An unerring feeling

1422/1856

told her at the railway station that it was not

the right place. She went on by the next
train. In this way Clarisse traveled for three
days and four nights. On the fourth morning
she was traveling along a seacoast and found
a place that held her fast. With no money,
she went into the hotels. This fact, that she
had no money, was quite sudden and very
peculiar; she made a rather long speech to
the people in the hotels, in order to get them
to serve her, and they listened politely but
without understanding; then she hit upon
the idea, because Walter was not to know
where she was staying, of appealing to Ulrich. she sent him a long telegram in
German.
ClarisseIsland
That Clarisse appealed to Ulrich was not only
due to her needing money and wanting to
keep her whereabouts concealed from

1423/1856

Walter. Involved as well was an I mean

you, a grasping with rays of feeling across
mountains and far distances. Clarisse had
come to the conviction that she was in love
with Ulrich. That was not quite so simple as
such a thing can be. She explained the horrible scene between the two of them that had
upset her so, and everything that preceded it,
by saying that at the time it had been too
soon for Ulrich; it was only now that he was
in the right spot in the system of her imaginings (but that is love, when a person finds
himself in the right spot in the system of our
imaginings), and the energy of the whole was
streaming toward him in a way that was unheard of. Wherever his name fell, the earth
melted. When she uttered it her tongue was
like a wisp of sun in a mild rain. Clarisse explored her new surroundings. They consisted
of a small island pitched close to the mainland, bearing an old fort left half open, and a
gigantic sandbank that pushed out from this

1424/1856

island farther into the sea and that with its

trees and bushes formed a large empty
second island, belonging to Clarisse alone
when she had herself rowed over there. It
seemed people did not have much confidence in its stability, for although there was
an old hut on it in which to store nets and
other fishing gear, this hut, too, was abandoned and decayed, and there were no other
signs of settlement or division of possessions. Wind, waves, white sand, sharp
grasses, and all sorts of small animals lived
here freely together; the resonance of water,
earth, and sky was as empty and loud as tin
banging on tin.
The inhabited island behind it boasted
high, fortified walls overgrown with green;
cannons that did not intimidate but,
wrapped in sailcloth, looked astonishingly
like prehistoric animals; moats, near which
were unbelievably large rats; and in the
midst of the rats running around in broad

1425/1856

daylight there was a small tavern shaped like

a cube, with a four-sided pyramid for a roof,
under shaggy trees. There Clarisse had taken
a room for herself and Ulrich. The house was
also the canteen for the fort, and all day long
dark-blue soldiers with yellow stripes on
their sleeves stood around nearby. One did
not have the feeling of people going about
life but rather felt an oppression, which emptied the heart, as if before a deportation or
something similar. The young men too,
strolling with rifles on their arms in front of
the cannons wrapped in sails, reinforced this
impression: who had put them there?
Where, at what distance, was the brain of
this madness that expressed itself in a joyless, pedantic automatism preserved in catatonic rigidity?
It was the right island for Ulrich and
Clarisse, and Ulrich baptized it the Island of
Health, because every fit of madness
seemed bright against its dark background.

1426/1856

He had received Clarisses telegram in the

night when he came home and was crossing
his garden. In the light of a lamp on the
white wall of his house he had torn open the
dispatch and read it, because he thought it
came from Agathe. It was already the end of
May. But the May night was like a belated
March night; the stars looked down sharply,
withdrawn to their heights, icily crisp out of
the unilluminated, infinitely remote canopy
of the sky. The telegrams sentences were
long and confused, but held together by a
rhythm of excitement. When Clarisse turned
her back on the small military middle of her
island, loneliness stretched before her like
the desert of the anchorite. Connected with
this idea of retiring from the world was an
overloud, unchanging emotional tone full of
covetous horror, something like the final
purification and trial on the path of the
great one. The adultery to which she had
condemned herself would have to be

1427/1856

consummated on this island as on a cross,

for a cross on which she had to lay herself
was what the empty sand over there across
the waves, trodden by no one, seemed to her
to be. Something of all this came through in
the telegram. Ulrich guessed that the great
disorder had now really overtaken Clarisse,
but that was precisely what suited him.
In their small inn they had a room that
contained barely the most indispensable furniture, but a chandelier of Venetian glass
hung from the center of the ceiling, and large
mirrors in broad glass frames that were
painted with flowers hung on the walls. In
the mornings they went over to the Island of
Health, which hovered in the air like a
mirage, and from there they looked back on
the inhabited island, which, with its cannons,
embrasures, serrations, and little houses and
trees, lay there like a round, perfect, exiled
word that has lost the connection to its
discourse.

1428/1856

Island I
Clarisse arrives while Agathe and Ulrich are
still together. Stays 1-3 days in the hotel,
during which time she seeks and finds her island. This is when she tells the Moosbrugger
story. Invites Ulrich to the island (or Ulrich
and Agathe) and Ulrich comes over. Spends
half a day with her. Her hut, etc.
So it apparently goes not as far as intercourse but only to Clarisses readiness. This
is the way to utilize the material from the old
coitus scene.

Island II
Something like:
[I] Agathe has left only a few lines in a note.
Contents?
[II] Shortly thereafter Walter arrives toward
evening. Ulrich spontaneously: Did you see
Agathe? That did not happen. But that
Agathe had been there until just now calms
his jealousy. Walter, somewhat paunchy
belly.
Ulrich takes him to Clarisse. Clarisse is sitting somewhere on the beach. Ulrich hadnt
been paying attention to her. Walter feels
profound solidarity with the ill and
abandoned.
They enter the fishermens hut. It looks as if
the three of them had lived there. They

1430/1856

arrange things for the three of them. Walter

doesnt say anything about it; acts *as if it is
a self-explanatory matter of being chaperon.
[III] How does Clarisse take this? That
also depends on what came before (Island I),
which is still undetermined.
Idea: She confesses. If there had been intercourse with Ulrich, that way; but more probably (because of Agathes proximity) coitus is
only to be reduced to hints, a half seduction
of Ulrich by Clarisse. So nothing took place,
and it also makes the scene stronger if she
confesses made-up sins and Ulrich listens.
Usable as climax: suddenly or by degrees, the
powerful sexual arousal turns into the mystic
emotion of transfigured union with God,
which is almost unimaginable.
Walter doubtless does not believe, Ulrich
makes him a sign, but still there is something

1431/1856

credible in it, as if its not being true were

merely accidental.
[IV] In order to leave Clarisse alone while
she gets undressed, they go outside, then toward the beach. Walter says, because he is
jealous: it is madness to doubt a persons
faithfulness. There are situations in which
one is quite properly uncertain. In the halflight he looks at Ulrich from the side. But
you must have the courage to let yourself be
deceived. That is the way a bullet must sometimes heal over without being removed. Out
of this deception that you encapsulate within
yourself something great can arise. Its a
matter not only of faithfulness between man
and wife but also of other values.
He did not say: greatness, but thats what he
was probably thinking. He seemed important
to himself, and above all manly, because he
wasnt making a scene and forcing Ulrich to
confess the truth. Somehow he was grateful

1432/1856

to fate for this great trial. Transitionally or

combined with:
[V] They sit down by the edge of the melancholy of the evening sea.
She was the star of my life! Walter said.
But Ulrich starts at contact with the word
faithfulness. Hes not nearly as magnanimous as Walter.
[VI] Walter now picks up on star of my life,
develops it.
Now it is sinking into night; what is to become of me? At this moment he has this
sense of self-importance they had when they
were young. He steps outside himself: I am
at a critical juncture. You have no idea what
Ive had to fight through and suffer this past
year. In the last analysis my whole life has
been a battle. Fought like a madman / fought
day and night with a dagger in my fist. But

1433/1856

does it mean anything? I think I have now

come so far as really to be the man I wanted
to be; but is there any sense in it? Do you believe that the way things are today, we could
really carry out anything at all of what we desired as young people?
Ulrich sat there in a dark-blue wool fishermans sweater; he had lost weight, which
only emphasized the breadth of his
shoulders and the muscular power of his
arms, which, leaning forward, he had rested
on his kneesand he wanted most of all to
howl at this crepuscular comradeship. He
replied gloomily: Dont talk to me about your
victories. You were beaten and finally you
want to throw up without being embarrassed. Youre now in your early thirties, and
at forty everyone is through. At fifty everyone
sees himself contented in life and soon after
that will have all his troubles behind him.
The only people who have it good are the
ones who seek refuge in conformity! Thats

1434/1856

the wisdom of life! The best part is reserved

for those who are defeated! And nothing is
worse than being alone!
He was dejected. His crassness did not prevent Walter from noticing it.
[Visit to the Madhouse]
What met her eyes was, in any event, peculiar enough: a game of cards.
Moosbrugger, in dark everyday clothes,
was sitting at a table with three men, one of
whom was wearing a doctors white smock,
the second a business suit, and the third the
rather threadbare cassock of a priest; aside
from these four figures around the table, and
their wooden chairs, the room was empty,
except for the three high windows that
looked out over the garden. The four men
looked up as Clarisse came toward them, and
Friedenthal performed the introductions.

1435/1856

Clarisse made the acquaintance of a young

intern at the clinic, his mentor, and a doctor
who had come to visit, from whom she found
out that he had been one of the experts who
had declared Moosbrugger sane at his court
hearings. The four were playing three-man
games, so that one was always sitting watching the others play. The sight of a cozy, ordinary game of cards dashed, for the moment, all Clarisses ideas. She had been prepared for something horrifying, even if only
that she would have been led endlessly
farther through such half-empty rooms in order finally to be mysteriously informed that
Moosbrugger was once again not to be seen;
and after everything she had been through in
the last few weeks, and especially today, all
she could feel now was an extraordinary
sense of oppression. She did not grasp that
this card game had been arranged with the
others by Dr. Friedenthal in order that
Moosbrugger could be observed at leisure; it

1436/1856

seemed to her like devils playing with a soul

in an ignoble fashion, and she thought she
was in empty, icy tracts of hell. To her horror, Moosbrugger stood up straight and gallantly came up to her; Friedenthal introduced him too, and Moosbrugger took her
unsteady hand in his paw and made a quick,
silent bow, like a big adolescent.
After that was done, Friedenthal asked
that they please not disturb themselves and
explained that the lady had come from Chicago to study the organization of the clinic
and would certainly find that there was no
other place in the world where the guests
were treated so well.
Spades were played, not diamonds,
Herr Moosbrugger! said the physician, who
had been observing his prot6g6 reflectively.
In truth, Moosbrugger had enjoyed
Friedenthals referring to him, in the presence of these strangers, as a guest of the clinic and not as a patient. Savoring this made

1437/1856

him misread the cards, but because of the

game he overlooked the reproach with a
magnanimous smile. Ordinarily he played
more carefully than a hawk. It was his ambition to lose to his learned opponents only
through the luck of the cards, never by playing worse than they did. But this time he
also, after a while, allowed himself to count
his tricks in English, which he could do up to
thirty even if it interfered with his game, and
he had understood that Clarisse came from
America. Indeed, a little later he put his
cards down entirely, pressed his fists against
the table, leaned his strong back so broadly
backward that the wood embracing it
creaked, and began an involved story about
his time in prison. Take my word for it, gentlemen he began, because he knew from
experience: if you want to get anywhere with
women you have to act as if you arent even
aware of their existence, at least in the

1438/1856

beginning; that had brought him success

with them every time.
The young asylum physician listened to
Moosbruggers bombastic story with a smile;
in the priests face regret struggled with
cheerfulness, while the visiting doctor, who
was playing, and who had almost brought
Moosbrugger to the gallows, encouraged him
from time to time with sarcastic interruptions. The giants proud but ordinarily basically decent manner of conducting himself
had made him a comfortable presence to
them. What he said made sense, even if not
always in exactly the right places; the spiritual counselor in particular had come to like
him sinfully well. When he reminded himself
of the brutal crimes of which this man of
lamblike piety was capable, he mentally
crossed himself in fright, as if he had surprised himself in some reprehensible negligence, humbled himself before the inscrutability of God, and said to himself that such a

1439/1856

vexed and complicated affair was best left to

Gods will. That this will was being manipulated by the two doctors like two levers working against each other, without its being for
the moment apparent which was the
stronger, was not unbeknownst to the man of
the cloth.
A cheerful antagonism prevailed
between the two doctors. When Moosbrugger lost the thread of his story for a moment
he was interrupted by the older man, the visitor, Dr. Pfeifer, with the words: Enough
talking, Moosbrugger, back to the cards, otherwise the Herr Intern will arrive at his diagnosis too soon! Moosbrugger immediately
replied with subservient eagerness: If you
want to play, Doctor, we can play again!
Clarisse heard this with astonishment. But
the younger of the two doctors smiled, unmoved. It was an open secret that he was trying to arrive at an unassailable clinical picture of Moosbruggers inability to be held

1440/1856

accountable for his actions. This doctor was

blond and looked ordinary and unsentimental, and the traces of fraternity dueling scars
did not exactly make his face any more cultured; but the self-confidence of youth made
him advocate the clinical view of Moosbruggers guilt, and his requisite punishment,
with a zeal that scorned the customary detachment. He would not have been able to
say precisely in what this clinical view consisted. It was just different. In this view, for
example, an ordinary bout of intoxication is
a genuine mental disorder that heals by itself; and that Moosbrugger was in part an
honorable man, in part a sex murderer, signified, as this view had it, competing drives,
for which it was a matter of course that he
had to reach a decision according to whether
the stronger or the more sustained drive was
uppermost at the moment. If others wanted
to call that free will or a good or evil moral

1441/1856

decision, that was their affair. Whose deal?

he asked.
It developed that it was his turn to cut
and deal the cards. While he was doing this,
Dr. Pfeifer turned to Clarisse to ask what interest had brought his esteemed colleague
here. Dr. Friedenthal raised his hand to ward
off the question and advised: For heavens
sake, dont mention anything about psychiatry: theres no word in the German language
this doctor wants to hear less! This was
true, and had the advantage of allowing the
unauthorized visitor to appear to the others
to be a doctor without Friedenthal having to
say so expressly. He smiled contentedly. Dr.
Pfeifer left off the banter with a flattered
grin. He was a somewhat older little man,
whose skull was flat on top and sloped out
and down at the back and was festooned
with wisps of unkempt hair and beard. The
nails on his fingers were oily from cigarettes
and cigars, and retained around the edges a

1442/1856

narrow rim of dirt, although in medical fashion they appeared to be cut quite short. This
could now be clearly seen because in the
meantime the players had picked up their
cards and were carefully sorting them. I
pass, Moosbrugger declared; I play, Dr.
Pfeifer; Good, the young doctor; this time
the cleric was looking on. The game was languid and ran its uneventful course.
Clarisse, who was standing to one side
next to Friedenthal, hidden slightly behind
him, raised her mouth to his ear and, indicating Moosbrugger with her glance,
whispered: All he ever had was ersatz
women!
Shh, for heavens sake! Friedenthal
whispered back imploringly, and to cover the
indiscretion stepped up to the table and
asked aloud: Whos winning? Im losing,
Pfeifer declared. Moosbrugger was lying in
wait! Our young colleague wont take any advice from me; theres no way I can convince

1443/1856

him that its a fatal error for doctors to believe sick criminals belong in their hospitals. Moosbrugger grinned. Pfeifer went on
joking and picked up the skirmishing with
Friedenthal where it had broken off; there
was no point going on with the game anyway. You yourself, he pleaded ironically,
ought to be telling a young Hippocrates like
this, when the occasion arises, that trying to
cure evil people medically is a Utopia and,
moreover, nonsense, for evil is not only
present in the world but also indispensable
for its continuation. We need bad people; we
cant declare them all sick.
Youre out of tricks, the calm young
doctor said, and put down his cards. This
time the cleric, looking on, smiled. Clarisse
thought she had understood something. She
became warm. But Pfeifer looked loathsome.
Its a nonsensical utopia, he joked. She was
at a loss. Presumably it was only the undignified game of devils playing for a soul. Pfeifer

1444/1856

had lit a fresh cigar, and Moosbrugger was

dealing the cards. For the first time he
looked over at Clarisse for a moment, and
then he was asked for his response to the
others bids.
This time the intern was odd man out.
He seemed to have been waiting for the opportunity, and very slowly pulled his
thoughts together in words. For a scientist,
he said, there is nothing that does not have
its basis in a law of nature. So if a person
commits a crime without any rational external motive, it must mean he has an inner
one. And thats what I have to be on the
lookout for. But its not subtle enough for Dr.
Pfeifer. That was all he said. He had turned
red, and looked around with amiable annoyance. The cleric and Dr. Friedenthal laughed;
Moosbrugger laughed the same way they did
and threw a lightning glance at Clarisse.
Clarisse said suddenly: A person can also
have unusual rational motives! The intern

1445/1856

looked at her. Pfeifer agreed: Our colleague

is quite right. And you are really betraying a
criminal nature just by assuming that there
are also rational motives for a crime! Oh,
nonsense! the younger man retorted. You
know exactly what Im talking about. And
again to Clarisse: Im speaking as a doctor.
Splitting words may have a place in philosophy or somewhere else, but I find it
repulsive!
Whenever he was entrusted with preparing a faculty report, he was known for
getting angry and upset at the concessions he
was expected to make to an unmedical way
of thinking and at the unnatural questions to
which he was expected to respond. Justice is
not a scientific concept any more than the
concepts derived from it are, and the doctor
associates quite different ideas than does the
lawyer with deserving of punishment, free
will, use of reason, derangement of the
senses, and all such things that determine

1446/1856

the destiny of countless people. Since the

lawyer, for whatever reasons, will neither
dispense with the doctor nor yield to his
judgment, which is understandable, medical
experts who testify in court not seldom resemble little children forbidden by an older
sister to speak in their natural way, even
though at the same time she commands
them to do so and then waits for the truth to
emerge from their childish mouths. So it was
not from any emotional sentimentality but
from pure ambition and cutting zeal for his
discipline that the young researcher with the
dueling scars was inclined to exclude the
persons in his report as much as possible
from the courts cerebral cortex, and since
this had a chance of succeeding only when
these persons could be classified quite clearly
and distinctly under a recognized category of
disease, he was in Moosbruggers case also
collecting everything that pointed to one. But
Dr. Pfeifer did exactly the opposite, although

1447/1856

he only occasionally came to the clinic to inquire after Moosbrugger, like a sportsman
who, once his own match is over, will sit on
the rostrum and watch the others. He was recognized as an outstanding expert, even if a
rather odd one, on the nature of mentally ill
criminals. His practice as a physician could
be called at most complaisant, and that only
with the accompaniment of disrespectful
statements against the value of his discipline.
He lived mostly from a modest but steady income from testifying as an expert witness,
for he was very popular in the courts on account of his sympathy for the tasks of justice.
He was so much the expert (which also
earned him Friedenthals benevolence) that
out of sheer scientism he denied his science,
indeed denigrated human knowledge in general. Basically, perhaps, he did this only because in this fashion he could abandon himself without restraint to his personal inclinations, which goaded him to treat with great

1448/1856

skill every criminal whose mental health was

questionable, like a ball that was to be
guided through the holes of science to the
goal of punishment. All kinds of stories were
told about him, and Friedenthal, doubtless
fearing that the usual conversation between
the two adversaries might well erupt in a
quarrel that was better left unheard this
time, quickly seized the initiative by turning
to Clarisse right after the young doctor and
explaining to her what he understood by
splitting words. According to the opinion
of our esteemed guest Dr. Pfeifer, he said
with a soothing glance and smile, no one is
capable of deciding whether a person is
guilty. We doctors cant because guilt, being
held accountable for ones actions, and all
those things arent medical concepts at all,
and judges cant because without some
knowledge of the important connections
between body and mind, there is no way of
arriving at a judgment about such questions

1449/1856

either. Its only religion that unambiguously

demands personal responsibility before God
for every sin, so ultimately such questions always become questions of religious conviction. With these last words he had directed
his smile at the pastor, hoping by this teasing
to give the conversation a harmless turn. The
priest did turn slightly red in the face and
smiled back in confusion, and Moosbrugger
expressed by an unmistakable growl his
complete approval of the theory that he belonged before Gods tribunal and not psychiatrys. But suddenly Clarisse said: Perhaps
the patient is here because he is standing in
for someone else.
She said this so quickly and unexpectedly that it got lost; several astonished
glances brushed her, from whose face the
color had drained except for two red spots,
and then the conversation proceeded on its
previous course.

1450/1856

Thats not entirely so, Dr. Pfeifer responded, and laid down his cards. We cant
even talk clearly about what it means to say
Im speaking as a doctor, about which our
colleague has such a high opinion. A case
that occurred in life is placed before us in the
clinic; we compare it with what we know,
and the rest, simply everything we dont
know, simply our lack of knowledge, is the
delinquents responsibility. Is that the way it
is, or isnt it?
Friedenthal shrugged his shoulders in
statesmanlike fashion, but remained silent.
Thats the way it is, Pfeifer repeated.
Despite all the pomp of justice and science,
despite all hairsplitting, despite our wigs of
split hairs, the whole business finally just
comes down to the judge saying: 1 wouldnt
have done that and to us psychiatrists
adding: Our mentally disturbed patients
wouldnt have behaved that way! But the
fact that our concepts arent better sorted out

1451/1856

cant be allowed to lead to societys being

hurt. Whether the will of an individual person is free or not free, societys will is free as
far as what it treats as good and evil. And for
myself, I want to be good in societys sense,
not in the sense of my private emotions. He
relit his dead cigar and brushed the hairs of
his beard away from his mouth, which had
become moist.
Moosbrugger, too, stroked his mustache, and was beating rhythmically on the
tabletop with the edge of his telescoped hand
of cards.
Well, do we want to go on playing, or
dont we? the intern asked patiently.
Of course we want to go on, Pfeifer responded, and picked up his cards. His eyes
met Moosbruggers. Moreover, Moosbrugger and I are of the same opinion, he went
on, looking at his hand with a worried expression. How was it, Moosbrugger? The

1452/1856

counselor at the trial asked you repeatedly

why you put on your Sunday clothes and
went to the tavern
And got shaved, Moosbrugger corrected; Moosbrugger was ready to talk about it
at any time, as if it was an act of state.
Calmly got shaved, Pfeifer repeated.
You shouldnt have done that! the counselor
told you. Well! He turned to the rest. We
do exactly the same thing when we say that
our mental patients wouldnt have done that.
Is this the way to prove anything? This time,
his words were subdued and relaxed and
only an echo of his earlier, more passionate
protest, because the game had again begun
to go around the table.
A patronizing smile could be discerned
on Moosbruggers face for quite some time; it
slowly faded in his absorption in the game,
the way pleats in a stiff material soften with
constant use. So Clarisse was not entirely

1453/1856

wrong when she thought she was seeing several devils struggling for a soul, but the relaxed way in which this was happening deceived her, and she was especially confused
by the manner in which Moosbrugger was
behaving. He apparently did not much like
the younger doctor, who wanted to help him;
he put up with his efforts only reluctantly
and became restless when he felt them. Perhaps he wasnt acting any differently from
any simple person who finds it impertinent
when someone busies himself about him too
earnestly; but he was delighted every time
Dr. Pfeifer spoke. Presumably what he was
expressing in this case was not exactly delight, for such a condition formed no part of
Moosbruggers demeanor, oriented as it was
toward dignity and recognition, and much of
what the doctors said among themselves he
also found incomprehensible; but if talk
there had to be, then it should be like Dr.
Pfeifers. That this was, on the whole, his

1454/1856

opinion was unmistakably evident. The collision of the two doctors had made him cheerful; he began to count his tricks again out
loud and in English, and in conspicuous repetition threw into the conversation or into
the silence from time to time the observation: If it must be, it must be! Even the
good cleric, who had seen a good deal, shook
his head at times, but the scorn heaped on
earthly justice had pleased him not a little,
and he was also pleased that the scholars of
worldly science were not able to agree. He no
longer recalled how all these problems that
they had been talking about were to be decided according to canon law, but he thought
calmly: Let them carry on, God has the last
word, and since this conviction led him not
to get involved in the verbal duel, he won the
game.
So among these four men there was a
quite cordial understanding. It was true that
the prize being offered was Moosbruggers

1455/1856

head, but that was not in the least troublesome as long as each person was completely
preoccupied with what he had to do first.
After all, the men concerned with forging,
polishing, and selling knives are not constantly thinking of what it might lead to.
Moreover, Moosbrugger, as the only one personally and directly acquainted with the slaying of another person, and whose own execution was in the offing, found that it was not
the worst thing that could befall a man of
honor. Life is not the highest of values,
Schiller says: Moosbrugger had heard that
from Dr. Pfeifer, and it pleased him greatly.
And so, as he could be touching or a raging
animal depending on how his nature was appealed to or manipulated, the others too, as
friends and executioners, were stretched
over two differing spheres of action that had
hardly a single point of contact. But this
greatly disturbed Clarisse. She had seen right
away that under the guise of cheerfulness

1456/1856

something secret was going on, but she had

grasped this only as a blurred picture and,
confused by the content of the conversation,
was just now beginning to understand; but
not only did she understand, she saw persistent evidence, ominous and indeed urgent in
its uncanniness, that these men were surreptitiously observing Moosbrug-ger. But
Moosbrugger, unsuspecting, was observing
her, Clarisse. From time to time he furtively
directed his eyes at her and tried to surprise
and hold her glance. The visit of this beautiful lady who had come so farit was only
Clarisses thinness and small size that were
just a little too unimpressiveflattered him
greatly, in spite of all the deference with
which he was generally treated. When he
found her extraordinary glance directed at
him, he did not doubt for an instant that his
bushy-bearded manliness had made her fall
in love with him, and now and then a smile
arose beneath his mustache that was meant

1457/1856

to confirm this conquest, and this, along with

the superiority practiced on servant girls,
made a quite remarkable impression on
Clarisse. An inexpressible helplessness
squeezed her heart. She had the notion that
Moosbrugger found himself in a trap, and
the flesh on her body seemed to her a bait
that had been cast before him while the
hunters lurked around him.
Quickly making up her mind, she laid
her hand on Friedenthals arm and told him
that she had seen enough and felt tired.
What did you really mean when you said he
had always had only ersatz women?
Friedenthal asked after they had left the
room.
Nothing! Clarisse, still upset at what
she had been through, responded with a dismissive gesture.

1458/1856

Friedenthal became melancholy and

thought he needed to justify the strange performance. Basically, of course, none of us
are responsible for our actions, he sighed.
Clarisse retorted: He least of all!
Friedenthal laughed at the joke.
Were you very much surprised? he continued, in apparent astonishment. Some of
Moosbruggers individual traits emerged
quite nicely.
Clarisse stopped. You shouldnt allow
that to continue! she demanded forcefully.
Her companion smiled and devoted
himself to dramatizing his state of mind.
What do you expect! he exclaimed. For
the medical man everything is medicine, and
for the lawyer, law! The justice system is in
the final analysis a function of the concept of
compulsion which is part of healthy life but
is mostly applied without dunking to sick
people as well. But in the same way, the

1459/1856

concept of sickness our starting point as

doctors, and all its consequences, are also
applicable to healthy life. These things can
never be reconciled!
But there are no such things! Clarisse
exclaimed.
Oh, but there are, the doctor complained gently. The human sciences developed at different times and for different
purposes, which have nothing to do with
each other. So we have the most divergent
concepts about the same thing. At most the
only place it comes together is in the lexicon.
And I bet its not only the priest and myself
but you, too, and, for instance, your brother
or your husband and Ieach one of us would
know only one corner of the contents of
every term we would look up in it, and of
course each of us would know a different
corner! The world hasnt been able to arrange things any better than that!
Friedenthal had leaned over Clarisse, who

1460/1856

was standing in a window alcove, and supported his arm against the window bars.
Some sort of genuine feeling resonated in his
words. He was a doubter. The insecurity of
his discipline had opened his eyes to the insecurity of all knowledge. He would have
loved to be someone important, but in his
best hours had an inkling that for him the
paralyzing confusion of everything about
which truth existed, did not yet exist, or
would never exist, permitted nothing more
than a vain and sterile subjectivity. He
sighed, and added: I sometimes feel as if the
windows of this building were nothing more
than magnifying glasses!
Clarisse asked seriously: Can we go to
your office for a bit? I cant talk here. Two
arrows shot forth from beneath the shield of
her eyelids. Friedenthal slowly disengaged
his hand from the window and his glance
from her eyes. Then he also disengaged his
thoughts from the absorption he had

1461/1856

revealed, and said, as they walked along the

tiled corridor: This fellow Pfeifer is an extraordinary figure. He lives without friends
or girlfriends, but he has the biggest collection of paintings, trial proceedings, and
memorabilia connected with the death sentences of the last twenty or thirty years. I saw
them once. Extraordinary. Drawers full of his
victims: polished and brutal faces of men
and women, some marked by crime, some
quite ordinary-looking, smile up at you from
yellowed newspapers and faded photographs, or gaze into their unknown future.
Then there are scraps of clothing, rope
endsreal gallows ropescanes, vials of
poison. Do you know the museum in Zermatt, where whats left behind by those
whove fallen from the surrounding mountains is preserved? Its that kind of impression. He obviously has a tender feeling for
these things. You notice it, too, whenever he
talks of the victims to whose legal murder,

1462/1856

or whatever you want to call it, he himself

has contributed. As astute observer might
see in this something like a rivalry, the joy of
intellectual superiority, sexual cunning. All
of course entirely within the bounds of what
is permissible and scientifically admissible.
But one could indeed say that being preoccupied with danger makes one dangerous
He hunts them? Clarisse asked in a
choked voice.
Yes; you could almost say hes a hunter
in love with his prey.
Clarisse froze; she did not know what
was happening to her. Friedenthal had conducted her back along a somewhat different
route, and as he was speaking opened the
door of a ward they had to traverse, which
seemed to contain the most glorious thing
she had ever seen. It was a large hall, and she
thought she was looking into a living flower
bed. They were crossing the ward for

1463/1856

hysterical women. These women were standing around singly and in small clusters, and
lying in beds. They all appeared to be wearing snow-white clothes and to have loosened
and flowing inky-black hair. Clarisse couldnt
take in a single detail; the totality resembled
something unutterably beautiful and dramatically agitated. Sisters! Clarisse felt
softly but powerfully in that moment when
attention streamed in irregular pulses toward her and Friedenthal; she had the feeling of being able to fly higher with a swarm
of wondrous lovebirds than all the excitements of life and art allow. Her companion
made only slow forward progress with her,
for all sorts of humble enamored souls approached him from every side, or wandered
in his path with a strength of erotic gentleness such as Clarisse had never before experienced. Friedenthal directed placating or
severe words to them, and with soft movements pushed them away; and meanwhile

1464/1856

other women lay in their beds in their white

jackets, having spread out their hair darkly
over the pillows, women whose bellies and
legs under their thin blankets performed the
drama of love. Sinning figures. Paired with a
partner who remained invisible but was
palpably present, against whom they pushed
their arms with exaggerated resistance, who
exaggeratedly stimulated the swelling of
their breasts, from whose mouths they withdrew with superhuman effort and toward
whom their bellies vaulted with superhuman
effort, while in the midst of this obscene play
their eyes shone innocently with the enchanting inert beauty of large, dark flowers.
Clarisse was still deeply confused by
this flower bed of love and suffering, by its
morbid and yet intoxicating aroma, by its
aura, by the gliding-through and not-beingallowed-to-stop, when she was sitting in
Friedenthals office being observed by him
with an unflagging smile. Collecting herself

1465/1856

and returning from her almost spatially deep

distraction, she clung to something she managed to get out in a raw, almost mechanical
voice: Declare him not accountable for his
actions!
Friedenthal looked at her with astonishment. My dear lady, he asked in a joking
tone, of what concern is that to you?
Clarisse recoiled because she could not
think of an answer. But since nothing occurred to her, she said simply and suddenly:
Because he cant help it!
Dr. Friedenthal now scrutinized her
more closely. What makes you so sure of
that?
Clarisse energetically withstood his
glance and answered haughtily, as if she was
not certain whether to condescend to giving
him such a response: But hes here only because hes standing in for someone else! Annoyed, she shrugged her shoulders, jumped

1466/1856

up, and looked out the window. When after a

short while she perceived that this did not
have any effect, she turned around again and
came down a peg. You cant understand me:
he reminds me of someone! she observed,
half attenuating the truth. She did not want
to say too much and held back.
But thats not a scientific reason,
Friedenthal drawled.
I thought youd do it if I asked you to,
she now said simply.
Youre too casual about that. The doctor was reproachful. He leaned back in his
armchair like Faust and went on with a
glance at his studio: Have you at all considered whether you are doing the man a favor by wanting him committed instead of
punished? Its no fun living within these
walls. He shook his head disconsolately.
His visitor replied clearly: First the executioner must leave him alone!?

1467/1856

Look, Friedenthal said. In my opinion, Moosbrugger is probably an epileptic.

But he also shows symptoms of paraphrenia
systematica and perhaps of dementia paranoides. He just happens to be in every respect a borderline case. His attacks, in which
excruciatingly terrifying delusions and sensory disorientation certainly do play a role,
can last minutes or weeks, but they often
pass over imperceptibly into complete mental clarity, just as they are also capable of
arising with no fixed boundaries from this
same clarity, and besides, even in the paroxysmal stage consciousness never quite disappears but is only diminished in varying degrees. So something probably could be done
for him, but the case is by no means one in
which it would be necessary for a doctor to
exclude his responsibility as a physician!
So youll do something for him?
Clarisse urged.
Friedenthal smiled. I dont know yet.

1468/1856

You have to!

Youre strange, Friedenthal drawled.
But one could weaken.
You dont have the slightest doubt that
the man is sick! the young woman asserted
emphatically.
Of course not. But its not my job to
judge that, the doctor defended himself.
Youve already heard: I am to judge whether
his free will was excluded during the deed,
whether his consciousness was present during the deed, whether he had any insight into
his wrongdoing: nothing but metaphysical
questions, which put this way have no meaning for me as a physician, but in which I do
have to show some consideration for the
judge!
In her excitement Clarisse strode up
and down the room like a man.

1469/1856

Then you oughtnt to let yourself be

used like that! she exclaimed harshly. If
you cant prevail against the judge, it has to
be attempted some other way!
Friedenthal tried another tack to dissuade his visitor from her annoying ideas.
Have you ever really tried to picture to
yourself what a horrible raging beast this
momentarily calm half-sick man can be? he
asked.
Whats that to us now? Clarisse retorted, cutting off his effort. When confronted
with a case of pneumonia, you dont ask
whether you can help a good person go on
living! Your only task now is to prevent yourself from becoming accessory to a murder!
Friedenthal sadly threw up his hands.
Youre crazy! he said rudely and dejectedly.
One has to have the courage to be
crazy if the world is to be set right again!
From time to time there have to be people

1470/1856

who refuse to go along with the lies! Clarisse

asserted.
He took this to be a witty joke, which in
the rush he had not quite understood. From
the start this little person had made an impression on him, especially since, dazzled by
General von Stumm, he overestimated her
social position; and in any case, many young
people these days give a rather confused impression. He found her to be something special, and felt himself restlessly stirred by her
spontaneous eagerness as if by something relentlessly, even nobly, radiant. To be sure, he
perhaps ought to have seen this radiance as
diamond-like, for it also had something of
the quality of an overheated stove:
something distinctly unpleasant that made
one hot and icy. He unobtrusively assessed
his visitor: stigmata of a heightened nervousness were doubtless to be perceived in her.
But who today did not have such stigmata!
Friedenthals response was no different from

1471/1856

the usual onefor when there are hazy notions of what is really meaningful, what is
confused always has the same chance to excel that the con artist has in a hazily defined
societyand although he was a pretty good
observer, he had always managed to regain
his composure no matter what Clarisse said.
In the last analysis, one can always regard
any person as a small-scale swatch of mental
illness; thats the job of theory, how one
looks at a person at one time psychologically
and at another chemically; and since after
Clarisses last words a chasm of silence
yawned, Friedenthal again sought contact
and at the same time sought once more to divert her from her insistent demands. Did
you really like the women we saw? he asked.
Oh, enormously! Clarisse exclaimed.
She stood quietly before him, and the hardness was suddenly gone from her face. I
dont know what to tell you, she added
softly. That ward is like a monstrous

1472/1856

magnifying glass held over a womans triumph and suffering!

Friedenthal smiled with satisfaction.
Well, so now you see, he said. Now youll
have to concede that the attraction that illness exercises is not alien to me either. But I
must observe limits, I have to keep things in
their places. Then I wanted to ask you
whether you have ever considered that love,
too, is a disturbance of the mind. There is
hardly anyone who does not conceal
something in his most private and proper
love life that he reveals only to his guilty
partner, some craziness or weakness: why
not simply call it perversity and madness? In
public you have to take measures against it,
but in your inner life you cant always arm
yourself against such things with the same
rigor. And psychiatristspsychiatry is ultimately an art toowill celebrate their
greatest success when they have a certain
sympathy and rapport with the medium in

1473/1856

which they are working. He had seized his

visitors hand, and Clarisse ceded to him its
outermost fingertips, which she felt lying
between his fingers as softly and helplessly
as if they had fallen from her like the petals a
flower drops. Suddenly she was completely a
woman, full of that tender capriciousness in
the face of a mans beseeching, and what she
had experienced in the morning was forgotten. A soundless sigh parted her lips. It
seemed to her that she had never felt this
way, or not for the longest time, and evidently at this moment something from the
magic of his realm rubbed off on Friedenthal, whom she by no means especially liked.
But she pulled herself together and asked
sternly: What have you made up your mind
to do?
I have to make my rounds now, the
doctor replied, but I would like to see you
again. But not here. Cant we meet somewhere else?

1474/1856

Perhaps, Clarisse responded. When

you have carried out my request!
Her lips narrowed, the blood drained
from her skin, and this made her cheeks look
like two small leather balls; there was too
much pressure in her eyes. Friedenthal suddenly felt exploited. It is extraordinary, but
when a person sees another as merely a
means to an end, it is much easier for him to
take on that impenetrable look of someone
who is mentally ill, the more natural it seems
to him that consideration ought to be shown
him. Every hour here we see souls suffer,
but we have to stay within our bounds, he
countered. He became circumspect.
Clarisse said: Good, you dont want to.
Let me make you another proposition. She
stood before him, small, legs apart, hands
behind her back, and looked at him with a
bashfully sarcastic, urgent smile: Ill join the
clinic as a nurse!

1475/1856

The doctor stood up and asked her to

talk it over with her brother, who would
make clear to her how many necessary prerequisites for such a position she was lacking. As he spoke, the sarcasm that was
squeezed into her eyes drained out of them
and they filled with tears. Then I want, she
said, almost voiceless from excitement, to
be accepted as a patient! I have a mission!
Because she was afraid of spoiling her
chances if she looked directly at the doctor,
she looked to one side and up a little, and
perhaps her eyes even wandered around. A
shudder heated her skin, which swelled up
red. Now she looked lovely and in need of
tenderness, but it was too late; irritation at
her importunity had sobered the doctor and
made him reserved. He did not even ask her
any more questions, for it seemed politic not
to know too much about her out of consideration for the General and Ulrich, who had
brought her here, and also in view of the

1476/1856

almost forbidden favors he had granted her.

And it was only out of old medical habit that
from this point on his speech became still
gentler and more emphatic as he expressed
to Clarisse his regret that there was no way
he could meet her second request, and he advised her to confide this wish to her brother
too. He even informed her that before that
happened he could not allow her to continue
her visits to the clinic, much as this would be
a loss to him personally.
Clarisse offered no real resistance to
what he said. She had already imputed worse
to Friedenthal. Hes an impeccable medical
bureaucrat, she told herself. That eased her
departure: she casually extended her hand to
the physician, and her eyes laughed cunningly. She was not at all depressed, and
even as she went down the steps was thinking about other possibilities.

LATE 1920s
FISCHEL / GERDA / HANS SEPP /
ULRICH
It was Ulrichs bad conscience that drove
him to Gerda; since the melancholy scene
between them, he had not heard anything
from her and did not know how she had
come to terms with herself. To his surprise,
he found Papa Leo at the Fischels house;
Mama Clementine had gone out with Gerda.
Leo Fischel would not let Ulrich go; he had
rushed out to the hall himself when he recognized his voice. Ulrich had the impression of
changes. Director Fischel seemed to have
changed his tailor; his income must have increased and his convictions diminished.
Then too, he had usually stayed later at the

1478/1856

bank; he had never worked at home after the

air there had become so irksome. But today
he seemed to have been sitting at his desk,
although this roaring loom of time had not
been used for years; a packet of letters lay on
the baize cloth, and the chrome-plated telephone, otherwise used only by the ladies,
was standing askew, as if it had just been in
use. After Ulrich had sat down, Fischel
turned toward him in his desk chair and polished his pince-nez with a handkerchief that
he drew from his breast pocket, although
earlier he would certainly have objected to
such a foppish action, saying that it had been
sufficient for a Goethe, a Schiller, and a
Beethoven to carry their handkerchiefs in
their trouser pocketwhether that was the
case or not.
Its been a long time, said Director
Fischel.
Yes, Ulrich said.

1479/1856

Did you inherit a great deal? Fischel

asked.
Oh, Ulrich said. Enough.
Yes, there are problems.
But you look splendid. You somehow
seem to have got younger.
Oh, thanks; professionally there have
never been any problems. But look He
pointed in a melancholy way to a pile of letters that lay on the desk. You do know Hans
Sepp?
Of course. You took me into your
confidence
Right! Fischel said.
Are those love letters?
The telephone rang. Fischel put on his
pince-nez, which he had taken off to listen,
extracted a paper with notes from his coat,
and said: Buy! Then the inaudible voice at

1480/1856

the other end spoke to him for quite a while.

From time to time Fischel looked over his
spectacles at Ulrich, and once he even said:
Excuse me! Then he said into the instrument: No, thank you, I dont like the
second business! Talk about it? Yes, of
course we can talk about it againand with a
short, satisfied pause for reflection, he hung
up.
You see, Fischel said. That was
someone in Amsterdam; much too expensive! Three weeks ago the thing wasnt worth
half as much, and in three weeks it wont be
worth half what it costs now. But in between
theres a deal to be made. A great risk!
But you didnt want to, Ulrich said.
Oh, thats not really settled. But a
great risk! But still, let me tell you, thats
building in marble, stone on stone! Can you
build on the mind, the love, the ideals of a
person? He was thinking of his wife and of

1481/1856

Gerda. How different it had been at the beginning! The telephone rang again, but this
time it was a wrong number.
You used to put more worth on solid
moral values than on a solid purse, Ulrich
said. How often you held it against me that
I couldnt follow you in that!
Ohhe respondedideals are like air
that changes, you dont know how, with
closed windows! Twenty-five years ago, who
had any notion of anti-Semitism? No, then
there were the great perspectives of Humanity! Youre too young. But I still managed to
hear some of the great parliamentary debates. The last ones! The only thing thats dependable is what you can say with numbers.
Believe me, the world would be a lot more
reasonable if it were simply left to the free
play of supply and demand, instead of being
equipped with armored ships, bayonets, diplomats who know nothing about economics,
and so-called national ideals.

1482/1856

Ulrich interrupted with the objection

that it was precisely heavy industry and the
banks whose demands were urging peoples
on to armament.
Well, shouldnt they? Fischel replied.
If the world is the way it is, and runs
around in fools outfits in broad daylight,
they shouldnt take account of that? When
the military just happens to be convenient
for customs dealings, or against strikers?
Money, you know, has its own rationale, and
its not to be trifled with. By the way, apropos, have you heard anything new about
Arnheims ore deposits? Again the phone
rang; but with his hand on the instrument,
Fischel waited for Ulrichs answer. The conversation was brief, and Fischel did not lose
the thread of their conversation; since Ulrich
knew nothing new about Arnheim, he repeated that money had its own rationale.
Pay attention, he added. If I were to offer
Hans Sepp five hundred marks to move to

1483/1856

one of the universities of his revered-aboveall Germania (Germany), he would reject

them indignantly. If I offered him a thousand, ditto. But if I were to offer him ten
thousandthough I never in my life would,
even if I had so much money! It almost
seemed as if Fischel, horrified at such an
idea, had lost the connection, but he was
only reflecting, and went on: One just cant
do that, because money has its own rationale. For a man who spends insane
amounts, the money wont stick; it will fly
from him, make him a spendthrift. That the
ten thousand marks refuse to be offered to
Hans Sepp proves that this Hans Sepp is not
real, is of no value, but an awful, swindling
scourge with which God is chastising me.
Again Fischel was interrupted. This
time by longer communications. That he was
conducting such transactions at home instead of at the office struck Ulrich. Fischel
gave three orders to buy and one to sell. In

1484/1856

between he had time to think about his wife.

If I were to offer her money so she would
divorce mehe asked himselfwould Clementine do it? An inner certainty answered:
No. Leo Fischel mentally doubled the
amount. Ridiculous! said the inner voice.
Fischel quadrupled. No, on principle, occurred to him. Then in one swoop he breathlessly increased the sum beyond any human
resistance or capability, and angrily stopped.
He speedily had to switch his mind to smaller fortunes, which literally shrank in his
mind the way the pupils narrow with a sudden change of light; but he did not forget his
affairs for an instant, and made no mistakes.
But now tell me, finallyUlrich
asked, having already become impatientwhat kind of letters these are that you
wanted to show me. They appear to be love
letters. Did you intercept Gerdas love
letters?

1485/1856

I wanted to show you these letters.

You should read them. I would just like to
know now what you would say about them.
Fischel handed Ulrich the whole packet and
sat back, preoccupied meanwhile with other
thoughts, gazing into the air through his
pince-nez.
Ulrich glanced at the letters; then he
took one out and slowly read it through. Director Fischel asked: Tell me, Herr Doktor,
you used to know this singer Leontine, or
Leona, who looks like the late Empress Elizabeth; may God punish me, this woman really
has the appetite of a lion!
Ulrich looked up, frowning; he liked the
letter, and the interruption bothered him.
Well, you dont have to answer,
Fischel placated him. I was just asking.
You neednt be ashamed. Shes no royalty. I
met her a little while ago through an acquaintance; we found out that you and she

1486/1856

were friends. She eats a lot. Let her eat! Who

doesnt like to eat? Fischel laughed.
Ulrich dropped his gaze to the letter
again, without responding. Fischel again
gazed dreamily into the firmament of the
room.
The letter began: Beloved person! Human goddess! We are condemned to live in
an extinguished century. No one has the
courage to believe in the reality of myth. You
must realize that this applies to you too. You
do not have the courage of your nature as
goddess. Fear of people holds you back. You
are right to consider ordinary human lust as
vulgar; indeed, worse than that, as a ridiculous regression from the life of us people of
the future into mere atavism! And you are
right again when you say that love for a person, animal, or thing is already the beginning
of taking possession of it! And we dont even
need to mention that possessing is the beginning of despiritualization! But still you have

1487/1856

to distinguish: being felt, perhaps also being

sensed, is called being mine. I only feel what
is mine; I dont hear what is not meant for
me! Were this not so, we would be intellectualists. Its perhaps an inescapable tragedy
that when we love we are forced to possess
with eyes, ears, breath, and thoughts! But
consider: I feel that I am not, so long as I am
only I myself, I-self. Its only in the things
outside me that I first discover myself. That,
too, is a truth. I love a flower, a person, because without them I would be nothing. The
grand thing about the experience of mine is
feeling oneself melt away entirely, like a pile
of snow under the rays of the sun, drifting
upward like a gentle dissipating vapor! The
most beautiful thing about mine is the ultimate extirpation of the possession of my self!
Thats the pure sense of mine, that I possess nothing but am possessed by the entire
world. All brooks flow from the heights to
the valleys, and you too, O my soul, will not

1488/1856

be mine before you have become a drop in

the ocean of die world, totally a link in the
world brotherhood and world community!
This mystery no longer has anything in common with the insipid exaggeration that individual love experiences. In spite of the lust of
this age one must have the courage for ardor,
for inner fire! Virtue makes action virtuous;
actions dont make virtue! Try it! The Beyond reveals itself in fits and starts, and we
will not be transported in one jump into the
regions of untrammeled life. But moments
will come when we who are remote from
people will experience moments of grace that
are remote from people. Dont throw sensuality and supra-sensuality into a pot of
what has been! Have the courage to be a goddess! Thats German!
Well? Fischel asked.
Ulrichs face had turned red. He found
this letter ridiculous but moving. Did these
young people have no inhibitions at all about

1489/1856

what was exaggerated, impossible, about the

word that will not let itself be redeemed?
Words constantly hitched up with new
words, and a kernel of truth hazed over with
their peculiar web. So thats what Gerdas
like now, he thought. But within this thought
he thought a second, unspoken, shaming
one; it went something like: Arent you insufficiently exaggerated and impossible?
Well? Fischel repeated.
Are all the letters like that? Ulrich
asked, giving them back to him.
How do I know which ones youve
read! Fischel answered. Theyre all like
that!
Then they are quite beautiful, Ulrich
said.
I thought as much! Fischel exploded.
Of course thats why I showed them to you!
My wife found them. But no one expects me

1490/1856

to have any clever advice in such questions of

the soul. So fine! Tell that to my wife!
I would rather talk to Gerda herself
about it; theres a lot in the letter that is, of
course, quite misguided
Misguided? To say the least! But talk
to her! And tell Gerda that I cant understand
a single word of this jargon, but that Im
ready to pay five thousand marksno! Better
not to say anything! Tell her only that I love
her anyway and am ready to forgive her!
The telephone again called Fischel to
business. He, who all his life had been only a
solid clerk, had begun some time ago to operate on the stock exchange on his own: from
time to time and with only small amounts,
the scanty savings he possessed and a few
stocks belonging to his spouse, Clementine.
He could not talk to her about it, but he
could be quite satisfied at his success; it was

1491/1856

a real recreation from the depressing circumstances at home.

***
Ulrich is driven to see Gerda. He hadnt
spoken to her since the hysterical scene.
Conscience impels him. But he finds Gerda
very much taken up with Hans Sepp.
Ulrich seeks to be conciliatory with
Gerda and to be kind. She pays him back
with her involvement with Hans Sepp, which
Ulrich perceives as intellectual felony.
Arnheim has become the ideal, the messiah, the savior. The spiritual man of intellect
for our time.
Effect of the nabob.
Leo Fischers belief in progress is part of
the problem of culture.
Hans Sepp stimulated by the conflict of
the national minorities.

1492/1856

German-ness as a vague reaction to

the cultural situation.
Ulrich receives a Stella shock [Goethes
playTRANS.] (letters!) for Agathe.
Gerda is beyond love. Also against religious mysticism. In future: conflict indicated in letter.
***
Double
orientation:
Antidemocracy

Mysticism

***
Soon after his visit to the Fischels, Ulrich
was again driven to see Gerda. He had not
seen her since the sad scene that had taken
place between them, and felt the desire to
speak kindly and reasonably to her. He
wanted to suggest that she leave her parents
house for a year or two and undertake
something that would give her pleasure, with
the aim of forgetting him and Hans Sepp and

1493/1856

taking advantage of her youth. But he found

her in the company of Hans Sepp. She
turned pale when she saw him come in; the
thoughts flew out of her head, and even
though she looked composed, there was
really nothing at all in her that she could
compose; she suddenly felt nothing but an
emptiness surrounded by the stiff, disciplined, automatic motions of her limbs.
I dont want to ask your pardon,
GerdaUlrich beganbecause that isnt
important
She interrupted him right there. I behaved ludicrouslyshe saidI know that;
but believe me, its all over.
Ill only believe that everythings fine
when I know what youre up to and what
your plans are.
Hans Sepp was listening with the jealous eyes of one who does not understand.

1494/1856

What makes you think that Fraulein

Fischel has plans? he asked.
Ulrich remembered the letters that Leo
Fischel had shown him. Since then he had
had a lot of sympathy for this young person
in whom mystic feelings raged. But at the
same time, seeing him reminded him, God
knows why, of a skinny dog that wants to
mount a bitch much too big for him. He collected himself and, ignoring his question,
asked Hans to explain to him what he
wanted. That is to say, he added, he would
like to know what he had in mind to turn his
ideas into reality when he was not talking
about human being, soul, mystery,
ardor, contemplation, and the like, but
about the future Dr. Hans Sepp, who would
be compelled to live in the world.
Ulrich really wanted to know, that was
sincerely to be heard in his question; and in
addition he had managed to invest it with a
Masonic choice of words that astonished

1495/1856

Hans, and Gerdas glance rested on Hans

with a challenging reproach. Hans scratched
his head, because he did not want to be rude
and felt embarrassed. Those arent my
ideashe finally saidbut those of German
youth. Ulrich repeated his request to show
him how they could be made reality. Hans
thought he knew what Ulrich was getting at:
whenever Hans courted Gerda with such
ideas, the words were like the texture of an
orchestra through which, as voice, the sight
of Gerda hovered; could one tear that apart
and separate it? Youre asking me to make
a political treatise out of a piece of music! he
said.
Ulrich added: And the language of
politics, of trade, of arithmetic, is the language of the fallen angels, whose wings have
long since become as vestigial as, say, our
caudal vertebra. It can hardly be articulated
in such a languageis that what you mean?
But thats exactly why I would like to know

1496/1856

what youre thinking of doing. Hans gave

him the simplest answer to this: I dont
know! But Im not alone. And if several thousand people want something that they cant
picture, then one day theyll get it, as long as
they remain true to themselves!
Do you believe that too, Gerda? Ulrich asked.
Gerda wavered. Im convinced
tooshe saidthat our culture will perish if
something isnt done.
Ulrich jumped up. My dear children!
What concern is that of yours? Tell me what
youre proposing to do with each other!
Hans set about defending his view.
Dont talk down to us! Its quite certain
that this hugger-mugger called culture will
perish, and everything else along with
itand nothing will prevail against it but the
New Man!

1497/1856

But Hans overestimates the significance of love between people, Gerda added.
The New will also leave that behind.
Hans was really a melancholy person.
An emerging impurity on his skin could put
him in a bad mood for days, and that was no
rare occurrence, for in his petit-bourgeois
family care of the skin did not rank very
high. As in many Austrian families, it had
stopped at the state it had reached before the
middle of the nineteenth century: that is,
every Saturday the bathtub or a wash trough
would be filled with hot water, and this
served for the cleaning of the body that was
forgone on all the other days. There were just
as few other luxuries in Hans Sepps family
home. His father was a minor government
functionary with a small salary and the prospect of an even scantier pension, which in
view of his age was imminent, and the principles as well as the conduct of life in his parents house were distinguished from those at

1498/1856

the Fischels about the way that a cardboard

box carefully tied together with knotted bits
of string, in which the common people pack
their belongings for a journey, differs from a
magnificent valise. If he looked around, all
that Hans Sepp could claim as a distinction
was his German name, and it had taken him
a long time before he learned to regard it as
more than a gift of fate, on the day that he
became acquainted with the view that being
German meant being aristocratic. From that
day forward he bore a noble name, and it is
not necessary to waste words about how nice
it is to know that one is personally distinguished; one should rather write a whole
book about how one ought to want not to be
distinguished but to distinguish oneself; but
that would turn into a book that would be
absolutely and completely unsocial.
The titles Count and Prince pale in
comparison with the title Hans Sepp. No one
today values belonging to a secret clan whose

1499/1856

signs are an oxs head or three stars. On the

other hand, to have a German name when
one had German sentiments was, among
lower-class youth in Austria, a rarity. The
friends through whom Hans had been introduced into the movement were named Vybiral and Bartolini. It had about it something
of a symbolic cover, the miracle of the manifestation of the Holy Spirit, when one was
named Hans and in addition had the family
name of Sepp.
Hans Sepp felt himself one of the elect,
and in the absence of a bathroom he acquired the ideal of racial purity. But within
this ideal there is enclosed the ideal of purity
of principles. In this way, even in his early
years, Hans Sepp came to fight for all the
commandments of morality, which is otherwise the privilege of the incapacity for sinning, and is a position in which one has no
desire for any further changes. It is a quite
remarkable thing when young people

1500/1856

become enthusiastic about virtue: a union of

fire and stubbornness.
This union is facilitated if there is the
possibility of combining the affirmation with
a powerful negation. But in order to arrive at
the real significance of such a negation, one
must leave aside what is accidental, in this
case the racial aspect, which is the form in
which it expresses itself though not its sense.
But that was just the smaller and less
serious advantage. Far greater is the advantage that a young person who adopts a negative view of the world makes the world into a
comfortable nest. It is well-nigh impossible
to demonstrate something as notorious as
the meager intellectual content of one of
those novels that among the German public
pass for profound; it is much easier to make
this credible by saying that these novels
arent German, or at least it penetrates reality more easily. One should not (on the
whole) underestimate the advantage of

1501/1856

saying no to everything that is considered

great and beautiful. For, first, one almost always hits upon something true, and second,
determining it more precisely, and the process of proving it, are in all circumstances extremely difficult and, in terms of having any
effect, futile. In Germany there was once the
ideal: Test everything and keep the best;
this ideal ended in filth and scorn; it was the
ideal of the dignified life and the cult of the
home, which, in a time of obligatory specialization deprived of the aid of interconnections, had the same inner consequence as the
purposefulness of a snail: Ill hitch a ride on
anything. One must never forget this impotence into which we have put ourselves if one
wishes to understand the idealism of maliciousness and evil. When the change of
worldview to which every new outfitting of
humanity is called stalls and becomes impossible, almost nothing remains but to say

1502/1856

no to everything; the lowest point is always a

point of rest and balance.
***
Closing ones eyes and gently touching
ones leg is the simplest picture of the world
one can have.
***
So there are two main lands of pessimism. One is the pessimism of weltschmerz,
which despairs of everything; the other is the
contemporary kind, which exempts ones
own person from the process. It is quite understandable that when one is young one
would rather consider other people bad than
oneself. This was the service that the German
world-view performed for Hans Sepp. He did
not so soon experience the futility of ordering his ideas, he could free himself from
everything that oppresses us by calling it
un-German, and he could appear ideal to
himself without having to restrain himself

1503/1856

from besmirching / scorning the ideals of

everyone else.
However, the most remarkable aspect
of Hans Sepp was still a third thing. But one
should not be deceived by this manner of
presentation, taking one thing after another;
in reality these reasons were not layers
swimming atop one another; any two of
them were always dissolved in a third. And
what needs to be added to the two reasons
named above can perhaps be called, in a correspondingly broad sense, religious. If one
were to have asked Hans Sepp whether, in
school, he had believed in the teaching of his
catechist, he would have answered indignantly that the German must cut himself
loose from Rome and its Jew religion, but it
would also not have been possible to win him
over to Luther, whom he would have characterized as a pusillanimous compromiser with
the Spirit of the World. Hans Sepps religion
did not fit any of the three great European

1504/1856

religions; it was a plant of unintelligible ancestry run to seed.

This wild religious nature of nationalism is very peculiar.
Break off: This would be the place to
develop the possibility of the Other Condition as something like the component freed
by the weathering of religion as well as of liberal heroism.
Perhaps as a supplement to Lindner religious development. But in contrast to Professor August Lindner, God had never once
appeared to Hans Sepp. In spite of that, or
indeed perhaps just because of it, because he
could not bring his vague feelings of faith
and love into the solid framework of religion,
they were in him especially wild.
***
One cannot say whether it is a remnant of bisexuality, the remnant of another primitive

1505/1856

stage, or the lost natural tenderness of life,

this need to make a community out of
people. To feel every action inwardly, that is,
a symbol...
Of this kind his love for Gerda, which is
really less for the woman than for the
person.
His misunderstanding of Ulrich, whom
he considers a rationalist because he does
not understand the difficulty of what Ulrich
has an intimation of, and because he makes
things easy for himself through community,
insolent youthful hordes, etc.
***
(Definition after Unger: Symbol. View sees in
those events we cannot incorporate in any
order (e.g., those of the Pentateuch) images
to represent the higher world that our consciousness cannot grasp in any other way.)
***

1506/1856

Excitement also in the air as the guests left

Diotimas house! Gusts of wind ran behind
waves of darkness; the streetlamps reeled in
their light on one side and let it flow out
widely on the other; the leaves in the canopies of the trees pulled and tugged at their
thin stems, or suddenly became quite still, as
if on command; the clouds played high above
the rooftops with the pale fire of the moon
like dogs playing with a brown cat; pushed it,
jumped over it, and when they retreated, it
cowered with arched back, motionless in
their midst. Ulrich had fallen in with Gerda
and Hans Sepp; all three were surprised that
it had already got dark.
Feuermaul had had an effect on Gerda.
It seemed to her horribly ruthless that one is
an I, calmly mirrored in the eyes of a you.
She applied it to the whole nation. To universal love. It was a new emotion; how was it to
be understood? One is no longer linked with
just one other person. Thats basically always

1507/1856

horrible; one cant stir on account of the other; in spite of love one must feel a lot of resentment. Its also quite unnatural; the only
natural thing is getting together to raise a
brood, but not for ones whole Hfe, and not
because of oneself, or love. Individual love
seemed to her like a snowman, hard, cold; on
the other hand, if the same thing is spread
like a blanket over the whole field she imagined life beneath the pure soft snow cover
that hovered before her, warm and protecting
every
seed.
StrangeGerda
thoughtthat I happened to think of a snowman! But then she still felt only the other,
distant, soft, meltingeven if that was not
quite the case! Loving many, many people!
she said to herself softly. And it was like:
Sleeping with everyone; but with no one so
brutally to the very end, but only as in a
dream that is never quite clear. Kissing
everybody, but the way a child lets itself be
stroked. To say something nice to everyone,

1508/1856

but not giving anyone the right to forbid her

saying it to his enemy as well She felt
happy and anxious as she portrayed this to
herself, like a tender being that has to slip
through rough hands until the hands, fumbling beside it, also learn to be tender.
A happy-anxious soul: that had been
in one of Feuermauls poems, as if the poet
had uttered this expression for no one else
but her, the unknown girl. From far away
word was dispatched to her, a man who
knew nothing about her had sent out this
word and still had no idea that the word had
already found her; but she knew it, for she
bore his word in her breast, which he would
never see: That seemed to her like a marriage
through magic. Gerda thought over whether
she really had a happily anxious soul. She
had one that constantly hovered between
happiness and fear, without quite making
contact with either. Was that the same thing?
She was not certain of it, but she felt herself

1509/1856

really hovering like a moonbeam in the roaring night, filled with love and free of all misfortune, which rarely happened to her. She
squinted over at Ulrich, who was walking
mutely beside her; he frightened her and
only occasionally gave her a little happiness.
Ulrich noticed that she was looking at him;
he was angry with her. The first time some
blockhead babbles at you in verses you overflow! he said, smiling; but there was really
some pain in this smile. Didnt you notice
that this person is the most vain and selfish
creature in the world?
Gerda answered quite seriously.
Youre right, hes weak; Stefan George is
greater. She named her favorite poetshe
knew that Ulrich had an aversion to him as
well. She was a little drunk with happiness
and felt: I can love two people who hate
each other. At this moment she was all love.
But at this moment Hans Sepp pushed
forward from the other side; jealous

1510/1856

restlessness impelled him, for Gerda and Ulrich had been speaking softly, and he only
half understood; he did not want to be left
out.
Feuermaul is a prattler! he exclaimed
angrily.
Oh, why! Ulrich said.
Because!
They were just passing beneath a
streetlamp. Hans wanted to stop, because his
mouth was full of words. But Ulrich did not
stop. Hans was dragged on like a screaming
child and emptied his words into the darkness. Gerda knew them all. The Beyond, contemplation, Christ, Edda, Gautama Buddha,
and then the punishment meant for her:
Feuermaul, as a Jew, had appropriated these
things with his intelligence but inwardly had
no idea what they were about. She looked
straight ahead, and even at the next
streetlamp did not look at Hans. In the

1511/1856

darkness she felt his dark mouth wide open

at her side. It made her shudder. She did not
understand that Hans no longer knew what
he was saying. The darkness was terrible for
him. He imagined that the two of them were
laughing at him. He knew no bounds, and his
words poured out as if each were trying to
trample the next, the way people do in a
panic.
In between, Gerda heard Ulrich speaking quietly and objectively, seeking to divert
this storm. The emotional scribblerhe
saidis in himself the most vain and selfseeking person in the world; something like
women who have no understanding, only
their love. What would happen if these
people became you-seeking?
Gerda liked Ulrichs words rather better
than Hanss, but they, too, made her cold.
With a hasty good-bye, she left the two of
them standing there and ran up the steps.

1512/1856

Hans gasped for air, hardly touched his hat,

and left Ulrich.
***
But he stopped at the next corner and under
cover of darkness looked to see what Ulrich
was going to do. Ulrich went home, and
Hans began to have regrets. He knew that
Gerdas parents would be home late today;
Gerda was alone, and he could imagine how
much his churlish behavior must be eating at
her. He saw light in a window and ran away
in order not to go weak. But he only ran
around the block, then without stopping
went up the steps. He was still excited; his
clothes sat on him angrily, the dark-blond
hair over his forehead was standing
crookedly in the air, and his cheeks had disappeared beneath his cheekbones.
Forgive me! he begged. Ive behaved
badly.

1513/1856

Gerda looked at him without understanding why he was there; her emotions had
grown deaf.
I dont know what I said, Hans went
on. It was probably something ugly. But
youre so far gone that you cant even separate Jewish spuriousness and your ideals!
Ulrichs not a Jew! Gerda said spontaneously. And I forbid you she addedto speak that way about Jews! For the
first time she dared to say such a thing.
I was speaking of Feuermaul! Hans
corrected her. But this Jewish poet we
heard today might at least be said to have
great and honest feelings if his race permitted it, but Ulrich, your fathers friend, is ten
times worse! Gerda was sitting in an easy
chair and looked at Hans doubtingly. Hans
was standing in front of her; her behavior
unnerved him. If someone actshe
saidlike Feuermaul, as if he had seized

1514/1856

hold of the true life, hes a swindler. The Beyond withholds itself; out-of-body contemplation reveals itself only rarely and intermittently. There are whole centuries that know
nothing about it. But it is Germanic, nevertheless, never to lose the feeling here below
of the Beyond that shimmers through.
Since I have known you, every second
thing youve said has been about out-of-body
contemplationGerda countered, eager to
attack but you havent ever, not one single
time, really seen anything! Tell me what
youve seen! Words!
Hans implored Gerda not to lose her
strength! She ought not to be so sensitive,
not want to be so clever! She should get away
from this Ulrich!
Where does sensitive come from?
he exclaimed. From the senses! Its sensualistic and base!

1515/1856

For heavens sake, Gerda knew that; but

it had never seemed to her so hurdy-gurdy.
If I want, I will also love a Jew, she
thought, and thought of Feuermaul. A very
gentle smile struggled with the anger in her
face. Hans misunderstood it; he thought the
tenderness in the resistance was for him. He
was so excited by everything that had gone
on before that he thought he would break into pieces right then and there. Over Gerdas
face there is a breath of the Orient, it occurred to him at this moment, and in the
same moment he thought he understood that
what he loved most secretly about her was
the other-racial, the Jewish; he, with his melancholy, who never felt sure of himself! Hans
broke down. He hardly knew what was happening to him; he hid his face against
Gerdas legs, and she felt that he was weeping in despair. That tore at her breast like the
wild, covetous fingers of a small child; she,
too, was suddenly excited, and tears were

1516/1856

running down her cheeks without her knowing whether she was weeping over Hans,
Feuermaul, herself, or Ulrich. So they gazed
into each others eyes with crumpled faces,
when Hans raised his from her lap. He lifted
himself half up and reached for her face.
Youths ecstatic desire for words came from
his mouth. There are only three ways back
to the Great Truth, he exclaimed. Suicide,
madness, or making ourselves a symbol! She
did not understand that. Why suicide or
madness? She connected no filled-out notions with these words. Perhaps Hans
doesnt ever know exactly what he means,
went through her head. But somehow, if one
got free of oneself through suicide or madness, it seemed to be almost as high as being
uplifted by some mystic union. Madness,
death, and love have always been closely
linked in the consciousness of humanity. She
did not know why; she did not even think of
posing such a question. But the three words,

1517/1856

which made no sense as an idea, had somehow come together at this moment in a trembling young person who was holding Gerdas
face in his hands as if he were holding in
them the deepest import of his life. What
they then went on talking about did not matter at all; the great experience was that they
said to each other what shook them. Whoever would have heard them wouldnt have
understood them; entwined, they pressed
forward to Gods knee and thought they saw
His finger. It was possible, since this scene
was being played out in the Fischels dining
room, that this finger pointing the way out of
the world and into their own consisted partly
of the tasteless self-conscious pictures and
furnishings that gave them the feeling of
having nothing to do with the universe of the
bourgeois.
One evening several days after this (the)
musical evening in the studio, Gerda appeared at Ulrichs, after having called

1518/1856

excitedly on the telephone. With a dramatic

swoop she removed her hat from her head
and threw it on a chair. To the question of
what was up, she answered: Now
everythings been blown sky-high!
Has Hans run off?
Papas
broke!
Gerda
laughed
nervously at her slangy expression. Ulrich recalled that the last time he had been with
Director Fischel he had wondered at the kind
of telephone conversations the latter had
been conducting from his house; but this recollection was not vivid enough to enable
him to take Gerdas exclamation with complete seriousness.
Papa was a gamblerimagine! the excited girl, struggling between merriment and
despair, went on to explain. We all thought
he was a solid bank official with no great
prospects, but yesterday evening it came out
that the whole time he had been making the

1519/1856

riskiest stock speculations! You ought to

have been there for the blowup! Gerda threw
herself on the chair beside her hat and boldly
swung one leg over the other. He came
home as if hed been pulled out of the river.
Mama rushed at him with bicarbonate and
chamomile, because she thought he was feeling ill. It was eleven-thirty at night; we were
already asleep. Then he confessed that in
three days he had to come up with lots of
money and had no idea where it was to come
from. Mama, splendid, offered him her
dowry. Mama is always splendid; what
would the few thousand crowns have meant
to a gambler! But Papa went on to confess
that Mamas little fortune had long since
been lost along with everything else. What
can I tell you? Mama screamed like a dog
thats been run over. She had on nothing but
her nightgown and slippers. Papa lay in an
armchair and moaned. His job of course is

1520/1856

also gone once this gets out. I tell you, it was

pitiable!
Shall I speak to your father? Ulrich
asked. I dont understand much about such
things. Do you think he might do something
to himself?
Gerda shrugged her shoulders. Today
hes trying to convince one of his unsullied
business friends to help him. She suddenly
turned gloomy. I hope you dont think that
thats why Ive come to you? Mama moved
out to her brothers today; she wanted to
take me with her, but I wont go; Ive run
away from homeshe had become cheerful
again. Do you know that behind the whole
thing theres a woman, some sort of
chanteuse? Mama found that out, and that
was the last straw. Good for Papa! Who
would ever have thought him capable of all
that! And no, I dont think hell kill himself,
she went on. Because when it afterward
came out about the woman, today, in the

1521/1856

course of the day, he said some remarkable

things: he would rather let himself be locked
up and afterward earn his bread by hawking
pornographic books than go on being Director Fischel with family!
But whats most important to meUlrich askedwhat do you intend to do?
Im staying with friends, Gerda said
saucily. You dont need to worry!
With Hans Sepp and his friends! Ulrich exclaimed reproachfully.
No ones going to bother me there!
Gerda inspected Ulrichs house. Like
shadows, the memory of what had once
happened here stepped out of the walls.
Gerda felt herself to be a poor girl who possessed nothing outside of a few crowns,
which in leaving she had, with amazing ease
and freedom, taken from her mothers desk.
She was sorry for herself. She was inclined to

1522/1856

weep over herself as over a tragic figure on

the stage. One really ought to do something
good for her, she thought, but she hardly expected that Ulrich would take her comfortingly in his arms. Except that if he had, she
would not have been such a coward as she
had been the first time. But Ulrich said:
You wont let me help you now, Gerda, I
see that; youre still much too proud of your
new adventure. I can only say that I fear a
bad outcome for you. Remember, please,
that you always, without hesitation, can call
upon me if you need to. He said this reflectively and hesi-tandy, for he really could have
said something else that would have been
more kind. Gerda had stood up, fiddled with
her hat before the mirror, and smiled at Ulrich. She would have liked to kiss him goodbye, but then it might well not have come to
a good-bye; and the stream of tears that was
running invisibly behind her eyes bore her
like a tenderly tragic music that one cannot

1523/1856

interrupt out into the new life which she

could still not quite picture to herself.
***
Hans Sepp was forced to double-step, kneel
down in puddles in the barracks yard,
present arms and put them down again until
his arms fell off. The corporal torturing him
was a green peasant boy, and Hans stared
uncomprehendingly into his apoplectic
young face, which expressed not only anger,
which would have been understandable because he was forced to do extra duty with
this recruit, but all the malice of which a person is capable when he lets himself go. If
Hans let his glance roam across the breadth
of the yardand a barracks yard has in and
of itself something inhuman, some locked-in
regularity of the sort the dead world of crystals hasit rested on squatting and stiffly
running blue figures painted on all the walls,
meant to be assaulted with ones weapon;
and this universal goal of being shot at was

1524/1856

expressed in the abstract manner of these

paintings well enough to drive one to despair. This had already weighed down Hans
Sepps heart in the first hour of his arrival.
The people in these pictures painted on the
barracks walls had no faces, but instead of
faces only a bright area. Nor did they have
bodies that the painter had captured in one
of those positions such as people and animals, following the play of their needs, assume
of themselves, but bodies that consisted of a
crude outline filled in with dark-blue paint,
capturing for an eternity the attitude of a
man running with a weapon in his hand, or a
man kneeling and shooting, an eternity in
which there will never again be anything so
superfluous as the drawing of individual
people. This was by no means unreasonable;
the technical term for these figures was target surfaces, and if a person is regarded as a
target surface, that is the way he looks; this
cannot be explained away (changed). From

1525/1856

this one might conclude that one should never be allowed to regard a person as a target
surface; but for heavens sake, if that is the
way he looks the minute you lay eyes on him,
the temptation to look at him that way is
enormous! Hans felt drawn again and again,
during the tedium of his punishment drill, by
the demonic nature of these pictures, as if he
were being tortured by devils; the corporal
screamed at him that he was not to gawk
around but to look straight ahead; with such
raw language he literally seized him by the
eyes, and when Hanss glance then fell
straight ahead, on the corporals red face,
this face looked warm and human.
Hans had the primitive sensation of
having fallen into the hands of a strange
tribe and been made a slave. Whenever an
officer appeared and glided past on the other
side of the yard, an uninvolved, slender silhouette, he seemed to Hans Sepp like one of
the inexorable gods of this alien tribe. Hans

1526/1856

was treated severely and badly. An official

communication from the civil authorities
had come to the army at the same time he
had, characterizing him as politically unreliable, and in Kakania that was the term used
for individuals hostile to the state. He had no
idea who or what had gained him this reputation. Except for his participation in the
demonstration against Count Leinsdorf, he
had never undertaken anything against the
state, and Count Leinsdorf was not the state;
since he had become a student, Hans Sepp
had spoken only of the community of Germanic peoples, of symbols, and of chastity.
But something must have come to the ear of
the authorities, and the ear of the authorities
is like a piano from which seven of every
eight strings have been removed.
Perhaps his reputation had been exaggerated; at any rate, he came to the army
with the reputation of being an enemy of
war, the military, religion, the Habsburgs,

1527/1856

and the Austrian state, suspected of plotting

in secret associations and pan-German intrigues directed at the goal of overthrowing
the existing order of the state.
But the situation in the Kakanian military with regard to all these crimes was such
that the greatest part of all capable reserve
officers could be accused of them without
further ado. Almost every German Austrian
had the natural sentiment of solidarity with
the Germans in the Reich and of being only
provisionally separated from it by the sluggish capacity of the historical process, while
every non-German Austrian had (making the
necessary allowances) twice as much feeling
of this land directed against Kakania; patriotism in Kakania, to the extent that it was
not limited to purveyors to the Court, was
distinctly a phenomenon of opposition, betraying either a spirit of contradiction or that
tepid opposition to life which constantly has
need of something finer and higher. The only

1528/1856

exception to this was Count Leinsdorf and

his friends, who had the higher in their
blood. But the active officers (of the standing
army) were also just as implicated in these
reproaches that an unknown authority had
raised against Hans Sepp. These officers
were for the most part German Austrians,
and insofar as they were not, they admired
the German army; and since the Kakanian
parliament did not appropriate half as many
soldiers or warships as the German Reichstag, they all felt that not everything about
the pan-Germanic claims could be reprehensible. Then too, they were all antidemocratic and latent revolutionaries. They had
been raised from childhood to be the bulwark of patriotism, with the result that this
word aroused in them a silent nausea. They
had finally got used to leading their soldiers
in the Corpus Christi procession and letting
the recruits practice kneel down for prayers in the barracks yard, but among

1529/1856

themselves they called the regimental chaplain Corporal Christ, and for the rank of field
bishop, which was associated with a certain
fullness of body, these heathens had thought
up the army name skyball.
When they were among themselves,
they did not even take it amiss if someone
was an enemy of the military, for over a fairly
long period of service most of them had become that way themselves, and there were
even pacifists in Kakanias army. But this
does not mean that later on, in the war, they
did not do their duty with as much enthusiasm as their comrades in other countries; on
the contrary, one always thinks differently
from the way one acts. This fact, of such extraordinary importance for the condition of
world civilization as we know it today, is ordinarily understood to mean that thinking is
a charming habit of the individual citizen,
without damaging which, when it comes to
action, one joins in with what is customary

1530/1856

and what everyone is doing. This is not quite

true, however, for there are people who are
totally unoriginal in their thinking; but when
they act, they often do so in a very personal
way, which, because it is more appealing, is
superior to their ideas, or, because it is more
common, inferior to them, in any case more
idiosyncratic. One comes closer to the truth
if one does not stop with the object of the action, as opposed to the idea, but recognizes
from the beginning that one is dealing with
two different kinds of ideas. A persons idea
ceases to be only an idea whenever a second
person thinks something similar, and
between these two something happens, even
if it is only being aware of each other, that
makes them a pair. Even then the idea is no
longer pure possibility but acquires an additional component of ancillary considerations.
But this might be a sophism or an artifice.
Nevertheless, the fact remains that every
powerful idea goes out into the world of

1531/1856

reality and permeates it the way energy

enters a malleable material and finally rigidifies in it, without entirely losing its effectiveness as an idea. Everywhere, in schools, in
law books, in the aspect of houses in the city
and fields in the country, in newspaper offices awash in currents of superficiality, in
mens trousers and womens hats, in
everything where people exercise and receive
influence, ideas are encapsulated or dissolved in varying degrees of fixity and content. This is of course no more than a platitude, but we are hardly always aware of its extent, for it really amounts to nothing less
than a monstrous, inside-out, third half of
the brain. This third half does not think; it
emits emotions, habits, experiences, limits,
and directions, nothing but unconscious or
half-conscious influences, among which individual thinking is as much and as little as a
tiny candle flame in the stony darkness of a
gigantic warehouse. And not last among

1532/1856

these are the ideas held in reserve, which are

stored like uniforms for wartime. The moment something extraordinary begins to
spread, they climb out of their petrification.
Every day bells peal, but when a big fire
breaks out or a people is called to arms, one
sees for the first time the sort of feelings that
have been clanging and churning inside
them. Every day the newspapers casually
write certain sentences that they habitually
use to characterize habitual happenings, but
if a revolution threatens or something new is
about to happen, it suddenly appears that
these words no longer suffice and that in order to ward off or welcome, one must reach
back for the oldest hats in the store and the
spooks in the closet. The mind enters every
great general mobilization, whether for peace
or for war, unequipped and laden down with
forgotten things.
Hans had fallen into this disproportion
between the personal and the general,

1533/1856

between living and reserve principles. In other circumstances, people would have been
satisfied to find him not very likable, but the
official document had raised him out of the
midst of private individuals and made him
an object of public thought, and had admonished his superiors that they were to apply to
him not their uneducated, highly variable
personal feelings, but the generally accepted
ones that made them vexed and bored and
that can at any moment degenerate wildly,
like the actions of a drunk or a hysteric who
feels quite distinctly that he is stuck inside
his frenzy as inside a strange, oversize husk.
But one should not think that Hans was
being mistreated, or that impermissible
things were being done to him: on the contrary, he was treated strictly according to
regulations. All that was missing was that
iota of human warmthno, one cannot call it
warmth; but coal, fuel, on hand to be used on
a suitable occasionwhich even in a

1534/1856

barracks still finds a niche. Through the absence of the possibility of any personal sympathy, the right-angled buildings, the monotonous walls with the blue figures, the rulerstraight corridors with the innumerable parallel diagonal lines of guns hanging on them,
and the trumpet signals and regulations that
divided up the day, all had the effect of die
clear, cold crystallizing of a spirit that till
then had been alien to Hans Sepp, that spirit
of the commonality, of public life, of impersonal community, or whatever it should be
called, which had created this building and
these forms.
The most crushing thing was that he felt
that his whole spirit of contradiction had
been blown away. He could, of course, have
thought of himself as a missionary being tortured by some Indian tribe. Or he could have
expunged the din of the world from his
senses and immersed himself in the currents
of the transcendental. He could have looked

1535/1856

upon his sufferings as a symbol, and so forth.

But since a military cap had been clapped on
his head, all these thoughts had become like
impotent shadows. The sensitive world of the
mind paled to a specter, which here, where a
thousand people lived together, could not
penetrate. His mind was desolate and
withered.
Hans Sepp had settled Gerda with the
mother of one of his friends. He saw her
rarely, and then he was mostly surly from fatigue and despair. Gerda wanted to make
herself independent; she did not want anything from him; but she had no way of understanding the events to which he was exposed. Several times she had had the idea of
picking him up after his daily duty, as if he
were his usual self and was just coming from
some land of event. Lately he had taken to
avoiding her. He did not even have the
strength to let it bother him. In the pauses
during the day, those irregular pauses that

1536/1856

fell at the most useless times, he hung

around with the other conscripts doing their
year of military service, drank brandy and
coffee in the canteen, and sat in the disconsolate flood of their conversations and jokes
as in a dirty creek, without being able to
make up his mind to stand up. Now for the
first time he came to hate the soldier class,
because he felt himself subjected to its influence. My mind is now nothing more than
the lining of a military coat, he said to himself; but he felt astonishingly tempted to test
the new movements in this clothing. It
happened that even after duty he stayed with
the others and tried out the rather coarse diversions of these half-independent young
people.
***
An elegant gentleman had his car stop and
called out to Ulrich; with effort Ulrich recognized in the self-confident apparition (that
leaned out of the elegant vehicle) Director

1537/1856

Leo Fischel. Youre in luck! Fischel called

to him. My secretarys been trying for
weeks to get hold of you! She was always told
you were away. He was exaggerating, but
this magisterial confidence in his manner
was genuinely impressive.
Ulrich said softly: I thought Id find
you in much different shape.
What have you been hearing about
me? Fischel probed, curious.
I think pretty much everything. For a
long time Ive been expecting to hear about
you through the newspapers.
Nonsense! Women always exaggerate.
Wont you accompany me home? Ill tell you
all about it.
The house had changed, taken on an
aura of the top offices of some business enterprise or other, and had become totally unfeminine. But Fischel said nothing specific.

1538/1856

He was more concerned with shoring up his

reputation with Ulrich. He treated his departure from the bank as a minor incident.
What did you expect? I could have stayed
there for ten years without getting anywhere!
My leaving was entirely amicable. He had
taken on such a self-important manner of
speaking that Ulrich felt constrained to express his dry astonishment at it. But you
had ruined yourself so completelyhe said
inquiringlythat people assumed you had to
either shoot yourself or end up in court.
Id never shoot myself, Id poison myself, Leo corrected. I wouldnt do anyone
the favor of dying like an aristocrat or a section chief! But it wasnt at all necessary. Do
you know what a starching, a transitory illiquidity, is? Well! My family made a ridiculous to-do about it that theyre very sorry for
today!
By the way, you never said a
wordUlrich exclaimed, having just thought

1539/1856

of itabout becoming Leonas friend; I

should at least have had the right to know
that I
Do you have any idea how this woman behaved toward me? Shameless! Her
upbringing!
I always left Leona the way she is. I
suppose that with her natural stupidity shell
end up in a few years as a pensioner in a
brothel.
Far from it! Moreover, Im not as
heartless as you, my friend. Ive tried to
arouse Leonas reason a little and, so to
speak, her economic understanding, as far as
they apply to the exploitation of her body.
And on the evening when my illiquidity
began to make itself palpable to me, I went
to her to borrow a few hundred crowns,
which I assumed Leona would have laid
aside. You ought to have heard this harpy
scolding me for being a skinflint, a robber;

1540/1856

she even cursed my religion! The one thing

she didnt claim was that I had robbed her of
her innocence. But youre wrong about
Leonas future; do you know who her friend
is now, right after me?
He bent over to Ulrich and whispered a
name in his ear; he did this more out of respect than because the whispering was
necessary.
What do you say to that? You have to
admit shes a beauty.
Ulrich was astounded. The name Fischel had whispered to him was Arnheim.
Ulrich asked after Gerda. Fischel blew
his souls breath out through pursed lips; his
face became anxious and betrayed secret
worries. He raised his shoulders and slackly
let them fall again. I thought that you
might know where shes staying.

1541/1856

I
have
a
suspicionUlrich
answeredbut I dont know. I assume shes
taken a job.
Job! As what? As governess in a family with small children! Just think, she takes
a job as a domestic servant when she could
have every luxury! Just yesterday I concluded a deal on a house, top location, with
an apartment thats a palace by itself: But no,
no, no! Fischel beat his face with his fists; his
pain about his daughter was genuine, or at
least was the genuine pain that she was preventing him from enjoying his victory
completely.
Why dont you turn to the police? Ulrich asked.
Oh, please! I cant advertise my family
affairs to the world! Besides, I want to, but
my wife wont hear of it. I immediately paid
my wife back what I had lost of hers; her
high-and-mighty brothers arent going to

1542/1856

wear out their mouths about me! And in the

last analysis, Gerda is as much her child as
mine. In that line Im not going to do anything without her agreement. Half the day
she rides around in my car and searches her
eyes out. Of course thats absurd; thats not
the way to go about it. But what can one do
when ones married to a woman!
I thought your divorce was under
way?
It was. That is, only verbally. Not yet
legally. The lawyers had just fired the first
shots when my situation visibly improved. I
dont know myself what our current relation
is; I believe Clementine is waiting for a discussion. Of course shes still living at her
brothers.
But then why dont you simply hire a
private detective to find Gerda? Ulrich interrupted, having just thought of it.
Good idea, Fischel replied.

1543/1856

She can be tracked down through

Hans Sepp!
My wife intends to drive out to Hans
Sepp yet again one of these days and work on
him; hes not saying anything.
Oh, you know what? Hans must be
doing his military service now; dont you remember? He got a six-month postponement
on account of some exams he had to take,
which he ended up not taking. He must have
gone in two weeks ago; I can say that precisely because it was very unusual, since
around this time only the medical students
are called up. So your wife will hardly find
him. On the other hand, his feet could really
be held to the fire through his superiors. You
understand, if someone there squeezes him
between his fingers, it will really loosen his
tongue!
Splendid, and thank you! I hope my
wife will see that too. For as I said, without

1544/1856

Clementine I dont want to undertake anything in this direction; otherwise Ill immediately be accused again of being a murderer!
Ulrich had to smile. Freedom seems
to have made you anxious, my dear Fischel.
Fischel had always been easily irritated
by Ulrich; now that he had become an important man, even more so. You exaggerate
freedom he said dismissivelyand it appears that youve never quite understood my
position. Marriage is often a struggle as to
who is the stronger; extraordinarily difficult
as long as it involves feelings, ideas, and
fantasies! But not difficult at all as soon as
one is successful in life. I have the impression that even Clementine is beginning to
realize that. One can argue for weeks over
whether an opinion is correct. But as soon as
one is successful, it is the opinion of a man
who might have been mistaken but who
needs this incidental error for his success. In
the worst case, its like the hobbyhorse of

1545/1856

some great artist; and what does one do with

the hobbyhorses of great artists? One loves
them; one knows that theyre a little secret.
Since Ulrich was laughing freely, Fischel did
not want to stop talking. Listen to what Im
telling you! Pay close attention! I said that if
one has no other ambitions / nothing to do /
has nothing / besides feelings and ideas, the
quarrel is endless. Ideas and feelings make
one petty and neurotic. Unfortunately, thats
what happened with me and Clementine.
Today I have no time. I dont even know for
certain whether Clementine wants to come
back to me; I only believe that she does; shes
sorry, and sooner or later that will come out
of itself, but then most certainly in a simpler
and better way than if I were to think out
down to the last detail how it has to come
about. You could never do business, either,
with a plan that is unhealthily pinned down
in every detail!

1546/1856

Fischel was almost out of breath, but he

felt free. Ulrich had been listening to him
seriously, and did not contradict. Im quite
relieved that everything has taken a turn for
the better, he said politely. Your wife is an
excellent woman, and when it will be advantageous for you to have a great house, she will
fulfill that task admirably.
Exactly. That too. Soon well be able
to celebrate our silver anniversary, and joking aside, if the money is new, the character
at least ought to be old. A silver anniversary
is worth almost as much as an aristocratic
grandmother, which, moreover, she also has.
Ulrich got up to leave, but Fischel was
now in high spirits. But you shouldnt
think that Leona managed to clip my wings!
I left her to Dr. Arnheim with no envy whatsoever. Do you know the dancer He mentioned an unfamiliar name and pulled a
small photo from his wallet. Well, where
should you know her from, she has seldom

1547/1856

appeared in public; private dance evenings,

distinguished, Beethoven and Debussy, you
know, thats now the coming thing. But what
I wanted to tell you: youre an athlete, can
you manage this? He stepped over to a table
and accompanied his words with an echo of
arm and leg. For instance, she lies this way
on a table. The upper body flat on the top,
her face leaning with one ear on her
propped-up arms, and smiling deliciously.
But at the same time her legs are spread
apart, like this, along the narrow edge of the
table, so that it looks like a big T. Or she suddenly stands on her forearms and
palmslike thisof course I cant do it. And
she has one foot way over her head and almost on the ground, the other against the
cabinet up there. I tell you, you couldnt do a
tenth of it, in spite of your gymnastics. Thats
the modern woman. Shes lovelier than we,
cleverer than we, and I believe that if I tried
to box with her Id soon be clutching my

1548/1856

belly. The only thing in which a man is

stronger today than a woman is in earning
money!
***
Who had been responsible for Hans Sepps
receiving his black mark? Remarkably
enough, it was Count Leinsdorf. Count
Leinsdorf had one day asked Ulrich about
this young man, and Ulrich had presented
him as a harmless muddlehead; but Count
Leinsdorf had recently taken to mistrusting
Ulrich, and this information confirmed his
conviction that in Hans Sepp he had before
him one of those irresponsible elements who
are continually preventing anything good
from being done in Kakania. Count Leinsdorf
had lately become nervous. He had heard
through General Director Leo Fischel that a
quite distinct group of immature young
people that had formed around Hans Sepp
had been the real instigator of the demonstration that had caused His Excellency more

1549/1856

unpleasantness than might be supposed. For

this political procession had created a quite
unfavorable impression upstairs. There was
no question that it was completely harmless,
and that if one had seriously wanted to prevent such a thing it could be done by a handful of police at any time; but the impression
such events make is always much more terrifying than they actually merit, and no true
politician dares neglect impressions. Count
Leinsdorf had had serious discussions about
this with his friend the Commissioner of Police, which had not produced any results, and
when Count Leinsdorf afterward learned the
name of Hans Sepp, the Commissioner was
quite ready to have this lead followed up in
order to appease His Excellency. The Commissioner had been convinced from the start
that any findings that might have previously
escaped his police would be trifling, and was
only confirmed in this opinion by the results
of the inquiries he had ordered. But still, the

1550/1856

preoccupation of a bureaucracy with an individual always leads to the conclusion that

this individual is shady and unreliable, that
is to say, as measured by the standards of
precision and security according to the rules
and regulations one applies in a bureaucracy.
For this reason the Commissioner found it
expedient, when there was room for doubt,
not to reproach a man like Count Leinsdorf
for imagining things but rather to allow the
case of Hans Sepp to be treated according to
the model that at the moment nothing could
be proved against the suspect, on which account he only remained under suspicion until the matter could be completely cleared up.
This complete clearing up was tacitly set for
Saint Never-Plus-Ones Day, when all the
files that are still open rise up from the
graves of the archives. That in spite of this it
brought suffering on Hans Sepp was a totally
impersonal matter, which did not involve
trickery of any kind. A buried open file must

1551/1856

from time to time be raised from its grave in

order to note on it that it is still not possible
to close it, and to mark it with a date on
which the archivist is again to present it to
his supervisor. This is a universal law of bureaucracy, and if it should involve a file that
was never intended to be closed, on the pretext that its documentation was not complete, one must pay very close attention, for
it can happen that bureaucrats are promoted, transferred, and die, and that a neophyte receiving the file causes, in his excessive zeal, a small supplementary investigation
to be added to one of the last investigations
that took place years ago, which causes the
file to be kept alive for a few weeks until the
investigation ends as a report to be inserted
in, and disappear with, the file. Through
some such process Hans Sepps file, too, had,
without any particular purpose, become current; since Hans Sepp happened to be in the
army, his file had to go to the Ministry of

1552/1856

Justice, from there to the Ministry of War,

and from there to the Commanding Officer,
etc., and it is easy to understand how,
handed on through the various in and out
stamps, presentation stamps, confirmations
of action, additions with bureaucratic courtesy, Relinquished, For Report, Not Known
in this Office, and such, this file took on a
dangerous appearance.
Meanwhile, in desperation, Gerda had
run to Ulrich and reported that Hans had to
be rescued, because he was not up to the
conditions he had fallen into and was already
clearly showing alarming signs of cracking
up completely. She had still not returned to
her parents house, kept her whereabouts
hidden, and was quite proud at having found
some piano lessons to give and being able to
add a few pennies to the money her friends
lent her. At that time Leo Fischel was making
the most strenuous efforts to win her back,
and so Ulrich intervened as mediator. After

1553/1856

long back-and-forth and paternal admonitions, Gerda let herself be talked into considering favorably a promise to move back to
her parents if Papa would declare himself
ready and bring about, and Ulrich would
support, freeing Hans from his doom. Ulrich
spoke with General Director Fischel about it,
and General Director Fischel had by then
done many a worse thing than was now being asked of him in order to get his daughter
back. He turned to Count Leinsdorf. General
Director Leo Fischel was actively involved in
business relations with Count Leinsdorf;
after some commiseration and reflection, His
Excellency recommended him to Diotima,
who at the moment was on intimate footing
with the Ministry of War and, for this reason
too more suitable than he was, because this
whole affair, especially because of the
slightly irregular solution required, was
more the province of woman, of the heart,

1554/1856

and of feminine tact. In this way Leo Fischel

came to Diotima.
Count Leinsdorf had already prepared
her for the visit, and she made a powerful
impression on Fischel. He had thought that
the time whenanything intellectual could
compel his admiration lay behind him. But it
appeared that beautiful women were especially qualified to soften his newly acquired
hardness. He had had his first relapse with
Leona. Leona had a face of the sort that General Director Fischels parents would have
admired, and this face again came to his
mind when he saw Diotima, although there
was really no similarity. At that time, the
most miserable drawing teacher or photographer would not have been at peace with
himself if he had not felt in his hair or his
necktie some breath of genius. For this reason Leona, too, was not simply beautiful for
Leo but a genius of beauty; that was the special charm through which she had led him

1555/1856

astray into risky undertakings. A pity she

had such a mean character, Fischel thought.
Her long fat legs were a long sight lovelier
than the desiccated legs of these modern
dancers. He did not know whether it was the
desiccated legs or the unpleasant character
that made him think of his wife, Clementine,
but at any rate he remembered with emotion
the happy years of his marriage, for then Clementine and he had still believed in the value
of genius, and if one considers this in a welldisposed way, it was not so misplaced; the
line of Leo Fischels life, looked at in this
light, showed no break, for in the last analysis the belief that there were privileged geniuses was a possible way of justifying ruthless
and risky deals. Diotima possessed the quality of awakening such ideas that roam
through the far reaches of the soul when one
sat opposite her for the first time, and General Director Fischel meanwhile needed only
to brush his hands through his sideburns

1556/1856

once and set his pince-nez to rights before he

began to speak with a sigh. Diotima confirmed this sigh with a motherly smile, and
before Fischel even got to what he wanted to
say, this woman with a wholly justified reputation for her gift of empathy said: I have
been told the purpose of your visit. It is sad;
humanity today suffers grievously from its
failure to produce more geniuses, while on
the other hand it denies and persecutes every
young talent that might perhaps develop into
one.
Fischel ventured the question: You
have heard whats happening to my protg?
Hes a troublemaker. Well, and what of it?
All great people were troublemakers in their
youth. I do not, by the way, in the least condone it. But he was also, if you will permit
me the observation, a forceps birth; his head
was somewhat compressed; he is extremely
irritable, and I thought that that might perhaps be a way ?

1557/1856

Diotima raised her eyebrows sadly. I

spoke about it with one of the leading
gentlemen of the War Ministry; unfortunately, I must tell you, General Director, that
your request is meeting with almost insurmountable difficulties.
Sadly and indignandy Fischel raised his
hands. But one cannot force an intellectual
person when it goes against the intellect! The
fellow has some ideas about refusing service
in wartime, and the gentlemen will end up
shooting him on me!
Yes, Diotima replied. You are so
right! One should not force an intellectual
when it goes against the intellect. You are
voicing my own opinion. But how is one to
make a general understand that?
A pause ensued. Fischel almost thought
he should leave, but when he scraped his feet
Diotima laid a hand on his arm with mute
permission to remain. She seemed to be

1558/1856

thinking. Fischel racked his brains to see if

he could help her find a good idea. He would
have gladly offered her money for the leading
gentleman of the War Ministry she had mentioned; but such an idea was at that time absurd. Fischel felt helpless. A Midas! occurred to him; why, he did not exactly know,
and he sought to recollect this ancient legend, without quite being able to. The lenses
of his spectacles almost misted over with
emotion.
At this moment Diotima brightened. I
believe, General Director, that I perhaps
might indeed be able to help you a little. I
would in any case be delighted if I could. I
cant get over die idea that an intellectual
cant be forced against the intellect! Of
course, it would be better not to talk too
much to the gentlemen of the War Ministry
about the nature of this intellect.
Leo Fischel obligingly concurred with
this circumspection.

1559/1856

But this case has also, so to speak, a

maternal sideDiotima went ona feminine, unlogical aspect; I mean, given so-andso many thousands of soldiers, just one cant
be so important. Ill try to make clear to a
high officer who is a friend of mine that out
of political considerations His Excellency
considers it important to have this young
man mustered out; the right people should
always be put in the right places, and your
future son-in-law is not of the slightest use in
a barracks, whereas he well, somehow
thats the way I see it. Unfortunately, the
military is uncommonly resistant to exceptions. But what I hope is that we can at least
get the young man a fairly long leave, and
then we can think what to do about the rest.
Charmed, Leo Fischel bent over Diotimas hand. This woman had won his complete confidence.
his

The visit was not without its effect on

way
of
thinking
either.
For

1560/1856

understandable reasons, he had lately become quite materialistic. His experiences of

life had led him to the viewpoint that a rightthinking man had to watch out for himself.
Be independent; need nothing from others
for which you did not have something they
wanted in return: but that is also a Protestant feeling, much as it was for the first colonists in America. Leo Fischel still loved to
philosophize, even though his time for it had
become much more limited. His affairs now
sometimes brought him into contact with the
high clergy. He discovered that it is the mistake of all religions to teach virtue as
something which is only negative, as abstinence and selflessness; this makes it anachronistic and gives the deals one has to
make an aura of something like secret vice.
On die other hand, the public religion of efficiency, as he met it in Germany through his
business, had seized hold of him. People are
glad to help a capable and enterprising

1561/1856

person; in other words, he can get credit anywhere: this was a positive formula that allowed one to get somewhere. It taught one to
be ready to help without reckoning on gratitude, just as Christian teaching demands, although it did not include the uncertainty of
having to rely on noble feeling in someone
else, but made use of egotism as the single
dependable human quality, which it without
doubt is. And money is a tool of genius that
makes it possible to calculate and regulate
this basic quality. Money is ordered selfishness brought into relation with efficiency. An
enormous organization of selfishness according to the hierarchical order of how it is
earned. It is a creative umbrella organization
built on basenessemperors and kings have
not tamed the passions the way money has.
Fischel often wondered what human demiurge might have invented money. If
everything were to be accessible to money,
and every matter to have its price, which

1562/1856

unfortunately is still far from being the case,

then any other morality besides the existence
of trade would be of no use at all. This was
his opinion and his conviction. Even during
the time when he had revered the great ideas
of humanity, he had always felt a certain
aversion to them in the mouth of anybody
else. If someone simply says virtue or
beauty, there is something as unnatural
and affected about it as when an Austrian
speaks in the past tense. Now even that had
increased. His life was consumed by work,
striving for power, efficiency, and the dependence on the greatness of affairs, which
he had to observe and exploit. The intellectual and spiritual spheres came to seem to him
more and more like clouds having no connection with the earth. But he was no happier. He felt himself somehow weakened.
Every amusement seemed to him more superficial than before. He increased his stimuli, with the result that he succeeded only in

1563/1856

making himself more distracted. He made

fun of his daughter, but secretly he envied
her her ideas.
And as Diotima had spoken so naturally
and freely of maternal feeling, soul, mind,
and goodness, he was constantly thinking:
What a mother this would be for Gerda! (?
wife for you) He wept inside to hear the
beauty of her speech, and he had great satisfaction in noticing how these great words
gave birth to a tiny element of corruptionhowever elegantlyfor she was ultimately fulfilling his request, whatever reasons might have been behind it. In certain
cases, when there is a question of some injustice, idealism is almost better than naked
calculation; this was the teaching that Fischel drew directly from the impressions of
his visit, and that he intended to think about
urgently on his further course.
***

1564/1856

Hans Sepp had left the barracks and not

shown up for duty, although he had been
transferred from the hospital back to his
company. He knew that his return would entail the most unbearable consequences; being punished like an animal and, still
worsefor punishment is solitarybeforehand the dull, set face of the captain and the
necessity of having to be interrogated by
him. Hans knew that he had made up his
mind not to go back. For the first time the
holy fire of defiance again flared up in him,
and the unbending sense of purity that
avoids contamination with the impure
flashed through him. This made even more
of a torture the memory that he had lost the
right to it. He considered his illness incurable and was convinced that he had been sullied for the rest of his life. He had resolved to
kill himself; he had left the barracks to completely cut off a return to life; the thought
that in a few hours he would have killed

1565/1856

himself was the only thing that could to some

degree substitute for his self-respect, even if
it could not restore it.
In order not to be immediately recognized if they should be looking for him, he
had put on civilian clothes. He walked
through the city on foot, for he felt incapable
of taking a cab; he had a long route before
him, as it had seemed to him for some reason a matter of course that he would kill himself only in the open countryside. He actually
could have done it on the way, in the middle
of the city; presumably, certain ceremonies
merely serve to postpone the business a bit,
and among these Hans included a last
glimpse of nature; but he was not at all one
of those people who think about such questions in a situation such as the one he was
now in. The famous dark veil that arises
when the moisture content of the emotions
becomes extreme without precipitating tears
lay before his eyes, and the noises of the

1566/1856

world echoed softly. Passing cars, the throng

of people, housefronts stretching for blocks,
all looked like a bas-relief. The tears that
Hans Sepp did not want to shed outwardly in
public or for other reasons nonetheless fell
through him inwardly as if down an incredibly deep, dark shaft onto his own grave, in
which he already felt himself lying, which
signifies about the same thing as that he was
simultaneously sitting beside it and grieving
for himself. There is in all this a force that is
very cheering, and by the time Hans got to
the city line, where the train tracks ran upon
which he wanted to throw himself as soon as
a train came along, his grief had become attached to and affiliated with so many things
that it really felt quite good. The stretch he
was on was apparently not well traveled, and
Hans had to tell himself that upon arriving
he would have immediately thrown himself
in front of a train had one happened to be
passing by at that instant, but that not

1567/1856

knowing the schedule, he could not simply

lie down on the tracks and wait. He sat down
among the sparse vegetation on the slope at
the top of a cut where the railway made a
curve, and he could see in both directions. A
train passed, but he gave himself time. He
observed the incredible increase in speed
that takes place when the train shoots, as it
were, through ones vicinity, and listened to
the din of the wheels in order to be able to
picture how he was going to be pounded in it
by the next train. This clanging and bawling
seemed, in contrast to what he saw, to last
for an extraordinary length of time, and
Hans turned cold.
The question of what had made him
want to end his life by means of a railway
train was not at all clear. Hanging had
something distorted and spooky. Jumping
out a window is a womans way. He had no
poison. To cut his veins he needed a bathtub.
On this path of eliminating other

1568/1856

possibilities, he pursued methodically the

same course he had taken in blind determination with a single step: it satisfied him; his
instincts had not yet been affected. To be
sure, he had left out death by shooting; he
thought of it now for the first time. But Hans
did not own a pistol, nor did he know what to
do with one, and he did not want to share his
last moment with his army rifle. He had to
be free of small misfortunes when he exited
this life. This reminded him that he had to
prepare himself inwardly. He had sinned and
contaminated himself: he had to hold on to
that. Someone else in his situation might
perhaps have hoped for the prospect of recovery; but while recovery might be possible,
salvation was irrevocably lost. Involuntarily,
Hans pulled out of his coat his little notebook and a pencil; but before he could jot
down his idea, he remembered that this was
now quite pointless. He idly held notebook
and pencil in his hands. His whole mind was

1569/1856

directed at the phrase that he had become

impure and godless. There was a lot to be
said about that. For instance, that Christianity, influenced by Judaism, permitted sin to
be redeemed through remorse and penitence, while the pure, Teutonic idea of being
healthy and whole permitted of no bargaining or trading. Wholeness is lost once and for
all, like virginity; and of course that is precisely where the greatness and challenge of
the idea lies. Where today does one find such
greatness? Nowhere. Hans was convinced
that the world would suffer a great loss from
his having to eliminate himself. The size and
force of a train was really almost the only
possible way of expressing the size and force
of such a case. Another one went past. This
technological marvel was small and tiny if
one compared it to the astronomical construction techniques of the Egyptians and
Assyrians, but at all events a train almost
succeeded in enabling the present to express

1570/1856

itself gothically, yearning outward beyond

the limitations of matter. Hans raised his
hand and almost irresolutely waved at
people, who waved back and shoved their
heads out the window in bunches, like the
people-grapes on ancient naive sculptures.
This made him feel better, but feeling good,
grief, and everything he could think of was
simply like smoke, and when it had drifted
away the sentence that Hans Sepp had become impure and was not to be saved lay
there again, undisturbed; nothing lasting
was connected with it, the idea no longer
wished to grow. If Hans had been sitting at
home before a table with pen and paper, it
perhaps might have turned out otherwise; it
was just this that gave him the feeling that he
was here for no other purpose than to put an
end to his existence.
He snapped the pencil in two and tore
the notebook into little pieces. That was a
major step. Then he climbed down the slope,

1571/1856

sat in the grass at the edge of the gravel ballast, and threw the shreds of his intellectual
world in front of the next train. The train
scattered them. Nothing was to be found of
the pencil; the bright paper butterflies,
broken on the wheels and sucked up, covered
the right-of-way on both sides for five hundred paces. Hans calculated that he was approximately twelve times larger than the
notebook. Then he seized his head in both
hands and began his final farewell. This
pulling everything together was to be devoted to Gerda. He wanted to forgive her
and, without leaving her a written word, to
die with the all-embracing thought of her on
his lips. But even though all kinds of
thoughts appeared and disappeared in his
mind, his body remained quite empty. It
seemed down here in the narrow cut that he
could not feel anything and needed to go and
sit up above again in order to embrace Gerda
once more in his mind. But it seemed silly, it

1572/1856

annoyed him to have to crawl up the slope.

Gradually the emptiness in his body increased and became hunger. Thats my
mind beginning to disintegrate, he told himself. Since his illness, he had lived in constant fear of going insane. He had let train
after train go by and had sat down here in
the narrow, stupid world of the railway cut
without thinking of anything at all. It might
already be late afternoon. Then Hans Sepp
became aware, as if someone suddenly
turned something around in him, that this
was his final state, to be succeeded only by
its execution. He had the nauseating feeling
of an imaginary skin eruption over his whole
body. He pulled out his pocket knife and
cleaned his nails with it; this was an ill-bred
habit he had, which he considered very tidy
and elegant; it made him want to cry. Hesitantly he stood up. Everything inside him had
receded from him. He was afraid, but he was
no longer master of himself; the sole master

1573/1856

was the irrevocable resolve that ruled alone

in a dark vacuum. Hans looked left and right.
One might say that he had already died as he
looked in both directions for a train, for this
looking was all that was alive in him, this
and isolated feelings that drifted past like
clumps of grass in a flood. For he no longer
knew what to do with himself. He still noticed that his head commanded his legs to
leap before the train approached; but his legs
were no longer paying attention, they sprang
when they wanted to, at the last minute, and
Hanss body was struck in the air. He still felt
himself plunging down, falling on great
sharp knives. Then his world burst into
fragments.
***
Gerda had come back. After Hanss death she
had, for the moment, nothing to live for. But
if Fischel had expected to find his daughter
crushed, he was mistaken. A young lady who

1574/1856

obviously had far-reaching plans walked in,

wearing the insignia of a Red Cross nurse.
Im going to go as a nurse, Papa,
Gerda said.
Not right away, not right away, my
child! General Director Fischel answered
submissively. We have to wait and see. No
one has any idea what this is going to turn
into
What should it turn into! Ive already
seen the young men at the mobilization stations. Theyre singing. Their wives and
fiances are with them. No one knows how
he is going to come back. But if you walk
through the city and look in peoples eyes, including the people who arent going to the
front yet, its like a big wedding.
Fischel, concerned, looked at his daughter over his glasses. I would wish another
kind of wedding for you, may God preserve
us. A Dutch firm has offered me a shipful of

1575/1856

margarine, available at the port of Rotterdamdo you know what that means? Five
crowns difference per ton since yesterday! If
I dont telegraph right away, tomorrow it will
probably be seven crowns. That means prices
are going up. If they come back from the
campaign with both eyes, the young men will
need them both to look out for their money!
WellGerda saidpeople are talking
about increases, but there have always been
increases at the beginning. Mama is quite
wild too.
Oh? Fischel asked. Have you
already talked with Mama? Whats she up
to?
At the moment, shes in the kitchenGerda motioned with her head toward
the wall, behind which a hall led to the kitchenand laying in canned goods like mad.
Before that, she cashed in her change, like
everyone else. And she fired the kitchen

1576/1856

maid; since the manservant has to go in the

army anyway, she wants to really cut down
on the servants.
Fischel nodded with satisfaction.
Shes in favor of the war. She hopes the
brutality will cease and people will be purified. But she is also a clever woman and is
being prudent. Fischel said this a little mockingly and a little tenderly.
Oh, Papa. Gerda flared up. If I had
wanted to be the way you are, I would have
married a knight in shining armor. You keep
misunderstanding me. Im not letting myself
be left by the wayside because my first romantic experience wasnt a good one! Youll
manage to get me into a field hospital. When
the patients come in from the front they
should find real, up-to-date people as nurses,
not praying nuns! You have no idea how
much love and emotion of a sort weve never
experienced before are (to be seen) in the
streets today! Weve been living like animals,

1577/1856

brought down one day by death; its different

now! Its tremendous, I tell you: everyone is
a brother; even death isnt an enemy; a person loves his own death for the sake of others; today, for the first time, we understand
life!
Fischel had been staring at his daughter
with pride and concern. Gerda had got even
thinner. Sharp, spinsterish lines cut up her
face into an eye segment, a nose-mouth part,
and a chin-and-neck section, all of which,
whenever Gerda was trying to say
something, pulled like horses dragging a load
that was too heavy: now one part, now another, never all together, giving the face an
overstrained and deeply moving quality.
Now she has a new crazeFischel
thoughtand will manage once again not to
lead a settled life! In his mind he ran down a
list of a dozen men who, now that Hans Sepp
was fortunately dead, could be regarded as
qualified suitors; but in view of the damned

1578/1856

uncertainty that had broken out, there was

no predicting what was going to happen to
any of them tomorrow. Gerdas blond hair
seemed to have become shaggier; she had
been neglecting her appearance, but this
made her hair look more like Fischels, and it
had lost the presumptuous soft, dark-blond
smoothness characteristic of her mothers
family. Memories of a brave, unkempt fox
terrier and of himself, who had fought his
way up and at the moment was standing
again before something as yet unseen by
man, over which he would go on climbing,
mingled in his heart with the brave stupidity
of his daughter into a warm togetherness.
Leo Fischel straightened up in his chair and
laid his hand on the desktop with emphasis.
My child!he saidI have a strange feeling when I hear you talk this way, while
people are shouting hurrah and prices are
rising. You say I dont have any idea, but I
do, except that I cant say myself what it is.

1579/1856

Dont believe that Im not caught up in this

too. Sit down, my child!
Gerda did not want to, she was too impatient; but Fischel repeated his wish more
strongly, and she obeyed, sitting hesitantly
on the extreme edge of an armchair. This is
the first day youre back; listen to me! Fischel
said. You say I understand nothing about
love and killing and such things; that may be.
But if nothing happens to you in the hospital,
which God forbid, you ought to understand
me a little before we part again. I was seven
years old when we had the war with Prussia.
Then too, for two weeks, all the bells pealed
and in the synagogue we prayed to God to
annihilate the Prussians, who today are our
allies. What do you say to that? What should
anyone say to that?
Gerda did not want to answer. She had
the prejudice that what was going on now belonged to the enthusiastic young, not the
cautious old. And only reluctantly, because

1580/1856

her father was looking at her so penetratingly, did she murmur some sort of response.
Over the course of time, people simply
learn to understand each other betterwas
what her answer about the Prussians amounted to. But Leo Fischel snatched up her
words spiritedly: No! People dont learn to
understand each other better in the course of
time; its just the opposite, I tell you! When
you get to know a person and you like him, it
may be that you think you understand him;
but after youve been around him for twentyfive years you dont understand a word he
says! You think, lets say, that he ought to be
grateful to you; but no, just at that moment
he curses you. Always when you think he has
to say yes, hell say no; and when you think
no, he thinks yes. So he can be warm or cold,
hard or soft, as it suits him; and do you believe that for your sake hell be the way you
want him to be? It suited your mother as
little as it suits this armchair to be a horse,

1581/1856

because youre already impatient and want

to be off!
Gerda smiled weakly at her father.
Since she had come back and seen the new
situation, he had made a strong impression
on her; she could not help herself. And he
loved her, there was no doubting that, and it
comforted her.
But what are we going to do with the
things that wont let us understand them?
Fischel asked prophetically. We measure
them, we weigh them, we analyze them mentally, and we direct all our keenness to finding in them something that remains constant, something by which we could get hold
of them, on which we can rely and which we
can count. Those are the laws of nature, my
child, and where we have discovered them
we can mass-produce things and buy and sell
to our hearts content. And now I ask you,
how can people relate to one another when
they dont understand one another? I tell

1582/1856

you, theres only one way! Only when you

stimulate or inhibit his desire can you get a
person exactly where you want him. Whoever wants to build solidly must make use of
force and basic desires. Then a person suddenly becomes unambiguous, predictable,
dependable, and your experience with him is
repeated everywhere in the same fashion.
You cant rely on goodness. You can rely on
bad qualities. God is wonderful, my child; he
has given us our bad qualities so that we can
achieve some semblance of order.
But in that case the order of the world
would be nothing but baseness jumping
through hoops! Gerda flared up.
Youre clever! Perhaps so. But who
can know? At any rate, I dont point a bayonet at a persons chest to have him do what he
thinks is right. Are you following the newspapers? Im still getting foreign papers, although its beginning to be difficult. Here
and abroad theyre saying the same things.

1583/1856

Get the screws on them. Tighten the screws

on them. Cold-bloodedly continue the tightscrew policy. Dont hesitate to apply the
strong method of breaking windows. Thats
the way theyre talking here, and abroad its
not much different. I believe theyve already
introduced martial law, and if we should get
into the war zone well be threatened with
the gallows. Thats the strong method. I can
understand that it makes an impression on
you. Its clean, precise, and abhors chatter. It
qualifies the nation for great things by treating each individual person who is part of it
like a dog! Leo Fischel smiled.
Gerda shook her tousled head decisively, but in a slow, friendly way.
You must be clear about this, Fischel
added. When the industrialists association
supplied a bourgeois workers opposition
party with an election fund, or when my
former bank made money available for
something, they werent doing anything

1584/1856

different. And a deal only comes about at all

if I either force another person to meet me
halfway, because otherwise it will hurt him,
or if I give him the impression that theres a
good deal to be made; then I mostly outsmart him, and thats also a form of my
power over him. But how delicate and adaptable this power is! Its creative and flexible.
Money gives measure to a man. Its ordered
selfishness. Its the most splendid organization of selfishness, a creative super-organization, constructed on a real notion of bearish
speculation!
Gerda had been listening to her father,
but her own thoughts buzzed in her mind.
She answered: Papa, I didnt understand
everything, but youre surely right. Of course,
youre looking at things as a rationalist, and
for me its precisely the irrational (what goes
beyond all calculation) in whats going on
now thats fascinating!

1585/1856

What does irrational mean? General

Director Fischel protested. By that you
mean illogical and incalculable and wild, the
way one sometimes is in dreams? To that I
can only say that buying and selling is like
war; you have to calculate and you can calculate, but even there what is decisive in the
last analysis is will, courage, the individual,
or, as you call it, the irrational. No, my
childhe concludedmoney is selfishness
brought into relation with enterprise and efficiency. All of you are trying another way to
regulate selfishness. Its not new, I acknowledge it, its related. But wait and see how it
works! For centuries capitalism has been a
proven way of organizing human powers according to the ability to make money; where
its influence is suppressed, you will find that
arbitrariness, backroom deals, kowtowing
for advantage, and adventurism will spring
up. As far as Im concerned, you can do away
with money if you like, but you wont abolish

1586/1856

the superior power of whoever is holding the

advantages in his hand. Except that youll
put someone who doesnt know what to do
with them in the place of someone who did!
For youre mistaken if you believe that
money is the cause of our selfishness; its the
consequence.
But I dont believe that at all, Papa,
Gerda said modesdy. Im only telling you
thats whats going on now
And furthermoreFischel interrupted
herits the most reasonable consequence!
Whats going on nowGerda went on
with her sentencerises above reason. The
way a poem or love rises above the commerce of the world.
Youre a deep girl! Fischel embraced
her and released her. He liked Gerdas
youthful ardor. My fortune! he called her
mentally, and followed her with a tender
glance. A discussion with a person one loves

1587/1856

and understands is bracing. He had not

philosophized this way for a long time; it was
a remarkable period. In conversation with
this child Fischel had achieved some clarity
about himself. He wanted to buy. Not a ship;
at least five ships. He summoned his secretary. We cant do this ourselveshe told
himit wouldnt look good, but lets do it
through an intermediary. But for Leo Fischel
this was not the main thing. The main thing
was that he had gained a feeling of connection with events and yet a feeling of isolation,
too. In spite of the ups and downs going on
around him, he had created order within
himself.

1936
TO THE COMPLEX: LEO FLSCHELGERDA-HANS SEPP
Note: Development of a Man of Action (Leo
Fischel)
Title: Return to an abandoned world / Leo
Fischel as messenger from the world / Encounter with a messenger from an abandoned world / News from a lost world
Walking through the train, Ulrich saw a familiar face, stopped, and realized that it was
Leo Fischel, who was sitting in a compartment by himself, leafing through a stack of

1589/1856

flimsy papers he held in his hand. With his

pince-nez far down on his nose, and his
reddish-blond mutton-chop sideburns, he
looked like an English lord of the 1860s. Ulrich was so in need of contact with everyday
life that he greeted his old acquaintance,
whom he had not seen for months, almost
joyfully.
Fischel asked him where he was coming
from.
From the south, Ulrich responded
vaguely.
We havent seen you for quite a while,
Fischel said with concern. Youve been having trouble, havent you?
How so?
I just mean in general. In your position
with the campaign, Im thinking.

1590/1856

I never had a connection with the campaign that could be called a position, Ulrich
objected with some heat.
You just disappeared one day, Fischel
said. Nobody knew where you were. That
led me to think that you were having
problems.
Except for that error, youre very well
informed: how come? Ulrich laughed.
I was looking for you like a needle in a
haystack. Hard times, bad stories, my
friend, Fischel replied with a sigh. The
General didnt know where you were, your
cousin didnt know where you were, and you
werent having your mail forwarded, I was
told. Did you get a letter from Gerda?
Get it? No. Perhaps Ill find it waiting
for me at home. Has something happened to
Gerda?

1591/1856

Director Fischel did not answer; the

conductor was passing by, and he motioned
him in to give him some telegrams, requesting that he send them off at the next stop.
Ulrich now first noticed that Fischel
was traveling first class, which he would not
have expected of him.
Since when are you seeing my cousin
and the General? he asked.
Fischel looked at him reflectively. Obviously he did not understand the question
right away. Oh, he then said, I think you
hadnt even left yet. Your cousin consulted
me on a matter of business, and through her
I met the General, whom I wanted at that
time to request something of on account of
Hans Sepp. You know, dont you, that Hans
shot and killed himself?
Ulrich gave an involuntary start.

1592/1856

It even got into some of the newspapers, Fischel confirmed. He was called up
for his military service and a few weeks later
shot himself.
But why?
God knows! Frankly speaking, he
could just as well have done it sooner. He
could always have shot himself. He was a
fool. But in the final analysis, I liked him.
You wont believe it, but I even liked his antiSemitism and his diatribes against bank
directors.
Was there anything between him and
Gerda?
Bitter quarrels, Fischel confirmed.
But it wasnt that alone. Listen: Ive missed
you. I searched for you. When Im talking
with you I have the feeling Im talking not
with a reasonable person but with a philosopher. Whatever you sayplease permit an
old friend to say thisis never to the point,

1593/1856

never has hands and feet, but it has head and

heart! So what do you say about Hans Sepps
having shot himself?
Is that why you were searching for
me?
No, not because of that. On account of
business and the General and Arnheim, who
are friends of yours. The man before you is
no longer with Lloyds Bank but has gone into business for himself. Its a handful, let me
tell you! Ive had a lot of trouble, but now,
thank
goodness,
things
are
going
splendidly
If Im not mistaken, what you call
trouble is losing your job?
Yes; thank goodness I lost my job at
Lloyds; otherwise today I would still be a
head clerk with the title of Director and
would remain one until I was put out to pasture. When I was forced to give that up, my

1594/1856

wife began divorce proceedings against

me
Honestly! You really do have a lot of
news to tell!
Hmph! Fischel went. We no longer
live in the old apartment. While the divorce
is going on, my wife has moved in with her
brother he took out a business cardand
this is my address. I hope youll pay me a visit soon. On the card Ulrich read several ambiguous titles, such as Import/Export and
Trans-European Goods and Currency Exchange Company, and a prestigious address. You have no idea how one rises all by
oneself, Fischel explained to him, once all
those weights like family and job responsibilities, the wifes fancy relations, and responsibility for the leading minds of humanity are
taken off ones shoulders! In a few weeks I
became an influential man. And a well-off
man, to boot. Perhaps the day after

1595/1856

tomorrow Ill have nothing again, but I may

have even more!
What are you now, actually?
Its not easy to explain casually to an
outsider. I conduct transactions. Transactions of goods, transactions of currency,
political transactions, art transactions. In
every case the important thing is to get out at
the right moment; then you can never lose.
As in the old days, it seemed to give Leo Fischel pleasure to accompany his activity with
philosophy, and Ulrich listened to him
with curiosity. Philosophy of money of the
free man, among others
Then Ulrich: But with all that, its also
important for me to know what Gerda said
about Hanss suicide.
She claims I murdered him! But they
had broken up definitively well before!

Rachel

And while Ulrich was letting the notion of remorse surface in his reflections, in order to
dissolve it immediately again in the deep
play of thought, his little friend Rachel was
suffering this word in all its tortures, dissolved by nothing but the palliative effect of
tears and the cautious return of temptation
after the remorse had gone on for a while.
One will recall that Diotimas intense little
maid, ejected from her parents house because of a misstep, who had landed in the
golden aura of virtue surrounding her mistress, had, in the weakest of a series of increasingly weak moments, submitted to the
attacks of the black Moorish boy. It
happened and made her very unhappy. But
this un-happiness aspired to repeat itself as

1597/1856

often as the scanty opportunities that Diotimas house offered would allow. On the
second or third day after every unhappiness
a remarkable change occurred, which can be
compared to a flower that, bent over by the
rain, raises its little head again. Can be compared to fine weather that, way up above,
peeks from a remote corner of the sky
through a rainy day; finds friendly little spots
of blue; forms a blue lake; becomes a blue
sky; is veiled by a light haze of the overwhelming brightness of a day of happiness;
is tinged with brown; lets down one hot veil
of haze after another and finally towers, torrid and trembling, from earth to sky, filled
with the zigzags and cries of birds, filled with
the listless droop of tree and leaf, filled with
the craziness of not-yet-discharged tensions
that cause man and beast to roam madly
about.
On the last day before the remorse, the
head of the Moor always twitched through

1598/1856

the house like a rolling head of cabbage, and

little Rachel would have loved to creep on it
like a caterpillar with a sweet tooth. But then
remorse set in. As if a pistol had been fired
and a shimmering glass ball been turned into
a powder of glassy sand. Rachel felt sand
between her teeth, in her nose, her heart;
nothing but sand. The world was dark; not
dark like a Moor, but nauseatingly dark, like
a pigsty. Rachel, having disappointed the
confidence placed in her, seemed to herself
besmirched through and through. Grief
placed a deep drill in the vicinity of her navel. A raging fear of being pregnant blinded
her thoughts. One could go on in this fashionevery limb in Rachel ached individually
with remorsebut the main thing was not in
these details but seized hold of the whole
person, driving her before the wind like a
cloud of dust raised by a broom. The knowledge that a misstep that has happened cannot be rectified by anything in the world

1599/1856

made the world something of a hurricane in

which one can find no support to stand up.
The peaceful-ness of death seemed to Rachel
like a dark feather bed, which it must be delightful to roll on. She had been torn out of
her world, abandoned to a feeling whose intensity was unlike anything in Diotimas
house. She could not get at this feeling with
an idea, any more than comfortings can get
at a toothache, while it actually seemed to
her, on the other hand, that there was only
one remedy, to pull little Rachel entirely out
of the world like a bad tooth.
Had she been cleverer, she would have
been able to assert that remorse is a basic
disturbance of equilibrium, which one can
restore in the most various ways. But God
helped her out with his old, proven home
remedy by again giving her, after a few days,
the desire to sin.
We, however, cannot of course be as indulgent as the great Lord, to whom earthly

1600/1856

matters offer little that is new or important.

We must ask whether in a condition in which
there is no sin there can be any remorse. And
since this question has already been
answered in the negative, except for a few
borderline cases, a second question immediately arises: from which ocean did the little
drop of hells fire fall into Rachels heart, if it
may not be said to have originated in the
ocean whose clouds Ulrich had discovered?
Every such question was suited to plunge Ulrich out of the sky on which he wanted to set
foot purely theoretically. There are so many
lovely things on earth that have nothing to
do with divine, seraphic love, and most decidedly there are among them things that
forbid anything and everything to be expected from their rediscovery. This question was
later to be of the greatest significance for Ulrich and Agathe.

LATE 1920s

The weeks since Rachel had left Diotimas

house had passed with an improbability that
a different person would hardly have accepted calmly. But Rachel had been shown the
door of her parents house as a sinner, and at
the conclusion of that fall had landed,
straight as an arrow, in paradise, at Diotimas; now Diotima had thrown her out,
but such an enchantingly refined man as Ulrich had been standing there and had caught
her: how could she not believe that life is the
way it is described in the novels she loved to
read? Whoever is destined to be a hero fate
throws into the air in daredevil ways over
and over, but it always catches him again in
its strong arms. Rachel placed blind confidence in fate, and during this entire time had

1602/1856

really done nothing but wait for its next intervention, when it might perhaps unveil its
intentions. She had not become pregnant; so
the experience with Soliman seemed to have
been only a passing incident. She ate in a
small pub, together with coachmen, out-ofwork servant girls, workers who had business in the neighborhood, and those undefinable transients who flood a large city.
The place she had chosen for herself, at a
specific table, was reserved for her every day;
she wore better clothes than the other women who frequented the pub; the way she
used her knife and fork was different from
what one was accustomed to seeing here; in
this place Rachel enjoyed a secret respect,
which she was acutely aware of even though
not many people wanted to show it, and she
assumed that she was taken for a countess or
the mistress of a prince, who for some reason
was compelled for a time to conceal her
class. It happened that men with dubious

1603/1856

diamonds on their fingers and with slickeddown hair, who sometimes turned up among
the respectable guests, arranged to sit at
Rachels table and directed seductively sinuous compliments to her; but Rachel knew
how to refuse these with dignity and without
unfriendliness, for although the compliments pleased her as much as the buzzing
and creeping of insects and caterpillars and
snakes on a luxuriant summer day, she still
sensed that she could not let herself go in
this direction without running the risk of losing her freedom. She most liked to converse
with older people, who knew something of
life and told stories of its dangers, disappointments, and events. In this way she
picked up knowledge that, broken into
crumbs, came to her the way food sinks
down to a fish lying quietly at the bottom of
its tank. Adventurous things were going on
in the world. People were now said to be flying faster than birds. Building houses

1604/1856

entirely without bricks. The anarchists

wanted to assassinate the Emperor. A great
revolution was imminent, and then the
coachmen would sit inside the coaches and
the rich people would be in harness, instead
of the horses. In a tenement block in the vicinity, a woman had, in the night, poured
petroleum on her husband and lit him; it was
unimaginable! In America, blind people were
given glass eyes with which they could really
see again, but it still cost lots of money and
was only for billionaires. These were the
gripping things Rachel heard, of course not
all at once, as she sat and ate. When afterward she stepped out into the street, nothing
of such monstrosities was to be seen:
everything flowed on in its well-ordered way
or stood there exactly as it had the day before; but was not the air boiling in these
summer days, was not the asphalt secretly
yielding underfoot, without Rachel having to
picture clearly that the sun had softened it?

1605/1856

On the church roofs the saints stretched out

their arms and lifted their eyes in a way that
made one think that everywhere there must
be something special to be seen. The policemen wiped away the sweat of their exertions
in the midst of the commotion that roared
around them. Vehicles going at high speed
braked violently as an old lady crossing the
street was almost run over because she was
not paying attention to anything. When
Rachel got back to her little room, she felt
her curiosity sated by this light nourishment;
she took out her undergarments to mend
them, or altered a dress or read a novelfor
with astonishment at the way the world was
run, she had discovered the institution of the
lending libraryher landlady came in and
chatted with her deferentially, because
Rachel had money without having to work
and without ones being able to discern any
misconduct; and so the day passed, with no
time to miss anything in the least, and

1606/1856

poured its contents, filled to the brim with

exciting things, into the dreams of the night.
To be sure, Ulrich had forgotten to send
money promptly, or to ask Rachel to come to
him, and she had already begun to use up the
small savings from her work. But she was not
concerned, for Ulrich had promised to protect her for the present, and to go to him to
remind him seemed to her quite improper.
In all the fairy tales she knew, there was
something one was forbidden to say or do;
and it would have been exactly that had she
gone to Ulrich and told him she was out of
money. This is not in any way to imply that
she expressly thought that her manner of life
seemed like a fairy tale, or that she believed
in fairy tales at all. On the contrary, that was
the way the reality that she had never known
differently was constituted, even if it had
never been as beautiful as it was now. There
are people to whom this is permitted, and
people to whom it is forbidden; the ones sink

1607/1856

from step to step and end in utter misery,

while the others become rich and
happyand leave behind lots of children.
Rachel had never been told to which of the
two groups she belonged; she had never revealed to the two people who might have explained the difference to her that she was
dreaming, but had worked industriously, except for the two unintentional missteps that
had had such serious consequences. And one
day her landlady actually reported that while
she was out to eat, a fine lady had asked for
her and announced that she would return in
an hour. Anxiously, Rachel gave a description of Diotima; but the lady who was looking for her was most decidedly not tall, the
landlady asserted, and not stout either, not
even if by stout one did not mean fat. The
lady who was looking for Rachel was most
decidedly, rather, to be called small and
skinny.

1608/1856

And indeed the lady was slender and

small, and returned within a half hour. She
said Dear Fraulein to Rachel, mentioned
Ulrichs name, and pulled from her purse a
tightly folded, rather considerable sum of
money, which she gave to Rachel on behalf
of their friend. Then she began to tell an involved and exciting story, and Rachel had
never in her life been so enthralled by a conversation. There was a man, the lady said,
who was being pursued by his enemies because he had nobly sacrificed himself for
them. Really not nobly; for he had to do it, it
was his inner law, every person has an animal which he inwardly resembles. You, for
example, Frauleinthe lady saidhave
either a gazelle or a queen snake in youit
cant always be determined at first glance.
If it had been the cook in Diotimas kitchen who had said that, it would have made
either no impression on Rachel or an unfavorable one; but it was said by someone who

1609/1856

with every word radiated the certainty of a

well-bred lady, the gift of command that
would make any doubt appear to be an offense against respect. It was therefore firmly
established in Rachels mind that there was
some link between herself and a gazelle or a
queen snake, a link that at the moment was
over her head, but that could doubtless be
explained in some fashion, for one sometimes does hear such things. Rachel felt herself charged with this piece of news like a
candy box one cant get open.
The man who had sacrificed himself,
the lady continued, had within himself a
bear, that is to say, the soul of a murderer,
and that meant that he had taken murder
upon himself, all murder: the murder of unborn and handicapped children, the cowardly murder that people commit against
their talents, and murder on the street by
vehicles, bicyclists, and trams. Clarisse asked
Rachelfor of course it was Clarisse who was

1610/1856

speakingwhether she had ever heard the

name Moosbrugger. Now, Rachel had, although she later forgot him again, loved and
feared Moosbrugger like a robber captain, at
the time when he had horrified all the newspapers, and he had often been the topic of
conversation at Diotimas; so she asked right
away whether it concerned him.
Clarisse nodded. He is innocent!
For the first time Rachel heard from an
authority what she had earlier often thought
herself.
We have freed him, Clarisse went on.
We, the responsible people, who know
more than the others do. But now we must
hide him. Clarisse smiled, and so peculiarly
and yet with such rapturous friendliness that
Rachels heart, intending to fall into her
panties, got stuck on the way, somewhere in
the neighborhood of her stomach. Hide
where? she stammered, pale.

1611/1856

The police will be looking for

himClarisse declaredso it has to be where
no one would think of looking for him. The
best thing would be if you would pretend he
was your husband. He would have to wear a
wooden leg, thats easy to pretend, or
something, and you would get a little shop
with living quarters attached, so it would
look as if you were supporting your invalid
husband who cant leave the house. The
whole thing would be for only a few weeks,
and I could offer you more money than you
need.
But why dont you take him in yourself? Rachel dared to counter.
My husband isnt in on it and would
never allow it, Clarisse answered, adding the
he that the proposal she had made came
from Ulrich.
But Im
exclaimed.

afraid

of

him!

Rachel

1612/1856

Thats as it should be, Clarisse said.

But, my dear Fraulein, everything great is
terrible. Many great men have been in the insane asylum. It is uncanny to put oneself on
a level with someone who is a murderer; but
to put oneself on a level with the uncanny is
to resolve to be great!
But does he want to? Rachel asked.
Does he know me? He wont do anything to
me?
He knows that we want to save him.
Look, his whole life hes known only substitute women; you understand what I mean.
Hell be happy at having a real woman to
protect him and take him in; and he wont
lay a finger on you if you dont let him. Ill
back you up on that all the way! He knows
that I have the power to compel him, if I
want!
No, no! was all Rachel could get out;
from everything Clarisse was saying she

1613/1856

could hear only the shape of the voice and

language, a friendliness and a sisterly equality that she could not resist. A lady had never
spoken to her this way, and yet there was
nothing artificial or false in it; Clarisses face
was on a level with hers and not up in the air
like Diotimas; she saw her features working,
especially two long furrows that constantly
formed by the nose and ran down by the
mouth; Clarisse was visibly struggling together with her for the solution.
Consider, Fraulein Clarisse went on
to saythat he who recognizes must sacrifice
himself. You recognized right away that
Moosbrugger only appears to be a murderer.
Therefore you must sacrifice yourself. You
must draw what is murderous out of him,
and then whats behind it, which corresponds to your own nature, will come out. For
like is attracted only by like; thats the merciless law of greatness!
But when will it be?

1614/1856

Tomorrow. Ill come in the late afternoon and get you. By that time everything
will be arranged.
If a third person could live with us, Id
do it, Rachel said.
Ill drop in every dayClarisse
saidand watch over things; the living arrangement is only for show. Then too, it
wouldnt do to be ungrateful to Ulrich if he
needs you to do him a favor.
That clinched the matter. Clarisse had
confidently used his Christian name. It appeared to Rachel as though her cowardice
were unworthy of her benefactor. The portrayal our inner being gives us of what we
ought to do is extraordinarily deceitful and
capricious. Suddenly the whole thing seemed
to Rachel a joke, a game, a trifle. She would
have a shop and a room; if she wanted, she
could bar the door between them. Then too,
there would be two exits, the way there are in

1615/1856

rooms on the stage. The whole proposal was

only a formality, and it was really exaggerated of her to make difficulties, even though
she was horribly afraid of Moosbrugger. She
had to get over this cowardice. And what had
the lady said? What corresponds to your own
nature will come out in him. If he really was
not so fearsome, then she would have what
she had earlier passionately wished for.
***
The shop and the adjoining room and the
two exits came to nothing. Clarisse had appeared and declared that at the last minute
the rent had posed an obstacle; since time
was pressing, they had to take what was
available, and fate perhaps depended on a
matter of minutes. She had found another
room. Had Rachel already packed up her
things, and was she ready? The taxi was
waiting downstairs. Unfortunately, it was not
a nice room. And above all it was not yet furnished. But Clarisse had hastily had the most

1616/1856

necessary items brought over. Now it was

only a matter of getting Moosbrugger settled
quickly. Everything else could be taken care
of tomorrow. Today everything was only provisional. Clarisse reported the greater part of
this when they were in the taxi. The words
were dizzying. Rachel had no time to think.
The taxi meter, half lit by a tiny light, advanced incessantly; with every revolution of
the wheels Rachel heard the ticking of the
meter, like a jug that has sprung a leak and
drips unceasingly; in the darkness of the old
cab Clarisse pressed a sum of money into her
hand, and Rachel had to concentrate on
stuffing it into her purse; in the process, the
paper expanded, individual notes sailed
away and had to be pursued and caught;
laughing, Clarisse helped her find them, and
this took up the rest of the long ride.
The taxi stopped in a remote alley in
front of an old tumbledown court, one of
those deep plots of land where, from a

1617/1856

narrow frontage on the alley, low wings run

to the back, with workshops, stables,
chickens, children, and the small dwellings
of large families opening directly onto the
courtyard or, one story higher, onto an open
gallery connecting everything from the outside. Clarisse helped Rachel drag her things
and seemed anxious to avoid the superintendent; they bumped into wagons standing
in the dark, into tools that lay around everywhere, and into the well, but they arrived undamaged at Rachels new dwelling. Clarisse
had a candle in her pocket and with its aid
found a large oil lamp she had remembered
to sneak from her parents attic. It was a tall
piece worked in metal, incorporating all the
latest advances the petroleum age had made
just before it was irrevocably shunted aside
by electrical illumination, and it filled the entire room, because it lacked a shade, with
moderate light. Clarisse was very proud of it,
but she had to hurry, since she had had the

1618/1856

taxi wait at the next corner in order to fetch

Moosbrugger.
As soon as she was alone and looked
around in her new surroundings, tears filled
Rachels eyes. Except for the dirty walls, the
thick white light of the lamp was almost the
only thing in the room. But her fright had
made Rachel misjudge; on closer inspection
she found against one wall a narrow iron
bed, on which there was something like bedclothes; in a corner, a pile of blankets was
heaped up in disorder, no doubt meant to be
the second sleeping place; blankets were also
hanging in front of the windows and the door
that led outside, and formed before a small
and extremely plain table a kind of carpet, on
which a roughly finished chair stood. Sighing, Rachel sat down on it and drew out her
money in order to count and sort it. But now
she again got a fright, this time over the size,
indeed the excess, of the amount Clarisse,
throwing caution to the winds, had thrust at

1619/1856

her in the taxi. She smoothed the banknotes

and concealed them in a small purse, which
she wore on her breast. If she had known
that she was sitting at the table at which
Meingast had created his great work, and
that the narrow iron bed had also been his,
she might perhaps have understood a little
more. But as it was, she simply signed once
more, already made easier about the future,
and even discovered an old fireplace, a spirit
stove, and odds and ends of dishes before
Clarisse returned with Moosbrugger.
This moment was like the terrifying
moment when one is called in by the dentist,
which Rachel had experienced only once,
and she stood up obediently as the two
entered.
Moosbrugger allowed himself to be led
into the room the way a great artist is introduced to a circle of people who have been
waiting for him. He pretended not to notice
Rachel, and first inspected the new room;

1620/1856

only then, after he had found fault with nothing, did he direct his glance at the girl and
nod by way of greeting. Clarisse seemed to
have no more to say to him; she pushed him,
her tiny hand against his gigantic arm, toward the table and merely smiled, the way a
person does who during a risky enterprise
has to tense every muscle and is meanwhile
trying to smile, so that the delicate facial
muscles have to pull themselves together
sharply in order to force their way between
the pressure of all the other muscles. She
maintained this expression while she placed
a bag of groceries on the table and explained
to the other two that she could not stay a
minute longer but had to rush home. She
promised to come back the next morning
around ten and would then take care of anything else they might need.
So now Rachel was alone with the
revered man. She covered the table with a
pillowcase, since she could not find a

1621/1856

tablecloth, and spread out on a large platter

the cold cuts Clarisse had brought. These duties greatly eased her embarrassment. Then,
placing the meal on the table, she said in
carefully chosen German: You will most certainly be hungry; she had thought out this
sentence ahead of time. Moosbrugger had
stood up, and with a gallant gesture of his big
paw offered her his place, for it turned out
that there was only the one chair. Oh, no
thank you Rachel saidI dont want much;
Ill sit over there. She took two slices from
the platter Moosbrugger offered her and sat
down on the bed.
Moosbrugger had taken a horrifying
long folding knife from his pocket and used
it while eating. In the days of his flight he
had eaten irregularly and badly, and had developed a great hunger. Rachel took advantage of the opportunity to study him; more
properly, she had to, for as soon as she
turned in the direction of the table, this man

1622/1856

completely filled her field of vision; more, his

appearance overflowed her eyes, spilling
over their rims in every direction, and Rachel
could not properly let her glance roam
around; it was, for instance, quite a long distance across the whole extent of his chest, or
from the edge of the table to his thick mustache, and also from his chin to the top of his
powerful skull, and one could linger in the
reddish-blond hairs of his mighty fists as in
underbrush. In the meantime, all the ideas
and some of the fantasies of which Moosbrugger had once been the object came back
to Rachel. Above all, she sought to bring to
mind how many women would envy the situation in which she found herself. For her,
Moosbrugger was a great and famous man,
which corresponded to the truth if one leaves
aside the different degrees of public notoriety that are made but are by no means clear
or precise. She did not at all overlook the
fearfulness of the notoriety, which had been

1623/1856

acquired by cruel, indeed even treacherous

deeds, for she was trembling with fear, although she was also burning with excitement. But like all people, she admired the
energy in this cruelty, and like all impulsive
people she assumed that in contact with her,
this herculean strength would not be dangerous but could be turned toward the good, so
that her fear seemed to her only a petty external habit, while her soul became braver
and braver the longer she was together with
Moosbrugger. And indeed, whoever lives in
the proper relation to criminals lives as securely among them as among other people.
Moosbrugger had not found it proper to
be bothered by the girPs glances during such
an important an occasion as eating. But
when he had finished he leaned back,
snapped his knife shut, stroked the crumbs
from his mustache, and said: Well, little
Fraulein, now a glass of schnapps wouldnt
be

1624/1856

Rachel hastened to assure him that

there were no alcoholic drinks in the house,
adding the lie that Clarisse had charged her
not to provide any.
Moosbrugger hadnt meant it that seriously. He was not a drinker, indeed he himself took care not to drink, out of fear of its
unpredictable effects. But he hadnt seen a
drop for months, and after the substantial
meal had thought it wouldnt be a bad idea to
try one on this dull evening. He was angry at
her refusal. These women had him really
locked up. But he did not show it, and undertook to carry on the conversation in the most
civilized manner.
So here we are, man and wife, in a
way, for the time being, little Fraulein, he
began. What should I call you? He used the
natural Du of simple people; Rachel did not
find this unpleasant, but just as naturally she
stayed with the formal Sie. My name is
Rachel or Rle, whichever you like.

1625/1856

Oo-la-la, Rle, my compliments! He

pronounced the French name twice over,
with pleasure. And Rachel was the loveliest
daughter of Laban. He laughed gallantly.
Tell me how you beat the masons!
Rachel asked. She dared not ask about anything more exciting.
Moosbrugger turned away and rolled a
cigarette. He was insulted. In his circles such
a question was regarded as an unwarranted
intimacy after so short an acquaintance. He
smoked several cigarettes in succession. He
was bored. Insignificant, importunate women meant nothing to him. He became
sleepy. In prison and the asylum he had become accustomed to going to bed early.
Rachel was upset that he was smoking
so inconsiderately. She also had the feeling
of having done something wrong, without
knowing what.

1626/1856

Moosbrugger stood up, stretched his

legs, and yawned.
Do you want to go to sleep? Rachel
asked.
What else is there to do? Moosbrugger said. He inspected the bed; then, remembering the commandments of chivalry,
turned to the corner where the bedding lay.
Sleep in the bed; you need rest,
Rachel said.
No, you can sleep in the bed. Indolently, he removed his coat. Rachel was embarrassed when Moosbrugger took off his
pants. But then he lay down on the blankets
as he was, and pulled one of them over himself. Rachel waited awhile, then blew out the
lamp and undressed in the dark.
During the night she again grew afraid;
she imagined that if she were to fall asleep it
might happen that she would never wake up

1627/1856

again. But soon she did sleep, and when she

awoke, morning was shining into the room.
Moosbrugger lay covered up in the corner
like a huge mountain. Everything was still
quiet in the house. Rachel took advantage of
it to fetch water from the well. She also
cleaned her shoes and Moosbruggers out in
the courtyard. When she softly slipped in the
door again, Moosbrugger said good morning
to her.
Would you like coffee, tea, or hot
chocolate? she asked him. Moosbrugger was
astonished. He said coffee, but did not find
the decision an easy one. Then too, he liked
Rachel better in the daylight than he had last
evening; there was something delicate and
refined in her appearance. He took care getting dressed, and turned away from the wall
only when he was finished.
Were you angry at me last evening?
Rachel asked, noticing his good humor.

1628/1856

Oh, women always want to know

everything, but if you like Ill tell you the
story about the masons. That will show you
what people are like; theyre all the same.
And what have you been doing up to now?
I was in a very elegant house, where I
was treated like a daughter.
Well, and what got you turned out?
Oh! said Rachel, not at all resolved to
tell the truth. You know, the master in this
house is a very high diplomat, and there was
this business with a Moorish prince
Are you pregnant?
asked suspiciously.

Moosbrugger

For shame! Rachel exclaimed indignantly. Youre taking too many liberties in
speaking to me that way! Would the lady
have entrusted you to me?
Moosbrugger definitely liked her. She
was something finer, you could see and hear

1629/1856

that. When he thought over the females he

knew, he had never had anything so fine.
Well, all right, he said. I didnt mean to
insult you. The story with the masons went
like this:
He told it minutely and with dignity, together with all the scheming and corruption
that a man like himself encounters before the
court, and because she had mentioned an acquaintance with a Moorish prince, he felt he
had to match it, so he also told her about his
march to Constantinople.
Do the Turks have more than one
wife? Rachel asked.
Only the rich ones. But thats why the
Turks arent worth anything, he answered
with a gallant smile. Even one wife will ruin a man!
Have you had bad experiences with
women? Rachel asked, her blood twitching

1630/1856

in circles like the tail of a cat lying in

ambush.
Moosbrugger looked at her inquiringly,
and became serious. All my life Ive had
only bad experiences. If I were to write down
my life, a lot of people would be surprised!
You ought
enthusiastically.

to!

Rachel

proposed

Writing is much too uncomfortable

for me! Moosbrugger said proudly, and
stretched his shoulders. But youre an educated girl. Perhaps Ill tell you something.
Then you can write it.
Ive never written a book, Rachel
replied modestly; but she felt as if she had
been offered Section Chief Tuzzis job. And
this man before her was no idle gossip; he
had shown that he could put meaning into
his words.

1631/1856

Thus the time passed in animated conversation, and it got to be ten oclock, but
Clarisse did not appear.
Moosbrugger pulled his large, fat,
chrome-plated watch from his vest and determined that it was ten thirty-five.
When they next looked, it was seven
minutes before eleven.
Shes not coming; I thought as much,
Moosbrugger said.
But she has to come! Rachel said.
The conversation ran down. They had
got up early and had not left the room. Being
cooped up made them tired. Moosbrugger
stood and stretched. Rachel finally declared
herself ready to go and get something to eat
without waiting any longer. But first Moosbrugger had to put on the green eyeshade
and strap on the wooden leg, in case during
Rachels absence a stranger should come in;

1632/1856

wooden leg and eyeshade were a legacy of

Clarisses. It was no simple matter to get his
leg, which was bent back to the thigh and on
whose knee the wooden leg was strapped,
through a pant leg; Moosbrugger had to
place his arm around Rachels neck, and he
took the opportunity to draw her gently toward himself.
He hobbled around the room alone for
more than a quarter of an hour; it was nauseatingly tedious; then Rachel cooked, but she
did not know much about cooking, and the
meal was not exactly cheerful. Gradually,
Moosbrugger became fed up with this seclusion, but realized that it would be a long time
before he could give it up. He wanted to
sleep a bit to make the time pass, yawned
like a Hon, and sat on the bed to unbuckle
the damn leg, which was driving the blood to
his head. Rachel had to help him. And as he
again laid his arm around her shoulder, he
thought that after all she really was his wife

1633/1856

for the time being. Surely she had never expected anything else of him and had made
fun of him yesterday when he went straight
off to sleep. As the wooden leg fell to the
ground, with the arm that was around her
shoulder he pulled Rachel back on the bed
and drew her up on it a little, until her head
rested on a pillow. Rachel did not resist. His
large mustache descended on her mouth. But
her small mouth came to meet it. Went into
this mustache as into a forest, as it were, and
sought the mouth in it. When the man
pushed himself up on her, Rachel lay with
her face almost under his chest and had to
move her head to one side in order to be able
to breathe; it seemed to her as if she were being buried by soil that was trembling volcanically. The really great bodily arousals are
brought about by the imagination; Rachel
saw in Moosbrugger not a hero without his
peer on earthfor comparison and reflection
would then have killed the power of

1634/1856

imaginationbut simply a hero, a notion

that is less definite but blends with the time
and place in which it appears and with the
person who arouses admiration. Where there
are heroes the world is still soft and glowing,
and the web of creation unbroken. The adventurous room with the covered windows
suddenly took on the appearance of the cave
of a big robber who has withdrawn from the
world. Rachel felt her breast lying under an
enormous pressure; the scurrying quality
that was part of her nature was pinned down
for the moment by an overpowering force
and compelled to be patient; her upper body
could move as little as if it had fallen under
the iron wheels of a truck, and this position
would have been torture had not all the
spontaneity and independence of which her
body was capable gathered in her hips,
where a giant was struggling with clouds and
which despite their helplessness were embracing him again and again, and were just

1635/1856

as strong in their way as he was in his. A desire such as Rachel had never felt in her life,
indeed had never suspected, pressed upon
her mind and from there opened up her entire person: she wanted to conceive and bear
a hero. Her lips remained open in astonishment, her limbs lay where they were when
Moosbrugger got up, and her eyes remained
for a long time misted over with a bluish-yellow mist, the way chanterelles do when one
breaks them. She did not get up until it was
time to light the lamp and think of the evening meal; till then she had waited, with a
kind of emptiness of mind, for a continuation that she was not able to picture to herself but did not think of at all as simply a
repetition.
For Moosbrugger, the matter was
finished until further notice. People who on
occasion commit sexual crimes are, as one
knows, ordinarily anything but flamboyant
lovers, since their crimes, to the extent that

1636/1856

they do not spring from external influences,

express nothing but the irregularity of their
desire. Moosbrugger felt nothing more than
boredom while Rachel lay demolished on the
bed. So what had given their being together a
certain tension was now, in his opinion, over
and done with before one had thought of it.
Clarisse did not come; she did not come
the next day either; she did not come at all.
Moosbrugger smoked cigarettes and
yawned. Several times Rachel put her hand
around his neck and her hand in his hair; he
shook her off. He pulled her onto his lap, and
then immediately set her on her feet again
because he had changed his mind. What he
felt beside boredom was that he had been insulted. These women had fetched him out of
school like a boy and taken him home; he
had sometimes observed this picture and
thought that such sonny boys could never
develop into real men. But he realized that
for the time being he had to go along with it;

1637/1856

he did not dare venture out on the street as

long as the zeal of the police was still fresh,
and to visit Biziste or other friends would not
be a good idea at all. He had Rachel bring
him the newspapers and looked for what was
being said about him; but this time he was
not at all pleased with his press: the papers
dismissed his escape in three to five lines. He
knew that Rachel was just as downcast as he
was at Clarisses not showing up; but he still
laid on her the resentment that was building
in him, even if he did not regard Rachel as its
cause, since she was Clarisses representative. Rachel committed the error of continuing to refuse to provide alcohol, though if she
had done so, that would have been a mistake
as well. Moosbrugger was silent after such
refusals, but the insults to which he was exposed formed, together with the stale boredom and his longing for a tavern, a tangle of
revulsion whose spindle was the skinny girl
who moved around him the entire day. He

1638/1856

spoke only when he had to and disregarded

all Rachels attempts to bring the conversation back to the level of the first morning.
Tortured in addition by her own cares,
Rachel was very unhappy.
A few days later they had their first
scene. After supper and a period of yawning,
Moosbrugger pulled over the little purse
from which Rachel paid for their daily needs,
and tried to fish out a coin with his thick fingers. Rachel, who immediately saw what he
was up to, could not get her purse away from
him in time; she ran around the table and
fell on his arm. No! she exclaimed. You
mustnt go to the tavern! Youll be But she
did not get to finish her sentence, for Moosbruggers arm shoved her away so violently
that she lost her balance and had to make
strenuous efforts not to fall. Moosbrugger
put on his hat and left the room, as unapproachable as a huge stone figure.

1639/1856

In desperation, Rachel thought over

what she should do. She decided to do battle
against Moosbruggers indiscretion. She reproached herself with letting herself be
frightened by the change in his behavior,
which in the loneliness of reflection seemed
to her understandable. As the weaker person,
it was easy for her to be the cleverer, but she
had to bend every effort to make clear to him
that in this case she really was more clever;
and if he saw that, then he might possibly accommodate himself to his situation; for
Rachel understood quite well that it was no
situation for a hero to be in. But when Moosbrugger came home he was drunk. The room
filled with a bad smell, his shadow danced on
the walls, Rachel was dispirited, and her
words chased after this shadow with sharp
reproaches she did not intend. Moosbrugger
had landed on the bed and was beckoning
her with his finger. No, never again! Rachel
screamed. Moosbrugger pulled from his

1640/1856

pocket a botde he had brought along. He had

left die tavern at eleven, only one third filled
with schnapps; the second third was filled
with a bad conscience, and the third third
with anger at having left. Rachel committed
the strategic error of rushing at him in order
to tear the bottle away. The next moment,
she thought her head was bursting; the lamp
revolved, and her body lost all connection to
the world; Moosbrugger had warded off her
attack with a powerful slap of his paw to her
face, and when Rachel came to, she was lying
far away from him on the floor; something
was dripping out between her teeth, and her
upper lip and nose seemed to have grown
painfully together. She saw how Moosbrugger was still staring at the bottle, which he
then rudely smashed on the floor; after
which he stood up and blew out the lamp.
Whether deliberately or merely in his
stupor, Moosbrugger had taken the bed, and
Rachel crept weeping onto the pile of

1641/1856

blankets, near which she had fallen. The pain

in her face and body did not let her sleep, but
she did not dare light the lamp to make
poultices for herself. She was cold, humiliation filled her mind with a hazy restlessness
that closely resembled feverish fantasies, and
the spilled schnapps covered the floor with a
nauseating, paralyzing haze. All night she
thought over as well as she could what had to
be done. She had to find Clarisse, but she
had no idea where Clarisse lived. She wanted
to run away, but then she told herself that
she would be betraying Clarisses confidence
if she left Moosbrugger in the lurch before
Clarisse returned; she had taken money for
this. It also occurred to her that she could go
find Ulrich, but she was ashamed and put
that off for later. She had never been beaten
before, but aside from the pain it wasnt so
bad; it simply expressed the fact that she was
weaker than this giant whom she loved, that
her entreaties did not penetrate to his ear,

1642/1856

and that she had to be circumspect; he did

not mean to harm her, she realized that quite
well, and the most unpleasant thing remained the fear that her chastisement would
be repeated, an idea that robbed her breast
of courage and made her totally miserable.
So day came before she reached any
conclusions. Moosbrugger got up, and stumbling with inner emptiness, she had to follow
his example. A glance in the mirror showed
that her nose and mouth were badly swollen
in a discolored, greenish-yellow, half-extinguished face; the magic of this night had
made Rachel ugly and unprepossessing.
Neither she nor Moosbrugger said anything.
Moosbrugger had a fuzzy head; in his sleep
he had smelled the schnapps and woken up
with the feeling of not having drunk enough.
When he saw Rachels swollen face, he had
an inkling of what had happened the day before; a dim recollection that she had provoked him kept him from asking her about it.

1643/1856

But he really would have liked to ask her; he

just did not know how to go about it. And
Rachel waited for a kind word from him the
way any girl in love waits; when he let himself be served in silence, she became more
and more sulky. Moosbrugger would have
liked most of all to go straight back to the
bar, but he was afraid of this girl, who would
again make a scene, and he could not go on
beating her every time. Her eyes, swollen
with weeping, repelled him even more than
her swollen mouth, which was visible every
time she moistened the cloth she was holding to it. It was indeed his fault, he said to
himself, whats right is right, but to have this
around first thing in the morning was too
much. Rachels tender back and her slender
arms, which she exposed as she washed, the
devil take them, he didnt like them, they
looked like chicken bones.
He summed it all up by finding himself
in a really stupid situation that he had to

1644/1856

stick out as honorably as he could. In the

evenings he went to the tavern; he had made
up his mind to risk it in this part of town
where no one knew him, and Rachel no
longer dared to refuse him the money or reproach him for it. Not even when he began to
play cards and needed more. There was
pretty good company in the bar; in this way,
Moosbrugger thought, you can stick it out if
you sleep a lot during the day. But Rachel did
not sleep during the day, and bothered him
like a bat. A few times he caught her in his
arms. A few times, too, he made an attempt
to begin a better life and to talk with her as
the little Fraulein whom she indeed was. But
then it came out that Rachel could do no
more. She answered evasively and monosyllabically. Whenever Moosbrugger opened his
mouth she froze, without meaning to, for she
would have liked to talk with him; but he had
poured something alien into her, violence,
and the well that is the source of everything

1645/1856

worth saying had frozen over. So there remained nothing for Moosbrugger to do but
turn to the wall.
But there was one occasion when she
always spoke up, and that was when Moosbrugger returned from the tavern. If he was
not drunk he did not respond, or merely
growled incomprehensible answers, and
Rachel pursued him into sleep with reproaches about his heedlessness. He had
beaten her in the tension, the very unpleasant tension, that ruled in him as long as he
had been tempted to leave the house but
could not make up his mind to do so; now
that this was no longer a problem, he was
tender and well-mannered, and Rachel,
sensing that she was not in any danger, became bolder and bolder. He stayed out
longer from one day to the next, in the hope
of returning only after she had gone to sleep.
But Rachel had developed a strange habit of
sleeping. When he left the house after dark

1646/1856

she instantly fell asleep, and when he returned she woke up, and with an assurance
as if it were only the continuation of her
dream, she began to quarrel with him. Her
poor soul, condemned to be unable to resolve her situation through reflection and
thought, allowed itself to be borne upward by
the drunken powers of sleep.
Such a scrawny little chicken! Moosbrugger thought about her, and the insult
that such a meager chicken was allowed to
scratch around him, day in, day out, gnawed
at him. But Rachel, as if she knew what he
thought about her without his having said it
aloud, and in almost telepathic (somnambulent) concord with the silent man who
groped his way through the room in the
night, felt an obsessive desire to cackle and
argue. And when Moosbrugger came home
drunk, which was not exactly seldom, his
stumbling and tottering was like a large ship
dancing on the same waves as the girls

1647/1856

small, excited sentences. And if one of these

sentences struck too close to home, the
powerfully drunken Christian Moosbrugger
grabbed at her. As mentioned, it was never
again the impulsive rage it had been the first
time, when he had nearly crushed Rachel
with a sweep of his hand, but he wanted to
make this screeching, rebellious child shut
up, and with cautiously measured force, the
way a drunk carefully calculates his step over
the curb, he let his hand fall on her. When
Rachel was beaten she became still for a moment. A boundless astonishment came over
her, as at a totally unexpected, conclusive answer. Since leaving her parents house she
had not been religious; the way she had
grown up, she thought religion was
something for coarse people: but if Elohim,
or better yet an evil spirit, had suddenly sat
on a bench in the park among the dressed-up
people, that was exactly how it seemed to her
when she was beaten. She was drawn to

1648/1856

observe this evil spirit closely once more and

sought to set it in motion. Then she would
open her mouth again and say something
about which she knew just as surely that it
would irritate Moosbrugger as that if he
would follow it it would be what he needed
for his salvation. Then Moosbrugger would
hit her with the back of his hand, or shove
her to the wall. And Rachel, although again
astonished, would find another expression,
as sharp and penetrating as a knitting
needle. And then of course Moosbrugger
would have to increase the size of his gift.
This giant, not wanting to kill her, beats her
wildly on her back, her buttocks, tears her
shift, throws her by the hair to the ground, or
with a kick sends her flying into the corner;
but he does all this with as much care in his
wildness as his drunken condition permits,
so that no bones will be broken. Rachel is
amazed at the evil spirit of force and brutality that demolishes all words. When

1649/1856

Moosbrugger shoves her she becomes completely weightless. No will can prevail against
his strength. The will returns only when the
pain stops. And as long as the pain is there
she howls, and is herself astonished at the
way she screams at the walls. And Moosbrugger would like to seize his head and,
raising it from his fists, smash his own head
against the ground, if that would only get
this damned nothing of a person to shut up!
On the days after such evenings it
seemed to Rachel as if she herself had been
drunk. Her reason told her that she had to
put an end to this. She went looking for Ulrich. But she was told he was away, and no
one knew where he was or when he would return. On her way back she thought she noticed that everything in the world was
secretly contrived for beatings. It was just a
thought that went through her mind. Parents
their child. The state its convicts. The military its soldiers. The rich the poor. The

1650/1856

coachman his horse. People went walking

with big dogs on leashes. Everyone would
rather intimidate another person than come
to an understanding with him. What had
happened to her was no different from what
it would have been if she had thrust her hand
into pure lye instead of the diluted lye that is
used everywhere for laundering. She had to
get out! Her mind was confused. She resolved that in the evening, when Moosbrugger was out of the house, she would flee with
everything she still possessed. It would be
enough to last her for a few weeks by herself.
She put on an innocent face when she
entered the room, so as not to make Moosbrugger suspicious. But although it was only
six oclock and still daylight, she did not find
him there. An instant suspicion made her inspect the room. Almost all her clothes were
missing. The lamp and some of the blankets
were gone. If thieves hadnt broken in during

1651/1856

his absence, Moosbrugger himself must have

thrown it all together and pawned it.
Rachel packed up what was left. But
then she did not know where to go, as evening was falling. She decided to stick it out
one more night and hold her tongue when
Moosbrugger came back sodden drunk, as
was to be expected from these preparations.
Then in the morning she intended to disappear without a trace. She lay down on the
bed, and even though Moosbrugger had also
taken the pillow, for the first time she slept
soundly the whole night.
Despite her deep sleep, in the morning
she immediately knew, even before she
opened her eyes, that Moosbrugger had not
come home. She looked around, wanting
quickly to take the opportunity to make herself ready. But she was sad; she feared that in
his rashness Moosbrugger had fallen into the
hands of the police, and that grieved her. Involuntarily she hesitated while she tied up

1652/1856

her bundle. In truth, Moosbrugger had for

quite a while had something in mind. He had
noticed that Rachel kept her money on her
breast, and wanted to take it from her. But
he shrank from reaching for it. He was afraid
of those two girlish things between which it
lay; he didnt know why. Perhaps because
they were so unmasculine. So he fell back on
his other plan. It was the more natural one.
It lifted Moosbrugger up and set him down
again. But if it worked out the way he
wanted, it would give him travel money and
he could let himself be borne away. He really
liked living with Rachel. She had her oddities, which dully persecuted him; but each
time he fell into a rage or caught her for love,
he unloaded a part of his unease, and this
made the water level of his plan rise fairly
slowly. He felt reasonably secure with
Rachel; indeed, that was what it was, a really
ordered life, when he went out in the evenings, drank something, and then had his

1653/1856

quarrel with her. It removed, so to speak, the

bullet from the magazine every evening.
Both were lucky that he beat Rachel, as it
were, in small installments. But just because
life with her was so healthy, she did not
greatly arouse his fantasies, and he nourished his secret plan to disappear into the
world; he wanted to begin by getting totally
drunk. When it got to be nine in the morning
Rachel went for a newspaper to see if there
was any bad news in it. She found it immediately. During the night a woman had been
torn to pieces by a drunk or a madman; the
murderer had been seized, and the establishment of his identity was imminent. Rachel
knew that it was none other than Moosbrugger. Tears started to her eyes. She did not
know why, for she felt cheerful and relieved.
And should it occur to Clarisse to free Moosbrugger again, Rachel would tell the police
about her. But she had to cry all day long, as

1654/1856

if it were part of herself that would go to the

gallows.

Narrative Drafts
MID TO LATE 1920s
THE REDEEMER
(C. 1924/25)
I.
A dreadful chapter
The dream
Around midnight, no matter what the night,
the heavy wooden door of the entryway was
closed and two iron bars thick as arms were
shoved in behind it; until then, a sleepy maid
with the look of a peasant about her waited
for late guests. A quarter of an hour later a
policeman came by on his long, slow rounds,
overseeing the closing time of inns. Around
1:00 a.m. the swelling three-step of a patrol
from the nearby supply barracks emerged
from the fog, echoed past, and faded away

1656/1856

again. Then for a long time there was nothing but the cold, damp silence of November
nights; only around three did the first carts
come in from the country. They broke over
the pavement with a heavy noise; wrapped in
their coverings, deaf from the clatter and the
morning cold, the corpses of the drivers
swayed behind the horses.
Was it like that or wasnt it, when on
this night, shortly before the closing hour,
the couple asked about a room? The maid,
unhurried, first shut and barred the door,
and then without asking any questions went
on ahead. First there was a stone staircase,
then a long, windowless corridor, and suddenly two unexpected corners; a staircase
with five stone steps hollowed out by many
feet, and another corridor, whose loosened
tiles wobbled under their soles. At its end,
without the visitors being put off by it, a ladder with a few rungs led up to a small attic
space onto which three doors opened, doors

1657/1856

that stood low and brown around the hole in

the floor.
Are the other rooms taken? The old
woman shook her head while, by the light of
her candle, she opened one of the rooms.
Then she stood with her light raised and allowed the guests to enter. It might not have
happened often that she heard the rustle of
silk petticoats in this room; and the tattoo of
high heels, which in fright gave way to every
shadow on the tile floor, seemed stupid to
her; obtuse and obstinate, she looked the
lady, who now had to brush past her, straight
in the face. The lady nodded patronizingly in
her embarrassment; she might be forty, or
somewhat older. The maid took the money
for the room, extinguished the last light in
the corridor, and went to bed in her room.
After that there was no sound in the
whole house. The light of the candle had not
yet found time to creep into all the corners of
the wretched room. The strange man stood

1658/1856

by the window like a flat shadow, while the

lady, with uncertain expectations, had sat
down on the edge of the bed. She had to wait
an agonizingly long time; the stranger did
not stir from his place. If up till now things
had gone as quickly as the beginning of a
dream, now every motion was mired in a
stubborn resistance that did not let go of a
single limb. He felt that this woman was expecting something from him. Opening her
staysthat was like opening the doors of a
room. A table was standing in the middle. At
it sat the man, the son. He observed it
secretly, hostilely, and fearfully, full of arrogance. He would have liked to throw a grenade, or tear the wallpaper to tatters. With the
greatest effort he finally succeeded in at least
wresting a sentence from the stubborn resistance. Did you really notice me right away
when I looked at you?
Oh, it worked. She could not control her
impatience any longer. She had let herself be

1659/1856

led astray, but no one should think she was a

bad woman. So in order to save her honor
she had to find him still magical. The blood
that had risen to her throat in fear and vexation now rushed pell-mell down to her hips.
At this moment he felt that it would be
quite impossible to take a bird in his hand,
and this naked skin was to be pressed
against his naked and unprotected skin? His
breast was to be filled with warmth from her
breast? He sought to draw things out with
jokes. They were tortured and fearful. He
said, Isnt it true that fat women lace their
feet too. Along with their shoes. And above
the knot the flesh spills over a little, and
there is a little unpleasant smell there. A
little smell that exists nowhere else in the
world.
She said to herself: He must be a
writer; now I understand his odd behavior.
Later I will play the elegant lady with him.

1660/1856

She resolutely began to undress; she owed it

to her honor.
He became anxious; now he knew for
certain: I can never take this leap into another human being, let myself into an utterly alien existence. Since he did not move, she
stopped; she was suddenly bad-tempered;
she too became fearful. What if she had
fallen victim to an unconscionable man? She
did not know him. The woman, who had not
revealed her name, began to have regrets.
She still waited. But something told her: it
will get better once weve gone further.
He felt all that. The idea Open up! tortured him. like a childs toy. Thats what she
wants. But over and over again there is some
new wall of disappointment with no way
through, and then she will get angry with me.
And the second torture was: Shes pursuing me. Shes just unrolling herself. Always
right in front of me. Whats she talking about

1661/1856

so incessantly? Im supposed to fall like a

dog all over the round, rolling ball of her life.
Otherwise shell do something to me. His
eyes darted back and forth in the darkness
like fish.
Now she was sitting before him in only
shoes and stockings. Her hips rolled down in
three swelling folds. She began to tremble.
She had taken off all her clothes because he had spoken about her. That seemed
certain to her. And she felt that she was
wronging him; did he not have to mistrust
her, since he knew nothing more about her
than that she had followed him? She wanted
to tell him that Leopold was, of course, a
good person.Again silence intervened.
Then he heard himself saying the nonsensical sentence: Whoever loves is young.
At the same moment he felt her arms around
his neck. To save herself she had to find him

1662/1856

enchanting. Beloved, beloved! Leave your

eyes, you look so suffering and noble!
Then with the strength of despair he lifted up his burden and heard himself asking:
Would you rather make Kung Fu-tse, or do
you prefer rollies? She took these for technical terms from mens talk. She did not
want to expose her ignorance. She made herself cozy with them. What does your Kung
Fu-tse do? The tip of his tongue touched her
lips. This ancient manner of understanding
between people, such foreheads always sitting above such lips, was familiar to her. The
stranger knew so much. She slowly flattened
out her tongue and pushed it forward. Then
she quickly drew it back and smiled
roguishly; when she was still a child she
knew herself to be already famous for her
roguish smile. And she said without thinking, moved perhaps by some unconscious association of sounds: Id like rollies. My husband will be gone for a week.

1663/1856

At this moment he bit off her tongue. It

seemed to him to be a long time before his
teeth got all the way through. Then he felt it
thick in his mouth. The storm of a great deed
whirled up in him, but the unfortunate woman was a white, bleeding mass, beating all
around her in a corner of the room, circling
around a high, hoarse, screeching note,
around the reeling root of a sound.
In those places where the woman and his reaction to her is described: Is this a woman at
all? Or is it the being pushed from the experience into a jackals den of the imagination,
condensation of all the hatefulness of the
world in the infantilely special person with
skirts and ringlets, rage against the most lovable thing on earth?
It is probably unnecessary to say that this is
not a true experience but a dream, for no

1664/1856

decent person would think such a thing in a

waking state.
The place of this dream lay on one of the major traffic arteries that radiate out from the
center of Vienna. Even though from that
time on, when world metropolises full of
enormous rushing around came into being,
Vienna was still only a big city, traffic in the
peak hours filled this tube of streets with a
dizzying stream of life, which can best be
compared with swill being poured into a
trough. Dark lumps of cars shot around in a
no-longer-transparent fluid of voices, metals,
air, stones, and wood, in a pleasantly tart
smell of haste, through the standing throng
of interests running in and out at the opening of a thousand stores, and the constitutive
stream of pedestrians hastening toward
some distant goal pushed forward. This is
the city persons drink that invigorates the
nerves. At the place of this dream fifty cars a

1665/1856

minute came by on average, at a speed of

twenty miles an hour, and six hundred pedestrians. If the eye, or at least the mind, took
all that in, then the stimulus had to traverse
a path of 1,800 feet per second, leaving aside
smell, hearing, aroused desire, and
everything else, and observing only the mad
film.
An unnatural spread.
But the place itself did not appear on this
film; only the fence around its grounds did.
If one were propelled on past this garden
fence, there lay behind it well-tended
grounds, and among trees one saw a small
white house with broad wings and looked into the noble stillness of a scholars home.
Between it and the nature in front of the
fence the un-nature of trees, muffled sound,
and pure air intervened; as indeed the un-

1666/1856

nature of various ideals and antiquities also

lie between life and the thinking of a scholar
(and only a quite complicated connection
makes it possible for life to afford scholars).
The scholar who had unfortunately had
this dream had a great many friends among
men and women, and was a quite pleasant,
handsome, and well-to-do young man. In order not to expose him, and for various reasons, let us assume that his name was simply
antlers [literally, different: an earlier name
for UlrichTRANS.].
Here it could also go on:
One of his women friends happened to
be with him at the moment and was
calledand because of the moral songs she
sang. She looked like a beautiful woman
from an illustrated magazine of 1870. Her
beauty was like a lions skin stuffed by a furrier. She spelled out this beauty from an

1667/1856

invisible book and underlined the teasing as

well as the tragic qualities of love with gestures like the emphases of an eight-year-old
schoolgirl reciting Schiller.
It would not be appropriate to inquire
further into the meaning of his horrible
dream, but on the other hand we cannot
avoid mentioning Christian Moosbrugger,
for Moosbrugger doubtless had something to
do with its source. Who was Christian
Moosbrugger?
What distinguished him from other
good-natured and right-thinking carpenters
was merely that he was to be executed on account of several sex murders.
In one of the newspaper reports, a collection of which lay in front of antlers (while
he held an unopened letter in his hand), it
was said of Moosbrugger that he was goodnatured. All the other reports described him
in similar fashion, but the thing about his

1668/1856

smile, for instance, was wrong, and in general the business about his self-important
smile, his good nature, and his monstrous
deeds was by no means a simple affair.
There was no doubt that he was, at
times, mentally ill. But since the bestial
crimes that he committed in this condition
were presented in the newspapers in the
most extreme detail, and thirstily sucked up
by their readers, his mental illness must have
somehow partaken of the general mental
health. He had cut up a woman, a prostitute
of the lowest class, with a knife in the most
horrifying manner, and the newspapers fully
and pitilessly described the delights, to be
sure incomprehensible to us, of a wound
reaching from the back part of the neck to
the middle of the front part; further, two stab
wounds to the breast, which bored through
the heart, two more in the left side of the
back, and the cutting off of the breasts. In
spite of (the most vivid retching of) their

1669/1856

loathing, the reporters and editors could not

look away before adding up thirty-five stab
wounds to the belly, which, moreover, was
slit open by a wound running to the sacrum
and continuing on up the back in a swarm of
wounds, while the neck bore traces of
strangulation.
Perhaps one ought not repeat this at all,
for it is dubious whether the novelist will be
allowed the protection of the duties of his
calling enjoyed by the newspapers, which,
like those men who prowl in the dark of
night with shielded lanterns and seamens
boots, have to climb into all those things in
which mankind, upon waking, is accustomed
to proclaim its interest. But ultimately it cannot be said anywhere but in a less serious
place than the newspapers how remarkable it
is that no sooner were Moosbruggers abominable excesses made known to thousands of
people, who lose no opportunity to scold the
publics desire for sensation, than they were

1670/1856

immediately felt by these very people to be

at last something interesting again: by capable officials in a hurry to get to the office, by
their fourteen-year-old sons, and by their
spouses immersed in a cloud of household
cares. People of course sighed over such a
monster, but inwardly he preoccupied them
more than their professions did. Indeed, it
might happen that on going to bed the very
correct Section Chief Tuzzi, or the second in
command of the Nature Cure Association,
said to his sleepy wife: What would you do if
I were a Moosbrugger now?

C. 193a
49
ULRICHS DIARY
Often Ulrich thought that everything he was
experiencing with Agathe was reciprocal
hypnotic suggestion and conceivable only
under the influence of the idea that they had
been chosen by some unusual destiny. At one
time this destiny represented itself to them
under the sign of the Siamese twins, at another under that of the Millennium, the love
of the seraphs, or the myths of the concave
experiencing of the world. These conversations were no longer repeated, but they had
in the past assumed the more potent shadow
of real events, of which mention was made
earlier. One might call it merely half a

1672/1856

conviction, if one is of the opinion that the

kind of thinking involved in conviction is one
that has to be entirely certain of its subject;
but there is also a total conviction that arises
simply from the absence of all objections, because an emotional mood that is strong and
one-sidedly motivated keeps all doubt away
from conscious awareness: there were times
when Ulrich already felt almost convinced of
something without even knowing what it
was. But if he then asked himselffor he had
to assume that he was suffering from delusionswhat it was that he and Agathe must
have reciprocally imagined at the beginning,
their wondrous feeling for each other or the
no less remarkable alteration in their thinking in which this feeling expressed itself, that
could not be determined either; for both had
appeared at the very beginning, and taken
singly, one was as unfounded as the other.
This sometimes made him think of the
idea of a hypnotic suggestion, and then he

1673/1856

felt the uncanny anxiety that steals up on the

independent will which sees itself treacherously attacked and shackled from within.
What am I to understand by this? How is
one to explain this vulgar notion of hypnosis,
which I use as facilely as everyone else,
without understanding it? I was reading
about it today, Ulrich noted on a piece of
paper. The language of animals consists of
affective expressions that evoke the same affects in their companions. Warning call,
feeding call, mating call. I might add that
these utterances activate and permeate not
only the same affect but also quite directly
the action associated with it. The terror call,
the mating call, goes right through them!
Your word is in me and moves me: if the animal were a person it would feel a mysterious, incorporeal union! But this affective
suggestibility is also supposed to be still
completely intact in people, in spite of the
highly developed language of reason. Affect

1674/1856

is contagious: panic, yawning. It easily

evokes the ideas appropriate to it: a cheerful
person spreads cheerfulness. It also encroaches on unsuitable vehicles: this occurs
in all gradations, from the silliness of a love
token to the complete frenzy of love, whose
brainstorms are worthy of the madhouse.
But affect also knows how to exclude what is
inappropriate, and in both ways evokes in
people that persistent unified attitude that
gives the state of hypnotic suggestion the
power of fixed ideas. Hypnosis is only a special case of these general relations. I like this
explanation, and Ill adopt it. A singular, persistent, unified attitude, but one that blocks
us off from the totality of life: that is our
condition!
Ulrich was now beginning to write
many such pages. They formed a sort of diary, with whose aid he sought to preserve the
mental clarity he felt was threatened. But immediately after he had put the first of his

1675/1856

notes on paper, he thought of a second:

What I have called magnanimity may also
be connected with hypnotic suggestion. By
passing over what is not part of it, and seizing hold of what furthers it, it is magnanimous/ When that was done, his observations
did not, of course, seem nearly as remarkable
as they had before he had written them
down, and he made another effort to look for
an indisputable milestone of the condition in
which he found himself together with his sister. He found it once more in the realization
that thinking and feeling were changed in the
same sense, and they not only corresponded
with each other to a remarkable degree but
also stood in contrast to the ordinary condition as something one-sided, indeed almost
insoluble and addictive, an inevitable synthesis of aspirations and insights of all lands.
When their conversations were in the right
moodand the susceptibility to this was extremely greatthe impression they gave was

1676/1856

never that one word was forcing another, or

one action dragging the next along after it,
but that something was aroused in the mind
to which the answer followed as the nexthigher step. Every movement of the mind became the discovery of a new, even finer
movement; they furthered each other reciprocally, and in this manner gave rise to the
impression of an intensification that did not
end, and of a discussion that rose without
falling. It seemed that the last word could
never be spoken, for every end was a beginning, and every final result the start of a new
opening, so that every second shone like the
rising sun but at the same time carried with
it the peaceful passing of the setting sun. If I
were a believer, I would find in this the confirmation of the unfathomable assertion that
His nearness is for us as inexpressible a raising up as our oppressive helplessness allows
us to feel! Ulrich wrote.

1677/1856

He recalled having read with his senses

on fire, in those early years when he was entering upon his intellectual life, the description of similar feelings in all sorts of books
that he never read through to the end because impatience and a will that urged him
to assert his own power prevented him, although he was moved by them, indeed for
just that reason. Then too, he had not lived
as was to have been expected, and when he
now happened to pick up several of these
books again, which was something he did
gladly, meeting the old witnesses once more
made it seem as if he were quietly entering a
door in his house that he had once arrogantly
slammed shut. His life seemed to he unrealized behind him, or perhaps even before
him. Intentions not carried out can be like
rejected lovers in dreams, who have remained beautiful over many years while the
astonished wanderer returning home sees
himself devastated: in the exquisite

1678/1856

expansion of the power of ones dreams, one

thinks these lovers make one grow young
again, and this was the mood, divided
between enterprise and doubt, between the
tips of flame and ashes, in which Ulrich now
most frequently found himself. He read a
great deal. Agathe, too, read a great deal. She
was already content that the passion for
reading, which had accompanied her in all
the circumstances of her life, no longer
served as mere distraction but had a purpose, and she kept up with her brother like a
girl whose blowing dress leaves her no time
to think about the path shes taking. It
happened that brother and sister got up in
the night, after just having gone to bed, and
met each other anew with their books, or
that they prevented each other from going to
bed at all, in spite of the late hour. About this
Ulrich wrote: It seems to be the only passion we permit ourselves. Even when we are
tired we dont want to part. Agathe says:

1679/1856

Arent we brother and sister? That means:

Siamese twins; for otherwise it would be
meaningless. Even when were too tired to
talk she wont go to bed, because we cant
sleep beside each other. I promise to sit beside her until she falls asleep, but she doesnt
want to undress and get into bed; not out of
shame but because she would be doing
something before I did. We put on bathrobes. A few times weve even fallen asleep
leaning on each other. She was warm with
the fervor of her mind. I had, to support her,
wrapped my arm around her body and didnt
even realize it. She has fewer ideas than I do,
but a higher temperature. She must have a
very warm skin. In the morning we are pale
with fatigue, and sleep for part of the day. Incidentally, we dont derive the slightest intellectual progress from this reading. We burn
in the books like the wick in oil. We assimilate them really without any effect other than
our burning.

1680/1856

Ulrich added: The young person listens

with only half an ear to the voice of those
books which become his destiny: he flees
them in order to raise his own voice! For he
is not seeking truth; he is seeking himself.
Thats the way it was with me too. Largescale conclusion: There are always new
people and always the old events, merely
mixed in new combinations! Moral fragility
of the age. They are essentially like our reading, a burning for its own sake. When was
the last time I told myself that? Shortly before Agathes arrival. Ultimate cause of this
phenomenon? The absence of system, principles, a goal, and also absence of the possibility of intensifying life and any logical consequence in it. I hope to be able to write
down some things that have occurred to me
about this. Its part of the General Secretariat. But the strange thing about my present
condition is that I am further away than ever
from such active participation in intellectual

1681/1856

work. Thats Agathes influence. She radiates

immobility. Nevertheless, this incoherent
state has peculiar weight. It is pregnant with
meaning. What characterizes it, I would say,
is the great amount of rapture it contains; although this notion is of course as vague as all
the rest. Temporizing restriction, which I allow myself to be guilty of! Our condition is
that other life which has always hovered before me. Agathe is working toward it, but I
ask myself: can it be carried out as actual
life? Not long ago she, too, asked me about
that
But Agathe, when she had done so, had
merely lowered her book and asked: Can
you love two people who are enemies? She
added by way of explanation: I sometimes
read something in a book that contradicts
what I have read in another book, but I love
both passages. Then I think of how both of
us, you and I, contradict each other about

1682/1856

lots of things. Isnt that what it depends on?

Or is conscience not involved?
Ulrich immediately recalled that in the
irresponsible state of mind in which she had
altered the will, she had asked him
something similar. This led to a remarkable
depth and undermining beneath the present
situation, for the main current of his
thoughts led Agathes statement without reflection back to Lindner. He knew that she
was seeing him; she had, to be sure, never
told him so, but also made no efforts to conceal it.
The response to this open manner of
concealment was Ulrichs diary.
Agathe was not supposed to know anything about it.
When he wrote in it, he suffered from
the feeling of having committed an act of disloyalty. Or it reinforced and liberated him,
for the chilling state of the wrong secretly

1683/1856

committed destroyed the intellectual magic

spell that was feared as much as it was
desired.
That is why in response to Agathes
question Ulrich smiled but gave no other
answer.
But now Agathe had suddenly asked:
Do you have mistresses? This was the first
time that she was again addressing such a
question to him. You should, of course, she
added, but you told me yourself that you
dont love them! And then she asked: Do
you have another friend besides me?
She said this casually, as if she were no
longer expecting an answer, but also in an
easy and playful way, as if a tiny quantity of a
very precious substance were lying in the
palm of her hand and she was preoccupied
with it.
Late at night Ulrich wrote down in his
diary the answer he had given.

1684/1856

50
AN ENTRY
It was only one of lifes small challenges that
she asked me this question, and what it
means is: But you and I are still living outside of the condition! One might just as
well exclaim: Give me some water, please!
or: Stop! Leave the light burning! It is the
request of a moment, something hasty, unconsidered, and nothing more. I say nothing
more, but still I know that its nothing less
than if a goddess were running to catch a
bus! A most unmystic gait, an implosion of
absurdity! Such small experiences demonstrate how much our Other Condition assumes a single, specific state of mind, and
capsizes in an instant if one disturbs its
equilibrium.
And yet it is such moments that make
one really happy. How beautiful Agathes

1685/1856

voice is! What trust lies in such a tiny request, popping up in the midst of a high and
solemn context! Its touching, the way a bouquet of expensive flowers snagged with a
wool thread off the beloveds dress is touching, or a protruding piece of wire for which
the hands of the bouquet maker were too
weak. At such moments one knows exactly
that one is overestimating oneself, and yet
everything that is more than oneself, all the
thoughts of mankind, seem like a spider web;
the body is the finger that tears it at every
moment and to which a wisp still clings.
I just said: The hands of the bouquet
maker and abandoned myself to the seesaw
feeling of a simile, as if this woman could
never be old and fat. Thats moonshine of the
wrong sort! And thats why I gave Agathe a
methodical lecture rather than a direct answer. But I was really only describing the life
that hovers before me. Id like to repeat that
and, if I can, improve on it.

1686/1856

In the center stands something I have

called motivation. In ordinary life we act not
according to motivation but according to necessity, in a concatenation of cause and effect; of course something of ourselves is always involved in this concatenation, which
makes us think we are free. This freedom of
will is mans ability to do voluntarily what he
wishes involuntarily. But motivation has
nothing to do with wishing; it cannot be divided according to the opposition of freedom
and compulsion: it is the highest freedom
and the most profound compulsion. I chose
the word because I couldnt find a better one;
its probably related to the painters term
motif. When a landscape painter goes out
in the morning with the intention of finding
a motif he will usually find it, that is, he will
find something that fulfills his intention; yet
it would be more accurate to say: something
that fits in with his intentionthe way a
word, unless it happens to be too big, fits in

1687/1856

every mouth. For something that fulfills is

rare, it overfills immediately, spilling over
the intention and seizing hold of the entire
person. The painter who originally intended
to paint something, even though from his
own point of view, now paints to paint, he
paints for the salvation of his soul, and only
in such moments does he really have a motif
before him; at all other times he merely talks
himself into thinking he does. Something has
come over him that crushes intention and
will. When I say it has nothing at all to do
with them, I am of course exaggerating. But
one must exaggerate when one is looking at
the region that ones soul calls home. There
are surely all sorts of transitions, but they are
like those of the spectrum: you go through
innumerable gradations from green to red,
but when you are there you are all there, and
there is no longer the slightest trace of green.
Agathe said the gradation is the same as
when one more or less lets things happen,

1688/1856

does some things from inclination, and finally when one acts from love.
At any rate, there is something similar
in speaking, too. One can clearly make a distinction between a thought that is only thinking and a thought that moves the entire person. In between are all sorts of transitions. I
said to Agathe: Lets only talk about what
moves the entire person!
But when Im alone I think how murky
that is. A scientific idea can also move me.
But that isnt the kind of moving that matters. On the other hand, an affect, too, can
move me totally, and yet afterward I am
merely confounded. The truer something is,
the more it is turned away from us in a peculiar way, no matter how much it may concern
us. Ive asked myself about this remarkable
connection a thousand times. One might
think that the less objective something is,
the more subjective, the more it would
have to be turned toward us in the same way,

1689/1856

but that is false; subjectivity turns its back on

our inner being in just the same way that objectivity does. One is subjective in questions
where one thinks one way today and another
tomorrow, either because one doesnt know
enough or because the object itself depends
on the whim of the emotions: but what
Agathe and I would like to say to each other
is not the provisional or incidental expression of a conviction that on some better occasion could be raised to the status of truth,
but could equally well be recognized as error,
and nothing is more alien to our condition
than the irresponsibility and sloppiness of
such witty brainstorms, for between us
everything is governed by a strict law, even if
we cant articulate it. The boundary between
subjectivity and objectivity crosses without
touching the boundary along which we are
moving.
Or should I perhaps rather restrict myself to the uprooted subjectivity of the

1690/1856

arguments one carries on as an adolescent

with ones friends? to their mixture of personal sensitivity and impartiality, their conversions and apostasies? These are the preliminary stage of politics and history and of
humanitarianism, with their vague wishywashiness. They move the entire self, they
are connected with its passions and seek to
lend them the dignity of a spiritual law and
the appearance of an infallible system. What
they mean to us lies in their indications of
how we ought to be. And all right, even when
Agathe tells me something, its always as if
her words go through me and not merely
through the sphere of thoughts to which they
are addressed. But what happens between us
doesnt appear to have great significance. It
is so quiet. It avoids knowledge. Milky and
opalizing are the words that occur to me:
what happens between us is like a movement
in a shimmering but not very transparent liquid, which is always moved along with it as

1691/1856

a whole. What happens is almost entirely a

matter of indifference: everything goes
through lifes center. Or comes from it to us.
Happens with the remarkable feeling that
everything we have ever done and could do is
also involved. If I try to describe it as concretely as possible, I would have to say:
Agathe gives me some answer or other or
does something, and right away it takes on
for me as much significance as it has for her,
indeed apparently the same significance, or
one like it. Perhaps in reality I dont understand her rightly at all, but I complement her
in the direction of her inner motion. Because
we are in the same state of excitement, we
are evidently guessing at what can intensify
it and have to follow along unresistingly.
When two people find themselves in anger or
in love, they intensify each other in similar
fashion. But the uniqueness of the excitement, and the significance that everything

1692/1856

assumes in this state of excitement, is precisely what is extraordinary.

If I could say that we are accompanied
by the feeling of living in harmony with God,
it would be simple; but how can one describe
without presuppositions what it is that constantly excites us? In harmony is right, but
with what cannot be said. We are accompanied by the feeling that we have reached the
middle of our being, the secret center, where
lifes centrifugal force is preserved, where the
incessant twisting of experience ceases,
where the conveyor belt of stamping and
ejecting that makes the soul resemble a machine stops, where motion is rest; that we
have arrived at the axis of the spinning top.
These are symbolic expressions, and I absolutely hate these symbols, because they are
so ready to hand and spread out endlessly
without yielding anything. Let me see if I can
attempt it once again, and as rationally as
possible: the state of excitement in which we

1693/1856

live is that of correctness. This word, which

used this way is as unusual as it is sensible,
calms me somewhat. The feeling of correctness contains contentment and satiation.
Conviction and the bringing of things to the
still point are part of it; it is the profound
state into which one falls after attaining
ones goal. If I continue to represent it to myself this way and ask myself: what is the goal
that is attained? I dont know. Yet its really
not quite right, either, to speak of a state of
the attained goal; its at least just as true that
this state is accompanied by an enduring impression of intensification. But it is an intensification without progression. It is also a
state of the highest happiness, although it
does not lead beyond a weak smile. At every
second we feel ourselves swept away, yet externally and internally we hold ourselves
rather inert; the motion never ceases, but it
oscillates in the smallest space. Also involved
is a profound collectedness combined with a

1694/1856

broad dispersion and the awareness of animated activity, with a breakthrough by means
of a process we do not sufficiently understand. Thus my intention to limit myself to
the most neutral description immediately
results again in surprising contradictions.
But what presents itself so disjointedly to the
mind is, as experience, of great simplicity. It
is simply there; so to be properly understood
it would also have to be simple! [This dilemma, that the state of highest happiness is
a state of inertness and passivity instead of
leading to the simplicity of experience (= action), is one that Musil returns to again and
again, both philosophically and in terms of
how to work it into the fabric of the novel.]
There is also between Agathe and me
not the slightest discrepancy in the opinion
that the question: How should I live?,
which we have both taken upon ourselves, is
to be answered: This is the way we should
live!

1695/1856

And sometimes I think its crazy.

51
END OF THE ENTRY
I now see the task more clearly. Something
in human life makes happiness short, so
much so that happiness and brevity apparently go together like siblings. This makes all
the great and happy hours of our existence
disjointeda time that drifts in time in fragmentsand gives to all other hours their necessary,
emergency
coherence.
This
something causes us to lead a life that does
not touch us inwardly. It causes us to gobble
people as easily as to build cathedrals. It is
the reason why all that happens is always
only pseudo-reality, what is real merely in
an external sense. It bears the guilt for our
being deceived by all our passions. It evokes
the ever-recurring futility of youth and the
senseless eternal upheaval of the ages. It

1696/1856

explains why activity is merely the result of

the instinct for activity rather than a persons
decision, why our actions complete themselves as insistently as if they belonged more
to each other than to us, and why our experiences can fly in the air but not in our will.
This something has the same significance
as our not quite knowing what to do with all
the spirit we produce; it also causes us to not
love ourselves and is the reason we may well
find ourselves talented but, all things considered, see no purpose in it.
This something is: that over and over
again we leave the condition of significance
in order to enter the state of what is in and of
itself meaningless in order to bring some significance to it. We leave the condition of the
meaningful and enter the state of the necessary and makeshift; we leave the condition of
life to step into the world of the dead. But
now that I have written this down, I notice
that what I am saying is a tautology and

1697/1856

apparently meaningless. Yet before I wrote,

what was in my head was: Agathe gives me
some answer or other, a sign; it makes me
happy; and then the thought: We do not
step out of the world of the intellect in order
to put intellect in an unintellectual world.
And it seemed to me that this thought was
complete, and that the stepping out characterizes exactly what I mean. And I only
need to put myself back in that state for it
still to seem to me to be so.
I must ask myself how a stranger might
understand me. When I say significance,
he would certainly understand: what is significant. When I say intellect, he would first
of all understand: stimulation, active thinking, receptivity, and the exercise of will. And
it would seem to him a matter of course that
one must step out of the world of the intellect and carry its significance into life; indeed, he would consider such a striving for
intellectualization
as
the
worthiest

1698/1856

fulfillment of human tasks. How can I express that intellectualization is already original sin, and not to leave the world of the
intellect a commandment that knows no
gradations but is fulfilled either entirely or
not at all?
Meanwhile a better explanation has occurred to me. The state of excitement in
which we find ourselves, Agathe and I,
doesnt urge us to actions or to truths, which
means that it doesnt break anything off from
the edge, but flows back into itself again
through that which it evokes.
This is of course only a description of
the form of what happens. But when I describe in this way what I experience, I am
able to grasp the changed, indeed quite different, role that my conduct, my action, has:
What I do is no longer the discharge of my
tension in the final form of a state in which I
have found myself, but a channel and relay
station on the way back to significance!

1699/1856

To be sure, I almost said: Way back to

an intensification of my tensionbut then
one of those contradictions occurred to me
which our condition exhibits, namely that it
demonstrates no progression and therefore
cant very well demonstrate intensification
either. Accordingly, I thought I ought to say
way back to myselfhow imprecise all this
is!but the condition is not in the least egotistic but full of a love turned toward the
world. And so I simply wrote significance
again, and the word is good and natural in its
context, without my having so far succeeded
in getting at its content.
But as uncertain as all this is, a life has
always hovered before me whose centerpiece
this would be. In all the other ways Ive lived,
I always had the obscure feeling of having
seen it, forgotten it, and not found it again. It
robbed me of satisfaction in everything that
was mere calculating and thinking, but it
also made me come home after every

1700/1856

adventure and from every passion with the

stale feeling of having missed the mark, until
finally I lost almost all desire to have an effect in the world. That happened because I
did not want to let anything compel me to
leave the sphere of significance. Now I can
also say what motif is. Motif is what leads
me from significance to significance. Something happens, or something is said, and
that increases the meaning of two human
lives and unites them through its meaning,
and what happens, which physical or legal
concept it represents, is quite unimportant,
plays absolutely no role in it.
But can I imagine what that means in
its fullest extent, can I even imagine what it
means in its smallest? I must try. A person
does somethingno, I cant duck it: Professor Lindner does something! He arouses
Agathes inclination. I feel this event, want to
spoil it and negate it and the moment I
yield to my dislike, I step out of the sphere of

1701/1856

significance. What 7 feel can never become a

motif for Agathe. My breast may be full of
vexation or anger, my head an arsenal of
sharp and ready objectionsmy heart is
empty! My condition is then suddenly negative! My state is no longer positive! Theres
another marvelous pair of notions Ive got
hold of! What makes me think of the characterizations positive and negative? I unexpectedly recall a day when I was also sitting
with some paper in front of me and trying to
writeat the time it was to be a letter to
Agathe. And gradually it comes to mind: a
condition of do and a condition of dont
as the two component elements of every
morality, the do prevailing during its rise,
the dont during the satiety of its reignis
not this relationship between challenge
and prohibition the same as what I am now
calling positive and negative? The connection between Agathe and me characterized
by everything being challenge and nothing

1702/1856

prohibition? I recall speaking at that time of

Agathes passionate, affirming goodness,
which in an age in which things of that sort
are no longer understood looks like a primitive vice. I said: Its like returning home after
the longest time and drinking water from the
well of ones village! And challenge of course
does not mean that we demand but means
that everything we do demands the utmost
from us.
Not leaving the sphere of the significant
would therefore be the same as a life in pure
positiveness? The thought that it is also the
same as living essentially alarms me, although it was to be expected. For what else
should essentially signify? The word probably comes from mysticism or metaphysics,
and characterizes the opposition to all
earthly happenings that are without peace
and full of doubts; but since we have separated ourselves from Heaven, it lives on on
earth as the longing to find among thousands

1703/1856

of moral convictions the one that gives life a

meaning that does not change. Endless conversations between Agathe and me on the
subject! Her youthful desire for moral instruction alongside the defiance in which she
wanted to kill Hagauer and has at least really
injured him in a material way! And the same
search for conviction everywhere in the
world; the intimation that man cant live
without morality, and the deep disquiet at
how his own emotions undermine every one
of them! Where is the possibility of a whole
life, a complete conviction, a love that is
without any admixture of not-love, without a
shred of self-seeking and selfishness? What
that means is: only living positively. And it
means: not wanting to admit any happening
without significance whenever I speak of a
never-ending condition, in contrast to the
eternally futile moment-to-moment quality
of our usual way of acting, or of the alliance
of every momentary state with a lasting

1704/1856

state of the emotions, which restores our

responsibility. I could go on repeating such
expressions for pages, expressions that characterized what we meant from one side or
another. We summarized it as living essentially, always somewhat embarrassed by the
terms bombastic-transcendental overtones,
but we had no other that would have been
simpler to use. So it is no small surprise for
me to suddenly find almost in my hands
what I was seeking in die clouds!
Of course it is part of the peculiarity of
our condition that every new observation assimilates all the earlier ones, so that there is
no hierarchy among them; they seem, rather,
to be infinitely entangled. I could just as well
go on to call our condition magnanimous,
which in fact I did some days ago, as I could
characterize it as creative, for creating and
creation are possible only in an attitude that
is positive through and through, and so that,
too, would be in accord; ultimately such a

1705/1856

life, in which every moment is to be as significant as possible, is also that life in the
sense of the maximal challenge which I
sometimes imagined as the spiritual complement to the laconic resolve of true science.
But whether maximal, magnanimous, creative, or significant, essential or whole, how do
I account for my feelings for Professor Lindner being what they are? Thats the problem
I am drawn back to, the crux of the experiment, the crossroads! It occurs to me that I
have deprived him of the possibility of having part of Agathe. Why? Because having
part of, indeed even understanding, is never
possible through putting oneself in the
place of the other, but is possible only if
both mutually take part in something greater. Its impossible for me to feel my sisters
headaches; but I find myself transported
with her in a state in which there is no pain,
or where pain has the hovering wings of
bliss!

1706/1856

I have doubts about this, I see the exaggeration in it. But perhaps thats only because Im not capable of ecstasy?
Toward Lindner I would have to conduct myself as if I were somehow united with
him in God. Even a smaller whole, like
nation or some other confraternity, would
suffice. At least it would suffice to prescribe
my conduct. Even an idea in common would
be enough. It merely has to be something
new and dynamic that is not merely Lindner
and I. So the answer to Agathes question,
what a contradiction signifies between two
books both of which one loves, is: it never
signifies a calculation or a balance, but signifies a third, dynamic thing, which envelops
both aspects in itself. And thats how the life
was that was always before my eyes, even if
rarely clearly: the people united, I united
with people through something that makes
us renounce our hundred dislikes. The contradictions and hostilities that exist between

1707/1856

us cannot be denied, but one can also imagine them suspended, the way the strong
current of a liquid picks up and suspends
whatever it encounters in its path. There
would then not be certain feelings among
people, but there would be others. All impossible feelings could be summarized as
neutral and negative; as petty, gnawing, constricting, base, but also as indifferent or
merely rooted in connections that were necessary. So what remains would be great, increasing, demanding, encumbered, affirming, rising: in my hurry I cant describe it adequately, but it lay in the depths of my body
like a dream, and isnt what I ultimately
wanted simply to love life and everyone in it?
I, with my arms, my muscles, trained to the
point of malignity, basically nothing but
crazy for love and lacking love? Is this the
secret formula of my life?
I can conceive of that when I fantasize
and think of the world and people, but not

1708/1856

when I think of Lindner, that specific, ridiculous person, the man Agathe will perhaps see
again tomorrow in order to discuss with him
what she does not discuss with me. So whats
left? That there are two groups of emotions
which can be separated to some extent,
which I would now again like to characterize
only as positive and negative conditions,
without placing a value on them, but merely
according to a peculiarity of their appearance; although I love one of these two overall
conditions from the depths (that also means:
well hidden) of my soul. And the reality is
left that I now find myself almost constantly
in this condition, and Agathe too! Perhaps
this is a great experiment that fate intends
with me. Perhaps everything I have attempted was there only so that I could experience
this. But I also fear that theres a vicious
circle lurking in everything that I think I
have understood up to now. For I dont
wantif I now go back to my original

1709/1856

motifto leave the state of significance,

and if I try to tell myself what significance is,
all I come back to again and again is the state
Im in, which is that I dont want to leave a
specific state! So I dont believe Im looking
at the truth, but what I experience is certainly not simply subjective, either; it
reaches out for the truth with a thousand
arms. For that reason it could truly seem to
me to be a hypnotic suggestion. All my emotions happen to be remarkably homogeneous
or harmonized, and the resistive ones are excluded, and such a condition of the emotions, which regulates action in a unified
way, is precisely what is regarded as the
centerpiece of a hypnosis. But can something
be hypnotic whose premonition, whose first
traces, I can follow back through almost my
entire life?
So there remains? It isnt imagination
and it isnt reality; even if it is not hypnotic

1710/1856

suggestion, I would almost have to conclude

that it is the beginning of supra-reality.

Sketches and Notes About

the Novel
1920-1929
Preface:
This novel takes place before 1914, a
time that young people will no longer know
at all. And the novel does not describe this
time the way it really was, so that one could
learn about it from this book. But it describes
the time as it is mirrored in a person outside
the mainstream. Then what does this novel
have to do with people of today? Why dont I
write a novel about today instead? This has
to be established, as best it can.
But that it concerns an (invented) story
should also become part of the manner of its

1712/1856

telling. The path of history is to be applied

not only in the novel but to it.
From the perspective of the book, the portrayal of the time has to be abridged. But Im
not capable of that. The Parallel Campaign,
for instance, ought to connect with the
Eucharistic Congress and other things about
which I know too little. Absolute necessity of
creating the technique from this error!
Preface
Ulrich considers himself a person who
has a message to bring the world. Fragments
are to be found here.
Later he judges []: In ones lifetime
one must have presented a good front and
the like if one wants to have even a posthumous effect. He is not bad, just gives up.

1713/1856

That is also his development in the novel. He does not write his book but is present
in all the events.
The narrator is, in a way, his friend.
Present Ulrich not as the true-strong
person but as an important statement that
has gone astray.
Mood: This is the tragedy of the failed
person (more properly: the person who in
questions of emotion and understanding is
always aware of a further possibility. For he
is not simply a failure) who is always alone,
in contradiction with everything, and cannot
change anything. All the rest is logically
consistent.

Preface
People will find the excusebecause
they dont want to explore the ideathat
what is offered here is as much essay as
novel.
Query: Why is it that people today dont
pay attention to ideas in art, while in other
respects they demonstrate an absolutely ridiculous interest in doctrines?
1st Section Before Agathe
An athletic young manvery intellectualattempts normal lifehas ideas that
dont seem to fit insuspicious of the transparent humbug with idealstries to find a
way out by means of functional moralityis
himself morally indifferentbut unhappy
about itis arrogant toward his time but always looking for a way out of his arroganceand from this an emotion crystallizes:

1715/1856

swimming through a spacejagged stage

sets loom upUlrich was good. As a child.
He simply saw that this good could not become the desiccated commonly accepted
one. If among his ideas there are some that
are right, then he is a precursor. But apparently evil develops the way he doesnt imagine it a la journalism. He is interested in
evil and despises the common.
Preface
I dedicate this novel to German youth.
Not the youth of todayintellectual vacuum
after the warquite amusing fraudsbut the
youth that will come after a time and that
will have to begin exactly where we stopped
before the war, etc. (On this also rests my
justification for writing a prewar novel
today!)

1716/1856

Preface
Superfluous, wandering discussions: thats a reproach thats often been
made against me, in which it was perhaps
graciously conceded that I could tell a story.
But these discussions are for me the most
important thing!
I could have depicted many things more
realistically. For instance, Hans Sepp and
National Socialist politics. But there is
already enough of the ridiculous in the book,
and I then would not have been able to counterbalance it, which was what I was trying to
do.

Preface
Where one speaks of relative originality: The phenomenon that a relatively or entirely original writercompletely inaccessible to the average criticwho in desperation
analyzes him only in isolated, dependent
particlesas has happened to me.
Preface
Why Vienna instead of an invented
metropolis. Because it would have been more
effort to invent one than a crossed-out
Vienna.
Manner of Representation
Frequently Used

to

be

Assemble a composite person, but with

cards faceup! From settled ideas and a few
obsessive linkages of ideas, e.g., the way

1718/1856

Hagauer is. All the intellectual characters

this way: Arnheim, Diotima, etc. Whatever is
added that is human and personal, particularly to those characters who are only
people, is accidental; moreover, from the
psychological point of view also characteristic, frequently repellent, like Arnheims predilection for the behind, or wishy-washy psychology like Schnitzlers.
events
depictions *
convewrsations
interweavings

}
are the only bearers of the narration
* Of the nature of the person, of changes in the physical and
moral landscape

Theories, half ironic, chiefly in the agitations of

the unsympathetic and half-sympathetic
figures
Journey with Agathe
Trip across. Seasickness. Burgeoning awareness of a fearful passion for each other because they see each other in this state, bear
it, feel it appropriate, with mouths agape,
vomiting. The whole ship an orgy.
Ancona. Exhaustion. Taken for a married couple, room with double bed; they
dont want to reject it; fear almost amounting to a feeling of persecution, sweetness.
Only the terrible things about Rome.
The smoothed and polished, the ravinelike
streets with green window shutters. The being tortured from before.
That was the first trip. On the second,
with Clarisse, he recalls it. In Venice, where

1720/1856

Clarisse is confined on the way back, meeting

with Gus-tav [the model for WalterTRANS.]. Rather fat paunch, deep devotion to Clarisse. Forced back to Vienna;
meeting with Agathe, beginning of the spy
story. The inner city entwined around St.
Stephens Cathedral like a ball of tangled
yarn. Yellow-gray darkness. Air like down.
On the trip: They really dont do anything at all; they only suffer the fear that they
could be accused, and the desire.
Someplace or other, memory from Esslingen.
Second floor of the museum. He is sitting at
the window; it mirrors nothing, reflects the
room. But if one bends closer, then from all
sides the blackness plunges in, and then the
church, the jagged black houses with their
caps of snow.

1721/1856

First trip. Its boringly different; were traveling as man and wife. Nothing else;
everything only in the hesitation that they
have to overcome inwardly to do so. They are
traveling without passports. Morning in
Budapest. Conference with a lawyer. The
square before the Parliament: something
breaks under their feet like thin sheets of ice;
gusts of wind sweep the square clean of
people, mere existence makes itself palpable
as an exertion. Impatience to get on the
train. Just ten minutes before departure, resistance against order. Reacting to some land
of feeling, they buy second-class tickets;
some pleasant thought or other of black
leather. Tip, alone. Everywhere they are
taken for a young married couple. Its boring,
Agathe lies down to nap. It turns fine; white
plain like a sea, forests buried in snow, heavy
pillows of snow on the branches of the firs.
Achilles [earlier name for Ulrich] wakes Agathe up;
this white and black, perhaps a white and

1722/1856

mysteriously bottle-green landscape rushes

through their eyeslovely, she says, presses
his handand melts into sleep; he stares at
the strange countryside, sees in the darkness
of the compartment Agathes shoulders and
hips as she lies on her side, like hills,
mysterious
Morning near Fiume. Through the
opened window damp, warm air. Speckled
flanks of the bowl of the valley they are descending into.
In Fiume rain, storm. Somebody in the
train says that the steamer left already this
morning; someone else: it will still be there.
Going across the harbor square the storm
turns their umbrella inside outlaughter on
the flagstones, the rain soaks their clothes so
that they are wading in their shoes.
Walk in the sunshine, palm trees, a
street like a ribbon tied in bows.

1723/1856

What is an execution compared to an

operation?
He drives back with someone else, who
is horrified. When they get to
where the pavement begins, the carriage jolts
so that they dont continue
talking. Trees are torn past, sometimes the
glance is flung through a hole
into sand, pines
The man: walks, looks around. Achilles
feels an inexpressible link to him.
Dostoyevskian. Laughs at it. Yields
voluntarily.
At his execution, Moosbrugger is simply embarrassed. Execution like a fire-brigade drill.
The solemn flourishes at the end dont move
Ulrich. On his way out he nods vaguely and
politely. Feels that it is perhaps out of place.
Only when he looks into the face of his driver
does he notice a difference of brightness and

1724/1856

warmth in the surroundings as opposed to

before. This face seems to him quite hard, he
sees every single hair of the beard stubble. A
man who was there to do a journalistic study,
whom he had invited to share his carriage
and forgotten, gets in with him. Out of some
vague feeling he remains sitting on the right.
Country road, then extended city street.
Pubs, people in black skirts and shirtsleeves.
Ulrich feels a vague, scornful hatred for these
people.
Study for Conclusion
Ulrich, to begin with without irony:
Reversal of a feeling about life with
hard, bright, challenginginto soft, dark,
smearedWhat was so important to one a
moment ago becomes completely indifferent.
One has the feeling that this passivity is
not entirely without activity, but this activity

1725/1856

is something quite different from the disputatious passivity of before. Ulrich remembers
having felt something similar in [chapter]
30. He was dissatisfied with himself and (1)
his house made him shudder. He recalled
once more his feeling of the ahistorical, the
world new with every day. In addition: accidental and essential qualities, possibly being
broken in spirit from strength; ones being is
still strength, but the object being seized is
always simply larger.
(1) I was born, abandoned into this
world; from one protective darkness into another. Mother? Ulrich had not had a mother.
The world my mother? He stood up and
stretched his muscles.
[Fragment]
I did not answer my fathers letter. An odd
destiny had led me into the same aristocratic
circles to which he owed his rise in life, the

1726/1856

naive lack of dignity of which irritated me; I

had resolved to look around in these circles
as in a room into which one had stumbled by
some secret chance, and if in doing so I
would have had to have the least thought of a
resemblance, this would have been impossible for me. It was no doubt for this reason that I refrained from giving my father the
satisfaction of having his wish fulfilled. He
took it amiss, and I received no more letters
from him, so that not long after, I was completely surprised by a message reporting his
demise. I cannot say I was shaken; we had
little fondness for each other. Also, I was
totally lacking in the feeling for that continuity which, it is claimed, binds ancestors and
posterity; the inheritance of certain dispositions and qualities, while certainly present,
did not seem to me any more important than
that the most disparate melodies can be constructed from the same notes, and the generally prevailing demand for pious respect is a

1727/1856

con game; at least thats how most unconstrained young people feel it, although later
they deny it. Besides, I was in a great hurry
to complete the arrangements for my trip.
I remember that while I was overseeing
the packing, the barbaric ideas of patriarchy
that are dinned into shrinking children went
through my head; the hand that strikes out
at the father grows from the grave, the disobedient child is afflicted with its parents
tears when they are dead, and many such
techniques from the wild primitive era of
mankind. Primal epochs come to life again in
the nursery, where nannies let themselves
go. Somewhat later I was overcome by the
desolate feeling that the entire atmosphere
surrounding the ultimate questions and their
philosophy, which I had involuntarily been
seeking in my memory, are of a pronounced
banality. Just as when you look up at the
starry sky for the space of five minutes. We
know nothing, and what we feel is warmed-

1728/1856

over cabbage. I did not even know whether I

ought to give myself over to my distaste or
whether I should set it straight; the beginnings of both were in me. Whatever the
philosophers may have contributed, no matter how enormous it might be as an intellectual accomplishment, from the human point
of view we have remained in these questions
undeniably limited and boring. Of course my
own ideas shared in this too, except that it
suddenly seemed to me incredibly remarkable that one lives with this quite contentedly. The well-known feeling of extraterritoriality rose up in me: even if I do not presume to be able to order things and thoughts
any better, in the order that they have found
for themselves they are for me immensely
alien. And I gradually noticed that I had
fallen into a quite specific stream of ideas
and emotions that I had almost forgotten.
The thought of my father, whom I did
not esteem, was unpleasant for me, the way a

1729/1856

plant might feel whose roots have been

burned by acid. I remembered once having
said to someone: The founders of empires
have no ancestors! That, too, was now unpleasant to me, because it sounded so childishly arrogant, if I had meant just then that
everyone ought to be such a founder of kingdoms. That person was my
Or: I had hardly begun to look around in my
new circle when I received a telegram from
my father that reportedI was now completely master of my life. When I stepped out
onto the square in front of the railroad
station

August 16,1929, evening

THE MAN WITHOUT QUALITIES THOUGHT THROUGH
CONSISTENTLY

First Considerations
Dont give him a name. Explain briefly
in Part I. Its not hard to say what a man
without qualities looks like: like most other
people.
There is only at times a shimmer in
him, as in a solution that is trying to crystallize but always drops back.
Clarisse says and sees: You look like
Satan. Colossal energy, etc.
Walter says: Your appearance is falling
apart, etc. More or less what could be said
about him.
Arnheim and Diotima are troubled.
Arnheim says: The cousin.

1731/1856

Its only for the police that he has qualities. For General Stumm: The old comrade.
For Count Leinsdorf he is something
definite (true).
For Bonadea he is splendid, mean, etc.
I say: the or a man without qualities
(and this is without overvaluing him, as
would be the case with a hero Ulrich) is an
object to be depicted. I constandy ask myself:
what would a man without qualities say,
think, do, in such a situation.
The ideas are such as present themselves to any clever person today. They could
also be different; it doesnt amount to the
formation of a will or a conviction, beyond a
given point or a paranoid system.
By this means one gains relations to the
characters, the situative dialogue.

1732/1856

Of course they are all without qualities,

but in Ulrich it is somehow visible.
He is tall, etc., sympathetic but also
unsympathetic.
The other people, on the other hand,
have their stories told properly. Possibly:
Everything about the man without qualities
in the present tense, everything else that is
narrated in the imperfect. Characterize Ulrich as unsympathetically as myself.
Arnheim calls him: The young doctor.
Diotima: My learned cousin (with ironic
undertone).
Bring out more strongly the leave from
life: resolve to commit suicide (instead of
that, then the war); dont give reasons. They
were neither concrete ones nor a disdain for
life; on the contrary, although he found life

1733/1856

abominable he made an effort to love it, felt

himself somehow obligated to.
Ocean trip: the way it was. To hang on
to it, grab hold of it as concretely as possible.
For the first time as man and wife beside each other in this weakness afterward.
Their bodies are as insubstantial as silk ribbons. Nothing happens. Only afterward the
timorous walking among the loud people.
Railroad journey: their muscles are
tossed back and forth, back and forth. Their
bodies sway. The weak smile that was yesterday s day pales. Here and there a glance. Or a
closing of the eyes. Need for the schedule, for
a sturdy compartment conversation. But
between silence, fatigue, gliding through a
strange landscape, and even boredom, still a
hanging on to the possession of something
different.

1734/1856

First attempt to strip naked. Above

rocks on an inaccessible rock terrace. Even
undressing has no effect. Here the charming
play of clothes in the room has no force. The
naked body like a line. If at least it were
burned by the sun.
Union, like two one-celled animals.
Consciouslyin a pause when the moon is
gonesexuality as concentration on a goal
and a way. There must be this penetration.
(Conversation) The moon is there again and
the penetration begins. Until they release
each other fatigued and satiated. Lying on
their beds like flour dust in human shape.
Happy, confused; but all human content was
blown away. Can that be repeated? Only if an
intellectual system is involved, such as unio
mystica or the like. This system might perhaps be possible. Tragedy: an unborn world.
Normal desire in Ulrich. Also in Agathe.
But repressed again and again until the

1735/1856

longing for ordinary obstacles like rivals etc.

comes.
Diotima-Arnheim: Sitting knee-to-knee
holding hands. Diotimas knees make a motion to open. She presses them together. She
stands up, Arnheim kisses the curled hair on
her neck. (He is unaware of this nestling up
from behind.) The kiss down her back,
through her legs, comes out at her breasts.
Diotima-Ulrich afterward. Diotima just
looks at him, upset. Everything in her is destroyed. He has put her feelings back on track
again.
Meingast. Is democracy a system that
picks out leaders? No.
Does it further the intellectual and spiritual? No.
It drags down whatever is outstanding,
while raising the general level only a tiny bit.
***

1736/1856

My view of, or task I would set for, literature:

partial solution, contribution to the solution,
investigation, or the like. I feel exempted
from having to give an unequivocal response.
I have, after all, also postulated the morality
of individual cases, etc.
A justified objection: That was from the
period before the war. There was no way of
snaking up the totality. It went further too:
everyone had this feeling. Whether one
wanted it that way or not, there was a firm
system of coordinates. A floating ball, which
one pushed and turned every which way.
Ones interest exhausted itself in the variations. The tacit assumption was probably
not the solidity of the environment but ones
lack of concern for it, without ones being
aware of it.
Disposition to understanding the way I
am in, for instance, Martha [Musils wife] because she paid no attention to the totality in
any event.

1737/1856

This situation has now changed. The

whole person has been flung into uncertainty. Discussions are of no use to him, he
needs the solidity that has been lost. Hence
the desire for resolution, for yes and no. In
this sense, a person with as little substance
as Brecht is exemplary through the form of
his behavior. He moves people because he
demonstrates their own experience to them.
One has to understand this completely.
Therefore the didactic element in the
book must be strengthened. A practical formula must be advanced.
Not further thought out: apparently this
gives the practical-theoretical opposition, the
original spy concept, new content.

LATE 1920s

a. Loving Fear
It was spring. The air like a net. Behind it
something that stretched the weave. But was
not able to break through. They [Ulrich and
Agathe] both knew it but no longer trusted
themselves to talk about it. They knew, in the
moment when they would seek words for
itit would be dead. Fear made them tender.
Their eyes and hands (often) brushed each
other, a trembling around the lips sought its
reflection, one second seemed to separate itself from the ranks of the others and sink into the depths.
The second time, such a movement was
a massive mountain of bliss.

1739/1856

The third time, very nearly comical.

Then the loving fear came over them.
They looked for a jest, a cynical word;
just something unimportant but real;
something that is at home in life and has a
right to a home. It makes no difference what
one talks about. Every word falls into the silence, and the next moment the corpses of
other words are shining in a circle around it,
the way masses of dead fish rise to the surface when one casts poison into the water.
The order of words in a real connection destroys the deep reflective luster with which,
unspoken, they lie above the unutterable,
and one could just as well speak about lawyers as philosophy.
b.
Agathe is playing the piano.
Ulrich comes in, a book in his hand; it is
Emerson, whom he loves. He heard only at

1740/1856

the last moment that Agathe was making

music. What he hates: music as subterfuge,
music as intoxicant deadening the life-forming will. He becomes gloomy, wants to turn
around, but nevertheless reads aloud to
Agathe the place he wanted to show her.
Can be applied to the description of the
nature of an idea: Tn common hours, society sits cold and statuesque. We all stand
waiting, emptyknowing, possibly, that we
can be full, surrounded by mighty symbols
which are not symbols to us, but prose and
trivial toys. Then cometh the god and converts the statues into fiery men, and by a
flash of his eye burns up the veil which
shrouded all things, and the meaning of the
very furniture, of cup and saucer, of chair
and clock and tester, is manifest. The facts
which loomed so large in the fogs of yesterdayproperty, climate, breeding, personal
beauty, and the likehave strangely changed

1741/1856

their proportions. All that we reckoned solid

shakes and rattles.
His voice sounds despondently cold
and silent as he reads with lost confidence.
Agathe has interrupted her playing; when
the words, too, have died away, her fingers
take a few acoustic steps through the boundless land of music, stop, and she listens.
Lovely, she says, but does not know what
she means.
To her surprise Ulrich says: Yes; it can
drive one mad. Agathe, who knows that Ulrich does not like it when she plays music,
abandons the instrument.
Pay attention! Ulrich says, having
stepped back and drawn a pistol from his
pocket. He fires at the piano, shooting into
the center of its long black flank. The bullet
cuts through the dry, tender wood and howls
across the strings. A second churns up jumping sounds. The keys begin to hop. The

1742/1856

jubilantly sharp reports of the pistol drive

with increasing frenzy into a splintering,
screaming, tearing, drumming, and singing
uproar. He does not know why he is shooting. Certainly not because of anger at the piano, or to express anything at all symbolically. When the magazine is empty Ulrich lets
it drop to the carpet, and his cheeks are still
hollowed out from tension.
Agathe had neither lifted her hand nor
uttered the slightest sound to prevent the destruction of the expensive instrument. She
felt no fear, and although the way her brother began must have been quite incomprehensible to her, the thought that he had gone
mad did not seem terrifying to her, caught
up as she was by the pathos of the shots and
the strange wounded cries of the struck
instrument.
When her brother then asked whether
she was angry at him, she denied it with radiant eyes.I ought to feel like a foolUlrich

1743/1856

said, somewhat ashamedbut if I tried to repeat that, it would turn into ordinary target
practice, and its never being repeatable was
perhaps the stimulus.
Always, when
something, Agathe said.

one

has

done

Ulrich looked at her in astonishment

and said nothing.
c.
It was only the next day that Ulrich referred
to the incident again. Now you wont be able
to play the piano for a while, he tried saying
by way of excuse; where the piano had stood
there was emptiness in the room. Why did
you say yesterday that these books could
drive one mad? Agathe asked. Before your
mad idea. Are they very beautiful?
Just because theyre beautiful. Its perhaps good that you cant make music now.

1744/1856

What followed was a long conversation. Its

all like blowing bubbles, Ulrich said. Beautiful? With his hands he spontaneously
formed
in
the
air
an
iridescent
ballcompletely self-contained and round,
like a globe, and the next instant vanished
without trace. Ive been working again for a
while
(But it is also possible to take
everything theoretical out of the description
of the Other Condition and apply it as fiction
in an ironic way as depiction of the age. Then
all that would remain here would be those
remarks that have the character of events.)
***
Agathe: Depict a deep depression.
It is as if a secret drawer within her had
been turned upside down and contents never
before seen had come to light. Everything is
obscured. Little reflection; really an inability
to reflect. The idea: I must kill myself, is

1745/1856

present only in the form of this sentence, unspoken, yet its presence eerily known; it fills
the dark vacuum more and more completely.
The condition is uncanny. Much less
free of the fear of death than were many of
the healthy moments in which Agathe had
often thought of death. And much less beautiful: dull, colorless. But the idea now has a
fearful attraction.
She begins to put her affairs in order:
there really arent any. Ulrich is right, when
he struggles and works, that yields content;
he is marvelous the way he isshe thinks.
Then: Hell get over it. Ira not leaving
behind anyone who will weep over me.
Sadness at living. The flowing of the
blood is a weeping. Everything done badly,
without energy, half; like a small parrot
among coarse sparrows. Incapable of the

1746/1856

simple emotions. She had been afraid of her

father; the same fear that had recurred often
in her life: not being able to defend herself,
because the defense leads to things that one
finds just as meaningless. She never knew
love, and the suggestion that this was now
the most important thing; this childs idea,
this rapture of so many women, is a matter
of indifference to her.
But The sovereignty of the resolve.
Whoever is able to do this is free and owes
no one an accounting. The world becomes
quite calm. In spite of its rush. The strange
loneliness! With which one is born.
***
All objects in the room become friends for
the first time; have seriously found their
place.

1747/1856

A long time ago she had obtained a capsule with cyanide; it was her solace in many
hours. Pours it for the first time into a glass;
the carafe with water beside it. Describe how
it is done. Possibly the confidence that this
world, in which Agathe feels herself so imperfect, is not the only one.
At the last moment, Ulrich enters.
Agathe would have had to say farewell,
become sentimental, offer explanations. Or
jump up and run away from him. She looks
at him helplessly, and he notices the disturbance in her face. The spark jumps over to
him. Today you have no courage. He was
still trying to jest. I, at least, shot up a piano. Lets kill ourselves, Agathe said. We
are miserable creatures who bear within
ourselves the law of another world, without
being able to carry it out! We love what is
forbidden and will not defend ourselves.

1748/1856

Ulrich threw himself down beside her

and embraced her. We will not let ourselves
be killed by anything before we have tried
it!
What? Agathe looked at him, trembling.
God hasUlrich smiledThe lost paradise! We dont need to ask ourselves whether
what we propose will stand every test:
everything is fleeting and fluid. Whoever is
not like us will not understand us. Because
one understands nothing of what one sees
and does, but only what one is. Do you understand me, my soul?
And if it fails, well kill ourselves?
Well kill ourselves! Voices were singing
in them like a chorus of heavenly storms: Do
what you feel!!
Next chapter

1749/1856

If they had done what they were feeling,

in an hour everything would have been over.
But as it is, they travel.

1930-1934
Nations Chapter
This chapter, as reminder of the world, inserted in the progression of the extremely
personal chapters. Also works as antidote to
the other Ufe that Ulrich has devised.
Basic idea: presenting and ironizing
making everyone dance to the same tune/
(But deeper basic idea: Age of empiricism.)
Extremes appeal more to the average
person than does the strict truth.
***
Sketch For Crisis And Decision Chapter
Preceded by: Ulrich-Bonadea

1751/1856

Ulrich stays behind; like a dog that has

killed a chicken. Leaves the room briefly;
Agathe comes in; shes had enough of Lindner; Peter preceded her. Her thoughts and
their result. This should be followed by
anot writtenconversation to the effect
that disavowal produced by the result justifies the crisis.
On the real and urgent level, Ulrich has
to go on an errand. Agathes attempt at suicide. Saved by Ulrich. Final resolve.
What is the resolve based on? What Agathes
attempted suicide?
Ulrich really ought to answerin the
sense of Schleiermacher s moral indifference
of the religious personthat the Other
Condition offers no precepts for everyday
fife. You can marry, live as you wish, etc.
Utopias, too, have not produced any practicable results. Thats also something like the

1752/1856

race of genius inside the race of stupidity.

That also means: against the total solution
and system. Against the sense of community.
Adventure of rejecting life. But without going
into the theory.
After the eruption he concedes: intimation and God, even if dubious. His real justification is fear of the sweetness of the three
sisters [Agathe, Ulrich himself, and the Other ConditionTRANS.], and so they decide to
go away, and coitus is unarticulated. So, at
least for the time being, he half abandons
image and the like.
Agathe wants a decision the way youth
does.
Ulrich: I have decided. Suicide year.
Agathe: Mysticism that could not ally itself with religion allies itself with Ulrich.

1753/1856

Decision to be: instrument of an unknown goal.

Agathe: There is really no good and evil,
but only faith or doubt. Lets get away from
all that.
Lacking faith, leave it to intimations.
Ulrich rejects believing but follows
intimations.
Agathes depression: One main argument:
The lawyer proposed she should have herself
declared ill. She did the will on account of
Ulrich, and now everything threatens to fall
on top of her. Lindner, too, she only treated
badly.
She is for action (youth), but it also
looks like this: Whatever one can object to
about others, and also about God and the
Other Condition, is a matter of indifference
to her; she wants to live with Ulrich, thinks

1754/1856

its very bad of her but wants to anyway, and

if that wont work, then all that remains is
badness and the end.
On Agathes depression: According to
Adler, the person inclined toward God is the
person deficient in a sense of communityaccording to Schleiermacher, the
morally indifferent person, therefore evil.
Woman, too, is a criminal. True sympathy
for no one but Ulrich. I have to love you because I cannot love the others. God and antisocial. Her love for Ulrich has from the beginning mobilized hatred and hostility
against the world.
Note: this mood has the quality of magnanimity; she has to (can) remember what
Ulrich has said about it. It contains the continuation into life.
It has to happen with (undescribed) Clarisse!
Thats why not with Bonadea! Disturbance,

1755/1856

interruption at the last minute. Ulrich knows

that he has already given in.
***
In this mood, God is the hypostasized need
to believe. But it is not given her to see God.
The mood is really a fulfillment of the Other
Condition, but still schematically.
Differently: When Ulrich comes in
again she recalls his aversion to defectiveness. Impels her to do it quickly, but also inhibits her.
Ulrich: experimental year. Is there
enough for both of them?
We will not kill ourselves until we have
tried everything.
Addendum: Belief can only be an hour old.
But then it is an intimation.

1756/1856

Missing: Ulrichs depression and possible

grounds for suicide.

49 now 50
CRISIS AND DECISION
Main point here: suicide attempt.
Content: Agathe hurt, feminine. Silly weeping, mindless weeping; but a fountain of the
body, the body claiming its right. You have
hurt me. As excuse: reading poems and
newspapers. Insight: What is it then that I
should give you? I could perhaps consent to
it with a woman I love. Inwardly more than
two people can be in love. Ulrich depicts
what that would be like and confesses that he
is too fainthearted for it. Ulrich develops the
idea. Suddenly Agathe kisses him, and the
kiss becomes sensual.
Between this chapter and the preceding
there must be a brief separation, Ulrichs

1757/1856

leaving the house or just the room. During

this time Agathes mood suddenly changes.
Description of a deep depression and
the happiness of such a resolve.
(Clarisses exaltation in 46 or 47 corresponds to this deep depression.)
Tentative
resume:
Always
did
everything badly, beginning with father, and
one cant defend oneself because the defense
is still worse (more stupid).
Ulrich manages to prevent her. Used as
motives for the resolve:
It is our destiny: perhaps we love what
is forbidden. But we will not kill ourselves
before we have attempted the utmost.
Promise!
The world is fleeting and fluid: Do what
you want!
We stand powerless before a perfected
imperfected world. Other people also have

1758/1856

everything thats in us, but theyve shunted it

aside without noticing. They remain healthy
and idealistic; we skirt the edge of crime.
Loneliness: people who believe quarrel
with God, unbelievers are getting to know
him for the first time. There is no necessity
in this. This world is only one ofexperiments. God bestows partial solutions, creative people do the same, they contradict one
another, out of this the world forms a relative whole that doesnt correspond to any
solution. Into the mold of this world I am
poured like molten ore: thats why I never
entirely am what I do and think: an attempted form within an attempted form of the totality. One cant listen to the bad teachers,
who according to Gods plan have constructed one of His lives for eternity, but must
humbly and stubbornly entrust oneself to
God himself. Act without reflection, for a
man never gets further than when he doesnt
know where hes going. (That is Agathes

1759/1856

influence! Ironic, but already anticipated by

Count Leinsdorf.) / narratively: Perhaps Ulrich reflects about this in a pause, so that
there are no reflections at the end /
Over all a breath of Stella morality
[Goethes playTRANS.]. Otherwise he would
have said literally the same things to Stumm
and others. To be described more as mood
and state than as idea. If they had now carried out what they were feeling, in an hour
everything would have been over. But this
way
Poison as support. Confidence that this
world, in which she feels incomplete, is not
the only one
On the suicidal mood: This sadness was like
a deep ditch with slippery sides that had her
going back and forth, while she heard Ulrich

1760/1856

above, invisible and inaccessible, talking

with other people.
When Agathe returned home, this took
place at twilight, she looked around for Ulrich, but he had (after Bonadeas departure)
left the house (for a while) in order to forget
what had happened as much as he possibly
could. She sat down in his study, laid her hat
and gloves beside her on the sofa, and abandoned herself to the slow fall of darkness,
which suited her mood. It was her intention
not to visit Lindner so soon again, and she
wanted to ask Ulrichs forgiveness for her ill
nature.
Just then her ringers came in contact
among the pillows with a hard, gently
curved, pronged object, and when she held it
up to the light she recognized it as a small
comb of the kind women wear in their hair.
Bonadea had lost it. It quite confused
Agathes hands as they held it. She looked at
it with parted lips, and the blood drained

1761/1856

from her face. If the word thunderstruck

means that all thoughts are struck out and
the small house of the skull stands empty
with opened drawers and doors, then Agathe
was thunderstruck. Tears rose to her eyes
without brimming over.
She waited vacandywith few thoughts,
which hardly tried to stir in herfor her
brother. Among them was the thought that
now everything was over, and the opposite
one, that what she had stumbled upon was
only natural and that she ought to have believed in it at any time; she appeared unable
to grasp what lay between these thoughts until Ulrich should come.
When he came in, he immediately noticed the presence of someone else in the
darkness and went up to his sister, who was
the only person it could be, in order to greet
her gently and ruefully. But Agathe asked
him in such a voice not to come near her, but
rather to turn on the light, that he turned on

1762/1856

his heel. When light came on she held out

the little comb to him with outstretched arm,
and he read in her eyes what she did not say.
Ulrich could have denied it; it probably
would not have been credible to explain her
find through disorder, as something left behind from earlier times, and yet it would perhaps have deflected and softened the immediate effect: but he was overcome with remorse and made no attempt at denial.
Agathe got hold of herself and listened
to him with a dismayed smile.
Are you jealous of Bonadea? he asked
her, and wanted to stroke her face in order to
turn the incident into a jest. But before it
touched her, Agathe grabbed his hand and
held it fast. I have no right to be, she said.
At the same moment tears began streaming
from her eyes. Ulrichs eyes, too, nearly misted overYou know how such things
happen.

1763/1856

Ulrich stays behind. Satiated like a

beast of prey / Better: As he tells himself:
like a dog that has torn a chicken to pieces
and that on the one hand is oppressed by
conscience, on the other contentedly suffused with having satisfied a basic instinct /
Possibly: Remorse is nothing other than the
collapse of a dominant affect brought about
by the one competing with it / So he is predisposed to remorse.
Second Part
Finally they sat together for a while, held
each other by the hands and did not trust
themselves to either say or do anything. It
had become quite dark. Agathe felt a temptation to undress without saying a word. Perhaps the darkness also enticed Ulrich to
creep over to her or do something similar.
Both resisted this energy of the sex drive that
forms types of actions (or something

1764/1856

similar). But Agathe asked herself: Why

doesnt anything happen? / Why not? Something from the paradise conversation, so
to speak: why doesnt he try it!
And when nothing happened she asked
her brother: Dont you want to turn the light
on now?
Ulrich hesitated. But then out of fear he
turned on the light.
And then it appeared that he had forgotten something he had to take care of himself. It was evident that he had to take care of
it, it would take at most forty-five minutes,
and Agathe herself persuaded him to do it.
He had promised someone important some
information, and it couldnt be done over the
phone. Thus even in this hour normal life intervened, and normal life was what it was,
and after they had separated both became
melancholy.

1765/1856

Ulrich became so melancholy that he

nearly turned around, but continued on;
Agathe, on the other hand, became more
melancholy than she had ever been in her
life. In contrast to all the other times, this
melancholy seemed to her positively unnatural; she shrank back and even felt an inquisitive astonishment. Unnaturalness was a
special kind of peculiarity. As far as this melancholy left any room at all for anything else;
as it were like a shimmer at its margin. Profound melancholy, moreover, is not black,
but dark green or dark blue, and has the softness of velvet; it is not so much annihilation
as rather a rare, positive quality. This deep
happiness in melancholy, which Agathe felt
immediately, apparently has its origin in the
relationship of single-mindedness and enthusiasm, that happiness is associated with
the exclusive dominance of every individual
emotion at being freed from all contradictions and irresolution, not in a cold,

1766/1856

pedantic, impersonal way, as through reason, but magnanimously. All great courage
and bad temper have the quality of magnanimity. Without having to think for a moment
Agathe remembered where she kept her
poison and stood up to get it. The possibility
of ending life and its ambivalences liberates
the joy that dwells within it. Agathes melancholy became cheerful in a way she found
barely comprehensible as she emptied the
poison, as the directions prescribed, into a
glass of water / when she put the poison in
front of her on a table. She fetched a glass
and a bottle of water and put them beside it.
In the most natural way her future split into
the two possibilities of killing herself or attaining the Millennium, and since the latter
had not worked, there remained only the
former.
It was time to take leave. Agathe was
much too young to be able to part from Ufe
totally without pathos, and to understand

1767/1856

her properly it cannot be passed over in silence that her resolve was not, affectively
speaking, sufficiendy fixed: her despair was
not without remedy, it was not collapse after
every attempt had been made, there was always for her, even if at the moment it
seemed obscured, still a second way. Initially, her departure from the world was animated, like leaving on a trip. For the first
time, all the people she had encountered in
the world appeared to her as something that
was quite in order, now that she was not to
have anything more to do with it.
It seemed to her peaceful and lovely to
look back at life. And besides, entire generations disappear in a flash. She was not the
only person who had not really known what
to do with her beauty. She thought of the
year 2000, would have liked to have known
how things would look then. Then she remembered faces from the sixteenth century
she must have seen portrayed in some

1768/1856

collection. Splendid faces with strong foreheads and far more powerful features than
one sees today. One could understand that
all these people had once played a role. But
for that you doubtless need fellow players: a
profession, a task, and an animating life. But
this ambition to have a role was completely
alien to her. She had never wanted to be any
of the things one could be. The world of men
had always been foreign to her. She had despised the world of women. At times, she had
brought the curiosity of her body, the desire
of the flesh, in contact with others the way
one eats and drinks. But it had always
happened without any deeper responsibiUty,
and so her Ufe had led only from the desert
of the nursery where it had started into a
vague kind of happening with no borders.
Thus everything ended in impotence.
To be sure, this impotence was not
without a core: It was not only this world
that GodWorld one of many possible

1769/1856

onesThe best in us a breathUke (mass) that

flies eternally like a bird from its
branchThere was always a vision contained
within her dislike of the worlds authority.
Indeed, more than a vision; she had almost
got hold of it already: one comes to oneself
whenvanishes. It is more than a seizure,
this obscure twinklingBut it seemed to her
not to make much sense to go over it again.
All these experiences mixed up together
echoed along with it, but they were notbefore. They have something schematic
andreal. It had not been given to her to see
God clearly, as Utde as anything!
Without God, all that remained of her
was the bad that she had done. She was uselessly besmirched and felt repugnant to herself. Everything, too, that she had just gone
over had become clear to her only in Ulrichs
company, become more than a nervous playing of games. She spontaneously felt warmly

1770/1856

grateful to her brother. At this moment she

loved him madly.
And then it occurred to her: everything
he had said, everything he still might say, he
had debased!
She had to do it before he came back.
She looked at her watch. What a delicate
thing its tiny hand was. She pushed the
watch away. A gloominess came over
herfear of deathdull, horribly painful, repugnant. But the thought that it had to happenshe had no idea how it had come
inhorrible appeal. She found she had very
little reflection leftinabilitynothing but
the ideakill, and this only in the form of
this sentenceemptiness.
She wanted to put her affairs in order;
she had none. Im not leaving anyone behindnot even UlrichShe pitied herself.
The pulse in her wrist flowed like weeping.

1771/1856

Ulrich was to be envied, when he

struggled and worked. Possibly: He is marvelous just as he is!
But the sovereignty of her resolve
calmed her. She, too, had an advantage.
Whoever is able to do thisShe felt the marvelous isolation with which she had been
born.
And when she had emptied the powder
into the glass the possibility of turning back
was gone, for now she had committed her
talisman (like the bee, which can sting only
once).
Suddenly she heard Ulrichs steps, sooner
than expected. She could have quickly
downed the glass. But when she heard him
she also wanted to see him once more. After
that she could have jumped up anddowned
the glass. She could have said something peremptory and withdrawn from life that way.

1772/1856

But she looked at him helplessly, and he saw

the devastation in her face. He saw the glass;
he did not ask. He did not understand; the
spark of excitement jumped over to him instantaneously. He took the glass and asked:
Is there enough for us both? Agathe tore it
from his hand.
With the exclamation?? Ive never
loved anything besides you! he clasped her
in his arms.
Or: not a word, [but] an action, an
event! He collapses or the like. Horrified at
what he has brought about!
Better: Ulrichs aversion against defectiveness. Suicide. But finally: one cannot
make amends for anything but can only
make them better. Thats why remorse is
passionate. For both. Suddenly one of them
is struck by this idea and laughs.
I have decided. Experimental yearkill
myself.

1773/1856

That is the resolution that is now impetuously carried out.

But that would also mean, more or less: journey to God.
Perhaps in place of the rejected jealousy
chapter
The period of mobilization. Agathe had,
in spite of it, had a carpenter called in. He
might be a Htde under thirty, is tall and
really built like a mechanic, that is, slender,
with broad shoulders, dry; long, well-formed
hands of great strength, and sinewy wrists.
His face is open and intelligent, his hair dark
blond and quite natural. His overalls become
him. He speaks dialect but without
roughness.
Agathe in the next room with him. Ulrichlost in thoughthas left. He doesnt
want to be bothered by anything anymore.

1774/1856

But then he turned around and crossed a

garden terrace back into the house and into
his room, without Agathe noticing.
He eavesdrops on the next room. The
expression of both voices strikes him. The
mans voice is explaining something: articulately, quietly, and with a certain superiority.
Ulrich doesnt understand what its about
but guesses from his prior knowledge and
the sound of wood that it has something to
do with a rolltop desk of Agathes. It is
opened and closed. The young workman demands Agathes assent to a more comprehensive repair than she would like, and she
makes uncertain objections. Ulrich knows
and understands all that. It must have
something to do with a mystery of the old
rolltop mechanism.
And suddenly it breaks loose from reality. For the conversation would have run exactly the same course if it had been a love
transaction. The persuading, the easy

1775/1856

superiority, the positing-as-necessary or itsnot-such-a-big-thing in the mans voice. As if

it were for him a sexual improvisation. And
then that beloved voice! Resisting, intimidated, unsure. She would like to and doesnt
want to. She yields, but here and there still
stands firm. She says in an undertone:
yesyesbut Shes known for quite a
while that she will yield. How Ulrich loves
this restrained, brave voice and the woman
who fears everything as she does darkness
and yet who does everything! He would not
have been able to bring himself to rush in
with a gun and take revenge, or even call
them to account.
Then a sigh of submission even comes
over Agathes lips, and the cracking of wood
is deceptively heard.
And in spite of this being-happy-forAgathe that Ulrich has dreamed through, he
goes off to the war. But by no means with
conviction.

1930-1938/39
QUESTIONS FOR VOLUME TWO
Exposition of Volume Two of The Man
Without Qualities
When I think of the reviews of Volume
One [Musil is here referring to Chapters 1-123, which were
published in 1930/31; Chapters 1-38 of Part III appeared in
1932/33],

I note again and again as something

they have in common the question as to what
will or might happen in the second volume.
The answer to this is simple: nothing or the
beginning of the World War. Note the title of
the major portion of the first volume: Pseudoreality Prevails. This means that in general
today the personal givens of events are definite and delineated, but that what is general
about them, or their significance, is

1777/1856

indefinite, faded, and equivocal, and repeats

itself unintelligibly. The person awakened to
awareness of the current situation has the
feeling that the same things are happening to
him over and over again, without there being
a light to guide him out of this disorderly
circle. I believe that this characterizes a major idea of the first volume, around which
large parts of the material could be ordered.
Above all, there is a continuity in that
volume that permits the present period to be
already grasped in the past one, and even the
technical problem of the book could be characterized as the attempt to make a story at all
possible in the first place.
I add that what I have just referred to in
other terms as the unequivocal nature of the
event (of life) is by no means a philosophical
demand but one that in an animal would
already be satisfied, while in a person it can
apparently be lost.

1778/1856

This makes comprehensible that the

major problem of the second volume is the
search for what is definitely signified or, to
use another expression, the search for the
ethically complete action or, as I might call it
ironically, the search for 100 percent being
and acting.
The more general investigations of the
first volume permit me to concentrate here
more on the moral problems or, according to
an old expression, on the question of the
right life. I attempt to show what I call the
hole in European morality (as in billiards,
where sooner or later the ball gets stuck in
such a hole), because it interferes with right
action: it is, in a word, the false treatment
that the mystic experience has been subjected to.
But here I would like to stop burdening
your desire for information with the impossible problem of philosophical window
dressing and conclude: Ulrich, who has

1779/1856

traveled to his fathers funeral, encounters in

the house cleared out by death his almost
unknown and unremembered sister. They
fall in love, not so much with each other as
with the idea of being siblings. I gready regret that this problem has a certain higher
banality, but on the other hand, this proves
that it is the expression of broad currents.
My representation is aimed at the needs
leading to this expression. I contrast the two
theses, one can love only ones Siamese-twin
sister, and man is good. This means (the relation of brother and sister to each other is at
first purely spiritual) Ulrich returns after a
period filled with their being together in intense intimacy; his sister follows him, and
they begin a provisional living together according to principles revealed to them, but
they are disturbed by the attention of society,
which is deeply touched by this act of brotherly and sisterly devotion. General Stumm
reports on the state of the Parallel Campaign,

1780/1856

which is fed up with the spirit and longs for

deeds. Diotima, whose relation with
Arnheim is cooling, busies herself with sexual science and again devotes more attention
to her husband, Section Chief Tuzzi.
Feeling has
association.

never

had

freedom

of

Fundamental idea: The first part turns out

to be too overloaded, even if consideration
did have to be given to the problems brought
up in Volume One. On the other hand, there
was no way around them. What had been
analyzed must somehow be summarized. Cf.,
e.g., the desire for a solution (Brecht) noted
as justified in [a cross-referenceTRANS.].
This coincides with Ulrich having in any
event to build his life anew after the journey
with Agathe, during which the reserve idea
of his life has collapsed. So the connection to

1781/1856

the ideas of Volume One and their new context is indicated from his point of view also.
This, whatever may happen in between, is
the content of the second half.
Fundamental idea: The coinciding of the
contemporary intellectual situation with the
situation at the time of Aristotle. Then
people wanted to unite understanding of
nature with religious feeling, causality with
love. In Aristotle there was a split; thats
when analytical investigation arose. However
much of a model the fourth century B.C. has
been, this problem has not been admitted. In
a certain sense, all philosophies, from scholasticism to Kant, have been, with their systems, interludes.
That is the historical situation.
What prevails today is what Ulrich
wants: every age must have a guiding idea
about what its here for, a balance between

1782/1856

theory and ethics, God, etc. The age of empiricism still does not have this. Hence Walters inconsistent demands.
Fundamental idea: This furnishes Ulrichs
relationship to the social sphere. Criminality
out of a sense of opposition follows from
this. Aims at the period after Bolshevism.
Against total solutions.
Ulrich is, finally, one who desires community while rejecting the given possibilities.
Fundamental idea: War. All lines lead to the
war.
Fundamental idea: Ulrich has sought to isolate: feelingOther Condition. Now tries:
deedMoosbrugger. (An idea: he arranges
things but is then drawn as a spectator only
out of curiosity.) Corresponding to the way
he thinks. Finally, orgy of the contemporary

1783/1856

horrible blending of qualities into the cultural type.

Fundamental idea: Keep putting depiction
of the time up front. Ulrichs problems and
those of the secondary figures are problems
of the time!
Comprehensive structural idea:The immanent depiction of the period that led to the
catastrophe must be the real substance of the
story, the context to which it can always retreat as well as the thought that is implicit in
everything.
All the problems, like search for order
and conviction, role of the Other Condition,
situation of the scientific person, etc., are
also problems of the time and are to be regularly presented as such.

1784/1856

Especially the Parallel Campaign is to

be presented this way.
Clarisse is an aggressive, Walter a conservative embodiment of the changing times.
Diotima, Arnheim: impotence of the
idea of culture, of its accompanying ideology.
This age desires deeds, exactly like the
present time, because ideology, or the relation of ideology to the other elements, has
failed.
There is today no lack of men of action, but
of human deeds.
Man without qualities against deed:
The man who is not satisfied by any of the
available solutions. (Im thinking of deed vs.
intellect in National Socialism. Of the desire
of youth today to find a resolution, etc.
Resolution: a synonym for deed. Likewise:

1785/1856

conviction. This is what lends significance

to Hans Sepp and his circle.)
The conception of life as partial solution and
the like as anachronistic. Derives from the
prewar period, where the totality seemed relatively immutable even for the person who
did not believe in it. Today all of existence
has been thrown into disorder; discussions,
contributions, articles, and tinkerings are of
no use, people want resolution, yes or no.
The didactic element in the book is to be
strengthened, a practical formula to be advanced. The opposition: practical-theoretical, the original idea of espionage, gains new
importance through this.
Supplement: Up to now the answer has
been Walters. Perhaps like this: Ulrich repeats this response from time to time, but no
one believes him or even takes it seriously.

1786/1856

Germanys enthusiasm for National Socialism is proof that a firm mental and spiritual
mind-set is what is most important to
people. The war was the first attempt.
Politics is only to be understood as education for action; what sovereignty, then, do
thinking, feeling, etc., have. National Socialism = dominance of the political more than =
part of collectivism.
I probably really ought to make the
idea of the inductive age the central argument. Induction calls for pre-assumptions,
but these may only be employed heuristically
and not regarded as immutable. Democracys
error was the absence of any deductive basis;
it was an induction that did not correspond
to the motivating mental and spiritual mindset.
God, thoughts strong approach to Him,
was an episode.

1787/1856

From todays vantage point the problem

is: the (warlike) man capable of defense is to
be preserved, but war is to be avoided. Or:
The man without qualities, but without
decadence.
What has so far been missing in Volume Two
is intellectual humor. The Stumm chapters
are no substitute for the theory of the Other
Condition and the love between brother and
sister being treated without humor. First attempt now in the Monster chapter (lass). Occurred to me as paradigm: The duel is a remnant of courtship rivalry, therefore our conceptions of honor are too. My principles are
now nothing more than such an apergu: this
awareness must still be added to its serious
treatment!
What is the basic theme of the whole second
volume? Really, perhaps, the Utopia of the

1788/1856

Other Condition. The Utopia of the Other

Condition is replaced by that of the inductive
way of thinking.
Professor Lindners view of the world:
Example of a person who lives For and
fears the In Augustinian Christianity
(therefore future) and incapability of believing Lindners bearing arms corresponds to
the wearing of swords in the B[riinn] chapter
(Ulrich can be aware of the allusion) His
being energetic is not merely German, intended as a profound, irrational trait of the
time The contradictions of the time in the
form: One would like to be this way and one
would like to be different, and therefore feels
oneself a whole manthe most vain time:
from lack of metaphysical decisiveness
Credulity in the form of the For His impression of liberalism. This expression of a
particular constellation. It needs a strict new
pulling together Since God speaks to him

1789/1856

about For and In its not an UlrichAgathe problem but a general one Religion
is an institution for people and not for
saints The remarkable phenomenon of
emotions not remaining fresh. Dogmatizing
and constant reactualizing: aims at God as
empiricism, transformation of the intimation
that can be experienced into faith that is not
experienced (along with: Do and Dont do,
affirmative actions) and distinction between
good and goody-good. (The first comes from
morality, the second from God) Acquisition of a bureaucratic language of the
emotions.
Ulrichs relation to politics really reduces to
the following: like all people who objectively
or subjectively have their own mission, he
wants to be disturbed by politics as little as
possible. He did not expect that what was
important to him could be endangered by it.
That in any case even in the existing state of

1790/1856

affairs there is already a certain degree of implicit challenge, in other words that it could
also get a lot worse, did not cross his mind.
For him a politician was a specialist who
dedicates himself to the by no means easy
task of combining and representing various
interests. He would also have been prepared
to subordinate himself to a bearable degree
and assume some sacrifice.
Ulrich was not unaware that the element of power is part of the concept of politics; he had often considered the question
whether anything good could come about
without the supporting involvement of evil.
Politics is command. Astonishingly, his own
teacher Nietzsche: Will to power! But Nietzsche had sublimated it into the intellectual.
Power stands in contradiction to the principles / condition essential for life / of the
mind. Here two claims to power compete.
Power in the political way disappeared from
his field of view, as did power in the manner

1791/1856

of war. It might exist, but basically it is as

primitive as boys fighting.
He now becomes aware of this naivete.
The marasmus of democracy advanced to
meet this. The tacit assumption of parliamentarianism was that progress would
emerge from all the chatter, that it would
yield an increasingly close approach to the
truth. It did not look that way. The press, etc.
The horrendous notion of worldviews. The
politicizing of the mind through letting only
what is acceptable prevail. Beyond that the
fiction of the unity of culture, a fiction that
had grown thin and brittle. (Represented by
the monarchy.
Democracy had not yet been stripped of
its skin.) Whatever was good in this life was
done by individuals.

1792/1856

Today there are only dishonorably acquired

convictions.
N.B.: If Ulrich looks away from his Other
Condition adventure: The relation of power
to mind will always be there, but it can take
on sublimated forms (and will perhaps do so,
after it has run through a series of collective
attempts that are now just beginning).
If Ulrich imagined this practically: One
would have to begin with the schools, no, one
has no idea where not to begin! That is the
individuals feeling of being abandoned, etc.,
which leads Ulrich to his experiment and to
crime.
If Europe doesnt join together, in the foreseeable future European culture will be destroyed by the yellow race. Unless Japan

1793/1856

harnesses all its energies, then etc. This

could be reduced to the formula: they would
rather destroy their own culture themselves!
Its comical, this hot, sudden, and doubtless
momentarily not disreputable passion for
ones culture.
Incidentally, behind this also lies the
experience that dependent countries are
treated ruthlessly. Just like dependent
people.
Its the feeling for ones own well-worn
groove. Progress would be something shared
and unifying.
They defend culture instead of having
it.
The person with culture is alone all over
the world.
There are only the two views: Culture!
Then everything that happens is perverse.

1794/1856

Or: Power! or similar struggle between animal species. Between chosen peoples. A vision
that could be great in certain circumstances
but is completely unfounded, since the
peoples involved have no goal beyond selfassertion.
Differently: A spirit rules without having
been completely developed. Then someone
comes along and imposes something different. In other words, perhaps: The totality is
changed by an individual / produces him,
many say. It seems to people to be absurdity,
insanity, criminality. After a short time they
adapt to it. Carrot-stick, the notorious lack of
character and despicableness of people, what
is it really? And spirit is always only a decorative frill in a room, the room can be laid out
for it. Thats why mind and spirit are never
constant but change with the change in
power.

1795/1856

A
useful
bureaucracy.

pendant

to

government

Connected with this: Nietzsche predicted it.

The mind lives more or less the way a woman does: it subjects itself to power, is
thrown down, resisting, and then finds
pleasure in the process. And prettifies,
makes reproaches, persuades in matters of
detail. Offers pleasure. What need was it
leaning on there?
Ulrich-Agathe is really an attempt at anarchy
in love. Which ends negatively even there.
Thats the deeper link between the love story
and the war. (Also its connection to the
Moosbrugger problem.) But what remains in
the end? That there is a sphere of ideals and
a sphere of reality? Guidelines and the like?
How profoundly unsatisfying! Isnt there a
better answer?

1796/1856

Utopia of Precision: Ideal of the three treatises is characterized as the most important
expression of a state of mind that is extremely sharp-sighted toward what is nearest
and blind toward the whole. A laconic frame
of mind. The less something is written about,
the more productive one is. Presumably,
therefore, one should conduct all human
business in the manner of the exact sciences.
That is the ideal of the precise hfe. It means
that ones lifework ought also to consist only
of three poems or three treatises, in which
one concentrates oneself in the extreme; for
the rest, one ought to keep silent, do what is
essential, and remain without emotion
wherever one does not have creative feeling.
One should be moral only in the exceptional cases and standardize everything else, like
pencils or screws. In other words, morality is
reduced to the moments of genius, and for
the rest treated merely reasonably.

1797/1856

It is determined that this (utopian) person as man of action is already present

today; but precise people dont bother about
the Utopias plotted out inside them.
In connection with this, the nature of
Utopias is described as an experiment in
which the possible alteration of one element
of life, and its effects, are observed. A possibility released from its inhibiting bond to reality and developed.
The Utopia of Precision yields a person
in whom a paradoxical combination of precision and vagueness occurs. Aside from the
temperament of precision, everything else in
him is vague. He places Utile value in morality, since his imagination is directed toward
changes; and, as demonstrated, his passions
disappear and in their place something like
the primitive fire of goodness appears.

1798/1856

More developed version: Inductive attitude

also toward his own affects and principles.
Addendum: It should be noted about
vagueness that what occurs in its place is
not a vacuum but simply the rational morality of a social, technical sobriety that jumps
in. (The present version rehes rather too
much on the Other Condition.)
But that implicidy assumes that the
nongenius relationships could be regulated
through reason. This is contested, and to a
great degree properly so; the motor of social
action is affect. We therefore have to see to
what extent that is satisfactorily taken into
consideration in what comes later.
Provisional summation: We have hit upon
Ulrichs three Utopias: The Utopia of inductive thinking or

1799/1856

of the given social

condition;
the Utopia of life in
love;
the Utopia of the
Other Condition.
Of these, the Utopia of inductive thinking is
in a certain sense the worst! That would be
the standpoint to be adopted from a literary
point of view (which justifies the other two
Utopias). But this demonstration, or the representation that goes along with it, is only
completed with the end (war). An apparent
interim summary: the museum chapter. The
journey into the Millennium places the other
two Utopias in the foreground and disposes
of them as much as possible. But a good deal
about the Utopia of inductive thinking occurs in the Stumm, Parallel Campaign, Lindner, Schmeisser, and Moosbrugger chapters.

1800/1856

So it is not necessary to master the Utopia of

inductive thinking down to the last detail
around the diary chapters, but it probably is
necessary to be familiar with its important
general characteristics.
War and the age. Notes
Individualism is
coming to an end
This is of no concern to Ulrich
But the right
thing to do would
be
to
rescue
something from
it.
I am struck in my notes on Mo6r [Gyulia
Moor, On Eternal Peace: Outline of a Philosophy of Pacifism and Anarchism (Leipzig,
1930) TRANS.] how the just-concluded

1801/1856

Kellogg Treaty is immediately being interpreted by France according to its needs of

the moment.
States are really such that they not only
take account of aesthetic needs but also actually obey them, while interpreting the ideas
involved the way passionate people do.
(Hans Sepp would therefore be only an overt
instance.) What is it that plays the role of the
affect in this. Evidently the affects arising for
statesmen through responsibility. In this regard, responsibility is as much a national
egotism as is the individual and party egotism of the politician who is dependent on his
people.
A goal, a striving, determine the emotions,
and the emotions the argumentation.
States are intellectually inferior.

1802/1856

A question: How can one lose wars?

(Stumm: Thats something we know
something about!) Earlier: How could an absolute ruler miscalculate so badly as often
happened? False intelligence, also lack of talent, will have played a role. But for the most
part it was probably always a not-being-ableto-retreat, and the human quality that it is
easier to assume the burden of a great remote danger than a smaller but closer one.
Before one discards a city, rather than taking
upon oneself a war that can cost one a
province. Then the collective boastfulness; so
great that no single person could achieve it,
and there is no escaping it. Patriotism as affect instead of reason: the state is not conducted like a business but as an ethical
good. Yet they are also manly affects!
But that doubtless happens as it should.
What is striking is only that the moral nature
of the state has remained far less developed
than that of the individual.

1803/1856

The outstanding personalities of history are

criminals: Ulrichs plans to become a Napoleon. But for the most part, criminal here
means: anti-philistine, someone unconstrained. But they really were criminals:
murderers, oath breakers, liars, tricksters, in
a word: on principle, the historical personality can be credited with any iniquity: the mature person is confronted with this idea. And
has less sympathy for it. An effeminacy?
In a criminal, affects outweigh the inhibitions (except when caused by environment or degeneration, weakness and such).
But dont they in a man of action too? Revision of the reflections that are occasionally
given to Moosbrugger? Clarisse?
The world calls for strongly affective,
strong-willed leaders.
But compare it to the individual person:
will and intelligence must be strong.

1804/1856

Beginning miscreants later become self-possessed. I must have a note about this (cf.
men of action and human deeds).
The valuation of historical personalities
and deeds is a functional one.
Here, in distinction to historical and
private morality, is an example of functional
evaluation. Absolutely the paradigm, for
translated into the private sphere the historical is positively disgusting.

1930-1942
Concluding portion
Overall problem: war.
Pseudorealities lead to war. The Parallel
Campaign leads to war! War as: How a great
event comes about. All lines lead to the war.
Everyone welcomes it in his fashion. The religious element in the outbreak of the war.
Deed, emotion, and Other Condition join as
one. Someone remarks: that was what the
Parallel Campaign had always been looking
for. It has found its great idea.
Arises (like crime) from all those things
that people ordinarily allow to dissipate in
small irregularities.
Ulrich recognizes: either real working
together (Walters inductive piety) or Other

1806/1856

Condition, or from time to time this has to

happen.
Agathe says (repeatedly): We were the
last romantics of love.
Ulrich possibly: the geniuss needs and
way of life are different from those of the
masses. Perhaps better:from the condition
of genius and the condition of masses.
Individualist with the awareness of the
impossibility of this viewpoint.
Doesnt go to Switzerland because he
has no confidence in any idea at all.
Regards it as his suicide.
The collectivity needs a stable mental
attitude. Its first attempt.
Ulrich: Its the same thing we did: flight
(from peace).
Ulrich at the end: knowing, working,
being effective without illusions.

1807/1856

Something like a religious shudder.

The fixed and stable is disavowed.
Other Conditionnormal condition will
never be resolved.
Most profound hostility toward all these
people; at the same time one rushes around
with them and wants to embrace the first
person who comes along.
The individual will sinks, a new age of
multipolar relations emerges before the eye
of the mind.
Ulrich sees what a fascinating moment
it was that never quite happened between
himself and Agathe. Ultimate refuge sex and
war, but sex lasts for one night, the war evidently for a month, etc.
Arnheim: The individual is the one who
is fooled.

1808/1856

Agathe: We go on living as if nothing

were happening. Ulrich: Timidity before this
robustness.
The priests: Gods Officer Corps.
Overpowered by a ridiculous feeling for
his homeland. Strives to regret, do penance,
let himself be swept up. At the same time
mocked.
Te deum laudamus.
National romanticism, displacement into scapegoats and love-goats.
Nations have no intentions. Good
people can make a cruel nation. Nations
have a mind that is not legally accountable.
More properly: they have no mind at all.
Comparison with the insane. They dont
want to. But they have at each other.
Also a solution to: loving a person and
not being able to love him.
***

1809/1856

Anarchism couldnt prove itself even in love!

Ulrich stands and acts under this
impression.
In general the mob chapters, and within
them especially Ulrich, depend on the as yet
undetermined outcome of the Utopia of Inductive Thinking. But apparently it will
amount to: struggling (mentally) and not
despairing. Intimation reduced to belief, belief in an inductive God, unprovable but
credible. As an adventure that keeps the affects in motion. Main idea. Circulation of the
emotions without mysticism. Discovery of
God in Kohlers fashion [Wolfgang Kohler,
founder of gestalt psychologyTRANS.], or
on the basis of other ideas: Gods becoming
material. Intimation, Other Condition:
someone else, who is better suited, might
perhaps take these up. How one could force
this on people: unimaginable. Either leave
what is hated to the age. Or work toward it,

1810/1856

that is for it: write a book, therefore suicide,

therefore go to war.
Once again the uppermost problem: To be
advanced more concretely than both
Pseudorealities, therefore externalized:
collapse of the culture (and of the idea of culture). This is in fact what the summer of 1914
initiated.
Now it turns out that this was the great
idea the Parallel Campaign was searching
for, and what happens is the unfathomable
flight from culture. Stumm might say that he
is fleeing. All states claim to stand for
something spiritual, which they dont define
and summarily call culture. It turns out to be
Utopian in my assessments too. And thats
what people no longer have confidence in.

1811/1856

In a certain sense, the entire problem of reality and morality is also the problem of drives.
Of their running their instinctive course
without result, their causing mischief; they
must be controlled in order to prevent
murder, usury, etc. But the counterproblem
of being controlled is weakness of the drives,
the paling of life, and how this is to be compensated for cannot be clearly imagined.

Studies
for
(1932/33-1941)

Chapters

Study for the closing session, and then UlrichAgathe

Beginning: No one wants to host the
closing session of the Parallel Campaign.
Finally, Count Leinsdorf: it ought to be ceremonial, not simply a leaving in the lurch, decides to host it himself. Again the hall, etc.,
as at the last meeting; but this time without
the secretaries. And he delivers the concluding address.
Beforehand people gather (ceremoniously) in another room. This provides the
opportunity (or also short conversations as

1813/1856

they hasten away) of having die other characters pass by in review.

Reconciliation scene between Tuzzi and
Diotima. Tuzzi: Now reason wins out. Does
he mean that against pacifism? He means:
Now the situation is clearing up, perhaps:
the situation that up to now has unconsciously hidden behind pacifism. And most
profoundly: Reason belongs to the realm of
evil. Morality and reason are the opposites of
goodness. (Ulrich, too, might possibly say
that, coming up to them.)
Then what dominates is: We are in the
right; according to the rules of reason and
morality we are the ones attacked: perhaps
Count Leins-dorfs address. Everyone: We are
defending what is ours (homeland, culture).
Arnheim: The world is perhaps perishing or entering a long hell-But perhaps
Arnheim is no longer present.

1814/1856

Who?: The world would then perish not

through its immoral but through its moral
citizens.
Agathe: We go on living as if it were
nothing. Ulrich: No. Suicide. Im going to
war. Agathe: If anything happens to you:
poison.
The shadowing presence of death suddenly becomes visible. Ones personal death,
without ones having
got anything
straightened out, and ignoring which life
stumbles on and continues unfolding its diversions. In the mob mood, moreover, everyone believes in giving up diversions for a
long time. Isnt the final result for Ulrich
something like ascesis? The Other Condition
has miscarried, and diversions belong to the
mutation of emotions? So that would once
again be in opposition to the healthy life. An
end of Utopias.

1815/1856

Buildingsbreathlike mass, condensation on surfaces that present themselves

Freed from connections, every impulse
momentarily deforms the individual.
The individual, who comes about only
through expression, forms himself in the
forms of society. He is violated and thus acquires surface.
He is formed by the back-formations of
what he has created. If one takes away these
back-formations, what remains is something
indefinite, unshaped. The walls of the streets
radiate ideologies.

General Reflections
(c.1930-1942)
For the beginning
The stories being written today are all very
fine, significant, profound, useful distillations and full of spirit. But they have no
introductions.
Therefore I have decided to write this
story in such a way that in spite of its length
it needs an introduction.
It is said that a story needs an introduction only if the writer has not been able to
shape it successfully. Splendid! Literatures
progress, which expresses itself today in the
absence of introductions, proves that writers
are very sure of their subjects and their audience. For of course the audience is involved
too; the writer has to open his mouth, and
the audience must already know what it is he

1817/1856

wants to say; if he then says it a little differently and in an unexpected way, he has legitimized himself as creative. So authors and
public are generally on good terms today,
and the need for an introduction indicates an
exceptional case.
A small variation. I would not, however,
want to be understood to mean that in my
view the greatness of the genius is expressed
in the greatness of the variation. On the contrarythe age of fools.
But we also do not want to overlook the fact
that in writing introductions a relationship
with the audience can be expressed that is
too good; looked at historically, this is even
the way it has been most of the time. The author appears in his window in shirtsleeves
and smiles down at the street; he is certain
that people will obligingly look up to his

1818/1856

popular face if he says a few words personally. It is enough for me to say that I have
been spoiled far too little by success to hit
upon such an idea. My need for an introduction does not indicate a particularly good relation with the public, and although, as is
already apparent, I will make abundant use
of the custom of talking about myself in this
preface, I hope to be speaking not about an
individual person but about a public matter.
Preface, first continuation
Many will ask: What viewpoint is the author
taking, and with what results? I cant give a
satisfactory account of myself. I take the
matter neither from all sides (which in the
novel is impossible) nor from one side, but
from various congruent sides. But one must
not confuse the unfinished state of
something with the authors skepticism. I expound my subject even though I know it is
only a part of the truth, and I would expound
it in just the same way if I knew it was false,

1819/1856

because certain errors are way stations of the

truth. Given a specific task, I am doing what
I can.
This book has a passion that in the area of
belles lettres today is somewhat out of place,
the passion for rightness/precision. (Polgar
[Alfred Polgar, writer and friend of
MusilTRANS.]: Spare us brief stories. In
saying that he writes a long one.)
The story of this novel amounts to this, that
the story that ought to be told in it is not
told.
Possibly: Adduce as well the principle of partial solutions, which is vital to the way I have
set up my task. For instance Torless, Unions.
The basis of many misunderstandings. The
public prefers writers who go for the whole.

1820/1856

The term essayism is impossibly

chosen if one thinks for instance of Carlyle.
Readers are accustomed to demanding that
you tell them about life and not about the reflection of life in the heads of literature and
people. But that is justified with certainty
only insofar as this reflection is merely an
impoverished and conventionalized copy of
life. I am trying to offer them originals, so
they have to suspend their prejudice too.
Mastering unreality is a program, so point to
Volume Two, but as a way of concluding it is
almost absurd.
Volume One closes approximately at
the high point of an arch; on the other side it
has no support. What moves me to publication (aside from Rowohlt [Musils pubhsherTRANS.]) is what I have always done;

1821/1856

today the structure of a work of fiction is

more important than its course. One must
learn to understand that side again, then one
will have books.
Behind the problems of the day the constitutive problems, which are not, however,
the so-called eternal problems.
This is not a skeptic speaking but a person
who considers the problem difficult and who
has the impression that it is being worked at
unmethodically.
Perhaps a preface at the end? A deferred
preface.
A depiction of the time? Yes and no. A
representation of constitutive relations. Not
current; but one level further down. Not
skin, but joints.

1822/1856

The problems dont have the form in

which they appear? No. The problems dont
seem modern. The problems of the present
arent modern!
In the chapters on surface and precision
I have sought to indicate how that works.
At bottom is the way the mind and spirit of an age are constituted. Here the opposition between empirical thinking and thinking with the emotions.
A glance at life teaches us that it is different.
I am by neither talent nor inclination a
naturalist.
There is a lot of talk here about an emotion that today apparently has no place in
our lives. If the visitors at a racetrack move
in an instant from dissatisfaction with the
way the race is conducted to plundering the
cash receipts, and a hundred policemen

1823/1856

hardly suffice to restore order, what then

should
What would it mean, further, in a time
in which new forms of stateswith power
and older formswith power.
Here, too, you will find wit and idea somewhat less responsive than they might be,
badly informed, not up-to-date, at least three
months behind. The significance lies less in
the examples than in the teaching (exempla
docent).
For example, the democracy of the spirit has already advanced as far as Emil Ludwig, while I am still depicting Arnheim-Rathenau. The schools as far as Minister of
Education Grimm (the age of the great individualists is past), while Im still with Kerschensteiner. The literature industry with
looking for Bruckner. Sports at Schafers radiant report that in the list of celebrities in

1824/1856

the Bord he was far ahead of Jeritza.

[Musil

kept up with people and events. He had modelled those in

the novel on ones of an earlier day and is ruminating on the

All
this has not escaped me entirely. But I am
slow. And I have intentionally remained with
my old exampleshere or somewhere ought
to come, however, that I do not intend to be
historically accuratebecause I believe that
investigating my examples will necessarily
lead to the same result. (By doing this I lose
effects but win anatomically, or something
similar.)
possible effect of the march of time on his novel]

Nevertheless, in what they yield these

examples are not complete either. What ultimately emerges are major lines or only preferred lines, an ideal scaffolding from which
the Gobelins hang, if I may call these stories
such on account of their flat technique.
Think of Grimms speech. This is the
way the world is moved, and, moreover, the
struggle of power interests becomes ever

1825/1856

purer. But your criticism, your problem, is

directed almost exclusively at democracy.
How do you defend this? You represent as
purely as possible the interests of the spirit
and intellect, and cant help it that democracy, too, has partially taken them up in its
program and makes fine phrases out of
them. The things youre saying are prolegomena for every party, except of course for a
party that is after fundamental change in a
spirit that has remained unchanged for millennia. You are incessandy in motion
beneath and behind the parties or, as people
used to say, above them. Youre engaged in
trying to find whats independent.
The request that I write an announcement meets with such obstacles in the case of
a book withpages,chapters,characters,
and thirty-three times as many lines, of
which not a single one is intentionally empty,
that I prefer to say what this book is not.

1826/1856

It is not the Great Austrian Novel

people have been awaiting for ages,
although
It is not a depiction of the time, in
which Herrrecognizes his spitting image.
It is just as little a depiction of a society.
It does not contain the problems were
suffering from, but
It is not the work of a writer, insofar as
has the task (to repeat, what) but as far as
constructive variation.
One might add: Since the latter lies in the
spirit of the totality, this book is idealistic,
analytic, possibly synthesizing.
It is not a satire, but a positive
construal.
It is not a confession, but a satire.
It is not the book of a psychologist.

1827/1856

It is not the book of a thinker (since it

places the ideational elements in an order
that)
It is not the book of a singer who
It is not the book of a successful unsuccessful author.
It is not an easy and not a difficult book, for
that depends entirely on the reader.
Without having to go on in this fashion,
I think that after this I can say that anyone
who wants to know what this book is would
do best to read it himself/ not rely on my
judgment or that of others, but read it
himself.
Testament. Notes
The unnecessary expansiveness. A function
of the understanding.

1828/1856

Irony is: presenting a cleric in such a

way that along with him you have also captured a Bolshevist. Presenting a blockhead so
that the author suddenly feels: thats partly
me too. This kind of irony, constructive
irony, is fairly unknown in Germany today. It
is the connection among things, a connection
from which it emerges naked. One thinks of
irony as ridicule and jeering.
Mysticism: One can only advise every reader:
he down in the woods on a lovely or even a
windy day, then youll know it all yourself. It
is not to be assumed that I have never lain in
the woods.
The hardest thing to bear: the current
misery. But I have to do my work, which has
no currency, I must at least carry on with it,
after having begun it beforehand.

1829/1856

People expect that in the second volume Ulrich will do something. People know whats
to be done. How to do it: I wont give the
German Communist Party, etc., any tips.
Active spirit and spirit of action.
Why the problem is not an out-of-the-way
one.
The practical (political-social) usefulness of
such a book. (Avant garde.)
Wilhelm Meister was also well-to-do.
People want Ulrich to do something.
But Im concerned with the meaning of the
action. Today these are confused with each
other. Of course Bolshevism, for example,
has to occur; but (a) not through books, (b)

1830/1856

books have other tasks. Similarity with the

war situation and the Ministry of War
Information.
***
Quotes from Kerschenstein are used too.
Arnheim. Lazarsfeld. Forster.
Psychoanalysis!
Frame of mind directed against the present.
Therefore, too, against narration, action
That I conclude unfavorably, and precisely in
this volume make the greatest demands on
the reader, without making it easier for him
by means of recapitulation in what happens
later.
Also unfavorable structurally.

1831/1856

(There must be something about well-to-do

people that lets them admire Thomas Mann.
And about my readers that they are people
without influence.)
The religious today represses (that
must be some kind of historical process).
This book is religious with the assumptions
of the unbeliever.
Always: An intellectual adventure, an intellectual expedition and voyage of exploration.
Partial solutions are only one way of expressing this. Here really and truly in a different
condition of life. Thats not why Im describing it, but because it touches on a basic phenomenon of our morality. Perhaps a writer
cant say basic phenomenon/ but it has to
be deeper than the superficial phenomenon.
Then it is independent of developments.

1832/1856

One tells a story for the sake of telling, for

the significance of the story, for the sake of
the significance: three steps.
Afterword: This book had to be broken off
before its climax because of lack of money,
and it is uncertain whether it will be
continued.

For the afterword (and interim preface)

An affect can induce a violent external action, and internally too the person involved
can appear to be quite agitated, and yet it can
be a matter of a very superficial affect with
little energy (Kurt Lewin, Researches on
the Psychology of Actions and Affects I Psychologische Forschung VII, no. 1/2 [1941], p.
309). A sentence such as this has been made
possible only by psychologys having become
literary. But do we writers have a preliminary activity to fulfill? If we did, then in external nature our messiah would have been
something like the geographer or botanist!
The problem first arises, of course, with the
novel. In the epic, and also in the truly epic
novel, the character derives from the action.
That is, the characters were embedded far
more immovably in the action because the
action, too, was far more of a piece. So how
do I come to insert even a digression on psychology? In ten years it can be superseded

1834/1856

and thereby outdated. But the weightiness of

the step, the responsibility of the turning toward God, compels the greatest conscientiousness. As does the nature of the adventure in the inductive picture of the world.
And that of the final love story. And that of
the hesitation.
Kitsch: Inadmissibly simplifying the task of
life in every situation. (Hence, too, the affiliation of certain kinds of politics with kitsch.)
Quite presumptuously: I ask to be read twice,
in parts and as a whole.
One of my principles: it does not matter
what, but how, one depicts. In the psychology chapters thats taken to the point of abuse. Hence the observation belongs (where?)
that today one does not describe the

1835/1856

automobile as a miracle but says: car, brand

Y, type X.
Moreover, in art one can also do the opposite
of everything.
What is brief in relation to the whole, because the appropriate length becomes evident, can be considered long, indeed perhaps
endless, if presented by itself. And the tempo
is determined only as the sequence unfolds.
***
About the chapters on the psychology of the
emotions: this is not psychology (in its ultimate intention), but description of the world.
During my work on it and under my hand
this book has become a historical novel; it
takes place twenty-five years ago! It has

1836/1856

always been a contemporary novel developed

out of the past, but now the span and tension
are very great; but still, what lies beneath the
surface, which is one of the chief objects of
representation, does not need to be laid significantly deeper.
If I should be reproached with going in for
too much reflection, thenwithout my wanting to go into the relationship between thinking and narratingtoday there is too little
reflection.
There are too many people in the world who
say exactly what must be thought and done
for me not to be seduced by the opposite.
Strict freedom.
It appears that much is superfluous, present
only for its own sake, in the first volume. It is

1837/1856

my view that narrated episodes can be superfluous and present only for their own
sake, but not ideas. In a composition I place
unpretentiousness above the so-called
wealth of ideas, and in the case of this book
there should be nothing superfluous. The
statements about the joining together of
emotions and ideas which this partial
volume contains permit me to establish that
hke this: The chief effect of a novel ought to
be directed at the emotions. Ideas are not to
be included in a novel for their own sake.
And, a particular difficulty, they cannot be
developed in the novel the way a thinker
would develop them; they are components
of a gestalt. And if this book succeeds, it will
be a gestalt, and the objections that it resembles a treatise, etc., will then be incomprehensible. The wealth of ideas is a part of
the wealth of emotions.
Noted to be mentioned:

1838/1856

Anachronisms in general, and particularly that the representation of the psychology of the emotions stands between that
time and today.
Satire getting ahead of itself, procession, possibly Lindner.
Excuse for theory: today we have to explain what we describe.
Where?
Too heavy. Unsolved task of mediating
instances.
For an expert, on the other hand, too
unfocused!
H. F. Amiel quotes von Csokor: There
is no rest for the spirit except in the absolute,
no rest for the feeling except in the infinite,
no rest for the soul other than in the divine!
This book is just as opposed to such responses as it is to materialism.

1839/1856

From a book that was a world success (S.

Salminen, Katrina, from the Swedish, Insel
Verlag S. 334-335):She pulled away from
him to the wall, but when he folded her in his
arms she did not resist. Only her soft, timid
gigghng sounded through the dark room.
When Gustave saw Serafia with the other village girls on the street, he looked at her full
of disquiet. No, no, it had all been in a
dream, it had never ever happened. The
whole night had been unreal. Yet a few days
later, when, late at night, he was passing by
Larssons farm, the unreal came to life again
and everything real became strange. He left
the road, went across the yard, opened the
door and stepped into the room. (A rather
idiotic, misshapen creature with lovely eyes,
exciting mouth, and voluptuous breast.)
If I could just accustom myself to this a
little, I could write such passages too. Its the
inception of a double world, of a double

1840/1856

personnarrated. But I dont want to. Any

talented person can carry on this tradition.
And so I have rather attempted the unenjoyable. Someone, sometime, must tie the final
knot in this endless thread.
This is, provisionally, still a matter of analyzing peaceful times, but the analysis of pathological times has its foundation here (and
some aspects of this will come out in what
follows).
What is boring for one person goes by too
quickly for another; the expanse of a book is
a relation between its actual fullness of detail
and the interests of the time.
***
Because a specific section, an adventure,
needs to be narrated extensively should not

1841/1856

make one forget that Ulrich was by nature

energetic and a man with fighting instincts.
[Quoted by Musil in French]: This feeling is regarded by the Germans as a virtue,
as an emanation of the godhead, as
something mystical. It is not vibrant, impetuous, jealous, tyrannical, as in the heart
of an Italian girl: it is deep and resembles illuminism.,, Stendhal, De Va-mour (p.
i49)(chapter 48), quoting an author of 1809
(Voyage en Au-triche par M. Cadet-Gassicourt). (Invented? I dont know.): So this
book of mine is a little German?
That I cannot say what this book is, but
rather what it is not
A novels major effect should be on the emotions. Ideas cant be present in it for their
own sake. Nor can theythis is a particular

1842/1856

difficulty be developed the way a thinker

would; they are parts of a Gestalt And if
this book succeeds, it will be Gestalt, and the
objections that it resembles a treatise and
the like will then be foolish. The richness of
ideas is part of the richness of feelings.
Ulrichs afterword, conclusion
Idea from mid-January 1942.
Thought about the worlds political situation. The great yellow-white problem. The
coming new epoch in cultural history. Chinas possible role. On a smaller scale, the
quarrel between Russia and the West. Hexners question, how do you imagine it happening in reality, cant be put off. Even the man
without qualities cant ignore it. But that
would be a volume of historical, philosophical, etc., essays, or the last of the volumes of
aphorisms.

1843/1856

Moreover, influenced by my renewed

interest in Dostoyevsky. Hastily noted the
impression in a note for my style. I would
like to write an essay about his journalism.
About its interpretation by Zdanow, about
Pan-Slavism, the Pushkin speech, etc. Before
the current background it yields ideas about
Russia that I have not even attempted to
think through.
This is not to be taken up in the second
part of Volume Two, although it is quite pertinent to it.
In this fashion concluding somehow
and (instead of or after A Kind of Conclusion) write an Afterword, concluding word,
of Ulrichs.
The Ulrich of today grown older, who
experiences the Second World War, and on
the basis of these experiences writes an epilogue to his story and my book. This makes
possible the union of my plans concerning

1844/1856

the aphorisms with this book. It also makes

it possible to consider the story and its value
for current and future reality.
To be harmonized: the romantic or even
Pirandellesque irony of the character above
the author.
The story of the characters, considered
historically.
Important: the argument with Lao-tsu,
which makes Ulrich, but also my task, comprehensible, carried out afterward by Ulrich.
Abdul Hasan Summun and Sufism. The story
of Agathe and Ulrich would have been more
impressive told as a story about him!

Translators
Afterword
Musils idiosyncratic prose style is unique in
German. It is a medium intended to directly
engage the readers emotions as well as his
thoughts in a search for the right life in the
midst of a crumbling social order. Musils
use of language is virtuosic, and language itself is one of his subjects: it is our vehicle for
relating to ourselves and the world and for
shaping and expressing both our moral sense
and our culture. But language is unstable:
No word means the same thing twice,
Agathe says in one place and the author in
another.

1846/1856

Language, then, is much more than the

vehicle of The Man Without Qualities; it is
the lever that has the potential to raise up
new worlds. This view of language has its
roots in Nietzsche, who broke up the classical German sentence along with the attitudes
behind it, and close parallels in Musils Austrian contemporaries Wittgenstein, Freud,
Rilke, Kafka, and Karl Kraus. Musils language is radically experimental: analytical
and essayistic, but at the same time permeated with powerful feelings, it is a vividly
metaphorical language designed to fuse precision and soul and to make die reader feel
the fusion. It is a unique achievement. This
translator often found himself comparing the
style of the novel with the ways in which color, form, and light are variously used in Impressionistic, Expressionistic, and Abstract
painting in an attempt to create in the viewer
an actual sense impression (including the
medium of the paint itself), which is seen as

1847/1856

somehow closer to truth than a writer simply

telling a story would be.
Musils writing is striking and challenging, not comfortable, and in the Modernist
vein makes few concessions to the reader,
who is expected to do some work. A translator usually looks around in his own language
for a model on which to base his translation,
so that readers will be able to relate the foreign work to something they are famihar
with. Leishman and Spender did this in
modeling the translation of Rilkes Duino
Elegies on the august tradition of the English
elegy, with the result that Rilkes great cycle
was domesticated (in every sense) in English.
Unfortunately, Rilke, Musils favorite poet,
was doing something far more radical, disruptive, and astonishing with language than
the Leishman-Spender model could encompass. But with Musilall of Musilone looks
in vain in English for any equivalent. Lacking
a model, the translator has to stick more

1848/1856

closely than he otherwise might to the original, every nuance of which was weighed
with great precision by the author. The
translators intention was to have the writing
startle the reader in English in the same way
it startles a reader in German.
Musil was an experimental writer who
was trained as a scientist (behavioral psychologist, mathematician, and engineer) and
widely read in psychology and philosophy, so
that his impressive literary style is not based
on a literary formation. He often writes on a
level of semi-abstraction that is meaningful
and focused in German but that only produces indigestion in English, the most ruthlessly concrete of languages.
While the novel is analytic and largely
essayistic, Musil devoted enormous attention
to his characters. He puts himself into their
minds: what would this person see in this
particular situation, how would he feel, she
respond, how would they talk at this

1849/1856

moment? These characters speak in their individual voices of background, social class,
and profession as well as of personality and
mood, and all their perceptions are encapsulated within their individual languages, their
idiolects, without the characters themselves
being aware of it (as Musil makes the reader
aware). Stumm talks like a general in the
Austrian army he struggles to transcend; Fischel talks like a self-made businessman;
Rachel talks like an uneducated servant girl
with delicate feelings who yearns for higher
things. Count Leinsdorf, the feudal aristocrat as influential politician, looks at the
modern world through medieval eyes. The
sex murderer Moosbrugger has a quite astonishing relation to language, one of the
most subtle ventriloquistic effects in the entire novel. This is a function of his entire
presentation, but for example the spin on
Moosbruggers
ingenious
distinction
between Weib (a loose woman) and Frau (a

1850/1856

woman one can respect) is beyond translation, rooted as it is in both his sick imagination and the cultural values of his time; and
when he refers to Rachels breasts as Dinger
(those things), he is indicating his own inabilitywhich also has cultural overtonesto
confront the female body.
The narrators essayistic language (that
is, when he is speaking in his own voice),
again differs from the characters, as the
characters language differs from individual
to individual. The conflicts and misunderstandings on the level of language render
vividly the ways in which the conflicted and
dying culture of the old Austrian Empire,
Kakania, had become in every sense a
Babel.
As a writer, Musil was an obsessive perfectionist and polisher, and his words have a
poetic concision and a freight of nuances that
must be the despair of any translator. His
sentences
are
rhythmic
but
often

1851/1856

syntactically convoluted, reflecting the old

Austrian culture, itself a huge catalog of infinitely nuanced gradations, that this novel
memorializes with wit and wonder. It is
simply not possible to render all these subdeties in English. There is also the problem
of anachronism: although the novel opens in
1913, Musil began working on it in earnest
only after World War I, and he was still writing when he died, in exile, in the middle of
World War II. So The Man Without Qualities
is only ostensibly limited by its given year of
1913-1914. Writing after the collapse of the
Austrian Empire in 1918 and through the
Nazi period and World War II, Musil took
subde but full advantage of anachronisms of
reference and language in order to broaden
his canvas.
A great help in translating was the discovery that Musil read his writing over
aloud. Once the complex rhythms of this
prose were understood as spoken rhythms,

1852/1856

in spite of the analytic and metaphoric incisiveness, it was possible to more closely approximate the original, whose hallmark in
the polished sections is the cadence of
clauses set off by semicolons. (Musil is the
master of the semicolon!) Paying close attention to the rhythm of Musils German helped
capture both the music and the unremitting
sense of urgency that mark the original.
The material in Part 2 of From the
Posthumous Papers presented different
problems. It consists largely of unpolished
drafts and fragments encompassing a wide
range, from Musils cryptic notes to himself
to fairly worked out scenes. Care had to be
taken not to brush up inadequacies and inconsistencies but to keep a sense of the relative finish of the different passages, while at
the same time making these fragments comprehensible to the reader. There were the
mundane and not quite minor problems that
always bedevil the translator, exemplified in

1853/1856

Musils extraordinarily plastic use of the pronoun es (it), which darts in all sorts of directions, often in flagrant disregard of the rules
governing its use. Musil is fond of the term
unheimlich, which is difficult to render in
English; something that gives you a shiver is
unheimlich, hence uncanny, haunted, haunting, spooky, weirdnone of which, however,
capture the immediacy of the German word
in its literary use. (It also has a casual and
vague colloquial usage.) Musils most noticeable tic is the overuse of the phrase in diesem
Augenblick (at this moment), although it follows logically from his insistence on presenting his characters as living in a succession of
particular moments, and this succession of
moments consequendy becomes at least the
de facto organizing principle of the novel.
There is also his use of the pronoun man,
which was carefully kept, for the most part,
as one in English, although its usual translation would be you or we or a passive

1854/1856

construction. Musil uses man as a distancing

device, to keep his narrator detached from
the plane of the characters. This narrator remains as the experimental moralist above
the characters, including his protagonist,
Ulrich.
I am grateful to many people for their
assistance with the swarm of questions that
arose in the course of my work. I would like
to thank Dagmar Leupold for her patience in
helping disentangle many impenetrabilities
of Musils language. I also owe a debt to the
cordial and tireless faculty and staff of the
Musil Research Institute at the University of
Saarbriicken for their help with textual
cruxes, as well as to Musils German editor,
Professor Adolf Frise, for elucidating some
places in the German edition that were not
clear to me. Not least, I would like to thank
my colleagues in the German, psychology,
and philosophy departments at the Graduate
School of the City University of New York,

1855/1856

whom I have often pestered in tracking down

a word, terminology, or notion in their disciplines that Musil had appropriated for his
purposes.
BURTON PIKE

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