Kate Langenburg/A&E Groove

Welp, just knocked off another book this morning. Of course, this one is by Hermann Hesse, one of the best writers in literature. The Journey to the East was another one of those books that didn’t leave me disappointed.

It all starts with the main character, H.H., who is a part of the League, a group of known and unknown musicians, writers, artists, and whathaveyous. They are making a journey to the east on foot so that each of them can somehow achieve one life goal. H, while on his quest, decides that he will document the story of their travels without giving away any of the League’s innermost secrets.

During their travels together, they all meet a servant named Leo, who H is taken with right away. He feels there is something more to this character other than just his servant appearance. One day Leo goes missing and H gets so distraught he abandons the journey to the east under the assumption that all others in League have also done so.

The rest of his life is spent trying to write his book about the League and he never gets anywhere with his writing. After some time, he learns of where Leo lives and goes to visit him. It turns out to be a disappointment for him because Leo doesn’t recognize him. However, the next day, Leo visits H at his house and summons him on a trek to the League.

The end of the book is most poignant — Leo turns out to the President of the League, not a servant, and H is brought to trial before them for leaving. H is happy by this news, as it means the League is still in membership and they invite him back in, even though they consider him an abandoner. The rest of the book deals with H’s own self discovery as a person so he can finally be at peace.

This book has a lot of valuable self realization messages in it: Don’t judge a book by its cover. The road to self discovery may not always be the path you expect. Take a minute to open your eyes and be aware of things around you. Your way may not be the only way.

And if you read and enjoy this book, you will love his most famous novel Siddhartha.

Vivimos bajo formas y apariencias

y solo cuando sufrimos intuimos

el verdadero e inmutable ser

del que nos hablan oscuros sueños

Celebramos el engaño y el fracaso

somos como ciegos sin guía,

buscamos en vano,en el tiempo y el espacio

lo que sòlo en la eternidad puede encontrarse

Esperamos la salvación y la curación

en dones soñados incórporeos,

ya que somos dioses y tenemos parte

en el origen primero de la creación.

Hermann Hesse

She was glad of presents, however, and when I gave her, perhaps, a new little purse of red lacquered leather there might be two or three gold pieces inside it. As a matter of fact, she laughed at me over the red purse. It was charming, but a bargain, and no longer in fashion. In these matters, about which up to that time I was as little learned as in any language of the Eskimos, I learned a great deal from Maria. Before all else I learned that these playthings were not mere idle trifles invented by manufacturers and dealers for the purposes of gain. They were, on the contrary, a little or, rather, a big world, authoritative and beautiful, many sided, containing a multiplicity of things all of which had the one and only aim of serving love, refining the senses, giving life to the dead world around us, endowing it in a magical way with new instruments of love, from powder and scent to the dancing show, from ring to cigarette case, from waist-buckle to handbag. This bag was no bag, this purse no purse, flowers no flowers, the fan no fan. All were the plastic material of love, of magic and delight. Each was a messenger, a smuggler, a weapon, a battle cry.

Herman Hesse, Steppenwolf

Mag Menschenkampf und Menschenhast

In Wilden Kreisen ringen,

Will jeden Abend doch

Der stille Mond als treuer Gast

Uns seinen Frieden bringen.

Und jeden Frühling will der See

Im Spiegel junge Blüten wiegen,

Und wenn es kahl und Winter wird,

So kommt der licht kühle Schnee,

Und wenn einst alle unsre Hast

Und unser Glücksverlangen

Vertobt hat und im Boden schläft,

Kommt doch der Mond, der treue Gast,

Den alten Weg gegangen.

(Hermann Hesse)

Jeder von uns ist nur ein Mensch, nur ein Versuch, ein Unterwegs. Er sollte aber dorthin unterwegs sein, wo das Vollkommene ist, er soll ins Zentrum streben, nicht an die Peripherie.

(Quelle: Hesse, Hermann Karl (1971): Das Glasperlenspiel. Berlin, 87)

Reformulierung

Once again, this morning my city was shrouded in dense fog. It’s quite common here, but this time I took some pics with my phone. Here they are:

Posting this reminded me of one of my first attempts at translation. In my German textbook of years long gone by, while I was at the English Language School in Burgas, there was a poem by Hermann Hesse titled “Im Nebel.” I decided to translate it into English so that I could practice both languages. I don’t have the translation any more; I remember I was proud of it at the time and even showed it to my German teacher, whose English unfortunately wasn’t good enough to critique it. I’m impressed that, bar one or two words, I could still understand the German in the poem. Well, I admit it’s not very hard German; the longest word is unentrinnbar of only 13 letters. I’ve put the poem after the break. The poem itself still speaks to me in wistful tones and an affecting lilting rhythm.

Incidentally, the poem comprises the libretto of the 5th movement of Penderecki’s Symphony 8, as Wikipedia helpfully informs.

Incidentally squared, the same German textbook also acquainted me with Peter Handke. I read a fascinating extract of his play Kaspar about Kaspar Hauser. It took me several years of looking, until I finally found a used copy of some Handke’s works in Powell’s. Such was my dedication. They were well worth the efforts.

Im Nebel

Seltsam, im Nebel zu wandern!
Einsam ist jeder Busch und Stein,
Kein Baum sieht den andern,
Jeder ist allein.

Voll Freunden war mir die Welt,
Als noch mein Leben licht war;
Nun, da der Nebel fällt,
Ist keiner mehr sichtbar.

Wahrlich, keiner ist weise,
Der nicht das Dunkel kennt,
Das unentrinnbar und leise
Von allen ihn trennt.

Seltsam, im Nebel zu wandern!
Leben ist Einsamsein.
Kein Mensch kennt den andern,
Jeder ist allein.

Here are two links with translations.

1. The first one has a decent literal translation, but doesn’t have the same rhythm, the same mystical tone.
2. The second one provides two translations, which preserve the rhyming pattern. I’m torn between the two. I really like translating the same word seltsam, as both “wondrous” and “strange.” The dictionary seems to indicate that the word means just “strange, odd, peculiar,” but wondrous is at least in same nebula of meaning. (ha! punny!) At the same time, I feel it is important to preserve the symmetry in the German original. However, at times I find the English in his translation strained and somewhat unnatural.

Das Lieb ich, wenn draußen der Regen

Durch triefende Bäume fegt,

Wenn der Wind mit peitschenden Schlägen

Durch verwehte Herbstgärten fegt.

Ich liebe die schweren Nächte,

Wenn über der dunklen Welt

einer schwarzen Nachtgöttin Rechte

Das Füllhorn der Träume hält.

Wenn ein leises, schwankes Singen

Wie ein verschämtes Gebet

Von den zukünftigsten Dingen

Durch meine Seele geht.

Dann mag der Alltag bringen

Seine düsteren Sorgen herein;-

Ich will ihn zwingen, zwingen

Und frei und Sieger sein.

(Hermann Hesse)

La mia fervente bocca nuovamente incontrare vuole
le tue labbra che baciando mi benedicono,
le tue dita care voglio tenere
e giocando congiungerle con le mie dita,
saziare il mio assetato sguardo col tuo,
avvolgere il mio capo nei tuoi folti capelli,
con le mie membra giovani e sempre sveglio voglio
rispondere a ogni movimento delle tue membra
e da sempre nuovi fuochi d’amore
rinnovare mille volte la tua bellezza,
finché senza desideri salutiamo il giorno e la notte,
l’oggi e l’ieri come fratelli amati
finché camminiamo sopra ogni fare e ogni agire
come raggianti in una pace completa.

(Hermann Hesse)

One of my favourite Hermann Hesse’s books is ‘Narcissus and Goldmund‘ – the thinker versus the artist. Friends whose paths part … but years later circumstances bring together again. Both the artist and the thinker in search of themselves in different ways. A writing that relates to me in some profound way – the misleading names of the protagonists, the dualism all throughout the book… the search.

I keep coming back to the saying of the Guardian’s legendary editor C.P. Scott and his words as I love the simple manner in which it defines the job of a journalist: Comment is free, but facts are sacred. The fact is not a matter of interpretation. It makes no difference to the fact whether you face it or you avoid it; the fact is just the fact. This post is dedicated to a simple man who lives with the fact.

My 88-year-old uncle, K.C. Tewari, has limitless attention, not a single problem and a face that conveys without a word immense love, understanding and concern. He is the husband of my mother’s eldest and only sister. His life has been quite eventful; six children, 3 boys, 3 girls, all of them married and all having growing up children. The eldest son is about 58. My uncle had a pretty senior government job, and all his children were married after he retired. He is not one of those old men who get together in the park and discuss a lot of things, he is quite happy on his own. He neither seeks company nor does he avoid it. Everyone faces the fact, one has to; but to live with it is quite another matter.

I have seen only one in my life. To quote a 20th century philosopher, “Is there a basic duality at the very core or, does duality arise only when the mind moves away from ‘what is’?” You have pain in your stomach, that is the fact, and the process of thought that there was no pain yesterday or will not be tomorrow is duality. My uncle is always with ‘what is’. I admire him, and on very cold and stormy days I just go and sit by his side for a while, his warmth is enough to heal. I don’t have what he has and I don’t even try because any comparison is an even bigger movement away from the fact.

Perhaps that is the reason that he has never carried any problem in his life despite having a multitude of them over the years. When death and tragedy and the inevitable suffering that most people get caught in came to his doorstep and in the lives of his children then that was the fact. When all that passed and the Sun came out on a bright new day then that became the reality. You can’t fight with him because he is beyond conflict and it’s not possible to drag him into one. It is tough to be with the only thing that exists, which is this moment in which you might be rich or poor, happy or miserable, lonely or ‘absolutely whole and alone’ like my uncle.

I am told that he did his work with a lot of care and he was a man of few words. He now speaks a little more than when he was young. Sometimes you can see him looking at the dictionary because he might have seen a new word in the newspaper. He loves to watch football. His handwriting is so beautiful and so clear, that each and every alphabet is worth looking at. And there is a lot of his written work available as after he retired and even before it there was always someone or the other that he was teaching.

He made all the college notes of his youngest daughter and then must be for five or six grandchildren after that. Before he had retired he would teach Hemraj; a servant in the house who was very interested in getting educated. Hemraj cleared his 12th standard, and I don’t know how many man hours my uncle devoted everyday after work for more than six years. Hemraj now runs a successful motor repair shop in my hometown of Mandi; he always comes to meet whenever my uncle is visiting. My uncle must be sitting in his house right now with ‘what is’. You can talk about the past with him; he has a great memory it’s just that he is not stuck there.

He was close to dying twice, but when he survived there was no thinking of that time because he was all attentive to the now. According to him there is no problem with the fact; while there are all sorts of problems in escaping it. He is a man of action and needs no activity. My uncle is very frugal with money but is blessed with the generosity of the heart. And at 88 he takes care of quite a lot.

As such things cannot be inherited the children have the DNA but not even one of the qualities that he has in abundance. He is full of life; and has a dignity that is so easily visible yet difficult to describe as it is not linked to a position, title or any tangible material accumulations. He must have seen me as an infant but my memory of him goes back to when I must have been six or seven years old. The pleasure of his regular company started when I began my first job in Delhi and lived in my uncle’s home initially. It was home not just to me but for many of my journalist friends in the initial years.

The cover of security had to be broken and the temptations of the world at 22 had a gravitational pull that I never thought was worth resisting. So first with friends and then alone slowly I settled in the city and would meet my uncle with irregular regularity. One day and I don’t remember when; just like the last scene of the movie The Sixth Sense my memory of him went all the way back after a thought crossed my mind.

My uncle was never caught in the process of becoming and all the strife that goes with it; he always had the joy of simple being. Some things cannot be planned, they just happen. Becoming can never know being; becoming is psychological effort and being is effortless. A man is either simple or not and there is no way of becoming simple. The only possibility here is to realise one’s complexity and the mind may stumble upon the simplicity that takes all the worries of life away.

He is a wise man and, therefore, many a times just says a word or two to change the course of a life he cares for if it is going sideways. More than that my uncle lets everyone go his or her way and never interferes as he probably understands what the Hermann Hesse novel Siddhartha talks about: Knowledge can be transferred but wisdom is incommunicable. He doesn’t read fiction or non-fiction so the sentence for him is a statement I wrote as it seems to be true in his case.

If anyone has the desire to see a man who is completely unscarred by 88-years of life, I can arrange for that. My only request is just observe simply without making him feel strange, he is rare but otherwise normal; I am pretty sure you will have a good time if you are one of those who love the facts of life.

Andreas Thalmayr ist vermutlich das bekannteste der Enzensbergerschen Pseudonyme, und am ehesten wird es mit seiner erfolgreichen Anthologie «Das Wasserzeichen der Poesie» (1985) in Verbindung gebracht. Andreas Thalmayr ist auch der Verfasser von «Lyrik nervt» (2004), im Untertitel «Erste Hilfe für gestresste Leser», und der sehr unterhaltsamen kleinen Schrift «Heraus mit der Sprache» (2005), in welcher, nun ja: Hans Magnus Enzensberger eine Reihe von klugen und oft auch ernüchternden Bemerkungen zur Sprache macht, zur deutschen vor allem. Andreas Thalmayr hat auch einmal eine «Kleine Kulturgeschichte in Schüttelreimen» publiziert: «Es schwärmten kaum für Schweinehirten / die Damen, die um Heine schwirrten.» Oder: «Man sagt sich: Ich vergesse halt, / wie viel mir Hermann Hesse galt.» Oder: «Ob’s Péter Esterházy störte, / wenn seinen Hohn die Stasi hörte?». In «Das Wasserzeichen der Poesie» lässt Thalmayr auch einen gewissen Serenus M. Brezengang als Autor und Übersetzer mitarbeiten. Der Name, ein Anagramm, steht hier für experimentelle Versuche an Gedichten.

Unter dem Namen Elisabeth Ambras ist der Autor sogar Autorin geworden. Warum sie unter Pseudonym schreibt, begründet sie gleich selbst: «Mein Mann möchte, dass ich auf etwas Rücksicht nehme, das er seine <gesellschaftliche Position> nennt. Ich erfülle diese Bitte gern, wenngleich ich nicht sicher bin, was er damit meint. Literatur als Beruf liegt mir fern. Ich bin Amateurin und schreibe zu meinem eigenen Vergnügen, meinem eigenen Verdruss. Die meisten Schriftsteller-Biografien klingen ohnehin so, als wären sie erfunden. [. . .] Kaum jemand glaubt einem die reine Wahrheit − ein Argwohn, den ich teile. Beim Schreiben eines Lebenslaufes hätte ich bald das Gefühl, ich wäre in eine Geschichte von E. A. geraten. Dies ist ein Los, welches ich mir ersparen möchte.» Das Buch, das sie 1992 publiziert hat, heisst «Fernsteuerung» und verspricht im Untertitel «Bettgeschichten» − was die Vorsicht des Gatten wohl ausreichend erklärt. Linda Quilt ist eine weitere Autorin, die selten schreibt; von ihr stammt ein Kinderbuch, «Schauderhafte Wunderkinder» (2006). Mrs. Quilt schreibt auf Englisch, ihr Buch aber gibt es nur auf Deutsch (übertragen von Reinhard Kaiser, einem ausgewiesenen Übersetzer). Wer ist denn diese Autorin? Auch Linda Quilt hat eine Biografie, wie alle, die schreiben. Die diesbezüglichen Angaben allerdings sind umständehalber eher knapp: «Linda Quilt ist dem Vernehmen nach um 1950 in einem kleinen Ort nahe Stratford-upon-Avon geboren, der seit ebendieser Zeit auf mysteriöse Weise von der englischen Landkarte verschwunden ist.»

«Bisher keine Veröffentlichungen (ausser Diplomarbeit)» heisst es in einem anderen Fall, bei den biografischen Angaben zu einem gewissen Giorgio Pellizzi. 1934 in Sizilien geboren, studierte Germanistik und Nationalökonomie in Turin und Köln: «Aktiv an der italienischen Studentenbewegung teilgenommen. Arbeitet augenblicklich an einer Untersuchung über die multinationalen Konzerne und lebt zur Zeit in Mailand und Amsterdam.» Der angebliche Pellizzi hat 1974 den Text zu einem Comic geschrieben, der von dem damals skandalumwitterten Bernie Cornfeld handelt, «Bernie der Milliardenflipper». Cornfeld betrieb seinerzeit, noch etwas harmloser als in den letzten Jahren der Börsenguru Madoff, ein Investmentunternehmen, «IOS», das einige wenige Menschen sehr reich und viele sehr arm machte.

Die Liste der Pseudonyme liesse sich fortsetzen. Etwa mit Benedikt Pfaff: Der Name steht unter einigen Übersetzungen, von Texten von Donald Barthelme oder Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Pfaff ist dem Vernehmen nach ein Spitzname des Autors. Oder Trevisa Buddensiek, auch das ein kurzzeitig genutztes Pseudonym von Enzensberger. Und dann bleiben alle die, die wir nicht kennen, weshalb wir auch nie recht wissen werden, was alles dieser Autor denn eigentlich geschrieben hat − Tarnnamen dienen ja zur Tarnung. Und die meisten Schriftsteller-Biografien, hiess es doch bei Elisabeth Ambras, klingen ohnehin so, als wären sie erfunden. / Martin Zingg, NZZ 11.11.

Hermann Hesse ci pone, attraverso questo libro, in una reltà diversa… in una ricerca continua e sfrenata, verso qualcosa che solo in pochi sono riusciti a cogliere. Siddharta, appunto, è il protagonista di questo romanzo, un racconto pieno di pensieri profondi, di dottrine da seguire… una ricerca verso il proprio io e verso una pace interiore che gli permetta di vivere interamente la propria vita!

Questo è il viaggio che intraprende il giovane Siddharta, un viaggio lungo e faticoso, pieno di emozioni e riflessioni, un viaggio lontano dai nostri tempi, immerso in un’India antica, ma che, allo stesso tempo, ci fa riflettere sulle cose anche più banali che ci sfuggono nella nostra vita troppo frenetica.

Un libro filosofico, che a primo impatto può sembrare noioso, ma ci regala una lettura facile e scorrevole, anche se con qualche pensiero un po’ più complesso.

Nadina Grahic

Questo romanzo narra di un ragazzo, successivamente adulto e infine anziano, di nome Siddharta; da qui il titolo. Ripercorre tutta la sua vita alla ricerca della felicità e della tranquillità spirituale.

È un romanzo molto interessante e significativo per chiunque lo legga poiché parla di un viaggio spirituale e di un viaggio nella realtà; questi due aspetti viaggiano in parallelo per tutto il racconto. A forza di cercare la felicità il protagonista arriva ad un punto che trova la tristezza e la desolazione più assoluta. È questo che ci fa riflettere perché si arriva ad un certo punto che tutte le cose in cui credeva,  tutte le convinzioni, tutto ad un tratto spariscono, si sente sperduto ed è costretto a rimettersi di nuovo alla ricerca di se stesso; questo ci fa capire che non esiste una felicità assoluta. Anche le piccole cose possono farti provare emozioni simili.

Questo ibro è molto avvincente ed emozionante, da leggere tutto d’un fiato.

Susanna Garis

Wir sind neugirig auf Südamerika, auf unentdeckte Buchten der Südsee, auf die Pole der Erde, auf das Verstehen der Winde, Ströme, Blitze, Lawinen – aber wir sind noch unendlich viel neugieriger auf den Tod, auf das letzte und kühnste Erlebnis unseres Darseins. Denn wir glauben zu wissen, daß von allen Erkenntnissen und Erlebnisse nur die wohlverdient und befriedigend sein können, um die wir gern das Leben hingeben.

Aus: “Reiselust”, 1910

(Hermann Hesse)

In der F.A.Z.-Hörprobe bisher: Brecht, Artmann, Ausländer, Benn, Hesse, Sachs und nun Bernhard. “Kurios”? Nunja. Jedenfalls hörenswert.

Über hundert der wichtigsten deutschen Dichterinnen und Dichter aus den letzten hundert Jahren werden in der Edition „Lyrikstimmen“ in Originalaufnahmen zusammengeführt und von ihren Verfassern, je nach Temperament, vorgetragen, abgelesen, aufgesagt, hingesemmelt und geschrien. Für die F.A.Z.-Hörprobe haben wir einige kuriose Beispiele ausgewählt.

Bei den Recherchen für diese Edition ergab sich in den Archiven ein unerwarteter Fund: Zwei Vorträge von Thomas Bernhard aus dem Jahr 1960 beim ORF. Es sind offenbar nicht nur die einzigen Lyrikaufnahmen des Autors, sondern es handelt sich bei „Bibelszenen“ und „Geflüster“ auch um bisher unveröffentlichte Bernhard-Texte. Auch die Rezitation selbst mag überraschen. Sie ist recht konventionell, im traditionellen Burgtheater-Sound gehalten.

.
“Have you also learned that secret from the river; that there is no
such thing as time?”
.
That the river is everywhere at the same time, at the source and at
the mouth, at the waterfall, at the ferry, at the current, in the
ocean and in the mountains, everywhere and that the present only
exists for it, not the shadow of the past nor the shadow of the
future.
.

~ Herman Hesse

.

.
.
What you call passion is not spiritual force, but friction between the

soul and the outside world. Where passion dominates, that does not

signify the presence of greater desire and ambition, but rather the

misdirection of these qualities toward an isolated and false goal, with

a consequent tension and sultriness in the atmosphere. Those who direct

the maximum force of their desires toward the centre, toward true being,

toward perfection, seem quieter than the passionate souls because the

flame of their fervour cannot always be seen. In argument, for example,

they will not shout and wave their arms. But I assure you, they are

nevertheless burning with subdued fires.
…
~ Hermann Hesse,  from  ’The Glass Bead Game’

.

Michael Krüger, Chef des Hanser Verlags, fragt: “Warum traut man jeder noch so langweiligen Prosa mehr zu als einem Gedicht, das oft in zehn kurzen Zeilen für eine Sekunde den Himmel aufreißt?”
Er fragt: “Ist unsere Welt so prosaisch geworden, so auf die Aussage fixiert, dass der hohe Ton, auf den die Poesie gestimmt ist, wie eine Zumutung wirkt?”
Krüger ist Mitherausgeber einer Bibliothek für die Ohren, in der Lyrik mehr denn je die Stimme ihrer Dichter hat: 122 Autorinnen und Autoren aus 100 Jahren lesen eigene (insgesamt 420) Gedichte vor.

Über die Dichterstimmen:

Unauffällig liest Bernhard. Paul Celan singt fast. Karl Kraus singt wirklich (“Das Lied von der Presse”). Ingeborg Bachmann haucht. Hermann Hesse vibriert. Anton Wildgans bebt. Franz Werfel nimmt sich wichtiger als Kurt Schwitters. Benn ist sehr berlinerisch, Friederike Mayröcker und Elfriede Gerstl haben Wien im Zungenschlag. / Kurier 8.11.

Comme si je n’avais pas assez de pain sur la planche comme ça, je profite de ma journée de congé (qui se termine à 16h) pour m’adonner à la lecture pour le plaisir.

Mais oui, en plus des poésies complètes de Villon à lire, d’une énigme syntaxique à résoudre, de matière syntaxique à comprendre et de matière syntaxique à apprendre à aimer afin de pouvoir m’y attarder plus de deux minutes sans rager, j’ai décidé de commencer la lecture d’un roman (tout petit, minuscule) de Herman Hesse, Siddhartha.

 j’ai découvert Herman Hesse durant mes études collégiales. Une des lectures imposées de mon cours sur le roman était Narcisse et Goldmund.  Je m’en souviens encore parce que premièrement, ça ne fait pas très longtemps et aussi parce que le travail que j’ai rédigé sur ce roman m’avait donné une bonne dose de sueurs froides!

Mais bon, depuis, j’ai fait la paix avec Hermann Hesse. 

Bon, toute cette histoire longue pour vous dire que je vous recommande chaudement la lecture de ce petit bouquin. L’auteur aborde encore une fois le thème de la spiritualité. Il nous présente un personnage en quête spirituelle, qui cherche le moyen de parvenir au bout de cette quête, à atteindre un état absolu.  Se trouve-il dans la religion? Dans le refus de la réalité? Dans le jeune? Le sacrifice?

Pour le savoir… lisez SIDDHARTHA!

Ne serait-ce pas merveilleux de pouvoir atteindre cet état de plénitude en quatre étapes (ou paiements) faciles?

Non, bien sûr que non.

Mouais…

Je crois que je n’ai plus rien à dire sur le sujet…

Sometimes, when a bird cries out,
Or the wind sweeps through a tree,
Or a dog howls in a far off farm,
I hold still and listen for a long time.
…
My soul turns and goes back to the place
Where, a thousand forgotten years ago,
The bird and the blowing wind
Were like me, and were my brothers.
…
My soul turns into a tree,
and an animal, and a cloud bank.
Then changed and odd it comes home
And asks me questions. What should I reply?
…
~ Hermann Hesse

November

Unser Leben ist kurz, und bald werden wir auf der anderen Seite sein, und wenn wir auch über dies Jenseits nichts wissen, so haben wir doch die Erfahrung gemacht, daß ein Toter uns vielmal lebendiger, lieber und näher sein kann als alle Lebenden um uns her und darin ist die natürliche Herzensbeziehung zum Drüben wohl begründet.

(Aus einem Brief vom 17.5.1947 an Grete Gundert)

Hermann Hesse

“FROM ABRAXAS TO JESUS”
By Eric John Sawyer

“The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born first must destroy a world. The bird flies to God. The God’s name is Abraxas” (Hermann Hesse)

A grayish green fungus covers the fireplace and the chairs and tables in this room. Santana’s “Borboletta”, is turning beneath the stylus as three men share a reefer and talk softly to each other in unknown tongues.

It is 1974, I think.

“Have you listened to this album ?” the older man says as he holds up the cover.

Peering through the mist of that moment, I can see the name Richard Strauss. The complex musical structures stimulated our minds bringing out a rich flow of thoughts.

Brutal honesty is my Achilles heel and hallucinogenic absorption reduces the options for deceit. I could flash the entire tale of my youth in a flow of seemingly irrelevant, unconnected events, but when I would smoke the herb, the point of existence became very precise and the moment became intensely relevant to the point of panic.

The brotherhood of man may be a fallacy, but it also may be the truth. Lived within the shell of my own experience, there is a commonality that is hard to ignore. Disciples of one another, the false one is not easily noticeable, for we are of one blood and we all share in this image of God.

I blew upon the cover of a book called “Demian” by Hermann Hesse.

“Do you want to borrow it ?” asked the older man.

(…read more…)

Den tyske forfatter Hermann Hesse (1877 – 1962) var på det nærmere en guru blandt hippier og de såkaldte blomsterbørn i 1960′erne og 1970′erne. Han var især kendt for sine fantastiske romaner Siddharta, Steppeulven og Glasperlespillet.

Jeg er faldet over et lille digt, som jeg synes, er fantastisk godt og egentlig udsiger alt, hvad der er nødvendigt…

Når du har læst – og forstået – digtet, vil du måske spørge mig, hvorfor jeg da stadig køber bøger…? Og hvorfor jeg stadig læser dem…?

Jo, ser du: Jeg bruger også en stige, når jeg skal op på loftet. Dertil er den absolut nødvendig, men derefter er den ikke længere påkrævet. Tværtimod, da vil den kun være mig i vejen…

Hermann Hesse: Bücher

Alle Bücher dieser Welt
Bringen dir kein Glück,
Doch sie weisen dich geheim
In dich selbst zurück.

Dort ist alles, was du brauchst,
Sonne, Stern und Mond,
Denn das Licht, danach du fragst,
In dir selber wohnt.

Weisheit, die du lang gesucht
In den Bücherein,
Leuchtet jetzt aus jedem Blatt —
Denn nun ist sie dein.

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Dieses Zitat habe ich auf einem Lesezeichen entdeckt und ich denke es passt zumindest zu uns Bücherwürmern.
Das Zitat stammt von Hermann Hesse (1877-1962). Er erhielt 1946 den Nobelpreis für Literatur.

„Ein Haus ohne Bücher ist arm,
auch wenn schöne Teppiche seinen Boden
und kostbare Tapeten und Bilder
die Wände bedecken.”