Und jetzt richtig:

Akıl ve mantık öyle istiyor diye yaşam, ne sevinçler ne de üzüntüler buyur edip sunar bize. Ama aklımızın sultası altına soktuk mu, ‘ruhsal esintilerimizin’ değerinin, yaşamının ve anlamının canına okuyabiliriz. Bunu bize en iyi gösterebilecek, sevgidir. Şimdiye kadar akıldan, iradeden yola çıkarak kim sevmiştir?

Hayır, sevgi acıyla yaşanır…

Ama ne kadar özveriyle yaşanırsa, o kadar güçlü kılar bizi…

Hermann Hesse, “Sevgi Üzerine”
Afa Yayınları, İstanbul, 2000.

Contro le infamie della vita le armi migliori sono: la forza d’animo, la tenacia e la pazienza. La forza d’animo irrobustisce, la tenacia diverte e la pazienza dà pace.
– Hermann Hesse

Vorrei avere ancora la pazienza di avere pazienza…Ma non ce l’ho più…

Vorrei pensare ancora che essere tenace, forte d’animo, come ieri mi ha detto M.  che sono stata, possa essere una soluzione per salvaguardarmi, anche a tempo determinato.

Ma non è più così.

Sono satura, satura di giustificare e di dare spiegazioni, satura di pensare e di sopportare, satura di dover combattere dopo 28 anni sempre con gli stessi fantasmi, che si ripetono in questa casa continuamente, sempre sotto forme diverse.

La giornata di ieri penso sia stata una delle più devastanti per me, violenza fisica e violenza psicologica specialmente quando te le porti dietro fin da bambina, riappaiono ancora più esorbitanti quando si riverificano dopo tutto questo tempo, con una forma esplosiva e disastrosa, e disastrante.

Ma ancora una volta posso pensare di essere stata forte, di aver fatto fronte a questa cosa e di esserci passata e di aver fatto in modo che passasse, in un modo o nell’altro.

Certo non si è risolto nulla e stiamo tutti peggio di prima, ma almeno QUEL momento è passato.

Ed ho avuto la forza di dirmi: “che cazzo te ne stai a fare a casa, a piangere e rivangare continuamente gli stessi momenti e a croggiolarti nella tristezza, fai quello che avresti dovuto fare qualche ora fa…”

E così mi sono fatta una doccia, mi sono vestita di corsa, e mi sono infilata in macchina, e fortunatamente posso dire di aver fatto bene, N. mi aveva scritto “ja vieni che ti distrai” e così è stato Per un buon 60%

A volte si dice il “Caso”…ma come si fa a crederci?

Comunque…

La verità è che poi torni a casa e la tensione è sempre la stessa, le facce ” a peste” sono sempre le stesse, i silenzi o le urla sono sempre gli stessi. Non è cambiato molto in quelle ore che non c’eri, ma almeno torni di notte, quando tutti dormono, e forse puoi dormire anche tu (ma ci sono riuscita poco…)

Non capisco perchè la terapia psicologica viene vista con così tanti pregiudizi…

Se fa male la testa si è abituati a impasticcarsi come pazzi, se viene la febbre idem, sciroppini vari, se viene il diabete ci si cura, mentre se il problema è di natura psicologica nessuno ammette di averlo, anzi, lo nega e lo prende pure come offesa…

Penso sia una forma di autonegazione verso se stessi, è più facile pensare che tutti gli altri ce l’hanno con te e che tu hai ragione che pensare “cazzo, ma forse il problema sono anche io, forse dovrei fare qualcosa per far star meglio me e gli altri che mi circondano, a cui voglio bene, e che invece tratto a volte come fossero i miei peggiori nemici, colpendoli fisicamente e soprattutto psichicamente di continuo, senza tregua”

Tutte le verità passano attraverso tre stadi. Primo: vengono ridicolizzate; secondo: vengono violentemente contestate; terzo: vengono accettate dandole come evidenti.
– Arthur Schopenhauer

Ci credo molto in questa frase.

E spero che possa essere veritiera anche per questo.

Spero di poter vivere una vita con ostacoli certo, la vita te ne mette davanti sempre centinaia, anche grossi,  ma in pace con me stessa, con il cervello meno “ipersinaptico” per sforzarsi di trovare soluzioni che non esistono a problemi che ci massacrano.

Tanto se la soluzione non c’è, o non dipende da noi, non è che si possa fare molto…

Ma ci sono momenti in cui se ti guardi da fuori, e fai un click, una fotografia di quel momento, di quello che sta accadendo, pensi che sia quasi impossibile che sta accadendo a te. Sono cose che si sentono dire agli altri, sono racconti che passano di bocca in bocca ma non può essere che stia accadendo proprio a te.

Sono trame di film, sono storielle inventate per far scena e avere qualcosa da raccontare, ed invece sta succedendo proprio a te, e in quel momento ti congeli, ti blocchi, per un attimo non escono più parole da bocca e non riesci più a muoverti.

Spero che almeno tutto questo mi serva come monito, avrei la tendenza a dover affrontare un problema molto simile in futuro anche con me stessa, ma fortunatamente l’averlo vissuto come esterna, e aver visto come viene fuori, come si agisce, come funziona, spero mi aiuti a essere forte e a contrastare questa “naturale cosa” verso l’autoconsapevolezza e quindi l’evitare che si verifichi questa condizione, che di certo se non avessi chiesto aiuto, molto probabilmente si sarebbe verificata.

Si dice “aiutati che Dio t’aiuta”. Non credo in Dio, ma nell’essere Dio di noi stessi sì, la nostra forza personale sì.

Se già decidiamo di farci aiutare, siamo a un passo dallo stare meglio.

Che vi devo dire, domani è un altro giorno.

Las bodas de Fígaro, acto I, escena 5ª, “Non so più cosa son, cosa facio”

El lobo estepario de Hermann Hesse fue en los años setenta un libro muy leído. Daba vida a tres de las ideas más comunes del movimiento hippie: la búsqueda de la sabiduría a través de alucinógenos, la revolución sexual y una cierta tecnofobia consecuencia del deseo de una “vuelta a la naturaleza”. Los tiempos cambian y las modas pasan pero el libro de Hesse ha permanecido porque es mucho más aparte de ese cliché. Como otras obras suyas, por ejemplo Demian o Siddharta, El lobo estepario pertenece a esos textos de filosofía perenne de la que hablaba Aldous Huxley.

En la tortuosa personalidad del protagonista, Harry Haller, se condensan el malestar y el nihilismo de la época de entreguerras. Son Freud y Nietzsche los terapeutas que Hesse elige para diagnosticar y remediar la desesperación existencial de Harry. Dentro de la novela, Freud y Nietzsche se transfiguran en músicos. Así, Freud toma la forma de Pablo, un saxofonista de jazz, que, junto a Armanda y María,  enseñan a Harry el camino del cuerpo, el teatro del inconsciente. Nietzsche se encarna en la figura de Mozart e intenta remediar el nihilismo de raíz platónica de Harry. Para éste el mundo que le rodea, el “mundo aparente”, es una realidad despreciable, que sólo se soporta si se tiene acceso a la Belleza pura e inmaterial del arte, especialmente de la música. La lección que Mozart-Nietzsche da a Harry en uno de sus éxtasis lisérgicos es que no hay más mundo que el aparente. Asumir y reivindicar la vida, el cuerpo, la levedad, el baile, la risa, es el único camino para sanar del nihilismo. Al terminar la novela las figuras de Pablo y Mozart se convierten en una sola en la mente de Harry que, finalmente, comprende:

Oh, lo comprendí todo; comprendí a Pablo, comprendí a Mozart, oí en alguna parte detrás de mí su risa terrible; sabía que estaban en mi bolsillo todas las cien mil figuras del juego de la vida: aniquilado, barruntaba su significación; tenía el propósito de empezar otra vez el juego, de gustar sus tormentos otra vez, de estremecerme de nuevo y recorrer una y muchas veces más el infierno de mi interior.

Alguna vez llegaría a saber jugar mejor el juego de las figuras. Alguna vez aprendería a reír. Pablo me estaba esperando. Mozart me estaba esperando.

Creo que Las bodas de Fígaro, dejando aparte sus connotaciones políticas, es la ópera de Mozart que mejor representa esa celebración nietzscheana de la vida, de la levedad de la existencia, de la inocencia del devenir, del juego del artista, del juego del niño… Así, por ejemplo, Acto primero, escena primera, el conocido dueto entre Figaro y Susanna preparando su boda. O, más arriba, la tensión sexual del aria de Cherubino “Non so più cosa son, cosa facio”.

Las bodas de Fígaro, acto I, escena 1ª, “Cinque, dieci, venti, trenta”

Ficha técnica

W. A. Mozart: Le Nozze di Figaro

Director

John Eliot Gardiner, 1993

Intérpretes

• Bryn Terfel: Figaro
• Alison Hagley: Susanna
• Pamela Helen Stephen: Cherubino
• Rodney Gilfry: El conde de Almaviva
• Hillevi Martipelto: La condesa de Almaviva
• The Monteverdi Choir- The English Baroque Soloists

Yo voy, lobo estepario, trotando
por el mundo de nieve cubierto;
del abedul sale un cuervo volando,
y no cruzan ni liebres ni corzas el campo desierto.

Me enamora una corza ligera,
en el mundo nada hay más lindo y hermoso;
con mis dientes y zarpas de fiera
destrozara yo su cuerpo sabroso.

Y volviera mi afán a mi amada,
en sus muslos mordiendo la carne blanquísima
y saciando mi sed en su sangre por mí derramada,
aullara luego yo solo a la noche tristísima.

Una liebre bastara también a mi anhelo;
dulce sabe su carne en la noche callada y oscura.
¡Ay! ¿Por qué me abandona en letal desconsuelo
de la vida la parte más noble y más pura?

Vetas grises adquiere mi rabo peludo,
voy perdiendo la vista, me atacan las fiebres,
hace tiempo que estoy sin hogar y viudo,
y que troto y que sueño con corzas y liebres
que mi triste destino me ahuyenta y espanta.

Oigo al aire soplar en la noche de invierno,
hundo en nieve mi ardiente garganta,
y así voy llevando mi mísera alma al infierno.

— H. Hesse

Aus meinen “Novembermeditationen” 2007, Teil 2:

Wenn ich im Sommer an den November denke, denke ich zuerst an Nebel.

Nebel – alles grau in grau, kalt und düster.

Nebel – wie Spinnweben, die sich über die Landschaft legen.

Nebel – für unser Auge bleibt vieles unsichtbar, verdeckt hinter einer harten grauen Wand oder einem hauchzarten Schleier.

Nebel – er legt sich auf unser Gemüt, kann uns belasten. In einem Gedicht, auf das ich gestoßen bin, wird das so ausgedrückt: „Nebelschwaden hüllen Dich ein / schleichende Melancholie – / das Herz klopft langsamer“¹.

In dichtem Nebel sehen wir nicht, was vor uns liegt. Wir irren umher. Auf der Suche nach einem Weg, Schritt für Schritt.

Nebel – der Weg ins Ungewisse, der Weg im Ungewissen. Nebel ist Symbol für die eigenen Ungewissheiten, für die eigenen Zweifel, die eigenen Fragen.

***

Hermann Hesse hat in seinem Gedicht „Im Nebel“ (http://www.hhesse.de/gedichte.php?load=imnebel) die menschliche Situation des Alleineseins sehr eingehend geschildert und mit dem Wandern im Nebel verglichen.

Einsamsein, Alleinesein ist der häufigste Anlass, sich Fragen zu stellen, Fragen über die Welt, Fragen über Gott, Fragen über die Mitmenschen und nicht zuletzt Fragen über sich selbst.

Dort, wo Fragen auftauchen, tauchen meist auf Zweifel auf. Dort, wo Fragen auftauchen, beginnt die Welt, mir nicht mehr ganz vertraut zu sein, unklar, dunkel zu werden.

Wann tauchen bei mir Fragen auf?

Nehme ich mir noch Zeit, manchmal in mich hineinzuhorchen, was in mir da ist?

Welche Fragen habe ich? …

Alltägliche? Tiefer gehende?

Fragen, die etwas in mir berühren? Die mich schmerzen?

Unbeantwortete Fragen?

Um es wieder in einem Bild zu sagen: Wo gehe ich durch den Nebel? Wo ist mein innerer Nebelschleier?

***

Wir haben uns jetzt die dunklen Seiten des Nebels angeschaut, das verwirrende Dickicht, die „graue Suppe“, die uns oft nicht den ganzen Weg erkennen lässt, sondern nur ein Stückweit. Vielleicht sind wieder alte, lang nicht mehr gestellte Fragen aufgetaucht.

Ich persönlich finde es von Zeit zu Zeit gut, diesen alten Fragen auch nachzugehen, ihnen nicht auszuweichen.

Ich lade Sie / euch dazu ein, sich noch einmal Zeit zu nehmen, sich zu überlegen, wo Zweifel, Ungewissheit und all die Fragen auch ihre gewinnbringenden Seiten haben, so wie der Nebel auch als schön erlebt werden kann – Bergsteiger können das bestätigen, wenn sie im Herbst über die Nebelgrenze hinauf gehen und von oben auf den weißen Teppich hinabschauen, der das Land bedeckt.

Wo erlebe ich einen solchen Ausblick auf meinen persönlichen Nebelteppich?

Wo kann ich mir meine Fragen so in aller Ruhe, wie von oben herab anschauen?

Welche Fragen, die mir vorhin gekommen sind, beschäftigen mich schon lange?

Will ich mir einmal Zeit nehmen, sie zu beantworten?

Mit wem tausche ich meine Fragen aus?

Gibt es auch Fragen, die mich glücklich machen? Zum Beispiel: Die Frage nach mir selbst? Wann geht es mir mit mir selber gut? Was kann ich dafür tun?

¹ Aus: „Goldener Herbst …“ von „Symphonie“ (Quelle: www.keinverlag.de).

Sabahleyin erkenden uyanınca karar verdim, hemen yola çıkacaktım. Hava soğuktu ve öylesine yoğun bir sis vardı ki, pek seçilemiyordu yol. Üşüyerek kahvemi içtim, hesabı ödedim; adımlarımı açarak, yeni yeni aydınlanan sabahın sessizliğine daldım.

Çarçabuk ısınmıştım; kenti ve bahçeleri arkamda bırakıp, siste yüzen bir dünya içine girdim. Sisin, birbirine komşu ve görünürde birbiriyle ilişkili tüm nesneleri nasıl birbirinden ayırıp kopardığını, nasıl herkesi sarıp sarmalayarak dışarıyla bağlantısını kestiğini ve sonra kaçıp kurtulamayacağı bir yalnızlığa ittiğini görmekten her vakit tuhaf bir heyecan hissediyorum içimde.

Yolda yanınızdan bir adam geçiyor; bir ineği; bir keçiyi ya da bir el arabasını önü sıra itiyor ya da bir çıkın taşıyor elinde; arkasında da kuyruğunu sallayarak seğirten bir köpek. Damın geldiğini görüyor, günaydın diyorsunuz, o da günaydın diye karşılık veriyor. Ama yanınızdan henüz geçmiştir adam, başınızı çevirip bakıyorsunuz, hemen bir belirsizlikten içeri dalıyor ve geride iz bırakmaksızın bir boz bulanıklıkta yitip gidiyor. Evler, bahçe çitleri, ağaçlar ve asmalarda durum başka türlü değil. Tüm çevreyi elinizle koymuş gibi bilip tanıyor sanmışsınızdır kendinizi; oysa bir duvarın yoldan ne kadar uzaklaşmış, bir ağacın boyunun ne kadar yükselmiş, bir kulübenin ne kadar alçalmış olduğunu fark ederek bir tuhaf şaşkınlığa kapılıyorsunuz. Sizin, sıkı bir komşuluk ilişkisi içinde yan yana duruyor sandığınız barakalar, şimdi siste birbirinden o denli ötelere kaymıştır ki, birinin kapısının eşiğinden bakınca, ötekisini seçemiyorsunuz. Hemen göremediğiniz insanların ve hayvanların seslerini kulağınızın dibinde duyuyor, yürüdüklerini, çalıştıklarını, bağırdıklarını işitiyorsunuz. Hepsi masalsı bir hava, yabancı ve uzak bir hava taşıyor. Bir an için hepsinde de bir simgeselliğin, ürkütücü bir belirginlikle kendini açığa vurduğunu seziyorsunuz. Nasıl bir nesnenin bir ötekisine, nasıl bir insanın bir başkasına amansız bir yabancılık içersinde bulunduğunu, nasıl izlediğimiz yolların ancak birkaç adım, birkaç dakika birbiriyle kesiştiğini ve geçici bir beraberlik, komşuluk ve dostluk görünümü kazandığını seziyorsunuz.

Ansızın bazı dizeler geldi aklıma, yürürken alçak sesle mırıldanmaya başladım:

Tuhaf, yürümek siste!

Taş toprak tek başına.

Ağaç ağaca gizde,

Her biri tek başına…

Dünya dostlarla dolu,

Yaşam gülerse yüze.

Sis tutmuşsa sağı solu,

Seslenmek boşuna: “gelsenize!”

Bilge olacak nerden,

Tanımazsa karanlığı insan…

Karanlık kaçınılmaz ve usulcacık,

Ayırır onu herkesten.

Tuhaf yürümek siste,

Yaşamak tek başına.

İnsan insana gizde,

Herkes tek başına.

Hermann Hesse, “Gençlik Güzel Şey” adlı öyküden kısa bir alıntı…
Hermann Hesse, “Gençlik Güzel Şey”, Cem yayınevi.

Dünyayı ve hayatı sevmek…

Kahır ve çileler içinde yaşarken bile bu sevgiden el çekmemek…

Her güneş ışınına bir şükran duygusuyla kapıları açmak…

Acılarda bile gülümsemeyi tümüyle unutmamak…

Gerçek her edebi yapıtın yemelinde yatan bu öğreti asla eskimez ve bugün, her zamankinden daha gerekli, her zamankinden daha çok el üstünde tutulmaya değerdir.

Hermann Hesse, “İnanç da Sevgi de Aklın Yolunu İzlemez”
Afa Yayınları

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.

I imagined him once (or is it her?) a year ago, a half a year ago, whichever, when things were less evolved than they are today, steeped in Hesse’s concept and discovering in an apartment moist with human anxiety a way to emulate the concept in reality. Being or Nothingness he would call it, an homage to his decision to overstep Aquinas’ final dilemma by using the very symbology the latter rejected (language) to a suitable, if not dramatic, end: an event shared between disparate personages, effigies themselves of Hesse’s Castalia. Each one would become a node, lit (in what sequence, or does it matter?) and accepting connection from others via the internet, in essence raising an intranet of individuals, a new network, but for what reason? Do we look to Hesse’s message or do we accept BoN’s message, which recasts Hesse’s in mystical tenor? Taking “Joe K” as his nom de plume he raised more questions among his chosen intellectual aristocracy than he proposed to answer.

Initially I heaped scorn on the writer; what a hack, what a crackpot to be dumping loads of currency into such a narrow, futile self-publication and forcing it upon professionals buried in responsibilities of their own; how uncouth. The available threads on the topic ring similarly, with posters admitting to reception of the book but setting it aside, or else reading through it once and banishing it in favor of the elements in their lives which clearly carry water: their research, teaching, personal projects, or perhaps a balanced equation of these which secures them (in the most sovereign sense of the word). Fine! People have to eat and be happy; let them. None of his Castalians seemed to have the time to examine his content, either. Instead, in perfect academic fashion they worried themselves over how and why, with a little where thrown in for sufficient rigor.

How did he find me? How did he go about manufacturing these little books? Why was I chosen? Why wasn’t I chosen? Where did they ship from? Where did they land? Admittedly, I found myself wondering these things at first, but I am no scientist. I deeply respect the method and it’s ceaseless chipping away at humanity’s ailments, but my way, that of ignorance and lizard-brained passion, denies me the luxury of that brand of patience. I gave up the questions which assailed periphery concerns and instead decided to address the thing itself, or in this case the symbol of the thing itself.

Thing is, I’m his mistake, and wouldn’t mind too much being dry spot on his ankle. Here goes.

The book, to me, is at once a blowgun dart and a net, a prick on the neck and the fiber optics of a global electricity. In each salvo that goes out, a new set of professionals is awoken to its existence. If the poison works at quarter strength, they go online looking for answers and find the Metafilter thread, Murilo’s Blog, the Google repository, and all my garbage. They’ll reach a comfortable level of confusion and leave it at that. Should a susceptible person be struck while in the proper attitude, the poison works at 75% and they are given to following the narrative over the course of years and are actively concerned with “what will happen next”. They post on the threads, etc. They take the whole thing personally and react as if directly addressed. These types are nearly what our Joe K is looking for.

I haven’t come across anyone who’s shown signs of being wholly infected, outside of myself. Probably my unfathomable naiveté is behind it; I strongly suspect ignorance of the world is it, or else some other flaw in perception. I see the book as a call to action, as if someone has nominated himself “fisherman” and is seeking something I cannot comprehend. I’m having trouble with this because the GBG theories are perforated too well for my liking. The Game itself, as I understand it, is a contest run over a given period of time where participants must connect intellectual concepts in graceful fashion, the most artful/desirable/well-wrought of which is decidedly named winner. If BoN is to be taken as a real-world manifestation, an allegory to the Glass Bead Game, the mystery to be solved really is in distribution, at least for now. It’s like he’s asking, “who will play with me?” This admission begs another compound question: are we to take the sections of the book as pieces to be connected or are we to look at who these recipients are, how they identify as people and in turn how they manifest as living symbols for their work? Is this book a divining rod for polymaths, or is it trying to create one using Frankenstein parts?

My initial work was to seek out the works cited in BoN and study each of them in terms of the latter and try to come to some conclusion based on all of that. I’ve done a little, and am bored with it. What interests me more than any of the junk in the book is that I’ve shared an experience in common with people all over the world I never would have otherwise. A constellation has been erected, but of what? A fugue of voices is assembled, but what is the theme? Receiving? Surprise? It’s true that all of them could be considered Castalians in a way, but I can also see all of them as symbols to be connected. Hesse doesn’t seem to honor his characters that way, but then again his version of the academy didn’t seem to promote the specialization that today’s does.

If the author is attempting to connect a cast of people as a Glass Bead Game player would connect a host of concepts, he has failed. He has only served thus far to tap successful folks working in related fields (some more closely than others, but the fact remains that we’re dealing with relative personnel homogeneity in terms of the <ahem> roomful of classical thinkers) and unless relationships have developed which I’m not aware of, this experiment feels ill-conceived. Is a polymath the golden nugget here? Is that why the fascination with Douglas Hofstadter? Is he really a polymath? Does one exist in any of the sciences? If so, are they an academician?

A part of me wants to believe the message has something to do with everything we write and work on being chaff compared to The Great Wheel, or God, or Collective Consciousness, Allah, Science; whatever you want to call that thing in which you have faith. The only mathematics I have to reinforce this theory is that of Fractal Geometry and its inherent self-similarity as explained by Benoit Mandelbrot. I believe that this knowledge is what Thomas Aquinas, Aldous Huxley, and other psychonauts have discovered through various methods of accessing other consciousness.

I don’t know, people. The books are still coming in sputtering waves, unchanged from the first set that went out a couple years ago. I wasn’t supposed to get any, but instead found a box of seven copies seemingly representing a break in the distribution chain. You all know who you are and what you do. It might be fun if someone could set up a sort of role-call, a free social networking site for recipients of the book so that we can readily see who’s received it, what their field is, where they fall on a global map, etc. I am not the person to make this happen, but someone among the recipients ought to be decent enough at programming or web stuff to be able to put a network together. A support group! Ha!

Well I’ll keep thinking, I suppose. I don’t believe I’m anywhere near the truth of the thing but probably am giving someone a good belly laugh. Cheers to that.

As I was finishing “When God is Gone, Everything is Holy” today, I realized how important certain books have been to me in the course of my life.  Just listing these books along with some explanation is a good way of charting how my beliefs and thought have changed over time.

SIX TO 12 YEARS-OLD

Margie Asks Why:
This Adventist book for children lays out the Adventist version of Genesis 3 and what Adventists call “the great controversy” (the story of the fall of Satan and Adam and Eve). This book embodies the cosmogeny I was raised to believe.

Pilgrim’s Progress (a children’s version):
This classic by John Bunyan greatly affected my view of the life of a Christian. It inspired me to try and walk on the “straight and narrow” and avoid the temptations modern life has to offer. Yes, I know it’s a bit cliche, but this book is where such cliches originate.

Project Sunlight:
This is another Adventist book that shaped my beliefs about the apocalyptic events that would forshadow Christ’s second-coming (the second “Advent”).  Taking the perspective of an woman’s guardian angel, it describes how eventually the worldwide government will force people to worship God on Sunday (instead of Saturday as commanded in the Bible).

AROUND 16 YEARS-OLD

A Brief History of Time:

This first taste of modern physics enraptured me for about half a year when I was 16 years old. After reading it cover to cover, I would often open it to random places and just read it, not unlike a holy book. Not only did it spark in me a desire to learn more about modern physics, it challenged my assumption that life and the universe were less than 10,000 years old.

The Book of Hebrews in the Bible:
This book brought home to me what the sacrifice of Jesus Christ meant. Its representation of his sacrifice as a substitutionary atonement for my sins was extremely moving to me. Absorbing this book marked an important change in my life in which I went from being a somewhat mediocre Christian (specifically Adventist) to being a committed evangelical.

This Present Darkness:
My view of the daily events in my life and the world was radically changed after reading this Christian thriller about how angels, demons, and prayer affect our lives. The story reveals that behind all events in the world are demons (helped by new age cults) and angels (helped by the intercessory prayer of Christians).  Reading this book marked the beginning of a charismatic/pentacostal Christian phase of my life.

AROUND 18 YEARS-OLD

Demian:
This is a classic bildungsroman or coming of age story in which the protagonist, while in the search for truth, sheds the Christianity he was raised in. Reading this book coincided with my own crisis of faith so I resonated strongly with the protagonist. This story’s beautiful rendering of the protagonist’s heroic search for himself and the truth somehow enabled me to recognize that beauty existed outside of the Christian faith.

Continental Thought:

I began to read a smattering of what could roughly be described as continental philosophy. At first the relativistic thinking I found in these books was very appealing to me. I was tired of the self-reinforcing orthodoxy of Christianity, and the way these works subverted or deconstructed such beliefs was compelling.  On the other hand, I soon discovered that I couldn’t get away from the performative contradiction inherent in this thought.

DURING COLLEGE TO PRESENT DAY

I don’t have any particular books to describe how my world view changed in college. However, my education in physics changed me radically by pushing me in the direction of materialism. One of the many things that moved me towards this philosophy was physics’ successful predictions about the existence of certain particles (such as the positron and the Omega-minus].

However, after meeting and subsequently marrying someone with a love of religion and literature (and, to a degree, a continental philosophical belief system) my hard materialism metamorphosed into something else. I’m not sure what to call it–maybe soft-materialism, agnostic materialism, or religious naturalism.

When God is Gone, Everything is Holy: The Making of a Religious Naturalist by Chet Raymo:
After embracing materialism I found that its redeeming feature is a Carl Sagan-esque awe of the universe.  Raymo not only captures this awe but goes beyond it.  Yes, Raymo is a materialist, but somehow he’s more. He has managed to appropriate the language of Catholic mystics and writers to explain his experience of nature. Raymo is a scientific materialist while experiencing the world as a mystic–a feat I would like to accomplish.

”A fost odata un anume Harry, caruia i se zicea lupul de stepa. Umbla pe doua picioare, purta imbracaminte si era om, dar de fapt nu era altceva decat un lup de stepa.”

Poate ma insel, dar am observat ca rareori regasesti cele mai puternice convingeri si credinte ale tale in carti, in acea forma care sa-ti permita sa spui ca acel om, atunci, a gandit la fel ca tine. De putine ori esti scutit de dezamagirea de a constata ca personajul in care ai investit increderea ca va actiona in conformitate cu gandurile si impulsurile tale si care iti hraneste initial aceasta iluzie, este tangent doar pentru o scurta durata cu tine. Poate ca pacatuim cautand pe noi si raspunsuri la lucrurile care ne framanta in diverse carti, cand de fapt avem fiecare un rol si pagini destule consacrate intr-o carte inca nepublicata, care insa se dezvaluie agonizant de incet, foaie dupa foaie.

Cartea vorbeste despre incapacitate de a dobandi un sentiment de apartenenta, de a te plasa pe o orbita stabila si despre efectele devastatoare ale acesteia. Prin lup vedem o transpunere a omului singur, rupt de ‘haita’ sa sociala si condamnat sa vagabondeze intr-o lume ostila si de neinteles. Neputand sa atace (asemeni unui lup singur) si nefiind nici atacat, el se vede pus in fata unei continue fugi, de tot ce este rau sau bun. Stagneaza intr-un fel de purgatoriu din care nu poate scapa, incapabil sa ia initiativa sinuciderii.

Stepa este ‘locul lui de joaca’ , dimensiunea in care evolueaza. Spatiu amorf, plat, univers rigid, auster, cu un orizont ce nu promite nimic, ea ii este totusi refugiu, templu, dar si mormant. Este locul capabil sa-i ofere libertatea dupa care tanjeste, dar care ii si arata intr-un mod tulburator cat este de singur. Putem spune ca stepa este chiar lumea  burgheza de care apartine si de care nu se poate disocia.

Omul si lupul, doua entitati in acelasi trup, traiesc atacandu-se permanent, urmarindu-si unul altuia slabiciunile si afinitatile. Aceasta panda continua impinge fiinta bicefala pe o cale a compromisului, o cale care nu este insa una de mijloc.

Intamplarea scoate in calea ratacitorului o ampla introspectie a cazului si ipostazei sale, realizata de o persoana ce poseda o obiectivitate si o luciditate de care acesta nu este capabil. ‘Tratatul pt lupul de stepa devine un manifest al calatoriei initiatice pe care personajul nostru o va intreprinde si unde va invata din nou sa traiasca. El afla in Hermina un ghid al redescoperirii de sine, iar in muzicantul Pablo un luntras Charon menit sa-i deschida portile infernului. Animalul este dresat prin dragoste, dans si muzica si reinvata sa fie om. Experienta sa culmineaza cu accesul in ‘teatrul magic’, unde reprezentatiile la care este martor sunt de fapt luptele launtrice ce ii marcheaza transformarea. Deznodamantul aduce o sinucidere, caci uciderea Herminei, nascuta din cel mai autentic sentiment uman – gelozia, reprezinta afirmarea definitiva a dimensiunii de om si totodata stingerea lupului.

Cartea este o apologie a imposibilitatii de a evolua de la independenta la interdependenta. Harry Haller respinge mediocritatea in care oscileaza lumea burgheza, insa nu este capabil sa evadeze din aceasta. Crescut in spiritul epocii, el ajunge in mod paradoxal sa aiba o filosofie de viata complet defazata de a acesteia. El tolereaza si este un tolerat.

In fiecare dintre noi salasluieste un animal, mai mult sau mai putin inlantuit. El intruchipeaza nu un instinct salbatic, ci mai degraba o dorinta latenta ce razbate din adancimi necunoscute ale vointei noastre, ascunsa unei lumi care o condamna si stigmatizeaza. Ea nu este tributara niciunei conventii sau oranduiri, se desprinde de tot ce este firesc si de inteles si capata  cu totul alte dimensiuni decat cele din planul fizic. Este, daca putem spune, codul initial dupa care am fost programati si pe care nu-l putem sterge. Toata viata vom cauta aceasta latura, iar odata gasita, fie o vom ascunde, fie o vom expune lumii. Cert este ca ea este calea adevarului, dar nu si a fericirii. Nu toti am fost programati sa fim fericiti.

Amongst various lagoons, canyon wildernesses on the pacific shores, various places like Modjeska Canyon and others, long haired naked sun worshippers, wandered in the naturelands, singing songs, eating fruits, fasting, praying, doing yoga, playing guitars in huts and befriending American Indians, all in the 1930s, 40s and 50s, before the SF rennaisance carnival and all its merry troubadours shone into the Haight and elsewhere.
Nature boys they were called and of various stock they were, of English, Jewish, of German and of other. Meditating and doing yoga, eating pure foods, sunbathing an waterbathing and connecting with the wilderness they were a different breed to the settled gold trailsters and cattle ranchers, they were America’s sadhus, babajis, yogis and sants. And they had inherited things which went back further, things of the German spirit and nature far from the Hitler-Nazi perversions.
We can understand this curious brand of nature mysticism in the works of Thoreau, of Emerson, but moreover we can see them also trickling in the background of Herman Hesse, in the founder of Naturopathy and its various historical clinics, some in California. Going even further back we can see the Rosicrucian and Paracelsian fords and pastures and their glimpses of places further east, in North Africa, in Morrocco, Spain and Damascus, Syria and India.
Oriental Nature Boy Mystics housed the river of traditions arcane and forgotton and a spirit of freedom.
And not all nature boys were celebate and single, as some took their girlfriends along as well.

Laguna Beach, a place in the ambit of the nature boy wilderness wanderings, took in curious surfers who had given up the car gangs of beachrealm, and took to surfboard, yoga and pure foods not to mention psychedelic alchemistry. But before this period, Laguna Beach also housed bohemian types, artists and was a faved retreat renowned for its natural beauty and somewhere amongst these were esoetric interests in a mysterious group named the Order of Loving Service who harked back to an important inspiration, a Baba Premananda Bharati, who in the first decade of the 1900s established various Krishna congregtions centered on an ashram in Los Angeles caled the Krishna Home. Many of California’s esoterically inclined came across it, one such being a Maud Lalita Johnson, a famed esoteric writer in her own way. Another called Elsa Barker famed for her many esoteric novels had contact with the first wave of Krishna Chaitanya devotion. Premananda Bharati belonged to the Krisna traditions of Chaitanya, the blessed madman and holy fool and incarnation of Krishna who bathed Bengal in waves of ecstatic love of Godhead. This Krishna baba had an influence of Gandhi and Tolstoy, but the two world wars meant that this period of the oriental in American esoteric latter day Rosicrucian traditions such as New Thought, Golden Dawn, Theosophical society and others were forgotton, remembered by only a few. But all that is known is that the Order of Loving Service published a book dedicated to Baba Premananda Bharati in Laguna Beach and that it was associated with the Royal Order of Tibet founded by George Adamski who was the pioneer of UFO abductee narratives. They were also inspired by the wriings of Lalita Johnson and it was her book with the dedication to Premananda that they published in Laguna Beach called Square. It was later in 1969 that another Krishna temple of a different lineage appeared in Laguna Beach, that of the Krishna tradition represented by a famed guru named Bhaktivedanta Swami which is more commonly known. Certain folk in this new Krishna temple in Laguna had links to another group named the Brotherhood of Eternal Love, whom we shall look at another time.

Nat King Cole did a song dedicated to a certain nature boy named eden ahbez  or ahbe in which he describes this  nature boy as being wise. This track of Nat King Cole’s was also covered by John Coltrane, the great jazz musician who himself was inspired by metaphysical stuff descended from the latter day Rosicrucianism as well as oriental mysticism. Another nature boy named Gypsy Boots was friends with various musicians of the sixtiees of which the major music tribes of SF and was respected by Jerry Garcia. Kerouac wrote about him, Frank Zappa was friends with him and he appears on the stages between band sets of certain of the major bands at the Monterey Pop Festival and Newport Festival. He inspired Sky Saxon of The Seeds, Arthur Lee of Love and Randy California of Spirit to become vegetarian, he was admired by Mama Cass as well as Garcia’s wife, who was once Ken Kesey’s girl, named Mountain Girl, a name with a nod to the nature mystic in and of itself. He appears with Zappa in his film Mondo Hollywood in 1968. Gypsy Boots was an American of Russian Jewish descent, born in San Fransisco in 1916, he was taught directly by Maximillian Singer another nature mystic in 1935 learning yoga and fasting and special diets from him after a period of travelling and living in nature. After a while, he was living with many of the prominent nature boy mystics of the time around Tahquitz Canyon and selling crafts in Palm Springs, the very place the Brotherhood of Eternal Love had an epiphany, according to certain historical annals which we shall look at later. He eventually after a period of living as mystical wild man and learning lots, was married in 1953 to a Lois Bloemker, and settled into living near Griffith Park in LA and had three sons. He opened a ‘Health Hut’ in Hollywood where he taught his wisdom of living close to nature.

Maximillian Singer, Gypsy Boot’s mentor was from Augsberg who spent many years travelling and living as a nature mystic in and around Europe, thus the mystical life and water curing, sun bathing, breathing, nutrition and the like was practised assiduously by him. He came to California in 1935 and whilst here inspired many Euro-American born nature mystics. In the Brotherhood of Eternal Love linked loose knit community of Topanga Canyon, he was revered almost as a guru figure, and later on he appeared at the various festivals, be-ins and concerts of the period.

Some that were associated with these brothers of nature were called to the akashic realm, that same part wherein which PBRs Rosicrucians dwelled, that place between the portals of Eulis a place where others dwelled and visisted from time to time, others such as Beatfreak not to mention certain folk of the Order of Loving Service.

05.11.09

Den heutige Tag habe ich mit für meine Verhältnisse ungewöhnlich vielen sinnvollen Tätigkeiten verbacht:

Zuerst habe ich meinen Eltern dabei geholfen, die viel zu schnell und viel zu hoch wachsenden Haseln zurückzuschneiden. Meine Handschuhe waren im Nu durchnässt, meine Füße aufgrund der schlechten alten Arbeitsschuhe eiskalt und der wieder und wieder aufkommde kalte Wind machte die Arbeit auch nicht gerade angenehmer. Es war mir eine Wonne danach in die zwar schlecht geheizte, weil schlecht isolierte Wohnung zurückzukommen, denn immerhin wärmten sich dort meine Füße wieder auf.

Danach laß ich mehrere Stunden, zuerst für meine Facharbeit in Walther Dieckmanns “Politik und Sprache” und anschließend bei Hagebuttentee und Keksen in Hermann Hesses “Siddartha”. Eigentlich bin ich kein Teetrinker, aber die relative Kälte im Zimmer und der Mangel an alternativen Heißgetränken machten mir die Wahl einfacher und ich muss sagen, ich habe den Tee umso mehr genossen.

Vielleicht ist das sowieso die größte Erkenntnis, die ich hier mache, nämlich, dass es gar nicht viel braucht, kein großes Entertainment oder den übergeordneten Sinn, um glücklich zu sein, sondern ganz schlicht die Gabe, auch aus scheinbaren Kleinigkeiten Zufriedenheit zu erlangen, sein Leben zu genießen, wie es ist.

Gegen fünf Uhr wurde es dunkel, meine Eltern kamen aus dem Garten rein und wir aßen gemeinsam zu abend. Nach dem Essen fühlte ich mich sehr müde, obwohl es erst sechs Uhr sein konnte. Da ich keine Armbanduhr mehr trage und in der Wohnung auch keine Uhr hängt, weiß ich nie die genaue Uhrzeit und es ist erstaunlich zu sehen, wie schnell man das Gefühl für Zeit, auch hinsichtlich der Wochentage, verliert.

Es war nun aber erst sechs Uhr, viel zu früh um ins Bett zu gehen, also vertrieben meine Eltern und ich uns die Zeit mit verschiedenen Gesellschaftsspielen – Malefitz und andere – und anschließend sahen wir uns alte Fotoalben an, während ich nebenbei begann, mir einen Schal zu stricken.

Es ist jedes Mal wieder interessant, neue Details über die eigene Familie zu erfahren, die Geschichte von Menschen, die ich teilweise nie kennengelernt habe, erzählt zu bekommen; zudem finde ich es bewundernswert, wie meine Mutter sich all diese Namen, Bilder und Geschichten, die sie größtenteils auch nur erzählt bekommen haben muss, merken kann.

Mein vor einigen Jahren im Alter von 91 Jahren gestorbener Großvater, der Vater meiner Mutter, in dessen Haus wir gerade wohnen, hatte elf Geschwister, von denen allerdings nur sechs bis nach 1945 lebten. Ein Bruder war bereits im Säuglingsalter gestorben, der Rest während des Krieges gefallen, im Luftschutzbunker verschüttet worden oder in Kriegsgefangenschaft gestorben. Jeder hatte sein eigenes Schicksal – immerhin gründeten nach dem Krieg fünf der sechs verbliebenen Geschwister Familien mit all ihren Folgen, eine wurde Nonne und lebt heute noch hochbetagt in einem holländischen Kloster – von denen zu hören mich nach wie vor fasziniert. Wie werde wohl ich in fünfzig Jahren auf mein Leben zurückblicken? Und wer wird wohl hoffentlich noch später Nachfahren, die mich nie persönlich kannten, von mir erzählen?…

Nebenbei bemerkt fielen mir während des Abendessens wieder Teile eines Traums von heute Nacht ein: mit einer Freundin war ich in einem coolen schwulen Club, als uns plötzlich Claudia Roth von den Grünen begegnete. Scheinbar kannten sie und meine Freundin sich, denn die beiden unterhielten sich angeregt, während ich die putzigen kleinen Kinder eines schwulen Päarchens beobachtete. Leider schienen weder dieses Päarchen, noch Claudia Sympathie für mich zu empfinden, denn obwohl ich es mehrmals versuchte, wiesen alle drei sämtliche Ansätze, ein Gespräch mit ihnen zu beginnen, zurück. Was habe ich dir getan Claudia?

…und sollte ich mir Sorgen machen, wenn ich von Politikerinnen träume???…

16.00 – 04.11.09

 

Bisher habe ich heute nichts von dem gemacht, was ich mir vorgenommen hatte: ich habe bis jetzt nur meinen Eltern geholfen, den Keller etwas aufzuräumen und mit meinem Vater aus alten Brettern ein Regal gebaut.

Der Keller dieses Hauses fasziniert mich immer wieder, man entdeckt zwischen Unmengen von nutzlosem Gerümpel jedes Mal auch kleine Schätze, die mein Opa Zeit seines Lebens angesammelt hat. Ein alter Wäschetrockner zum Beispiel hat, ein bisschen geputzt und ausgebessert, in meinen Augen Potential zu einem schicken Einrichtungsgegenstand zu werden. Überhaupt ertappe ich mich in letzter Zeit des öfteren dabei, Anregungen zu sammeln und Pläne bezüglich einer zukünftigen, bis jetzt nur theoretisch existierenden Wohnung zu schmieden. Keller, die seit Jahren niemand mehr betreten zu haben scheint und Flohmärkte sind dabei ein ergiebiges Reservoir ungewöhnlicher neuer Ideen, wie ich feststellte.

Nachdem ich im Keller, dessen Decke eindeutig zu niedrig für große Menschen wie mich ist, außer zu arbeiten nebenbei auch besagte Decke mit meinen Haaren ungewollt von Spinnweben befreit hatte, habe ich gerade eben noch einmal geduscht.

Im Grunde genommen liebe ich es zu duschen. Egal, wie oder wo man duscht, wie heruntergekommen die Dusche auch sein mag, wie sehr einem der Muskelkater in den Armen und Beinen brennt, das Wasser ist überall gleich, Duschen ist für mich allzeit und überall glückseligmachend. Meine Vorstellung vom Paradies ist eine Dusche. Umso schwerer fällt es mir deswegen auch, den Hahn zuzudrehen und wieder ins irdische Leben einzutauchen. Wer weiß schon, ob es nicht die letzte Dusche seines Lebens ist, ob es die ewige Dusche überhaupt gibt ist ja sowieso nicht zu beantworten.

 

Ob mit oder ohne Dusche danach oder davor, sterben müssen wir alle einmal und ob das morgen geschieht, in einem oder in fünfzig Jahren macht dabei doch auch kaum einen Unterschied. Ich weiß nicht, ob und wenn ja, welche Bedeutung es hat, das ich seit geraumer Zeit häufig im Traum meinen eigenen Tod erlebe. Alternativ zum Ableben durch diverse Spielarten atomarer Katastrophen machte mich mein Unterbewusstsein (wer sonst?) heute Nacht mit dem “Tod durch Hieb- und Stichwaffen” vertraut. Genauer gesagt war es eine Axt, mit der mich – immerhin – der angesehene Anführer einer antiken Kriegerkultur, deren Siedlungszentrum und Hauptstadt im inneren einer riesigen Höhle an der albanischen Küste lag, letztendlich niederstreckte. Dazu ist zu bemerken, dass dieser Mann, für den ich nichtsdestotrotz Bewunderung empfand, einen plausiblen Grund vorweisen konnte, mich zu töten, hatte ich mich doch im Auftrag des römischen Kaisers unerkannt unter seine Truppen gemischt und diese ausspioniert, war eine Art antiker V-Mann. Als ich schließlich die Ehrhaftigkeit der Gesellschaft, die ich infiltrierte erkannt, mich ihr als Spion zu erkennen gegeben und dem Kaiser einen falschen Bericht überbracht hatte, musste ich mich allerdings in dessen Palast, der eine Mischung aus einer Installation Ai Weiweis und einer Bibliothek war, verstecken, da der ehrbare Anführer mich wegen meiner Untreue gegenüber meinem Kaiser zu töten gelobt hatte, was ihm letztendlich auch gelang.

Davon unbeeindruckt werde ich jetzt endlich mit der Lektüre von Hesses “Siddartha” und dem Buch “Sprache in der Politik” von Walther Dieckmann beginnen, was ich ja eigentlich vorgehabt hatte.

“Io vivo nei miei sogni. Anche gli altri vivono nei sogni, ma non nei loro. Ecco la differenza.”

(Cit. di P.A. da Hermann Hesse)

Das lieb ich, wenn draußen der Regen
Durch triefende Bäume fegt,
Wenn der Wind mit peitschenden Schlägen
Durch verwehrte Herbstgärten fegt.
Ich liebe die schweren Nächte,
Wenn über der dunklen Welt
Einer schwarzen Nachtgöttin  Rechte
Das Füllhorn der Träume hält.
Wenn 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

Perdonen por escribir más de la cuenta,
por tener dos o tres pensamientos al día,
por ser o no ser de otra manera,
por acabar con mi sequía.

Perdonen por escribir más de la cuenta.
No es mi intención destrozar el oficio
(maleficio de poeta trasnochado),
ni destrozar la huída ni la espera.

Perdonen la insolencia,
pero no es santo de mi devoción
santificar a ilustrados ni a poetas.
Tan solo considero que
escribir se convierte
en el primer fallo del lector
y en el primer síntoma del sierpe.

Perdonen la tristeza,
pero prefiero llorar con Neruda,
guardar sepultura a Hesse
a que me compadezcan
por no practicar la sonrisa.

Disculpen mis líneas.
Nunca pensé que escribir mal
fuera tan fácil.
Pero, prefiero unas líneas de cercanías
a un soneto compléjamente frágil.

• Thomas Bernhard – La Plâtrière (roman) ***
• Akira Yoshimura – Le Convoi de l’eau (roman) ***
• Philip Roth – Portnoy et son complexe (roman) ***
• Hermann Hesse – Narcisse et Goldmund (roman) ***
• Truman Capote – Un été indien (nouvelle) **
• Hermann Hesse – Le Dernier été de Klingsor (nouvelles) ***
• Eugène Ionesco – Le Solitaire (roman) ***
• Robert Walser – Retour dans la neige (nouvelles) ***
• Henri Michaux – Poteaux d’angle (poésie) ***

O Regen, Regen im Herbst,
Grau verschleierte Berge,
Bäume mit müde sinkendem Spätlaub!
Durch beschlagene Fenster blickt
Abschiedsschwer das krankende Jahr.
Fröstelnd im triefenden Mantel
Gehst du hinaus. Am Waldrand
Tappt aus entfärbtem Laub
Kröte und Salamander trunken,
Und die Wege hinab
Rinnt und gurgelt unendlich Gewässer,
Bleibt im Grase beim Feigenbaum
In geduldigen Teichen stehn.
Und vom Kirchturm im Tale
Tropfen zögernde müde
Glockentöne für Einen im Dorf,
Den sie begraben.

Du aber traure, Lieber,
Nicht dem begrabenen Nachbarn,
Nicht dem Sommerglück länger nach
Noch den Festen der Jugend!
Alles dauert in frommer Erinnerung,
Bleibt im Wort, im Bild, im Liede bewahrt,
Ewig bereit zur Feier der Rückkehr
Im erneuten, im edlern Gewand.
Hilf bewahren du, hilf verwandeln,
Und es geht dir die Blume
Gläubiger Freude im Herzen auf.

Hermann Hesse

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

Voll von 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.

Hermann Hesse

An dieser Stelle möchte ich darauf verzichten, in einer endlosen Vorrede meine Meinung zu der Frage, ob man den Menschen in eine gute und eine schlechte Seite aufteilen könne, lang und breit darzustellen, sondern möchte dies stattdessen folgendem Gedicht überlassen:

Kontraste

Ja, die Menschheit liebt Kontraste,
Tier des Schattens, Tier des Lichts,
Kennt Geliebte und Verhasste
Doch dazwischen kennt sie nichts.

Dies ist Untat, jenes Sitte.
Dies ist rechts und jenes links.
Doch es gibt nichts in der Mitte,
Kein Zentaur, keine Sphinx.

Ja, die Menschheit liebt Extreme:
Dies ist schwarz und jenes weiß.
Verschiednes Grau bringt nur Probleme.
Dies ist kalt und jenes heiß.

Trennt die Seele von dem Leibe!
Wer nicht Freund heißt, der ist Feind.
Ja, die Welt bleibt eine Scheibe.
Alles ist so, wie es scheint.

Stellt die Wahrheit an den Pranger!
Auch die Natur kennt dies’ Gebot:
Niemand ist ein wenig schwanger,
Keiner nur ein bisschen tot.

(Niklas Drude)

Ich denke, mit der menschlichen Persönlichkeit verhält es sich ähnlich: Der Mensch ist einfach derart stark auf sein Schwarz-weiß-Denken fixiert, dass er meint, eine gute und eine schlechte Seite in den Menschen zu erkennen. Ein Charakter ist jedoch einfach zu vielschichtig, um ihn in zwei voneinander abgrenzbare Züge aufteilen zu können. Stattdessen besteht er aus unendlich vielen Strömungen, wie auch Harry Haller in Herman Hesses “Steppenwolf” feststellen muss. Und ob diese nun gut oder schlecht sind, ist höchst subjektiv und lässt sich somit kaum abschließend klären. Ich bin mir also recht sicher, dass ich nicht eine “dunkle Seite” habe, sondern ganz viele, die jedoch ihren Helligkeitsgrad permanent sowie unabhängig von einander ändern und folglich auch in wechselnder Besetzung zu “hellen Seiten” werden können.

I started reading again the other day, and it still shocks me that I can say something like that in a serious tone.  But the truth is that between work and James and Henry and Amelia and the house and the laundry and the dishes and the groceries… it’s been months since I found time to read at anything other than a snail’s pace.

So this is  a return to form, and as usual I have Jason to thank. (Previous highlights include encouraging me to quit my brain-dead office job to work for a presidential campaign, and insisting that I pick up the phone when friends call, instead of working more and intending to call them later.)  He asked me the other day if I would read Hesse’s Narcissus and Goldmund, and I thought, oh hell, I always intended to.  And I’m so glad he asked.

I’m only 100 pages or so into it, but it’s such an expressive book, and so perfectly captures the Apollonian/Dionysian figures without turning its two main characters into stereotypes.  And I can’t help but wonder how the two genders must experience this book differently.  It seems to me that men commonly feel the need to choose between being Narcissus and being Goldmund–to be either the logical godhead or the striving passion.  My view is deeply colored by the sympathy I have for both characters, as I see myself driven to be logical and caring, maternal and methodical.  But, best not to go too far down this road until I’ve read more of the book, I guess.  Sucks to mouth off and then regret it later.