Soul of the Age (53 page)

My books were composed without any set goals or agenda. But when I look for a common denominator now, I realize the following: my works, from
Camenzind
to
Steppenwolf
and Josef Knecht
451
can all be described as a defense (and at times as a cry for help) of personality, of the individual. Each unique individual, with his heredity and possibilities, talents and inclinations, is a gentle, fragile creature; he could certainly do with an advocate. After all, the great, powerful forces are all ranged against him: the state, schools, churches, organizations of every kind, patriots, the orthodox and Catholics in every camp, not to speak of the communists or fascists. My books and I have always had to face all of these forces and contend with their methods of combat, which were decent, coarse, or downright brutal. I have repeatedly observed the dangers and hostility that nonconformist individuals have to confront, and realize how much protection, encouragement, and love they really need. It also became apparent in the course of my experiences that there are countless numbers of Christians, communists, and fascists who, regardless of the material advantages and comforts that they enjoy, find that kind of orthodoxy spiritually unsatisfying. And so, in addition to blanket condemnations and attacks by all those groups, I get to hear thousands of questions and confessions from individuals who are more or less baffled, and who get some warmth, comfort, and consolation from my books (and also those of others, of course). They don't always consider those books a source of strength and encouragement, and often feel misled and confused by them. They're accustomed to the language used by the church and state, the language of orthodoxies, catechisms, programs—a language that never acknowledges any doubts and demands only credulity and obedience. I have lots of young readers who get excited for a short while about
Demian, Steppenwolf,
or
Goldmund
but then return gladly to their catechism or their Marx, Lenin, or Hitler. And then there are those who, after reading my books, invoke my name to justify their decision to withdraw from all communal activities and obligations. But I trust that there are also very many others who can take from our work as much as their nature allows. Those readers allow me to act as an advocate for the individual, the soul, the conscience, yet don't treat what I say as if it were some form of catechism, orthodoxy, marching order, and don't jettison the lofty values of community and togetherness. These readers realize that I have no wish to destroy the sense of order and mutual obligations that makes it possible for human beings to live together and that I have no intention of deifying the individual. They sense that I'm actually advocating a form of life in which love, beauty, and order can prevail, a togetherness that does not reduce man to a beast in the herd, but allows him to retain the beauty, dignity, and tragedy of his unique nature. I realize that I have occasionally erred and gone astray, or been excessively passionate, with the result that some words of mine have left a number of young readers confused and endangered. But if you think of the forces nowadays that make it so difficult for individuals to develop a personality of their own and become fully human, when you look at the unimaginative, weak-souled, completely assimilated, purely obedient and co-opted type of person idolized by the large organizations and, above all, by the state, you will find it easier to understand the militant gestures of little Don Quixote against those large windmills. The battle seems hopeless and nonsensical. A lot of people consider it ridiculous. And yet the struggle must be waged; after all, Don Quixote is as much in the right as the windmills.

TO THEODOR HEUSS
452

Pentecost
[
June 6
]
1954

Thank you for your letter of June 3 with the two enclosures, the memorandum about the Pour le Mérite and your 1942 essay “An Areopagus of the Mind.”

I was embarrassed at first by your offer of the order,
453
but have decided to accept it with gratitude, since it signifies both honor and friendship.

I need to let you know briefly how I arrived at this positive decision, which runs counter to my instinctive response.

A very dear guest, my “Japanese” cousin, W. Gundert, left here the morning your letter arrived. I hadn't seen him in twenty-four years, and had invited him so that I could once again meet a relative who has been a friend of mine since childhood. We were comrades as well; my long-standing affection for East Asia had forged a special bond between us. We spent the few days he was here exchanging memories and discussing the literature and wisdom of the East.

When your query about the order arrived, I was still full of Zen Buddhist-like disdain for the goods and honors this world has to offer, and if the letter hadn't come from you personally, I would have responded immediately with a polite no. But I felt that both of us were entitled to a thorough investigation of the issue, which I construed as follows: “Which is more stupid and vain, to accept an honor of this kind or reject it, from the heights of one's esoteric wisdom?”

The question was never resolved. According to the Zen masters, there is no distinction between the vanity of somebody entering the hierarchy and the vanity of a frondeur. So, for an answer, I turned to the Chinese book of oracles, the I Ching. The verdict came to me through the character T'ai; it was clear-cut and, incidentally, also very flattering for you, Herr Dr. Heuss. It says such things as: “Heaven and earth unite.… The ruler divides and orders the course of heaven and earth, rules and orders the gifts of heaven and earth … and thereby assists the people.”

I have accepted the judgment of the I Ching and thus accepted your invitation.

My wife also sends her regards. We think of you often here.

TO B.G.

Sils Maria, end of June/early August 1954

Thank you for your letter with the clipping about the poor American on death row. Your letter took a long time to reach me in the Graubünden mountains, and I wouldn't have had time to seek additional information and maybe launch an appeal for help.

But even if it had arrived a little earlier, I might very well have decided against pursuing that course. Your appeal for help is based on the belief that people like me have some say in the raw world of reality. Actually, the opposite is true. Neither European nor American judges like being told what to do by literati and scholars. The most striking recent case was that of Rosenberg, who was executed in America, together with his wife, despite protests from all over the world. Even Eisenhower didn't dare take advantage of his right to grant clemency. So there is always a danger that protests by intellectuals can actually worsen the predicament of those at risk, and the frequency of such protests further diminishes whatever value they may have. Enough. I have said the main thing. By now, Chessman may have atoned for his crime through his death. If so, he has evaded the numerous lifelong torments to which he would have been subjected because of his sad fame and the ravenous sensationalism of the press. May he rest in peace.

TO PETER SUHRKAMP

[
End of October 1954
]

My dear friend Peter,

When I imagine you sitting there in Frankfurt in your bee's nest,
454
I realize that I can only partly understand the life in which you're enmeshed. Now that I know you're in Oberstdorf,
455
I often think of you during the day, and can more or less imagine the course of your day.

Nonetheless, I'm only writing to you now: I have been having increasing difficulties writing, and we have also had many visitors, and so much mail each day that my personal affairs have suffered. Then we received notification one day from the forestry office, and a young ranger arrived to inspect our little patch of woods; the chestnuts everywhere are coming down with a fatal illness, and some of our trees are ill. After some negotiations and correspondence, I agreed to cut down virtually all the tall old trees, which—quite apart from the loss—will be worrisome, a lot of bother. And we had barely digested that (they will probably be working away in the woods for weeks) when we had another scare: A neighbor below us has sold his land to a businessman who intends to build four new houses. And since the story wouldn't end there, we're trying to buy the plot of land that would be most harmful to us if it were developed. In short, by our standards, there was a lot going on. Fortunately, old age has made me increasingly indifferent, and the whole thing no longer seems all that real to me. But I feel the encroachment of the city, and all the noise, the cars, the increasing scarcity of breathing room, even in what was, until quite recently, a peaceful rural haven, are part of a general pattern in the world at large; those are the waves, and we old folk just have to succumb; there's no point fighting for those last few breaths of air. The world is right, the old people will doubtlessly have to go, the gardens will be turned into sports stadiums and highways, the air will be ruined by planes and blaring radios. And so on. Pack up, my dear child, and let yourself be buried; your time is long over. And I realize that it isn't even all that easy to get buried. We have been wanting for years to buy ourselves a plot in the cemetery of Sant' Abbondio, but haven't got around to it, and never shall.

Enough now of these tones, O friend …

The Frisch, Penzoldt, and Monique
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have just arrived, so we have lots of pleasurable reading ahead.

A number of readers have written to me about
Piktor;
some have ascertained the deeper meaning behind the fairy tale and realize it's something else in addition to a fairy tale.
457

I'm not going to inquire about your condition and the cure. There's no need to write from there; I'm glad you're at least being cared for by people who have your best interests at heart and want to prevent you from destroying yourself. I can imagine that you feel dejected occasionally and have macabre thoughts, as is only to be expected. But I hope that you sense that other force, life, in the quiet Konrad and are able to heed the delicate birdsong.

TO MAX RASCHER
458

[
Early
]
January 1955

You sent me a large package of books over the holidays, and it's a pleasure to be able to thank you. You have been very kind, and I'm always delighted when you think of me in this way.

They include some splendid and attractive works; purely externally, the covers of some of them look valuable and attractive, especially the study of the painter Bodmer,
459
and I shall take a good look at them.

But my favorite this time is a modest little book which somehow managed to attract my attention right away. It will be in my hands often. It's the new edition of the Bhagavad-Gita in Ilse Krämer's translation. Whenever I leaf through it, I recall my first serious encounters with the world of India. There was no such thing at that time as a branch of modern scholarship devoted to India, and none of the Upanishads, etc., etc., had been translated. Of course, there was always Oldenberg's book about Buddha,
460
but in the main one had to rely on somewhat suspect sources, such as theosophist publications (Steiner was still with them). They were small booklets, a little like the propagandistic tracts of Pietism, written mostly in bad German, translated from the English. A lot of it was insipid and watered down, but the few great, fundamental Indian ideas nonetheless managed to shimmer through. By far the most beautiful of these tracts was a translation of the Bhagavad-Gita by Franz Hartmann. It was the first genuine Indian work I had come across, and I was greatly impressed.

Leafing through my various German renderings of this noble work, I notice that, although I no longer own that early edition of Hartmann's translation—some truth seeker failed to return it—in its place I have your 1946 edition, along with some other versions. And I realize once again the extent of your firm's efforts over several decades to propagate Indian wisdom. For me, that, together with your furtherance of C. G. Jung's work, ranks as the most important accomplishment among your varied activities as a publisher.

TO RUDOLF PANNWITZ
461

January 1955

I rarely receive letters like the one you wrote after reading
The Glass Bead Game.
I was delighted with it, and shall treasure it like a belated and unexpected gift. As an old man I have been inundated with recognition and success—much to my own surprise—but the understanding and praise have come mostly from ordinary readers, whom I couldn't really consider entirely competent, since they were only able to fathom half the complexities in the work. Moreover, they often seized on the work because they felt that it could help them resolve practical issues, and this further diminished the value of any such recognition.

And now your letter brings me the understanding of a superior mind. I know that your mind is superior to mine as regards critical ability and educational breadth, and I also respect you as a poet.

For an old man who basically doesn't wish for anything any longer, this is a noble gift indeed, and I shall remain grateful to you. I'm ashamed that I cannot produce a better reply, but I'm no longer able to do all that much reading and correspondence. I'm satisfied if my hands and eyes manage to do a modest amount of work each day, even though for a long time now none of that work has been devoted to my own production.

Perhaps, as a counter-offering, I can sketch a few memories from the period when the book was conceived, since your letter has brought back vivid recollections of those days.

I had the first glimmerings when I began to think of reincarnation as a manifestation of stability amidst flux, of continuity in tradition, even of intellectual life
tout court.
One day, several years before I began trying to write anything down, I suddenly envisioned an individual life that transcended time: I imagined a person who lives through the great epochs of human history in several reincarnations. As you can see, the series of biographies of Knecht—three historical and one Castalian—is all that remains of that intention. The original plan had also foreseen another biography, transposed into the eighteenth century when there was a blossoming in music. I worked on this piece for almost a year and researched it more thoroughly than all the other biographies of Knecht, but it never worked out, and has remained a fragment.
462
That eighteenth-century world is exceedingly well known and thoroughly documented, and couldn't be integrated into the more legendary world of Knecht's other vitae.