η απορια του μη ησυχαζειν — Posts Tagged ‘hesse’

Insomniac passing anhypnic nights in writing, translation, music, mathematics, programming and whatever else captures my attention or alleviates agrypnia.

This consists mostly of quotations of things that stand out to me or reflect what's on my mind; occasionally I also post original, often more personal, content as well, which may be found under the "personal" tag. Anything posted under "translations" is also original work and may broadly be taken as personal as well as I seldom tackle a work that does not speak to or for me in some way.

February 12th, 2012 1:41pm

»Laß es mich dir heute sagen, wie sehr ich dich liebe, wieviel du mir immer gewesen bist, wie reich du mein Leben gemacht hast. Es wird dir nicht sehr viel bedeuten. Du bist an Liebe gewohnt, sie ist für dich nichts Seltenes, du bist von so vielen« [Menschen] »geliebt und verwöhnt worden. Für mich ist es anders. Mein Leben ist arm an Liebe gewesen, es hat mir am Besten gefehlt.« […] »Wenn ich weiß, was Liebe ist, so ist es deinetwegen. Dich habe ich lieben können, dich allein unter den« [Frauen]. »Du kannst nicht ermessen, was das bedeutet. Es bedeutet den Quell in einer Wüste, den blühenden Baum in einer Wildnis. Dir allein danke ich es, daß mein Herz nicht verdorrt ist, daß eine Stelle in mir blieb, die von der Gnade erreicht werden kann.«

“Let me tell you today how much I love you, how much you have always meant to me, how rich you have made my life. It will not mean much to you. You’re used to love, it’s not unusual for you—so many” [people] “have loved and spoiled you. For me it’s otherwise. My life has been poor in love; I have missed the best of it.” […] “If I know what love is, it’s because of you. I have been able to love you, you alone among” [women]. “You can’t understand what that means. It’s a spring in a desert, a tree blossoming in the wilderness. It’s thanks to you alone that my heart has not dried up, that there remains in me a place that can be touched by grace.”

Hermann Hesse, Narziß und Goldmund, chapter 20.

(עודני אהבתיך, גבריאלה)

(Source: danieldockery.com)
October 22nd, 2011 10:12am

Es ist eine schöne Sache um die Zufriedenheit, um die Schmerzlosigkeit, um diese erträglichen geduckten Tage, wo weder Schmerz noch Lust zu schreien wagt, wo alles nur flüstert und auf Zehen schleicht. Nur steht es mit mir leider so, daß ich gerade diese Zufriedenheit gar nicht gut vertrage, daß sie mir nach kurzer Dauer unausstehlich verhaßt und ekelhaft wird und ich mich verzweiflungsvoll in andre Temperaturen flüchten muß, womöglich auf dem Wege der Lustgefühle, nötigenfalls aber auch auf dem Wege der Schmerzen. Wenn ich eine Weile ohne Lust und ohne Schmerz war und die laue, fade Erträglichkeit sogenannter guter Tage geatmet habe, dann wird mir in meiner kindischen Seele so windig weh und elend, daß ich die verrostete Dankbarkeitsleier dem schläfrigen Zufriedenheitsgott ins zufriedene Gesicht schmeiße und lieber einen rechten teuflischen Schmerz in mir brennen fühle als diese bekömmliche Zimmertemperatur. Es brennt alsdann in mir eine wilde Begierde nach starken Gefühlen, nach Sensationen, eine Wut auf dies abgetönte, flache, normierte und sterilisierte Leben und eine rasende Lust, irgend etwas kaputt zu schlagen, etwa ein Warenhaus oder eine Kathedrale oder mich selbst, verwegene Dummheiten zu begehen, ein paar verehrten Götzen die Perücken abzureißen, ein paar rebellische Schulbuben mit der ersehnten Fahrkarte nach Hamburg auszurüsten, ein kleines Mädchen zu verführen oder einigen Vertretern der bürgerlichen Weltordnung das Gesicht ins Genick zu drehen. Denn dies haßte, verabscheute und verfluchte ich von allem doch am innigsten: diese Zufriedenheit, diese Gesundheit, Behaglichkeit, diesen gepflegten Optimismus des Bürgers, diese fette gedeihliche Zucht des Mittelmäßigen, Normalen, Durchschnittlichen.

It is a beautiful thing about contentment, about painlessness, on these tolerable crouching days, when neither pain nor desire risk crying out, when everything only whispers and creeps about on tip-toe. Unfortunately, it’s just this sort of contentment that I can’t tolerate well; after a short time, it becomes unbearably hateful and repulsive to me and I must escape my despair in other climes, possibly on the path of pleasure, or if necessary on the path of pain. When I have neither pleasure nor pain for a while and have breathed the stale, lukewarm tolerability of so-called good days, then my childish soul hurts so miserably that I throw the rusty lyre of thanksgiving into the face of the drowsy god of contentment and would rather feel the pain of the devil burning in me than this wholesome room temperature. Then burns in me a wild craving for strong emotions, sensations, a rage against this shaded, flat, standardized and sterilized life and a frenzied desire to smash something to pieces, perhaps a store or a cathedral or myself, daring to commit stupidities, to destroy a few revered idols, to encourage a few schoolboys to some delinquency, to seduce a young girl, or to overturn some representative of the bourgeois world order. For these I hated, loathed and cursed above all, but especially this contentment, this health and comfort, this carefully constructed optimism of the middle classes, this fat, prosperous breeding of mediocrity, normalcy, the average.

Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf

(Source: danieldockery.com)
October 8th, 2011 11:13pm
A lovely piece from Baudelaire, Petits Poèmes en Prose (Le Spleen de Paris), edition of 1869, no. 33, “Enivrez-vous”. Il faut être toujours ivre. Tout est là: c’est l’unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l’horrible fardeau du Temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve. Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise. Mais enivrez-vous. Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d’un palais, sur l’herbe verte d’un fossé, dans la solitude morne de votre chambre, vous vous réveillez, l’ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, à la vague, à l’étoile, à l’oiseau, à l’horloge, à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est; et le vent, la vague, l’étoile, l’oiseau, l’horloge, vous répondront: “Il est l’heure de s’enivrer! Pour n’être pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps, enivrez-vous; enivrez-vous sans cesse! De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise.” While I’m uncertain of the source of the translation cited above, it’s a popular piece that has turned up often. Perhaps particularly surprising, Vanity Fair published a translation of it by Aleister Crowley in their December 1915 issue (vol. V, no. 4, p. 51), perhaps as it goes admirably well with certain elements of his own philosophy. To me, it also recalls to mind Seneca, de Tranquillitate Animi (“On the tranquility of the mind”), XVII.8–11: Indulgendum est animo dandumque subinde otium, quod alimenti ac uirium loco sit. Et in ambulationibus apertis uagandum, ut cælo libero et multo spiritu augeat attollatque se animus; aliquando uectatio iterque et mutata regio uigorem dabunt, conuictusque et liberalior potio. Nonnumquam et usque ad ebrietatem ueniendum, non ut mergat nos, sed ut deprimat: eluit enim curas et ab imo animum mouet et, ut morbis quibusdam, ita tristitiæ medetur, Liberque non ob licentiam linguæ dictus est inuentor uini, sed quia liberat seruitio curarum animum et asserit uegetatque et audaciorem in omnes conatus facit. Sed, ut libertatis, ita uini salubris moderatio est. Solonem Arcesilanque indulsisse uino eredunt; Catoni ebrietas obiecta est: facilius efficient crimen honestum quam turpem Catonem. Sed nec sæpe faciendum est, ne animus malam consuetudinem ducat, et aliquando tamen in exsultationem libertatemque extrahendus tristisque sobrietas remouenda paulisper. Nam, siue græco pœtæ credimus, “aliquando et insanire iucundum est”; siue Platoni, “frustra pœticas fores compos sui pepulit”; siue Aristoteli, “nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementiæ fuit”. Non potest grande aliquid et super ceteros loqui nisi mota mens. Cum uulgaria et solita contempsit instinctuque sacro surrexit excelsior, tunc demum aliquid cecinit grandius ore mortali. Non potest sublime quicquam et in arduo positum contingere, quamdiu apud se est: desciscat oportet a solito et efferatur et mordeat frenos et rectorem rapiat suum, eoque ferat quo per se timuisset escendere. We must treat the mind kindly and frequently give it rest, which serves the purpose of food and strength: and we must indulge in outdoor rambles, that the mind may become stronger and be elevated under the open sky and in the fresh air. Sometimes riding, travel, a change of country, a social meal and more liberal drinking will give us strength; sometimes we ought to come even to the point of drunkenness, not for the purpose of drowning ourselves, but of sublimating ourselves deep in wine. For it washes away cares and raises our spirits from the lowest depths, and is a remedy for sadness as also for certain diseases. The inventor of wine is called Liber, not because of the freedom of speaking which comes through him, but because he frees the soul from the servitude of cares, releases it from slavery, quickens it, and makes it bolder for all undertakings. But moderation is wholesome both in freedom and in wine. Men believe that Solon and Arcesilaus were addicted to wine. Drunkenness is charged to Cato: yet whoever shall reproach him with this will more easily prove that this crime is honorable than that Cato was base. But it must not be done often lest the mind contract a bad habit, and yet sometimes it ought to be drawn into exultation and freedom, and gloomy sobriety ought to be case aside for a short time. For whether we believe the Greek poet, ‘it is sometimes even pleasant to be mad,’ or Plato, ‘he who is master of himself has knocked in vain at the doors of poetry;’ or Aristotle, ‘there is no great genius without a mixture of madness;’ the mind cannot express anything lofty and above the ordinary unless inspired. When it despises the common and the customary, and with sacred inspiration rises higher, then at length it sings something grander than that which can come from mortal lips. It cannot attain anything sublime and lofty so long as it is sane: it must depart from the customary, swing itself aloft, take the bit in its teeth, carry away its rider and bear him to a height whither he would have feared to ascend alone. Which in turn reminds me of two earlier posts, this piece by Hesse and this by Rumi. All of which remind me that this is Saturday night, and I should get started on the drinking.

A lovely piece from Baudelaire, Petits Poèmes en Prose (Le Spleen de Paris), edition of 1869, no. 33, “Enivrez-vous”.

Il faut être toujours ivre. Tout est là: c’est l’unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l’horrible fardeau du Temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.

Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise. Mais enivrez-vous.

Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d’un palais, sur l’herbe verte d’un fossé, dans la solitude morne de votre chambre, vous vous réveillez, l’ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, à la vague, à l’étoile, à l’oiseau, à l’horloge, à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est; et le vent, la vague, l’étoile, l’oiseau, l’horloge, vous répondront: “Il est l’heure de s’enivrer! Pour n’être pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps, enivrez-vous; enivrez-vous sans cesse! De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise.”

While I’m uncertain of the source of the translation cited above, it’s a popular piece that has turned up often. Perhaps particularly surprising, Vanity Fair published a translation of it by Aleister Crowley in their December 1915 issue (vol. V, no. 4, p. 51), perhaps as it goes admirably well with certain elements of his own philosophy.

To me, it also recalls to mind Seneca, de Tranquillitate Animi (“On the tranquility of the mind”), XVII.8–11:

Indulgendum est animo dandumque subinde otium, quod alimenti ac uirium loco sit. Et in ambulationibus apertis uagandum, ut cælo libero et multo spiritu augeat attollatque se animus; aliquando uectatio iterque et mutata regio uigorem dabunt, conuictusque et liberalior potio. Nonnumquam et usque ad ebrietatem ueniendum, non ut mergat nos, sed ut deprimat: eluit enim curas et ab imo animum mouet et, ut morbis quibusdam, ita tristitiæ medetur, Liberque non ob licentiam linguæ dictus est inuentor uini, sed quia liberat seruitio curarum animum et asserit uegetatque et audaciorem in omnes conatus facit. Sed, ut libertatis, ita uini salubris moderatio est. Solonem Arcesilanque indulsisse uino eredunt; Catoni ebrietas obiecta est: facilius efficient crimen honestum quam turpem Catonem. Sed nec sæpe faciendum est, ne animus malam consuetudinem ducat, et aliquando tamen in exsultationem libertatemque extrahendus tristisque sobrietas remouenda paulisper. Nam, siue græco pœtæ credimus, “aliquando et insanire iucundum est”; siue Platoni, “frustra pœticas fores compos sui pepulit”; siue Aristoteli, “nullum magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementiæ fuit”. Non potest grande aliquid et super ceteros loqui nisi mota mens. Cum uulgaria et solita contempsit instinctuque sacro surrexit excelsior, tunc demum aliquid cecinit grandius ore mortali. Non potest sublime quicquam et in arduo positum contingere, quamdiu apud se est: desciscat oportet a solito et efferatur et mordeat frenos et rectorem rapiat suum, eoque ferat quo per se timuisset escendere.

We must treat the mind kindly and frequently give it rest, which serves the purpose of food and strength: and we must indulge in outdoor rambles, that the mind may become stronger and be elevated under the open sky and in the fresh air. Sometimes riding, travel, a change of country, a social meal and more liberal drinking will give us strength; sometimes we ought to come even to the point of drunkenness, not for the purpose of drowning ourselves, but of sublimating ourselves deep in wine. For it washes away cares and raises our spirits from the lowest depths, and is a remedy for sadness as also for certain diseases. The inventor of wine is called Liber, not because of the freedom of speaking which comes through him, but because he frees the soul from the servitude of cares, releases it from slavery, quickens it, and makes it bolder for all undertakings. But moderation is wholesome both in freedom and in wine. Men believe that Solon and Arcesilaus were addicted to wine. Drunkenness is charged to Cato: yet whoever shall reproach him with this will more easily prove that this crime is honorable than that Cato was base. But it must not be done often lest the mind contract a bad habit, and yet sometimes it ought to be drawn into exultation and freedom, and gloomy sobriety ought to be case aside for a short time. For whether we believe the Greek poet, ‘it is sometimes even pleasant to be mad,’ or Plato, ‘he who is master of himself has knocked in vain at the doors of poetry;’ or Aristotle, ‘there is no great genius without a mixture of madness;’ the mind cannot express anything lofty and above the ordinary unless inspired. When it despises the common and the customary, and with sacred inspiration rises higher, then at length it sings something grander than that which can come from mortal lips. It cannot attain anything sublime and lofty so long as it is sane: it must depart from the customary, swing itself aloft, take the bit in its teeth, carry away its rider and bear him to a height whither he would have feared to ascend alone.

Which in turn reminds me of two earlier posts, this piece by Hesse and this by Rumi.

All of which remind me that this is Saturday night, and I should get started on the drinking.

(Source: danieldockery.com)

June 6th, 2011 7:55pm

Dagegen ist kein Kraut gewachsen. Du kannst nicht ein Vagabund und Künstler, und daneben auch noch ein Bürger und wohlanständiger Gesunder sein. Du willst den Rausch haben, so habe auch den Katzenjammer! Sagst du Ja zum Sonnenschein und den holden Phantasten/Phantasien, so sage auch Ja zum Schmutz und Ekel! Alles das ist in dir, Gold und Dreck, Lust und Pein, Kinderlachen und Todesangst. Sag Ja zu allem, drücke dich um nichts, suche nichts hinwegzulügen! Du bist kein Bürger, du bist auch kein Grieche, du bist nicht harmonisch und Herr deiner selbst, du bist ein Vogel im Sturm. Laß stürmen! Laß dich treiben! Wie viel hast du gelogen! Wie tausendmal hast du, auch in deinen Gedichten und Büchern, den Harmonischen und Weisen gespielt, den Glücklichen, den Abgeklärten! So haben sie im Krieg beim Angriff die Helden gespielt, während die Eingeweide zuckten! Herrgott, was für ein armer Äff und Spiegelfechter ist der Mensch—zumal der Künstler—zumal der Dichter—zumal ich!

By contrast, there’s no cure for it. You can’t be a vagabond and artist and still be a wholesome, respectable citizen. You want the intoxication, you have to take the hangover. You say Yes to the sunshine and sweet fantasies, you also say Yes to the filth and disgust! All of it is in you: gold and muck, pleasure and pain, childhood laughter and the fear of death. Say Yes to everything, give up nothing, lie about nothing! You’re not a good citizen, you’re also not a Stoic, you’re not balanced and master of yourself, you’re a bird in a storm. Let it storm! Let it guide you! How much you’ve lied! A thousand times, even in your poems and books, you’ve played the well-adjusted and wise man, the happy and contented man! The same way men in war played heroes while their stomachs churned! My god, what a pathetic ape and mirror-fencer man is—especially the artist—especially the poet—especially me!

Hermann Hesse, Wanderung: Aufzeichnungen (1920), “Regenwetter”, p. 71

(Source: danieldockery.com)
May 19th, 2011 9:34am

Lange bleib ich im Finstern kauern,
Höre den Wind im Dach und den knisternden Tod in den Mauern,
Höre Sand hinter Tapeten rinnen,
Höre den Tod mit frierenden Fingern spinnen,
Reiße die Augen auf, will ihn sehen und greifen,
Sehe ins Leere und höre ihn fern
Aus den spöttischen Lippen leise pfeifen,
Taste zum Bett—schliefe, schliefe so gern!
Aber Schlaf ist ein scheuer Vogel geworden,
Schwer zu fangen, zu halten, doch leicht zu morden;
Pfeifend fährt er, die Stimme voll bittrem Hohn,
Sausenden Fluges im zerrenden Winde davon.

I remained crouched in the darkness a long time,
hearing the wind on the roof, crackling death in the walls,
the sand running behind the wallpaper,
listening to death plot with cold fingers;
let me force my eyes open, I want to see him, catch him,
look into the void and hear him, from afar,
whistling softly from his mocking lips;
I reach for the bed—for sleep, I want so much to sleep!
But sleep has become a timid bird:
difficult to catch, to hold on to, but easy to kill.
He flies off, wings rustling in the wind,
his whistling voice full of bitter disdain.

Hermann Hesse, from “Angst in der Nacht” (1911)
May 14th, 2011 11:34pm

Wie sind die Tage schwer!
An keinem Feuer kann ich erwannen,
Keine Sonne lacht mir mehr,
Ist alles leer,
Ist alles kalt und ohne Erbarmen,
Und auch die lieben klaren
Sterne schauen mich trostlos an,
Seit ich im Herzen erfahren,
Dass Liebe sterben kann.

How heavy are the days!
There’s not a fire that can warm me,
no sun to laugh with me,
it’s all empty,
it’s all cold, merciless,
and even the beloved, clear
stars look desolately down,
since I learned in my heart
that Love can die.

Hesse, “Wie sind die Tage…” (1911)

η απορια του μη ησυχαζειν

Insomniac passing anhypnic nights in writing, translation, music, mathematics, programming and whatever else captures my attention or alleviates agrypnia.

This consists mostly of quotations of things that stand out to me or reflect what's on my mind; occasionally I also post original, often more personal, content as well, which may be found under the "personal" tag. Anything posted under "translations" is also original work and may broadly be taken as personal as well as I seldom tackle a work that does not speak to or for me in some way.