Soul of the Age

by Hermann Hesse

  So much for today, my time is up. We wish to go to San Lorenzo and later on to a divine service with music in the Annunziata.

  TO STEFAN ZWEIG

  Calw, October 11, 1903

  Strange! Yesterday I thought of you, decided I would write to you soon, then your nice card arrives today. Thanks very much! I fear a second reading of my Rundschau novel (it will appear later on as a book)64 won’t give you as much pleasure as the first, because it’s unfortunately rather ponderous and crude.

  It was just as well you didn’t look me up in Basel. I left the city and have been back for a short while in my old home in the Black Forest, where I intend to remain for the entire winter at least. My little old room, which looks out on the setting of my childhood pranks, is all set up, and it makes quite a diligent and scholarly impression with its desk and books, and already smells of tobacco. Hanging on the wall are my fishing rod, pictures of my mother and my sweetheart, who is still in Basel, a couple of pipes, and a map of Italy, which I sometimes pore over. How far away that all seems now!

  Here I have found what I was looking for—real peace and solitude. Nobody around here reads books and writes verse, drinks tea and smokes cigarettes and knows everything, has been to Italy and Paris and speaks several languages, and I’m glad about that.

  I hope to accomplish a lot of work this winter—at least a novel or something like that. At the moment I’m still spending most of my time preparing for winter—i.e., every day I carry home two small sacks full of fir cones, which I shall use later on for heating. I already have a large boxful, but need a lot more. So I get to see some wonderful things in the woods. The day before yesterday I eavesdropped on a large flock of partridges, today it was a hare, etc. It’s altogether interesting, far more entertaining than city life.

  But, unfortunately, I’m far away from my sweetheart and need a lot of stamps. I had hoped to get married this winter, but her father refused in a very rude manner, and we have no money, which is why I now have to work and earn something.65 Once I have scraped together what we need, there will be no more asking that thickhead for permission.

  In the spring, at a time when these worries were still far away, I spent a month in Italy and in Venice, and guzzled quite a lot of inexpensive sweet Cypriot wine, also caught crabs, got into some quarrels, and visited a number of old palaces I had never seen before. Now it seems like a dream.

  Literature affords me as little satisfaction as ever. I got another beautiful review of my poems recently, but not a soul is willing to buy them, and if the new novel doesn’t work out, I shall get fed up with the whole thing, and try something else.[ … ]

  Gaienhofen, September 11, 1904

  So I can write again, now that you’re back. I really enjoyed your wonderful, kind letter and all those cards from your travels. As for your last letter, there was a passage in it I found less pleasing. The affair about the pictures! Of course, I don’t want to make a fuss, if nothing can be done about it. But I’d be incredibly happy if it were possible to prevent that newspaper from publishing that picture of me. Please!

  Aside from that, I enjoyed hearing everything you said. I found it interesting you didn’t like “Amstein.”66 I’m not a good judge of my own scribbles, and perhaps often value the breeziest stuff highest. I find literary criticism absolutely worthless, but am always glad when a friend tells me what he does and doesn’t like. I wrote “Amstein” a year and a half ago, and haven’t read it again since. The “Marble Works” was written last winter and spring.

  So, since the beginning of August I have been living here, married, on Lake Constance, and I very much hope you will come and visit me sooner or later. Vienna seems more remote and less accessible now that I’m living in the country. Gaienhofen is a very small, beautiful village; it has no railway, no store, no industry, not even a pastor of its own, so this morning, I had to spend half an hour wading through fields in the most awful rain to get to the funeral of a neighbor. There is no running water, so I fetch all the water from the well; no tradesmen, so I have to do all the necessary repairs in the house myself; and no butcher, so I have to fetch the meat, sausages, etc., from the closest town in the Thurgau. But the place offers tranquillity, clean air and water, beautiful cattle, fabulous fruit, decent people. Apart from my wife and our cat, I don’t have any company. I’m living in a little rented farmhouse, for which I pay a yearly rent of 150 marks.

  Long live Peter Camenzind! Were it not for him, I wouldn’t have been able to marry and move here. He earned me 2,500 marks, and if I stay here, I can survive on that for at least two years.

  I used to look forward to being “famous,” but it’s less fun than I had expected. Schoolteachers and clubs write to me in a businesslike style, asking for free copies of my book, etc. A journalist said he wanted to interview me for a book about “contemporaries.” I wrote back saying he should seek out a hydropathic establishment. All of that took place back in Calw; nobody comes over here to Gaienhofen; it’s quite remote. In any case, the letters, etc., have subsided, and peace has returned to the countryside.

  We rushed through with the wedding. My father-in-law is opposed to it, and refuses to have anything to do with me; so I turned up in Basel while he was out of town; then we hurried off subitissimo to the registry office. We can still hear the old man grumbling in the distance, but he seems to be calming down gradually.

  So I’m now a married man; my gypsylike existence is aver, for the time being. But my little wife is nice and quite reasonable. Of course, she hasn’t found out yet that I’ve just ordered a small barrel of white wine. The wine here is scandalously sour.

  You’re going to Paris for the winter, and your collection of novellas67 is coming out in February? You now want to begin a larger work? My dear sir, dear friend, would you please accept my best wishes! And do come to Lake Constance at some point! There won’t be as many new things for you to see as there would be for me in Vienna, but I’d love to spend the afternoon out on the lake with you; and then in the evening we could sit on the bench by the oven in my farmhouse. I’ll make sure the wine doesn’t run out.

  And, if at all possible, you’ll leave my picture out of it, won’t you? I’ve made fun of writer’s portraits so often that I can’t possibly do the same thing myself now. Of course, you’re perfectly free to mention me by name in the text. Also, please think of me, and let me know how you and your work are faring. For instance, I would like to know the title of your dissertation.68 Yours faithfully and gratefully

  TO LUDWIG THOMA69

  Gaienhofen, January 30, 1907

  It’s certainly high time for me to thank you for your greetings. I was extremely impressed to learn that you’re now forty; I have another ten years’ worth of experience to digest before then.

  I enjoyed the first two issues of März, the second in particular. What’s more, I have since acquired another good piece: a novella by our dear friend W. Fischer in Graz.70 I sent it to Aram today, and we should definitely accept it.

  I had the idea I’d publish a nice selection of old, unknown treasures at some later point, and so I’ve decided to translate some pieces from the splendid medieval Latin of old Caesarius of Heisterbach71—that is, if I’ve enough time left over after the construction and other work.

  The lake here has been mostly frozen, and we’ve been out ice-skating a lot. The alpine wind is blowing once again, there’s a leak in the roof, and the ovens won’t draw.

  Finckh got married recently and he’s still in the Black Forest. His animals (two donkeys, two St. Bernards, one cat, some trout) may be getting more company: some hens, ducks, and a nanny goat.

  The page with Olaf’s72 drawings gave us a good laugh.

  A little while ago, when the ice was still here, we made a sail, went out on the lake in a sled, and raced about like a locomotive, causing numerous catastrophes. Our friend Bucherer73 is inventive, and it’s handy having him around. We’re busy building a large snowman to commemorate the return of Finckh.


  TO JAKOB SCHAFFNER74

  February 1908

  We ought to learn from each other, and this time I learned something from you. Well, our Weltanschauungen are often at loggerheads, and I understand why you can’t make heads or tails of mine, which is not in the least bit evolutionary. I’m pious in the old-fashioned sense, and thus not prepared to concede that there is any development—i.e., progress—in our lives and intellectual pursuits. Otherwise why would the world have needed a Hegel when it had already had a Plato, and if there is progress, how come the so-called land of thinkers is falling for those Jena world puzzles?75

  But there is one form of progress I gladly concede: Today’s bicycle is certainly better than the one manufactured in 1880, and a locomotive can certainly travel faster than a handcart. I like that change, but not nearly as much as you do, for the following reasons: Opportunities like this allow us to speed up a little, but don’t allow us to conquer time. We’re usually just as impatient in the express train as we were in the mail coach, assuming, of course, that we’re in a hurry, and nowadays aren’t we always in a hurry? People in the Orient also know how to live, and according to the elegant account given us recently by Professor Mez, the native population there has no qualms about letting the Europeans do all the railway construction.

  But to the point! I wanted to tell you about my typewriter. My dear sir, you’re to blame, since I bought it upon your recommendation and example. But I must say I’m really enjoying this tidy little machine, and I want to recite some of its advantages. Especially for one’s wrist! After a hard day’s work my hand used to ache all over. The pain may well have served as a warning: Don’t overdo it! But after all, writing is our trade, and we should let our heads rather than our wrists protest against any excesses.

  Moreover, speaking just for myself, when I wrote by hand, I put a great deal of effort, love, art, and sundry flourishes into the penning of individual letters and lines. I always regretted those wasted efforts when I saw the contrast between the sober printed version and the elaborate, delicate product of my fingers. No call for that anymore.

  And then there’s another difference, the main thing, really. There used to be a huge difference between the manuscript and the printed page; pieces often looked a lot longer or shorter than they were. And, unfortunately, they didn’t object to the flattery! Skimming through the familiar handwriting in that sort of manuscript, one would judge it in a rather flattering light, seeing it the way the mirror sees the bride, and everything would seem very well done, or at least tolerably so, even if there were terrible flaws in the piece. Whereas the cold, printlike type almost seems like galley proof; it looks at you critically and severely, in an ironic and almost hostile manner; it’s no longer familiar and can be properly evaluated. It’s always refreshing to see dyed-in-the-wool habits being discarded, and this is temporarily true of typing. The shift from hoe to plow or pen to typewriter is really stimulating. And I’m not at all bothered by the clatter that I had dreaded.

  So progress exists after all! You may laugh if you wish. But it’s only a modest, technical advance, and perhaps it’ll soon be superseded by other, more significant developments. Ten years from now I shan’t be quite so proud of this 1908 machine. I have a few relics that I really cherish even though they’re also a source of amusement; among them is a heavily worn goose-feather quill, which the late Eduard Mörike76 sharpened and split with his clever, light hands before sitting down to write. Now, he is a person who never would have bought a typewriter, even if he had been able to afford one. It’s impossible to calculate exactly how much of his potential he wasted in the course of his long and idle life; he spent ages cutting quills, doing calligraphy, painting Easter eggs, and if he had only focused a minuscule portion of his energy, he could easily have written three times as much, and we would all be pleased. But the lazybones did nothing of the sort. Those knick-knacks were just as important to him as the future of German literature.

  I think life behaves in much the same way. It doesn’t ask itself how things will turn out later on; it has no interest in goals or prospects, and likes to hover aimlessly in the present. Only thus can the present aspire to eternity.

  TO HIS FAMILY IN CALW

  Gaienhofen, February 29, 1908

  [ … ] I’m looking forward to Father’s new book77 and was wondering whether I could have an inscribed copy. I like browsing around in The Pagans and Us;78 I like listening to Papa, and pick up a lot.

  Having recently renovated and fortified the foundations of my philosophy of life, I’m more receptive to religious writings of all kinds. There is one point on which all serious, critical philosophies agree: our minds, and even logic itself, are incapable of resolving the issues most crucial for our spiritual well-being. I’m very fond of the teachings of Jesus and find them indispensable as a source of consolation and as a guide for practical ethics. The notion that life on this earth is brief and heavenly existence eternal is a bit too skimpy in mythological terms; it completely fails to address the issue of previous existences. I need a mythology, an explanation of the universe, that is more complex and graphic, and often borrow material from Buddha and the Vedic legends. Perhaps this issue of previous existences is ethically insignificant, but I have always felt it was attractive, mysterious, and not in the least bit oppressive. In our heart of hearts, when we think of immortality, we think of the individual, since immortality of a nonindividual nature is quite inconceivable; we then ask ourselves repeatedly what that personal soul might have looked like prior to our present existence. At that point the Indian doctrine of reincarnation affords me some satisfaction—even though I don’t actually “believe” in it—insofar as it conveys nonconceptual truths in a splendidly graphic manner. However, aside from that, the Indians aren’t of much use to me since they rank knowledge above faith. They accept as beyond doubt an almost modern form of determinism, except that for reasons of dogma, they create a loophole for free will on the way to nirvana. But that’s enough, I cannot do justice to the subject in a letter.[ … ]

  TO RECTOR OTTO KIMMIG

  Gaienhofen, March 10, 1908

  Many thanks for your friendly note. I liked what you wrote, and not just because I’m looking forward to the arrival of the Zosimus volume. Now, I don’t wish to make you feel you ought to write again; I myself cannot write forced letters, and today I’m just replying out of gratitude, since I sensed from your card that we really understand each other, and that’s not exactly an everyday occurrence.

  I’m glad to hear that you’re planning a visit, even if it’s later on. You know that you’re welcome. I tell everybody that I hate having visitors, but that is meant to scare off the apes who invade the house just out of curiosity, and to benefit the welcome visitors.

  Much could be said about the “tragic novel.” Perhaps many such novels have already been written. In reading some good, but hardly optimistic writers, I have felt that the story they tell is no more powerful and sad than any extremely straightforward depiction of life—a narrative that doesn’t rely on any preordained scheme or doctrine and in which the laughing and crying, dying and marrying occur in the same tempo, with all events being equally funny or unfunny. I find this pattern in, e.g., several of the Russians.

  Yet, on the other hand, the “tragic novel” may well be an impossible feat. Tragic drama consciously portrays a truly exceptional life and fate; it’s probably also possible to achieve something similar in the novella (in the older sense of the term). But it seems to me that the novel can best express the ordinary, essentially unchanging things in life that are universal.

  I don’t believe that literary genres exist purely for the sake of the aestheticians or poets (if that were so, there would surely be more of them); the material simply demands them so that everything human can find its own means of expression. And then there is the novel, which is a patiently formless entity, an all-purpose receptacle for everything that doesn’t require a genre of its own, for the common, undistingui
shed, threadbare human things. And as for the attempts to narrate all of this using broad brushstrokes, without illuminating the woeful material in any way or lending a minor art form any lighthearted personal touches such as humor, etc., they were almost unbelievably depressing. The impression left by “pure” naturalism or verism is thus often unartistic, because art should turn sadness into beauty and portray terrible events in a pleasing manner. Otherwise one might just as well read biology, world history, or critical philosophy, which also leave one, ultimately, with the dark impression of a dark chain of events, whose goal and meaning remain unfathomable.

  Art, also in the novel, will probably always rely on—and be inspired by—the only apparition in this arbitrary and monstrously wasteful process whose form is pleasing to us—i.e., life as form. The reason being that each form and each individual—not just the beautiful ones—is a source of wonder, the only object in the flow of events that truly exists, or is at least perceptible. In short, the artist will always find that, even though he has no problem believing in the earth’s motion and basing his thought on that assumption, to live and be creative he has to stand like a savage on secure ground and see the sun going around in a circle. Anybody who believes fervently that objects do not exist or even subscribes to a determinist point of view—which, of course, logically implies absolute predetermination—would not write novels, or anything else, for that matter.