In short, I am as alienated now from the prevalent German mentality as I was in 1914–18. I find the events I’m seeing absurd, and I have been driven miles to the left since 1914–18, whereas the German people have only taken one meager step in that direction. I cannot read a single German newspaper anymore.
Dear Thomas Mann, I do not expect you to share my convictions and opinions, but I hope you will respect them, out of sympathy for me. As for our plans for the winter, my wife is writing to yours. Please give my kind regards to Frau Mann and Mädi; we have grown fond of them both. And don’t think ill of me, even if you are disappointed by my answer. I doubt if it will come as a surprise.
With undiminished affection and admiration
TO F. ABEL
Baden, December 1931
Thanks for your letter, which reached me in Baden; I had finished a cure and was just packing my suitcase. I shall be here in Zurich until the middle of January.
Over the years I have adopted the habit of ignoring the visible impact of my books—i. e., the responses and interpretations of readers and critics. I would characterize my attitude toward my readers more or less as follows: Although I realize that certain issues and experiences of mine are somehow related to those of a large segment of contemporary youth, I feel as if they haven’t really understood me at all. Most readers want to find a leader, but they are not in the least bit prepared to submit themselves to intellectual principles and then to make some sacrifices on their behalf.
I would like to leave you to your own devices as much as possible, especially since there are other dissertations being written about me. A lady from Münster in Westphalia wrote to me recently saying she was doing a dissertation on “Hermann Hesse and Swabian Pietism.” I couldn’t get myself to reply to her, such was the extent of my interest in the matter …
But you have made it easier for me to respond to your straightforward questions, which I shall try to answer briefly.
You are right to say that Demian introduces a new tone in my work. It’s already present in some of the fairy tales. There was one turning point that affected me deeply. It had to do with the world war. Up until the war I had been leading a hermitlike existence, hadn’t yet been at loggerheads with fatherland, government, public opinion, academic establishment, etc., even though I considered myself a democrat and was glad to participate in the opposition movement against the Kaiser and the Wilhelmian system. (Served as co-founder of Simplicissimus, and also co-founder of the democratic, anti-imperial März, etc.) I realized in the course of the war not only that the Kaiser, the Reichstag, the Chancellor, and also the newspapers and the parties did not amount to much, but also that the entire population enthusiastically supported the revolting display of coarse behavior, infractions against the law, etc., and that the professors and sundry other official intellectuals were among the most vociferous advocates of those policies. I also noticed that our modest attempts at opposition, criticism, democracy had amounted to nothing more than journalism, so that, even among us, there were very few people prepared to take matters seriously and give up their lives for the cause. The idols of the fatherland had been destroyed, and the idols of one’s own imagination suffered a similar fate. I scrutinized our German intellectual life, our present-day use of language, our newspapers, our schools, our literature, and had to conclude that everything was mostly empty and bogus, and I’m including myself and my earlier work, even though it had been written in good faith.
The war opened my eyes, taught me a lot, and caused a radical change in everything that I wrote from 1915 onward. Afterward, I saw things a bit differently again. After a few years of not being able to abide my books, I began to realize that they contained all future developments in nuce233 and I occasionally felt fonder of the earlier works than of the later ones, partly because they reminded me of a more benign period, partly because I realized in retrospect that the moderate tone and evasion of the main problems constituted some kind of premonition, as if one had startled right before a rude awakening.
But I certainly stand behind what I said in my early books, and that applies also to the many mistakes and weaknesses in them.
But I wouldn’t mind at all if you relegated the early books to a subordinate role and chose instead to rely on those works that seem to you to grapple most forcefully with the issue, especially Demian.
Approach the topic as freely and personally as your method permits, trust your instincts, even when you cannot corroborate those instinctive judgments in a methodical manner.
And since you’re no longer dependent on Thiess’s contrary viewpoint, please treat my books as art rather than merely as a literary vehicle for expressing opinions. Please heed only that which strikes you as being genuinely artistic. The literati themselves aren’t an easy target for criticism. They’re always coming up with a multitude of ideas and making them sound wonderfully convincing. However, they look at things rationally, and the world always seems two-dimensional when viewed through the lens of reason. Art cannot promote ideas, no matter how hard it may try, since it only comes alive when it is genuine—in other words, when it creates symbols. I think Demian and his mother are actually symbols. Their range of meaning extends beyond that which is rationally comprehensible; they are magical incantations. You may express this differently, but you should let yourself be guided by the power of the symbols rather than by the program and literary attitudes that you derive rationally from my books.
I don’t know whether I have made myself clear or not. I could certainly have expressed these matters better orally. Feel free to make use of those observations in my letter that you consider plausible and appealing, and feel free to discard the rest.
TO HEINRICH WIEGAND234
February 29, 1932
Your kind letter arrived yesterday; we’re packing today, and traveling to Zurich tomorrow. We had a going-away party two evenings ago at the house of the magician Jup,235 a fellow guest here, and yesterday evening we invited Louis Moilliet (Louis the Cruel, the painter) and his wife. There will be no more of this wonderful mountain life this year, with its mixture of natural beauty, childlike sportiveness, plus the atmosphere and ridiculous luxuries of a racketeers’ hotel. I only went on one skiing expedition, and that was last Wednesday with Louis. At Corviglia,236 we were at an altitude of about 3,100 meters, and had a breathtaking view of the Bernina Mountains and beyond; at midday, the sun was warm and everything was completely calm. The journey back was quite adventurous, since there isn’t enough snow on the ground as one approaches the valley, so we had to ski over the alpine roses. Everything was very beautiful, but also very strenuous, and I haven’t been feeling well since then, couldn’t sleep, etc. Ninon’s rather frayed nerves were also partly responsible, but on the whole we’re grateful to be feeling in such good shape as we leave the mountains.
Your attitude toward the present-day German parties, etc., is quite right, I think. Since I’m not a politician, I naturally don’t have to worry about how to adapt to current conditions, but rather about how to remain in touch intellectually with the future. Unlike the autarkists, etc., I cannot separate the future of Germany from that of the world at large; to me it is a country that has not yet completed its revolution, hasn’t fully accepted its new form of government, and is game for all sorts of adventures. It fears rationality as much as the devil. Because of its position between the Soviets and the West, I feel Germany should try to discover new alternatives to capitalism and thus renew its stature and influence.
We shall remain in Zurich until the beginning of April, and shall get to hear one or two more Haydn concerts. I shall find it hard to leave this Zurich apartment,237 which was my winter refuge for six years. Quite a lot happened there, but now I’m married, and have a house, etc., and must try to keep the house, even though the immediate prospects look less than cheerful. I’m dependent on German money, a currency the rest of the world frowns on, and which is, in any case, subject to ruthless emergency decrees. So, once again,
I have my back to the wall, and I wouldn’t have done any of these things had I been able to foresee this. Well, I don’t regret what I did. Nowadays life is more of an adventure, and a merry one at that, than it was before the war. Nevertheless, I find it embarrassing to be so dependent on the Reich, its currency, the situation there, etc., while living elsewhere and holding a different citizenship.[ … ]
TO FRITZ AND ALICE LEUTHOLD
[April 17, 1932]
My dear friends,
I went to The Magic Flute with Ninon on our last Sunday afternoon in Zurich. That brought back in a most beautiful, moving way the entire Zurich period, the time of Steppenwolf, when I spent a lot of time with Ruth, also with you. This was my way of saying goodbye to a phase in my life; it has faded, I must leave it behind, but still find that difficult, and am actually quite heartbroken.
My stays in Zurich over the last seven years were no doubt just as significant as the time I spent in Montagnola. During those Zurich winters, I wrote more than half of the work I have produced since 1925. If I hadn’t been able to work in this hideout here in winter, and hadn’t had friends like you, I wouldn’t feel so grateful now about the time I spent here.
I have to go over to the Bodmers’ in a half an hour. We’re leaving at noon tomorrow, and I would like to use this final, peaceful moment to convey my sincere thanks for all your friendship, trust, and generosity during the years when I was your guest here. I shared with you so many of my joys and worries. I couldn’t find the right words to say this yesterday, because I was too close to tears.
I’m looking at all the nice furnishings that you bought for the Zurich apartment; they made the place seem so cozy. I recall how you used to greet me each time I arrived with flowers, pillows, and all kinds of thoughtful gifts. I also remembered the patience and concern you showed constantly, no matter what was going on in my life: during the times I was ill or unproductive, the good and not so good times with Ruth, the time with Ninon. You showed great empathy, kept your faith in me, and demonstrated your love.
I hope we shall often see one another again and continue sharing our joys and sorrows. But before leaving this Zurich home, where I have been your spoiled guest for so long, I felt that I had to convey these feelings to you again.
I’m heading back again to the country with some ideas for new pieces. I have been contemplating a large, wondrous, complex work.238 I have been toying with the idea for some weeks, but I don’t know yet whether I shall ever succeed in completing even a portion of it.
Goodbye, my dears [ … ], and think of me from time to time.
TO GEORG WINTER
September 1932
Somebody sent me a copy of the journal in which you published your review of The Journey to the East. I should like to thank you for the piece and also respond to it briefly, since people seldom take authors seriously. I have only had this kind of experience a few times over the course of several decades.
Of all the reviews, yours articulated the central issue from a perspective that shed the most light on the paradoxical (or rather bipolar) meaning of my little book. You say that, as soon as the author attempts to write about the League, he ceases to belong to it.
I cannot fully accept your final conclusion, and not just out of a need for self-preservation. But you have certainly hit the nail on the head, and this sense of having been understood felt so wonderful—authors rarely have this experience—that I decided to write to thank you. Having done so, I should like to say a few words about the justification for my work and my existence.
On the whole you’re quite right. It’s impossible to think or write about the matters of greatest import. Indeed God prohibits us from doing so. I fully agree with you that we ought not consider literature an arbitrary, superfluous intellectual appendage, but one of the strongest functions of the mind.
So it’s basically impermissible to write or even think about sacred matters (in this case the League—that is, the feasibility and significance of human community). One can come up with various interpretations of this taboo and of the intellect’s frequent transgressions against it, psychologically, morally, developmentally—e.g., the prohibition against using the Lord’s name, which separates the magical stage of mankind from the rational one.
Once you start criticizing me for sinning against that original prohibition, you yourself seem to develop a bad conscience of sorts. You even imply that the mistake, for which you criticize the author, may actually be a fault on the part of the critic. Indeed, by reading books to form a judgment about them and then write reviews, you’re sinning against what is most sacred. At heart, you no doubt realize that reverence is the principal intellectual virtue; you also realize that intellectual considerations have inspired both the object of your criticism in the review and your own activities and that both have been undertaken in good faith—and yet you feel that you have to commit the sin of criticism by rejecting certain things and perpetrating the sort of injustice always entailed in summary formulations.
I wouldn’t have wanted to see you doing anything differently. But I would be glad to see you admit to yourself—as I myself have done in the light of your review—that your actions and judgments are “basically” unnecessary and sinful, and that this transgression against that age-old prohibition is precisely the sort of sin that the mind must necessarily take upon itself. This sin makes the intellect question not only the League but also its own activities and nature; sends it on endless errands of thought and conscience, back and forth between self-reproach and self-justification; prompts it to write books. This sin is ominous, tragic, irresistible, and it certainly exists, it’s fate.
My work, the confession of an aging artist, attempts, as you rightly say, to render that which cannot be rendered and to evoke the ineffable. That is certainly a sin. But can you say in all seriousness that you know of any literary work or philosophy that isn’t an attempt to make the impossible possible, to counter taboos responsibly?
There is only a single passage in your review that seems rather weak and questionable to me: you suggest the existence of other problems, which are more feasible and appropriate than mine, that could be tackled by thinkers and artists. I don’t believe that authors should ever set off on the adventure of writing without feeling somewhat remorseful and having the courage to experience that feeling; the same holds true for the critic who is assessing the author. I felt assured that you would understand me when I noticed your hint along these lines. So I decided to write you a note. Not because I felt any need to justify myself, but because nowadays one so rarely comes across a feeling of community, of comradeship, or sense of collegiality that one is glad to discover a trace of such things.
TO ERHARD BRUDER
Baden, November 1932
It’s a pity one has to hurt the other person where there is a clash of ideas and the truth is at stake. But at least we have learned to take the personal sting out of these attacks and not indulge in them for their own sake.[ … ]
You’re quite mistaken about the point at issue. I said that I agree with Ball and not with Finckh; we can discuss the many implications of that point of view at some time or other. I don’t think you realize yet just how radically I reject fatherland, patriotism, etc. But there are other differences between Finckh and me; for example, I believe Germany bears a large share of guilt for the outbreak of the war. I’m still disgusted that every German knows all about the tyrannical and shameful Treaty of Versailles, but isn’t aware of the shameful ultimatum to Serbia in 1914. The latter is one of the most revolting documents in history, and ought to make every German reflective and ashamed. And there are countless other examples.
Whenever I bring up any such charges against Germany, and thus also against myself, I have to listen to the following: Beg your pardon, but what about the Serbs, Russians, etc., who are every bit as guilty as we are. They always lied or managed to deceive us. Why can’t you criticize them and not be constantly attacking your own people? I still have to li
sten day after day to that ridiculous old question, which I have always answered in the same way, well over a thousand times by now. I’m not trying to ascertain the enemies’ guilt, but rather our own, since I have no cause to feel ashamed of French sins, but I certainly am ashamed of German ones. What I despise above all else is the talent Germans have for forgetting their own sins, and simply lying about them. It’s always the same old story. People say: Well, you were living abroad and weren’t starving like us. I respond: You can have no idea what I went through from 1914 to the present. I lost my fatherland, had a shared burden of responsibility for the war, and felt that my own people no longer understood me. And like you, I lost all my savings and income twice, first because of the war and then because of the inflation, etc.[ … ] What concerns me now is not so much Germany, or any individual country or people, or the bourgeoisie and Bolsheviks, but endangered humanity as a whole. People are always telling me that such thoughts are a luxury reserved for peacetime. A German needs to support his people through thick and thin, has to go along with its decisions, condone its lies, cowardly acts, and the intoxicated warmongering from 1914 to 1916. I cannot accept those arguments. I know where I stand, and realize that these attitudes have put me out on a limb, but I have no intention of changing my mind; my attitude has been dictated by fate. I exposed myself a lot in my books and essays, partly because of the moral repercussions of the position I had adopted toward my people and fatherland, and even though this openness on my part has been gleefully exploited by some people, I am nevertheless prepared to sacrifice everything. I shall not retreat, not even a single step.
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