by Glass! Love!! Perpetual Motion!!!-A Paul Scheerbart Reader Josiah McElheny
This is partly because, at least in the English-speaking world, he is
known solely for one book, Glass Architecture (this book, 22–90), a bril-
liantly speculative, playfully insistent manifesto expounding the limit-
less possibilities of glass in architectural design. (Glass Architecture is
dedicated to a fellow utopian, Bruno Taut, whose extraordinary Glass
Pavillion in the Cologne Werkbund of 1914 exemplified Scheerbart’s the-
ories, a “futuristic” dome that was at the same time entirely functional,
its ornament devoid of anachronisms.)
But Glass Architecture is merely the best-known item in Scheerbart’s
prodigious bibliography. Despite Glass Architecture’s frequently ecstatic
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A S T RANGE B I R D
tenor, a casual reader might not glean from its passionate advocacy of an
already popular building material Scheerbart’s obsessive, fanatical pre-
occupation with glass environments reflected (forgive me) in his fiction.
Architectural manifestos — especially those published shortly before World
War I until the late 1930s — customarily strike a tone of shrewdly calcu-
lated hysteria. For Scheerbart, however, the urgent desire to improve the
world (or at least alter the way it looks) implicit in all architectural writing
serves as a motor for fictional narratives, a theme, a folly of one or many
characters, an unmistakably and sometimes hilariously romantic fixé.
Architecture and glass are to Scheerbart’s work what food and cooking
are to M. F. K. Fisher’s: lenses through which all reality is filtered, produc-
ing a radically shifted, revelatory perspective. Scheerbart and Taut were
virtually collaborators; both mirrored the powerful influence of Loos’s
polemics on functional design and his rejection of useless ornament in
the commissions he realized in Vienna. Like the great Viennese gadfly
Karl Kraus, Loos saw humanity sinking into mental torpor and affect-
lessness under an ever-growing accumulation of meaningless physical
and linguistic artifacts, epitomized by caryatids on modern buildings and
the vapid catch-phrases of politics and advertising. In this connection,
Scheerbart considered glass construction the least gratuitous, least phys-
ically obtrusive, most honest feature of the manmade world, and he tire-
lessly proposed expanding its use: ideally, it would eventually make the
manmade world itself less obtrusive and destructive of the natural order.
Remarkably, Scheerbart frequently lampoons his own earnest fetishes,
bestowing them on obviously cracked and deluded narrators and other
characters. In stories like “The Magnetic Mirror” (this book, 180–84)
and “The Glass Theater” (this book, 187–88) Scheerbart undermines his
cherished materials and pastimes by basing increasingly absurd rituals on
them, fashioning them into garishly precious objects, and putting them
to work in insanely overelaborate Rube Goldberg appliances that expend
more time and labor than they can possibly save. Unlike Roussel, whose
books articulate similar technical obsessions in humorless, sludgelike
prose, Scheerbart displays the winning charm of an artist perfectly aware
of his own ridiculousness.
As I pursued this train of thought, it struck me that it would be
perfectly natural to place the vehicle inside the wheel. This was
something new.
(Paul Scheerbart, Perpetual Motion: The Story of an Invention)
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GARY I N D I A N A
He is a quintessential artist-inventor of a kind that flourished in
the first two decades of the twentieth century, when seismic effects of
new technologies rippled through the industrialized West and inspired
the science-smitten to devise bizarre flying machines, implausible urban
renewal projects, and mechanically driven Fourier-like theories of how
to save the world. Like the raucously satirized inventor Courtial of
Céline’s Death on the Installment Plan, Scheerbart was a flume of ideas
for labor-saving devices as well as less credible contraptions to relieve
ennui and eliminate aesthetic revulsion. Like Jarry, he incorporated his
designs for living into works of literature where they appear at a skeptical
remove from their overheated point of origin, stories that continue to
dazzle the imagination and communicate a very human, humane, and
ultimately moving sensibility.
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Paul Scheerbart
Selected Short Stories
Illustrated by Paul Scheerbart
A Trial in the Year 1901: A Novelette of the Future
The Colored Moons: A Cosmosophical Scherzo
The Love of Souls: A Spiritualistic Scene from a Novel
Atlas, the Comfortable: A Myth of Humanity
The Magnetic Mirror
Transportable Cities
The Glass Theater
An Ornament Museum
The Silent Game of Courtly Society
The Safe: A Marriage Novelette
At the Glass Exhibition in Peking: The Old Baron’s Diary Entries
A Trial in the Year 1901:
A Novelette of the Future
Adolfine, daughter of the rich industrialist Beisel, sits calmly at the
window, playing the harmonica. The girl has already been making music
for two hours but she hasn’t grown tired.
Suddenly, a cry for help rings through the streets.
Adolfine stops her tooting for a moment, turns her dainty little head,
and says in astonishment:
“Ah! Ah! Now, haven’t I heard that voice before?”
The good young lady hurries to the window, opens it and — beholds —
— beholds — — — Friedrich Schumm, one of her dear father’s former
bookkeepers.
’Fine muses — real y considers — and gradual y recal s that once upon
a time she — loved — Friedrich — loved him!
This had confused her beloved to such a degree that he soon became
useless as a bookkeeper.
Accordingly, Friedrich had been dismissed a few months earlier, for
Papa Beisel did not mess around where business was concerned.
And no — merciful heavens! — now Friedrich was being “arrested”
right on the street in broad daylight.
The young lady sees the constable pul ing her beloved Friedrich by the
ear, clapping handcuffs on him and frisking him angrily.
The young lady turns away, fil ed with displeasure — indeed almost
offended.
Little ’Fine returns to playing the harmonica, simply to avoid looking at
the unsightly scene below.
Brutality is frowned upon in the genteel Beisel household.
“Ugh!” cries Beisel’s little daughter, “How nauseating!”
The sun beats down on the cobblestones.
The constable and Friedrich disappear.
First published as “Eine Gerichtssitzung im Jahre 1901: Zukunftsnovellette” in 1897 as a
story within the novel Ich Liebe Dich! Ein Eisenbahnroman mit 66 Intermezzos (I love you! A
railway novel with 66 intermezzos), Schuster and Loeffler, Berlin.
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PAUL S C H E E R B A R T
The dulcet tones of the harmonica resound throughout the genteel
Beisel house.
A few days after this embarrassing performance,
Friedrich Schumm finds
himself in the dock.
The judges’ faces show exasperation. With a snort of anger, the public
prosecutor throws his pen down on the green table for the fifth time, because
the industrialist’s testimony concerning the accused Schumm is very peculiar.
The wealthy Beisel concludes his testimony — in which he has thor-
oughly maligned Friedrich Schumm, cal ed him a foolish, lovestruck creature,
dressed him down for his delusions of grandeur, and given Friedrich a piece
of his mind about his brazen immorality — with the fol owing terrible words:
“And he made miscalculations twice a day. Unscrupulous Friedrich,
can you deny it?”
Friedrich cries and shakes his head wistfully.
The public prosecutor rises and says in a thunderous voice:
“The defendant is under arrest for indigence without cause. On the fif-
teenth of July, Constable Knil ke requested to see your wal et, as is required
of al suspicious parties. What did Constable Knil ke find in your wal et?
The defendant answers tearful y:
“One mark and fifty-five pennies.”
Public prosecutor: “And you were going to live on that for another
three months? Until October? Sir, what were you thinking? Surely you
are aware that every citizen is required to keep his means of subsistence for
the next three months on hand at al times. Defendant, do you know this?”
Defendant: “Yes, sir!”
Public prosecutor: “Very wel then — how were you planning to live?
How? Just tel us! How were you hoping to defray the cost of living? Can
you answer that? Wel ?”
Defendant: “Oh, Mr. Public Prosecutor, I thought surely I could get a
new position. I’m a bookkeeper, you know.”
Public prosecutor: “Whether you are a bookkeeper or a chimney sweep
is of no consequence before the law. You are required to possess money.
You seem to know nothing of life. Surely you know that the number of
vacancies is steadily decreasing. I move for three months imprisonment
with intensified fasting — for indigence without cause. My dear fel ow, we’l
soon break you. I simply don’t understand how a reasonably wel -educated
person could dare to walk the streets without the necessary change — what
completely unthinkable insolence!”
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SELECTED SHORT S T O R I E S
The public prosecutor rests his case and sits down.
The court convicts the defendant according to the public prosecutor’s
recommendation.
The defendant breaks down in tears in the dock and sobs:
“Oh God, what wil my poor mother say? Her son Friedrich — a criminal!”
Loud howling echoes through the courtroom.
But the chief magistrate remarks severely:
“Defendant Schumm! What are you howling and crying for? Don’t
make a fool of yourself, you ridiculous man! Be glad we are depriving you
of the opportunity to commit theft for a good three months. You must know
that theft is punished with daily beatings!”
Defendant: “Yes, Your Honor, thank you for the three months. Please don’t
take my tears amiss. I only wanted to show that I’m no ‘hardened’ criminal!
But Your Honor, when I come out, wil I be immediately punished again?”
Public prosecutor: “You are a stupid, cheeky boy! I move for a month
of beating for asking questions without cause!”
The defendant looks around him in astonishment — sits down — and
says slowly, as if a new feeling were coming over him:
“Gentlemen, I think you have al — truly — lost your minds.”
Luckily for defendant Schumm, after he says these words, another rev-
olution breaks out in the streets.
The magistrate and the judges immediately run home — and the public
prosecutor and the other officials fol ow suit.
Schumm sits in the dock, dumbfounded.
He is now completely alone in the courtroom — truly alone — forgotten!
He has no idea what to do.
Meanwhile, the revolution proceeds purposeful y and according to plan.
Later, Schumm crouches down in the dock, since the revolutionaries’
bul ets whiz through only the upper part of courtroom.
Meanwhile, Adolfine Beisel thinks kindly of her beloved Friedrich; she
forgives him inwardly and returns to blowing on her harmonica.
She finds this August revolution just as boring as the previous April
revolution.
Translated by Anne Posten
165
The Colored Moons:
A Cosmosophical Scherzo
Ten moons orbit a huge planet. Each is a different color.
Al at once, they begin to ponder — al of them together.
A soft moaning issues from their craters.
The ether whistles.
The moons’ limbs creak.
Their ice poles get warmer.
Storms course more fiercely over the wrinkled skin of the moons, so
the ether whistles louder.
The moons ponder.
— —
This is what the moons think:
“What could he want? He, the great one — our beloved — what could
he want — he, the great star that we orbit?”
“What could he want?”
“He just wants —”
“Wel , what does he want?”
“Should we get closer to him? Should we go back out into the lonely
night? Doesn’t he love us anymore? Does he wish us different than we
are?”
“Should we turn, as he does? Should we be dark like him? Should we
shake off our radiance — our shine — our colorful, shining air?”
“What could he want? He, the great one — our beloved — what
could he want?”
“Wil we never know?”
“We just have to try to find out!”
“Hm! Yes! Hm!”
— —
First published as “Die farbigen Monde: Kosmosophisches Scherzo” in 1897 as a story within
the novel Ich Liebe Dich! Ein Eisenbahnroman mit 66 Intermezzos (I love you! A railway novel
with 66 intermezzos), Schuster and Loeffler, Berlin.
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SELECTED SHORT S T O R I E S
Meanwhile, the crimson moon, who had wandered off quite a ways,
begins to tremble — to tremble so violently that the ether shakes — to tremble
like a crazy comet.
Steam rises from the crimson moon’s craters.
By trembling and steaming, the crimson moon tel s the other moons that
they can’t just start seeking the answer to their question right away; instead,
they have to sing a song in chorus — — — in moon language, natural y.
— —
The moons understand and agree.
A sweet swishing sound swings solemnly through outer space.
A moon orchestra blows strange, fantastical sounds out into the universe.
Some of the sounds are shril , others hol ow, many ful like giant trombones,
and some are as strong as big, powerful suns. The sounds race through each
other, thundering and whistling, ringing and rattling. The moons want to
“test” their rusty voices first.
But then the moon orchestra begins — in its own special way — with
long tones — this is how it sounds:
Always — in the same old rounds —
It continues — through the empty stretches —
What do we want?
Huge, gruesome, inscrutable space,
Are you just a deserted whirling dream?
The moon orchestra shril s its lament into the empty void . . . . between
the whirl of crackling sounds.
And after a while, after things have quieted down, it continues — again —
whispering — softly — almost cozily:
Without an aim, without desire
We toddle as if batty
Through the world’s huge endless night.
At this, everything gets quiet. Only the ether keeps whistling as usual.
But suddenly the concert of the great moon orchestra begins again — like
a passionate whisper — not too loud — but glowing hot like the breath of
craters:
And he —
And he —
We stare at our beloved
Always
Always at him.
Eternal y, we cling to him.
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PAUL S C H E E R B A R T
We never turn away
From our dearly beloved star.
We stare at him, the great one
Like ten colorful phantoms
Ghostly
Always
Always at him.
And the God we so ardently orbit —
He wil never cry with agony —
He wil never laugh with joy —
He wil only turn — eternal y —
Only turn — only turn
We only toddle, bat y,
Without an aim, without desire
Through the world’s huge, endless night.
Moaning, glaring ghoulishly, the great moon orchestra pounds on, bawling
out its gruesome sounds. The voices crackle and burst — they tear away
from each other — and then the world-music fal s silent.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — —
The central star turns fifty times.
When he starts to turn for the fifty-first time — he notices that his moons
are a slightly different color, in places.
The central star, turning, is not surprised, yet he finds it somewhat curious.
After the dearly beloved has turned a few hundred times more in con-
tented, peaceful coziness, without looking any more closely at his moons’
changed color spots, when he becomes aware of the intoxication his eternal
turning has caused him, he, the great one, notices that the moons — his ten
moons — have changed colors.
The crimson one is now moss green, the blue one is violet, the silver one
is vermillion, the pink one glows snow white, and the yel ow one is a shade
