"Steppenwolf (Guomai Classics)" Reading Notes#
Author: Hermann Hesse
Reading Time: 4 hours
These are the notes and excerpts I recorded while reading "Steppenwolf (Guomai Classics)" on WeChat Reading.
Publisher's Preface#
No, a glance at Steppenwolf sees through the entire era, sees through all the restless posturing, all the pursuit of fame and profit, all the superficial vanity, all the games in the spiritually shallow world—ah! Unfortunately, this glance also sees more profoundly through our era, our spiritual world, our cultural poverty and hopelessness. It strikes at the core of human nature, and in a brief moment, it profoundly expresses a philosopher's, perhaps a prophet's, doubt about dignity and the meaning of human life. This glance seems to say: "Look! We are this foolish! Look! This is humanity!" All honor, all intelligence, all spiritual achievements, all pursuits of excellence, all pursuits of the greatness and immortality of humanity, are merely a foolish game!
I see the loneliness in him and the death of his soul. During this time, I increasingly realized that the affliction of this suffering person does not stem from a defect in his nature; rather, it arises from his rich yet discordant talents and powers. I conclude that Harry is a genius skilled in suffering. According to some of Nietzsche's sayings, he has nurtured a talent within himself, an infinite and astonishing capacity to endure pain. I also conclude that his pessimism is not based on contempt for the world, but on contempt for himself, for he has never excluded himself when mercilessly whipping and criticizing various institutions and figures. His arrows always first point at himself. He is the one he most despises and denies...
He was educated by parents and teachers who can be described as loving yet extremely strict and devout. These people used "crushing the will" as the foundation of education, but in this student, the obliteration of personality and the crushing of will did not succeed. He was too strong, too stubborn, too proud, and too gifted. Education failed to extinguish his personality but taught him one thing: to hate himself. Opposing himself, opposing his innocent and noble essence, drained his imagination and thinking throughout his life. In any case, in this respect, he is a thorough Christian, a complete martyr. He directs all the sharpness, all criticism, all evil, all hatred he can muster first at himself. And towards those around him, he consistently displays a courageous spirit and serious attitude, trying to love them, treat them fairly, and not harm them. Because in his heart, love for one's neighbor and hatred for oneself are equally deeply rooted. Thus, his entire life serves to prove this principle: a person who does not love themselves cannot love others; the same goes for self-hatred, which ultimately leads to terrible isolation and despair, just like extreme selfishness.
"Most people do not want to swim when they cannot swim." How witty, isn't it? They certainly do not want to swim! They are born for land, not for water. They certainly do not want to think; they are born to live, not to think! Yes, whoever thinks, considers thinking the most important thing, although they can continue to think deeply, they mistakenly take land for water and will eventually drown one day."
He knows very well that he is isolated from the world, but he will not commit suicide, because the remaining belief tells him that he must taste pain, taste the evil pain in his heart, until the end. He must die from enduring this pain.
All these words signify a journey through hell, a journey that is sometimes fearful and sometimes brave, traversing hell with will in the chaos of the dark soul world, facing chaos, enduring evil, until the end.
Every era, every culture, every custom and tradition has its own style, with its own appropriate softness and cruelty, beauty and brutality, all taking for granted the endurance of certain sufferings and the tolerance of certain bad habits. Humanity truly suffers only when living between the conflicts of two eras, two cultures, and religions, as if entering hell.
No, a glance at Steppenwolf sees through the entire era, sees through all the restless posturing, all the pursuit of fame and profit, all the superficial vanity, all the games in the spiritually shallow world—ah! Unfortunately, this glance also sees more profoundly through our era, our spiritual world, our cultural poverty and hopelessness. It strikes at the core of human nature, and in a brief moment, it profoundly expresses a philosopher's, perhaps a prophet's, doubt about dignity and the meaning of human life. This glance seems to say: "Look! We are this foolish! Look! This is humanity!" All honor, all intelligence, all spiritual achievements, all pursuits of excellence, all pursuits of the greatness and immortality of humanity, are merely a foolish game!
I see the loneliness in him and the death of his soul. During this time, I increasingly realized that the affliction of this suffering person does not stem from a defect in his nature; rather, it arises from his rich yet discordant talents and powers. I conclude that Harry is a genius skilled in suffering. According to some of Nietzsche's sayings, he has nurtured a talent within himself, an infinite and astonishing capacity to endure pain. I also conclude that his pessimism is not based on contempt for the world, but on contempt for himself, for he has never excluded himself when mercilessly whipping and criticizing various institutions and figures. His arrows always first point at himself. He is the one he most despises and denies...
He was educated by parents and teachers who can be described as loving yet extremely strict and devout. These people used "crushing the will" as the foundation of education, but in this student, the obliteration of personality and the crushing of will did not succeed. He was too strong, too stubborn, too proud, and too gifted. Education failed to extinguish his personality but taught him one thing: to hate himself. Opposing himself, opposing his innocent and noble essence, drained his imagination and thinking throughout his life. In any case, in this respect, he is a thorough Christian, a complete martyr. He directs all the sharpness, all criticism, all evil, all hatred he can muster first at himself. And towards those around him, he consistently displays a courageous spirit and serious attitude, trying to love them, treat them fairly, and not harm them. Because in his heart, love for one's neighbor and hatred for oneself are equally deeply rooted. Thus, his entire life serves to prove this principle: a person who does not love themselves cannot love others; the same goes for self-hatred, which ultimately leads to terrible isolation and despair, just like extreme selfishness.
"Most people do not want to swim when they cannot swim." How witty, isn't it? They certainly do not want to swim! They are born for land, not for water. They certainly do not want to think; they are born to live, not to think! Yes, whoever thinks, considers thinking the most important thing, although they can continue to think deeply, they mistakenly take land for water and will eventually drown one day."
He knows very well that he is isolated from the world, but he will not commit suicide, because the remaining belief tells him that he must taste pain, taste the evil pain in his heart, until the end. He must die from enduring this pain.
All these words signify a journey through hell, a journey that is sometimes fearful and sometimes brave, traversing hell with will in the chaos of the dark soul world, facing chaos, enduring evil, until the end.
Every era, every culture, every custom and tradition has its own style, with its own appropriate softness and cruelty, beauty and brutality, all taking for granted the endurance of certain sufferings and the tolerance of certain bad habits. Humanity truly suffers only when living between the conflicts of two eras, two cultures, and religions, as if entering hell.
1#
For what I curse and detest the most is, first of all, this bourgeois satisfaction, health, and comfort, this carefully maintained optimism, this domesticated mediocrity and banality.
I also like this contrast: my loneliness, my coldness and relentless busyness, my muddled and chaotic life, contrasted with this family and its bourgeois spirit. I like to breathe the gentle, orderly, and polite atmosphere here on the stairs; it always brings me emotion alongside my hatred for bourgeois society.
Ah! How difficult it is to capture the traces of God in these satisfied days we live, in this era full of bourgeois spirit yet spiritually impoverished, in these buildings and shops, among politicians and crowds! How can I not be a Steppenwolf, a poor recluse? The goals of the world are not my goals. The joys of the world are not my joys.
I am, as I often claim, a true Steppenwolf, a beast lost in a world it cannot understand and feels alien to. It can no longer find its home, its air, its food.
Even if I am a lost beast, unable to understand the world around me, my foolish life still has meaning; something within me can respond and receive the call from the higher world.
Who seeks broken meaning on the ruins of his life, enduring the torment of meaningless things, living a life close to madness, yet secretly thirsting for revelation and closeness to God in the final frenzy and chaos?
For what I curse and detest the most is, first of all, this bourgeois satisfaction, health, and comfort, this carefully maintained optimism, this domesticated mediocrity and banality.
I also like this contrast: my loneliness, my coldness and relentless busyness, my muddled and chaotic life, contrasted with this family and its bourgeois spirit. I like to breathe the gentle, orderly, and polite atmosphere here on the stairs; it always brings me emotion alongside my hatred for bourgeois society.
Ah! How difficult it is to capture the traces of God in these satisfied days we live, in this era full of bourgeois spirit yet spiritually impoverished, in these buildings and shops, among politicians and crowds! How can I not be a Steppenwolf, a poor recluse? The goals of the world are not my goals. The joys of the world are not my joys.
I am, as I often claim, a true Steppenwolf, a beast lost in a world it cannot understand and feels alien to. It can no longer find its home, its air, its food.
Even if I am a lost beast, unable to understand the world around me, my foolish life still has meaning; something within me can respond and receive the call from the higher world.
Who seeks broken meaning on the ruins of his life, enduring the torment of meaningless things, living a life close to madness, yet secretly thirsting for revelation and closeness to God in the final frenzy and chaos?
2#
Those who pursue power are destroyed by power, those who pursue wealth are destroyed by wealth, those who bow and scrape are destroyed by blind obedience, those who seek pleasure are destroyed by greed, while the Steppenwolf is destroyed by his individuality. He has achieved his goal, becoming increasingly independent, no one can give him orders, he never obeys anyone. He freely and independently decides his actions and choices. Every powerful person undoubtedly can obtain what they truly pursue in their hearts. But Harry, who has gained freedom, suddenly realizes that his freedom is death. Alone, the world has terrifyingly plunged him into silence. People are indifferent to him, and he is indifferent to himself. He gradually suffocates in the increasingly thin air. He is lonely, completely disconnected from others. Thus, he finds himself in a situation where loneliness and independence are no longer his wishes and goals, but his fate, his judgment. Once the curse takes effect, it can never be retracted.
Thus, he always acknowledges and affirms half of his nature and actions. One half rebels against the other half, one half denies the other half. He comes from a cultured bourgeois family, growing up in rigid rituals and customs. A part of his soul always remains tied to the order of this world, even though he has long formed a personality that transcends the norms recognized by bourgeois standards, having long escaped from bourgeois ideals and beliefs.
Indeed, the vitality of the bourgeois class does not come from the character of their normal members, but from the large number of marginal people among them. Due to the vagueness and elasticity of the bourgeois group's ideals, many marginal people and many stubbornly wild individuals can be included. Our Steppenwolf Harry is a typical example. The Steppenwolf is a person who far exceeds the criteria for measuring bourgeois standards, developing individuality; someone who knows how to revel in meditation, just as he knows how to delight in hatred and self-hatred; someone who despises law, virtue, and common sense, yet remains a prisoner of the bourgeois spirit, unable to escape the shackles of bourgeoisity. Thus, a broad group settles around the truly bourgeois native population, thousands of them, full of vitality and wisdom. Each of them transcends the bourgeois spirit, carrying a mission, living with the intensity of life as if it were inevitable, yet each is emotionally attached to bourgeoisity out of childish feelings, tainted by weakened life intensity, somehow lingering in the midst of the bourgeois group, belonging to it, bound by it, serving it.
Only the strongest among them can break through the atmosphere of bourgeoisity and step into the universe; the rest resign themselves or ultimately compromise. They despise it yet belong to it. To survive, they must ultimately affirm it, strengthen it, and praise it. This may not lead this group into tragedy, but it is enough to bring them considerable disaster and misfortune. Their talents bear fruit in the hell of disaster and misfortune. A few who break free from their bonds step into the absolute realm, and they walk towards destruction in an admirable way. They are tragic. They are very few. Those who are still constrained by bourgeoisity are often respected by the bourgeois group for their talents. Before them opens a door to a third kingdom, a fictional yet autonomous world: humor. And the restless Steppenwolves continue to endure terrible suffering; they lack the strength necessary to step into tragedy, break free from their bonds, and step into the starry sky. They can sense the call of the absolute realm but cannot live in the absolute realm: if their spirits could become strong and flexible in pain, they would surely discover the balanced path to humor. Humor always exists within bourgeoisity, although true bourgeois people lack the ability to understand humor. In the illusionary celestial body of humor, all the prickly and complex ideals of the Steppenwolves can hope to be realized.
Living in the world is like not living in the world, respecting the law yet transcending the law, possessing as if having nothing, giving up yet seemingly never giving up—only humor has the ability to achieve this.
To achieve this goal, or for one day to have the courage to leap into the universe, a Steppenwolf like him must face himself, examine the chaos deep within his soul, and gain sufficient self-awareness. In this way, his dubious existence will reveal its immutability; he will not be able to escape repeatedly from the abyss of desire to the melancholic philosophical consolation, and then escape from this consolation to blind intoxication with wolfishness. Wolves and humans will be forced to shed their false sensual masks and gaze at each other nakedly. They will either break apart, eternally separated, so that there will never be a Steppenwolf, or they will forge a rational marriage in the light of humor.
Because humans do not possess advanced thinking abilities. Even the wisest and most knowledgeable people often view the world and themselves—especially themselves—through extremely naive, crude, and deceitful glasses.
If those gifted and gentle human souls gradually realize the multiplicity of their personalities, if each genius can rid themselves of the delusion of singular personality and perceive that "I" is not singular but multiple, composed of many parts, then as long as they express this awareness and perception, most people will immediately imprison them and seek the help of science, diagnosing them with schizophrenia to prevent hearing the cries of truth from these unfortunate ones.
It can be said that humans are not fixed, unchanging structures (this is an ancient ideal, although it contradicts the intuitions of philosophers of the time). Humans are transitions, a narrow and dangerous bridge between nature and spirit. Their inner mission is to move towards the spirit, towards God, while their fervent inner desire drives them to return to nature, to return to the womb: their lives tremble between these two forces.
Those who pursue power are destroyed by power, those who pursue wealth are destroyed by wealth, those who bow and scrape are destroyed by blind obedience, those who seek pleasure are destroyed by greed, while the Steppenwolf is destroyed by his individuality. He has achieved his goal, becoming increasingly independent, no one can give him orders, he never obeys anyone. He freely and independently decides his actions and choices. Every powerful person undoubtedly can obtain what they truly pursue in their hearts. But Harry, who has gained freedom, suddenly realizes that his freedom is death. Alone, the world has terrifyingly plunged him into silence. People are indifferent to him, and he is indifferent to himself. He gradually suffocates in the increasingly thin air. He is lonely, completely disconnected from others. Thus, he finds himself in a situation where loneliness and independence are no longer his wishes and goals, but his fate, his judgment. Once the curse takes effect, it can never be retracted.
Thus, he always acknowledges and affirms half of his nature and actions. One half rebels against the other half, one half denies the other half. He comes from a cultured bourgeois family, growing up in rigid rituals and customs. A part of his soul always remains tied to the order of this world, even though he has long formed a personality that transcends the norms recognized by bourgeois standards, having long escaped from bourgeois ideals and beliefs.
Indeed, the vitality of the bourgeois class does not come from the character of their normal members, but from the large number of marginal people among them. Due to the vagueness and elasticity of the bourgeois group's ideals, many marginal people and many stubbornly wild individuals can be included. Our Steppenwolf Harry is a typical example. The Steppenwolf is a person who far exceeds the criteria for measuring bourgeois standards, developing individuality; someone who knows how to revel in meditation, just as he knows how to delight in hatred and self-hatred; someone who despises law, virtue, and common sense, yet remains a prisoner of the bourgeois spirit, unable to escape the shackles of bourgeoisity. Thus, a broad group settles around the truly bourgeois native population, thousands of them, full of vitality and wisdom. Each of them transcends the bourgeois spirit, carrying a mission, living with the intensity of life as if it were inevitable, yet each is emotionally attached to bourgeoisity out of childish feelings, tainted by weakened life intensity, somehow lingering in the midst of the bourgeois group, belonging to it, bound by it, serving it.
Only the strongest among them can break through the atmosphere of bourgeoisity and step into the universe; the rest resign themselves or ultimately compromise. They despise it yet belong to it. To survive, they must ultimately affirm it, strengthen it, and praise it. This may not lead this group into tragedy, but it is enough to bring them considerable disaster and misfortune. Their talents bear fruit in the hell of disaster and misfortune. A few who break free from their bonds step into the absolute realm, and they walk towards destruction in an admirable way. They are tragic. They are very few. Those who are still constrained by bourgeoisity are often respected by the bourgeois group for their talents. Before them opens a door to a third kingdom, a fictional yet autonomous world: humor. And the restless Steppenwolves continue to endure terrible suffering; they lack the strength necessary to step into tragedy, break free from their bonds, and step into the starry sky. They can sense the call of the absolute realm but cannot live in the absolute realm: if their spirits could become strong and flexible in pain, they would surely discover the balanced path to humor. Humor always exists within bourgeoisity, although true bourgeois people lack the ability to understand humor. In the illusionary celestial body of humor, all the prickly and complex ideals of the Steppenwolves can hope to be realized.
Living in the world is like not living in the world, respecting the law yet transcending the law, possessing as if having nothing, giving up yet seemingly never giving up—only humor has the ability to achieve this.
To achieve this goal, or for one day to have the courage to leap into the universe, a Steppenwolf like him must face himself, examine the chaos deep within his soul, and gain sufficient self-awareness. In this way, his dubious existence will reveal its immutability; he will not be able to escape repeatedly from the abyss of desire to the melancholic philosophical consolation, and then escape from this consolation to blind intoxication with wolfishness. Wolves and humans will be forced to shed their false sensual masks and gaze at each other nakedly. They will either break apart, eternally separated, so that there will never be a Steppenwolf, or they will forge a rational marriage in the light of humor.
Because humans do not possess advanced thinking abilities. Even the wisest and most knowledgeable people often view the world and themselves—especially themselves—through extremely naive, crude, and deceitful glasses.
If those gifted and gentle human souls gradually realize the multiplicity of their personalities, if each genius can rid themselves of the delusion of singular personality and perceive that "I" is not singular but multiple, composed of many parts, then as long as they express this awareness and perception, most people will immediately imprison them and seek the help of science, diagnosing them with schizophrenia to prevent hearing the cries of truth from these unfortunate ones.
It can be said that humans are not fixed, unchanging structures (this is an ancient ideal, although it contradicts the intuitions of philosophers of the time). Humans are transitions, a narrow and dangerous bridge between nature and spirit. Their inner mission is to move towards the spirit, towards God, while their fervent inner desire drives them to return to nature, to return to the womb: their lives tremble between these two forces.
3#
"Human" is not a perfect creation, but a spiritual need, a distant possibility that is both desirable and fearful. On the way to it, it is precisely those few who today go to the guillotine and tomorrow to the monument, who endure terrible torment and walk a short distance in a trance—Steppenwolf is also aware of this. However, what is called "human" in him, in contrast to the wolf, is mostly nothing but the mediocre "human" in the bourgeois concept. Although Harry can foresee the path to becoming a true human, the path to immortality, and sometimes can take a small hesitant step, paying a huge price of pain and loneliness for it, deep in his soul, he fears that supreme demand, fears to affirm and strive to realize the true adulthood that the spirit seeks, fears to walk the narrow path to eternity. He clearly feels that this path will lead him to deeper pain, make him despised, force him to give up completely, and perhaps send him to the guillotine—even if the end of this path is the tempting immortality, he is unwilling to endure the pain of pain, the death of death. Although he is more conscious of the goal of "becoming a true human" than the bourgeois, he still keeps his eyes tightly shut, refusing to recognize: desperately relying on "I," desperately unwilling to die, is a reliable path to eternal death, while dying, being reborn, and eternally dedicating oneself to transformation is the path to immortality.
You have embarked on a longer and more difficult path to "becoming human." Your duality will surge more frequently. Your complexity will become more complex. You cannot shrink the world, nor simplify your soul; rather, perhaps in order to one day reach the end, to find peace, you will embed more of the world, ultimately the entire world, into your painfully expanding soul. This is the path walked by the Buddha, the path walked by every great person. Some among them are clear-minded, some are unintentional, yet they all complete this adventurous journey. Every birth means breaking free from the universe, means separation and alienation from God, means the painful rebirth of suffering. And returning to the universe, abolishing the pain of individual differentiation, becoming God, means that his soul must expand to be able to once again embrace the entire universe.
A person capable of understanding the Buddha, a person who perceives the elevation and fall of humanity, should not live in a world dominated by common sense, democracy, and bourgeois education. He merely lives in it out of cowardice, and whenever the scale of this world torments and troubles him, whenever the narrow space of bourgeois society becomes too crowded for him, he blames himself on the wolf, yet does not want to know that the wolf is sometimes the best part of him.
We now bid farewell to Harry, letting him continue on his journey alone. If he has already joined the ranks of the immortals, having reached the destination he considers the arduous path, how surprised he would be to look back at his busyness and hesitation, to recall the thorns and twists he encountered along the way. How should he respond to this Steppenwolf with an encouraging, reproachful, sympathetic, and joyful smile!
"Human" is not a perfect creation, but a spiritual need, a distant possibility that is both desirable and fearful. On the way to it, it is precisely those few who today go to the guillotine and tomorrow to the monument, who endure terrible torment and walk a short distance in a trance—Steppenwolf is also aware of this. However, what is called "human" in him, in contrast to the wolf, is mostly nothing but the mediocre "human" in the bourgeois concept. Although Harry can foresee the path to becoming a true human, the path to immortality, and sometimes can take a small hesitant step, paying a huge price of pain and loneliness for it, deep in his soul, he fears that supreme demand, fears to affirm and strive to realize the true adulthood that the spirit seeks, fears to walk the narrow path to eternity. He clearly feels that this path will lead him to deeper pain, make him despised, force him to give up completely, and perhaps send him to the guillotine—even if the end of this path is the tempting immortality, he is unwilling to endure the pain of pain, the death of death. Although he is more conscious of the goal of "becoming a true human" than the bourgeois, he still keeps his eyes tightly shut, refusing to recognize: desperately relying on "I," desperately unwilling to die, is a reliable path to eternal death, while dying, being reborn, and eternally dedicating oneself to transformation is the path to immortality.
You have embarked on a longer and more difficult path to "becoming human." Your duality will surge more frequently. Your complexity will become more complex. You cannot shrink the world, nor simplify your soul; rather, perhaps in order to one day reach the end, to find peace, you will embed more of the world, ultimately the entire world, into your painfully expanding soul. This is the path walked by the Buddha, the path walked by every great person. Some among them are clear-minded, some are unintentional, yet they all complete this adventurous journey. Every birth means breaking free from the universe, means separation and alienation from God, means the painful rebirth of suffering. And returning to the universe, abolishing the pain of individual differentiation, becoming God, means that his soul must expand to be able to once again embrace the entire universe.
A person capable of understanding the Buddha, a person who perceives the elevation and fall of humanity, should not live in a world dominated by common sense, democracy, and bourgeois education. He merely lives in it out of cowardice, and whenever the scale of this world torments and troubles him, whenever the narrow space of bourgeois society becomes too crowded for him, he blames himself on the wolf, yet does not want to know that the wolf is sometimes the best part of him.
We now bid farewell to Harry, letting him continue on his journey alone. If he has already joined the ranks of the immortals, having reached the destination he considers the arduous path, how surprised he would be to look back at his busyness and hesitation, to recall the thorns and twists he encountered along the way. How should he respond to this Steppenwolf with an encouraging, reproachful, sympathetic, and joyful smile!
4#
It just took me a long time to realize that games also have their limits.
It just took me a long time to realize that games also have their limits.
5#
I am no longer interested in cognition and insight. It is precisely their excessive nurturing that causes me pain, that makes me feel ashamed for being able to realize and see my situation.
But what I urgently need, what I absolutely crave, is not knowledge and opinions, but to experience, to decide, to collide and leap.
But if you need someone else's permission to enjoy happiness, then you are truly a pitiful creature.
I have expressed my views many times: every nation, even every individual, should examine themselves, reflect on the errors, omissions, and outdated customs for which they are responsible for wars and other disasters in the world, rather than being blinded by fabricated political accountability issues. This may be the only way to avoid the next war. They cannot forgive me for this. They certainly consider themselves innocent: emperors, generals, industrialists, politicians, newspapers—none are at fault, none bear responsibility. People can think that everything is wonderful on earth except for the millions of fallen corpses lying around!
Think for an hour, reflect for a moment, ask yourself to what extent we participate in the chaos and evil of the world—look, no one wants to do this! Everything will continue as it always has. Day by day, thousands of people will be eager to prepare for the next war. Since I realized this, I have fallen into despair, my body and mind paralyzed. For me, I no longer have a homeland, no longer have ideals. Everything is merely a medal prepared for those who incite the next war. Any thoughts, words, or writings about humanitarianism are meaningless; any good thoughts swirling in the mind are meaningless—two or three people may do this, but there will be thousands of newspapers and magazines, thousands of speeches, public or secret meetings, day after day striving for and achieving the opposite goal.
We all eventually die; everything is in vain. Compromising with this truth only makes life mediocre and foolish. Should we give up everything, abandon all spiritual pursuits, abandon ideals and humanity? Continue to let ambition and money manipulate us while we only drink beer, waiting for the next wartime mobilization?
Even if you know your struggle will ultimately fail, your life is still not mediocre and foolish, Harry. If you fight for beautiful things and ideals, believing you will surely succeed, that would be far more mediocre. Can ideals really be realized? Are we alive to conquer death? No, we live to fear death and then fall in love with it. It is precisely because of it that fragile life blooms with a brief light.
I am no longer interested in cognition and insight. It is precisely their excessive nurturing that causes me pain, that makes me feel ashamed for being able to realize and see my situation.
But what I urgently need, what I absolutely crave, is not knowledge and opinions, but to experience, to decide, to collide and leap.
But if you need someone else's permission to enjoy happiness, then you are truly a pitiful creature.
I have expressed my views many times: every nation, even every individual, should examine themselves, reflect on the errors, omissions, and outdated customs for which they are responsible for wars and other disasters in the world, rather than being blinded by fabricated political accountability issues. This may be the only way to avoid the next war. They cannot forgive me for this. They certainly consider themselves innocent: emperors, generals, industrialists, politicians, newspapers—none are at fault, none bear responsibility. People can think that everything is wonderful on earth except for the millions of fallen corpses lying around!
Think for an hour, reflect for a moment, ask yourself to what extent we participate in the chaos and evil of the world—look, no one wants to do this! Everything will continue as it always has. Day by day, thousands of people will be eager to prepare for the next war. Since I realized this, I have fallen into despair, my body and mind paralyzed. For me, I no longer have a homeland, no longer have ideals. Everything is merely a medal prepared for those who incite the next war. Any thoughts, words, or writings about humanitarianism are meaningless; any good thoughts swirling in the mind are meaningless—two or three people may do this, but there will be thousands of newspapers and magazines, thousands of speeches, public or secret meetings, day after day striving for and achieving the opposite goal.
We all eventually die; everything is in vain. Compromising with this truth only makes life mediocre and foolish. Should we give up everything, abandon all spiritual pursuits, abandon ideals and humanity? Continue to let ambition and money manipulate us while we only drink beer, waiting for the next wartime mobilization?
Even if you know your struggle will ultimately fail, your life is still not mediocre and foolish, Harry. If you fight for beautiful things and ideals, believing you will surely succeed, that would be far more mediocre. Can ideals really be realized? Are we alive to conquer death? No, we live to fear death and then fall in love with it. It is precisely because of it that fragile life blooms with a brief light.
6#
Because I am just like you. Because I am as lonely as you, unable to love life, love others, love myself, unable to take life, others, and myself seriously. I am just like you. Yes, there are always such people who have high demands on life yet cannot tolerate its foolishness and brutality.
As I gradually destroy the persona I once prided myself on, I begin to understand why I was once so desperate yet extremely afraid of death. I begin to realize that the shameful and detestable fear of death is part of my hypocritical bourgeois spirit. That Mr. Harry—an exceptionally talented writer, an expert in the music of Mozart and Goethe, a perceptive writer who has penned metaphysical essays on humanity, art, genius, and tragedy, a sentimental recluse hidden among piles of books, gradually falling into the abyss of self-criticism yet unable to prove himself anywhere. That clever and interesting Mr. Harry, although he loudly advocates reason and humanity, fiercely protests against the brutality of war, yet during the war did not suffer the consequences his thoughts should have led to—being dragged to the execution ground and shot, but instead found some way to adapt—of course, in a very noble and dignified manner, yet it was merely a compromise. Moreover, he opposed power and exploitation, yet held securities from multiple industrial enterprises in the bank, consuming the interest from these securities without any guilt. Everything is just like this. Harry Haller cleverly disguises himself as an idealist and a cynic, masquerading as a sorrowful recluse and an angry prophet, but deep down, he is just a bourgeois. He considers the life that Hermina lived to be base and vile; he feels indignant and guilty for wasting time and money in restaurants at night, yet does not seek his own liberation and perfection; on the contrary, he longs to return to the comfortable era when spiritual games could still bring him joy and prestige, just as those newspaper readers he despises and mocks long to return to the ideal time before the war, for life then was much more pleasant than growing through suffering. Damn it! That disgusting Mr. Harry! I still cling to him, holding onto his nearly falling-off mask, nostalgic for his show-off talents, nostalgic for his bourgeois panic towards disorder and change (including death). I mock and envy the new Harry, that somewhat shy half-wit on the dance floor, comparing him with the fabricated ideal image of Harry from the past, discovering all my fatal characteristics that perfectly align with that annoying Goethe etching from the professor's house a few days ago. And he himself, old Harry, was originally such an idealized Goethe among the bourgeois, a spiritual hero, noble in gaze, radiating solemnity, wisdom, and the brilliance of humanity, proud of his exalted soul! Damn it, this lovely painting now has several malicious holes poked in it; the ideal Harry has been tragically dismembered! He looks like a nobleman robbed by bandits, dressed in rags. If he were smart enough, he should learn to play the role of a ragged poor person, yet he insists that the rags still hang with medals, tearfully demanding to regain his lost dignity.
We, who advocate spirituality, are homeless in reality, at odds with reality, out of place. For this reason, spirituality is so humble in the reality, history, politics, and public opinion of Germany. Indeed, I often think about these issues, sometimes inevitably feeling a strong desire to shape reality, to take responsibility and make a difference, rather than merely engaging in aesthetic and spiritual craftsmanship, yet it always ends with submission and bowing to misfortune. The generals and industrialists are right: we "spiritual believers" are utterly useless. We are a group of superfluous, naive, irresponsible talkers. Damn it! I really want to pick up a razor!
I once again appreciate what I have long forgotten in pain. They are the wealth of my life and will continue to exist indelibly. These experiences have turned into stars; although forgotten, they are eternally indestructible. They are a string of legends in my life, and that twinkling starlight is the solid value of my existence. My life is hard and unfortunate, full of struggles and despair, leading to the denial of life—it has tasted the bitter salt of human fate, yet is abundantly proud, living like a king even in pain. Even if I have wasted my youth on the road to destruction, filled with sorrow, the core of my life remains noble. It is not base, it has character; it is not about money, but about stars.
Because I am just like you. Because I am as lonely as you, unable to love life, love others, love myself, unable to take life, others, and myself seriously. I am just like you. Yes, there are always such people who have high demands on life yet cannot tolerate its foolishness and brutality.
As I gradually destroy the persona I once prided myself on, I begin to understand why I was once so desperate yet extremely afraid of death. I begin to realize that the shameful and detestable fear of death is part of my hypocritical bourgeois spirit. That Mr. Harry—an exceptionally talented writer, an expert in the music of Mozart and Goethe, a perceptive writer who has penned metaphysical essays on humanity, art, genius, and tragedy, a sentimental recluse hidden among piles of books, gradually falling into the abyss of self-criticism yet unable to prove himself anywhere. That clever and interesting Mr. Harry, although he loudly advocates reason and humanity, fiercely protests against the brutality of war, yet during the war did not suffer the consequences his thoughts should have led to—being dragged to the execution ground and shot, but instead found some way to adapt—of course, in a very noble and dignified manner, yet it was merely a compromise. Moreover, he opposed power and exploitation, yet held securities from multiple industrial enterprises in the bank, consuming the interest from these securities without any guilt. Everything is just like this. Harry Haller cleverly disguises himself as an idealist and a cynic, masquerading as a sorrowful recluse and an angry prophet, but deep down, he is just a bourgeois. He considers the life that Hermina lived to be base and vile; he feels indignant and guilty for wasting time and money in restaurants at night, yet does not seek his own liberation and perfection; on the contrary, he longs to return to the comfortable era when spiritual games could still bring him joy and prestige, just as those newspaper readers he despises and mocks long to return to the ideal time before the war, for life then was much more pleasant than growing through suffering. Damn it! That disgusting Mr. Harry! I still cling to him, holding onto his nearly falling-off mask, nostalgic for his show-off talents, nostalgic for his bourgeois panic towards disorder and change (including death). I mock and envy the new Harry, that somewhat shy half-wit on the dance floor, comparing him with the fabricated ideal image of Harry from the past, discovering all my fatal characteristics that perfectly align with that annoying Goethe etching from the professor's house a few days ago. And he himself, old Harry, was originally such an idealized Goethe among the bourgeois, a spiritual hero, noble in gaze, radiating solemnity, wisdom, and the brilliance of humanity, proud of his exalted soul! Damn it, this lovely painting now has several malicious holes poked in it; the ideal Harry has been tragically dismembered! He looks like a nobleman robbed by bandits, dressed in rags. If he were smart enough, he should learn to play the role of a ragged poor person, yet he insists that the rags still hang with medals, tearfully demanding to regain his lost dignity.
We, who advocate spirituality, are homeless in reality, at odds with reality, out of place. For this reason, spirituality is so humble in the reality, history, politics, and public opinion of Germany. Indeed, I often think about these issues, sometimes inevitably feeling a strong desire to shape reality, to take responsibility and make a difference, rather than merely engaging in aesthetic and spiritual craftsmanship, yet it always ends with submission and bowing to misfortune. The generals and industrialists are right: we "spiritual believers" are utterly useless. We are a group of superfluous, naive, irresponsible talkers. Damn it! I really want to pick up a razor!
I once again appreciate what I have long forgotten in pain. They are the wealth of my life and will continue to exist indelibly. These experiences have turned into stars; although forgotten, they are eternally indestructible. They are a string of legends in my life, and that twinkling starlight is the solid value of my existence. My life is hard and unfortunate, full of struggles and despair, leading to the denial of life—it has tasted the bitter salt of human fate, yet is abundantly proud, living like a king even in pain. Even if I have wasted my youth on the road to destruction, filled with sorrow, the core of my life remains noble. It is not base, it has character; it is not about money, but about stars.
7#
Yes! I am satisfied with my happiness and can bear more happiness. But if this happiness occasionally wakes me up for an hour, awakening my desires, then what I desire is not to always possess this happiness, but to suffer, just a little less painfully and more beautifully than before. I long to suffer. Suffering makes me willing to die, prepares me for death.
Today I want to tell you something I have long known, and you have long known too. However, you may not have said it to yourself. Let me tell you what I know, you and I, our fate. Harry, you are an artist, a thinker, a person full of joy and faith. You are always pursuing greatness and eternity, never coveting beautiful and base things. But the more life awakens you, returning you to your nature, the heavier your sense of crisis becomes, the deeper your pain, until you fall into despair and anxiety, unable to breathe. And everything you know to be sacred and beautiful, everything you love and respect, your belief in humanity and the noble fate of humanity, can no longer help you, all become worthless, even vanish. Your faith can no longer find air to breathe. Suffocation is a painful way to die, isn't it, Harry? Is this your fate?
You are right, Steppenwolf, you are completely correct, but you are doomed to destruction. For today's simple, comfortable, and easily satisfied world, your demands are too high, your appeals too many. It will abandon you because you are out of place. Today, those who live happily are certainly not people like you and me. Wanting real music, eliminating noise, hoping the soul replaces money, real work replaces business, real passion replaces leisure—this splendid world is certainly not a home for those who have these desires...
The so-called "world history" in schools and the things students must memorize for education, all heroes, geniuses, great deeds, and emotions, are merely fabricated scams for educational purposes, so that children have no leisure during school age. It has always been this way, and the future will not change: time and the world, wealth and power belong to the petty and mediocre, while others, the truly human beings, have nothing but death.
However, every image of real action, the power of true emotion, even if no one knows, no one sees, no one records and preserves it for posterity, belongs to eternity. In eternity, there is no posterity, only the present.
Often, those who understand this the most. They established sacraments for this, founded their saints' societies. Saints are the true humans, the brothers of the Savior. The path to them requires us to walk a whole life with unceasing good deeds, steadfast faith, and love. Early painters depicted the saints' society in a golden sky, radiant, beautiful, and peaceful—it is what I previously referred to as "eternity," the realm beyond time and appearance. That is our destination, our home. Our hearts long for there, Steppenwolf, and that is precisely why we desire to die. You will see your Goethe, your Novalis, and Mozart there. And I will find my saints, Christopher, Philip Neri, and all the saints. Many saints were once wicked sinners. Sin can become a path to the sacred, and sinners and evildoers can also become saints.
I recall my dream of Goethe, the old sage, his superhuman laughter, the immortal joke he shared with me. I now understand Goethe's laughter; it is the laughter of the immortal. This laughter is not directed at anyone; it is simply light, it is divine. It is the laughter left by a true human who has experienced much pain, mistakes, bad habits, passions, and misunderstandings as they step into eternity, into space. And "eternity" is merely liberation from time. In a sense, eternity is a return to simplicity, a return to the heavens.
To this, I disdain. I am neither a modern person nor an old-fashioned one. I have transcended the times, approached death, and seek death with all my heart. I do not oppose sentimentality; I am glad and grateful that I can still feel a trace of sentimentality in my anxious heart. So I let myself fall into memories of the old tavern, into the attachment to the old and heavy chairs, into the smell of smoke and alcohol, into the warmth and familiarity that all of this gives me, the feeling of home. Farewell is beautiful, gentle. I love the hard chairs here, the clumsy wine glasses, the fruity taste of Alsace wine, I love everything familiar in this tavern, I love those disappointed people, their dreamlike drinking; I have long been their brother. The petty bourgeois melancholy I feel here gently mingles with the romantic atmosphere of the old-fashioned inn from my youth. At that time, inns, red wine, and cigars were still forbidden, strange, and wonderful things. Only the Steppenwolf did not leap up, baring its fangs at me, tearing my sentimentality to pieces. I sit calmly, illuminated by the afterglow of the past and the now faded fate.
Yes! I am satisfied with my happiness and can bear more happiness. But if this happiness occasionally wakes me up for an hour, awakening my desires, then what I desire is not to always possess this happiness, but to suffer, just a little less painfully and more beautifully than before. I long to suffer. Suffering makes me willing to die, prepares me for death.
Today I want to tell you something I have long known, and you have long known too. However, you may not have said it to yourself. Let me tell you what I know, you and I, our fate. Harry, you are an artist, a thinker, a person full of joy and faith. You are always pursuing greatness and eternity, never coveting beautiful and base things. But the more life awakens you, returning you to your nature, the heavier your sense of crisis becomes, the deeper your pain, until you fall into despair and anxiety, unable to breathe. And everything you know to be sacred and beautiful, everything you love and respect, your belief in humanity and the noble fate of humanity, can no longer help you, all become worthless, even vanish. Your faith can no longer find air to breathe. Suffocation is a painful way to die, isn't it, Harry? Is this your fate?
You are right, Steppenwolf, you are completely correct, but you are doomed to destruction. For today's simple, comfortable, and easily satisfied world, your demands are too high, your appeals too many. It will abandon you because you are out of place. Today, those who live happily are certainly not people like you and me. Wanting real music, eliminating noise, hoping the soul replaces money, real work replaces business, real passion replaces leisure—this splendid world is certainly not a home for those who have these desires...
The so-called "world history" in schools and the things students must memorize for education, all heroes, geniuses, great deeds, and emotions, are merely fabricated scams for educational purposes, so that children have no leisure during school age. It has always been this way, and the future will not change: time and the world, wealth and power belong to the petty and mediocre, while others, the truly human beings, have nothing but death.
However, every image of real action, the power of true emotion, even if no one knows, no one sees, no one records and preserves it for posterity, belongs to eternity. In eternity, there is no posterity, only the present.
Often, those who understand this the most. They established sacraments for this, founded their saints' societies. Saints are the true humans, the brothers of the Savior. The path to them requires us to walk a whole life with unceasing good deeds, steadfast faith, and love. Early painters depicted the saints' society in a golden sky, radiant, beautiful, and peaceful—it is what I previously referred to as "eternity," the realm beyond time and appearance. That is our destination, our home. Our hearts long for there, Steppenwolf, and that is precisely why we desire to die. You will see your Goethe, your Novalis, and Mozart there. And I will find my saints, Christopher, Philip Neri, and all the saints. Many saints were once wicked sinners. Sin can become a path to the sacred, and sinners and evildoers can also become saints.
I recall my dream of Goethe, the old sage, his superhuman laughter, the immortal joke he shared with me. I now understand Goethe's laughter; it is the laughter of the immortal. This laughter is not directed at anyone; it is simply light, it is divine. It is the laughter left by a true human who has experienced much pain, mistakes, bad habits, passions, and misunderstandings as they step into eternity, into space. And "eternity" is merely liberation from time. In a sense, eternity is a return to simplicity, a return to the heavens.
To this, I disdain. I am neither a modern person nor an old-fashioned one. I have transcended the times, approached death, and seek death with all my heart. I do not oppose sentimentality; I am glad and grateful that I can still feel a trace of sentimentality in my anxious heart. So I let myself fall into memories of the old tavern, into the attachment to the old and heavy chairs, into the smell of smoke and alcohol, into the warmth and familiarity that all of this gives me, the feeling of home. Farewell is beautiful, gentle. I love the hard chairs here, the clumsy wine glasses, the fruity taste of Alsace wine, I love everything familiar in this tavern, I love those disappointed people, their dreamlike drinking; I have long been their brother. The petty bourgeois melancholy I feel here gently mingles with the romantic atmosphere of the old-fashioned inn from my youth. At that time, inns, red wine, and cigars were still forbidden, strange, and wonderful things. Only the Steppenwolf did not leap up, baring its fangs at me, tearing my sentimentality to pieces. I sit calmly, illuminated by the afterglow of the past and the now faded fate.
9#
I certainly do not understand the concept of duty, nor do I understand it now, but in the past, I often dealt with it. I was a theology professor. I also served in the military and participated in wars. Everything done out of duty, everything obeying authority and superior orders, is not a good thing, so I would rather go against it. Although I do not understand what duty is, I understand what guilt is—perhaps they are the same thing. My mother gave birth to me, so I am guilty. I am destined to be sentenced to live, to belong to a country, to become a soldier, to kill, to pay taxes for armaments. And now, at this moment, I once again bear the guilt of life, just as I did when I participated in the war, having to kill. However, this time it is my own willingness; I have willingly accepted the guilt. I do not oppose smashing this stupid and crowded world; I am willing to be an accomplice in destroying the world and willing to be destroyed along with it.
Just as madness, in a higher sense, all wisdom begins with madness. It can also be said that all art and imagination begin with schizophrenia. Scholars are even aware of this; for example, one can read in the interesting book "The Magic Horn of the Prince": a scholar's hard work nobly comes through collaboration with some madmen and the genius of artists locked in asylums—take these images and keep them. Games often bring you joy. You can demote the puppets that make you unbearable today, those images that ruin your game, to insignificant supporting roles tomorrow. You can turn those poor little characters, seemingly destined for misfortune, into princesses in the next game. Enjoy yourself, my dear sir.
How foolish and naive I was! Now I know that the thoughts and scenes plotted in the minds of trainers, priests, generals, or madmen are equally ugly, barbaric, evil, cruel, and absurdly entrenched in me.
I certainly do not understand the concept of duty, nor do I understand it now, but in the past, I often dealt with it. I was a theology professor. I also served in the military and participated in wars. Everything done out of duty, everything obeying authority and superior orders, is not a good thing, so I would rather go against it. Although I do not understand what duty is, I understand what guilt is—perhaps they are the same thing. My mother gave birth to me, so I am guilty. I am destined to be sentenced to live, to belong to a country, to become a soldier, to kill, to pay taxes for armaments. And now, at this moment, I once again bear the guilt of life, just as I did when I participated in the war, having to kill. However, this time it is my own willingness; I have willingly accepted the guilt. I do not oppose smashing this stupid and crowded world; I am willing to be an accomplice in destroying the world and willing to be destroyed along with it.
Just as madness, in a higher sense, all wisdom begins with madness. It can also be said that all art and imagination begin with schizophrenia. Scholars are even aware of this; for example, one can read in the interesting book "The Magic Horn of the Prince": a scholar's hard work nobly comes through collaboration with some madmen and the genius of artists locked in asylums—take these images and keep them. Games often bring you joy. You can demote the puppets that make you unbearable today, those images that ruin your game, to insignificant supporting roles tomorrow. You can turn those poor little characters, seemingly destined for misfortune, into princesses in the next game. Enjoy yourself, my dear sir.
How foolish and naive I was! Now I know that the thoughts and scenes plotted in the minds of trainers, priests, generals, or madmen are equally ugly, barbaric, evil, cruel, and absurdly entrenched in me.
10#
And we, on the contrary, have found ourselves on the ice surface illuminated by the stars of the ether. Not recognizing the time, nor distinguishing day from night, neither male nor female, neither old nor young... The unchanging cold is our eternal existence, cold as the brilliance of stars, is our eternal laughter.
Just as life, the so-called reality, subverts the vivid image games of the world, after Handel's music, comes a report on how to conceal the assets and liabilities of medium-sized industrial enterprises, turning the charming orchestral music into a nauseating sound slime, stuffing the tricks and overly zealous propaganda in the report, the livelihood and vanity needed in the wasteland, into the crevices of ideas and reality, orchestral music and ear canals. Life is like this, my little one. We can only listen and let it be. If we are not as foolish as a donkey, we should laugh it off. People like you have no right to criticize the radio or life. You better learn to listen! Learn to take seriously what deserves to be taken seriously, and laugh at other things! Do you do better, nobler, wiser, more elegantly? Oh no, Mr. Haller, you do not. You have turned your life into a terrible medical history, turning your talent into misfortune.
It sounds like the disasters you have created are not enough! Now the embellishment and murder should end; you should be rational! You must live, learn to laugh. You must learn to listen to the damn broadcast music of life, learn to respect the spirit behind it, and laugh at the dross within. That's it; this is all I ask of you.
I know that my pockets are filled with millions of pieces of life games, shockingly sensing their meaning. I am willing to start the game again, to taste its bitterness again, to tremble at its absurdity again, to wander again and again in the hell within me.
And we, on the contrary, have found ourselves on the ice surface illuminated by the stars of the ether. Not recognizing the time, nor distinguishing day from night, neither male nor female, neither old nor young... The unchanging cold is our eternal existence, cold as the brilliance of stars, is our eternal laughter.
Just as life, the so-called reality, subverts the vivid image games of the world, after Handel's music, comes a report on how to conceal the assets and liabilities of medium-sized industrial enterprises, turning the charming orchestral music into a nauseating sound slime, stuffing the tricks and overly zealous propaganda in the report, the livelihood and vanity needed in the wasteland, into the crevices of ideas and reality, orchestral music and ear canals. Life is like this, my little one. We can only listen and let it be. If we are not as foolish as a donkey, we should laugh it off. People like you have no right to criticize the radio or life. You better learn to listen! Learn to take seriously what deserves to be taken seriously, and laugh at other things! Do you do better, nobler, wiser, more elegantly? Oh no, Mr. Haller, you do not. You have turned your life into a terrible medical history, turning your talent into misfortune.
It sounds like the disasters you have created are not enough! Now the embellishment and murder should end; you should be rational! You must live, learn to laugh. You must learn to listen to the damn broadcast music of life, learn to respect the spirit behind it, and laugh at the dross within. That's it; this is all I ask of you.
I know that my pockets are filled with millions of pieces of life games, shockingly sensing their meaning. I am willing to start the game again, to taste its bitterness again, to tremble at its absurdity again, to wander again and again in the hell within me.
Postscript#
The soul is like "an onion composed of thousands of thin layers, a fabric made of countless fine threads." He realizes that good and evil can mutually depend on rational construction and reflection, realizing that on the road to healing, one must accept life with humor, harmonizing oneself in self-mockery and mocking the shortcomings of culture and society. Only by viewing reality humorously, only by dancing lightly through life, laughing heartily, can one find a way out of the crisis of existence, taking a small step on the journey to perfection. This is the most brutal celebration of being human, a courageous poem against mediocrity. It reveals the absurdity of desire and fear, acknowledging and addressing the volcanic eruptions of the inner unconscious with honesty and frankness.
The soul is like "an onion composed of thousands of thin layers, a fabric made of countless fine threads." He realizes that good and evil can mutually depend on rational construction and reflection, realizing that on the road to healing, one must accept life with humor, harmonizing oneself in self-mockery and mocking the shortcomings of culture and society. Only by viewing reality humorously, only by dancing lightly through life, laughing heartily, can one find a way out of the crisis of existence, taking a small step on the journey to perfection. This is the most brutal celebration of being human, a courageous poem against mediocrity. It reveals the absurdity of desire and fear, acknowledging and addressing the volcanic eruptions of the inner unconscious with honesty and frankness.
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