"Last Summer of Klinsor (Guomai Classics)" Reading Notes

"The Last Summer of Klingsor (Guomai Classics)" Reading Notes#

Author: Hermann Hesse
Reading Duration: 2 hours

These are the notes and excerpts I recorded while reading "The Last Summer of Klingsor (Guomai Classics)" on WeChat Reading.

Klingsor#

There was once such a boy, in that incredible era, for him nothing in the world was impossible, nothing was difficult. Klingsor loved everything, ruled everything, possessed everything. He kept moving forward, living with nine lives. Even if he never reached perfection, never realized the grand chorus, his songs were never monotonous or barren. Compared to others, he always had more strings to play, more steel to throw into the fire, more talers in his backpack, more roses in his cart! Thank God!

Louis#

Nature has countless colors, yet we insist on reducing the spectrum to twenty shades. This is painting. You can never find satisfaction in it, and you must feed the critics.

Their moods make the stars in the sky light up and extinguish; they make the flares rise in the bustling nights: the world is a soap bubble, an opera, a ridiculous revelry.

But Louis did not like to see this fragility; it tormented him, demanding sympathy from him. Klingsor was used to opening his heart to this friend, but he realized too late that this very act caused him to lose his friend.

Nature has countless colors, yet we insist on reducing the spectrum to twenty shades. This is painting. You can never find satisfaction in it, and you must feed the critics.

Their moods make the stars in the sky light up and extinguish; they make the flares rise in the bustling nights: the world is a soap bubble, an opera, a ridiculous revelry.

But Louis did not like to see this fragility; it tormented him, demanding sympathy from him. Klingsor was used to opening his heart to this friend, but he realized too late that this very act caused him to lose his friend.

Kareno Day#

Is a person, after all, a rogue stuck in the mud of the world, or a foolish child?

"Deep down," he sang, "I am a golden ball, like the dome of a sanctuary, where people kneel and pray, and the walls emit golden light. In the ancient paintings, the holy land bleeds, the heart of the Virgin bleeds. We bleed too, we outcasts, we madmen, we stars and comets, swords seven and fourteen pierce our blissful chests. I love you, golden-haired and dark-haired women, I love everyone, including the commoners; you are all miserable souls like me, you are pitiful children, misplaced demigods, like drunken Klingsor. Hail to me, dear life! Hail to me, dear death!

Is a person, after all, a rogue stuck in the mud of the world, or a foolish child?

"Deep down," he sang, "I am a golden ball, like the dome of a sanctuary, where people kneel and pray, and the walls emit golden light. In the ancient paintings, the holy land bleeds, the heart of the Virgin bleeds. We bleed too, we outcasts, we madmen, we stars and comets, swords seven and fourteen pierce our blissful chests. I love you, golden-haired and dark-haired women, I love everyone, including the commoners; you are all miserable souls like me, you are pitiful children, misplaced demigods, like drunken Klingsor. Hail to me, dear life! Hail to me, dear death!

Klingsor's Letter to Edith#

You and I have both entered the same labyrinth, the labyrinth of emotions. In this wretched world, it briefly comes to us, and each of us, in our own way, seeks revenge on this briefness against this wretched world. Only mature and steady people can understand their feelings and their impact, understand the consequences of actions; they believe in life, and every step they take is one they will still believe in tomorrow and the day after. I am not so lucky to be one of them; everything I do and feel is like someone who does not believe in tomorrow, treating every day as if it were the last.

I do not just love you, you know this; I do not just love Gina. Tomorrow and the day after, I will love different scenes, paint different pictures. But I do not regret any love I have felt, nor will I for any wise or foolish things they do. I love you, perhaps because you and I are so similar. I love them because they are so different from me.

You and I have both entered the same labyrinth, the labyrinth of emotions. In this wretched world, it briefly comes to us, and each of us, in our own way, seeks revenge on this briefness against this wretched world. Only mature and steady people can understand their feelings and their impact, understand the consequences of actions; they believe in life, and every step they take is one they will still believe in tomorrow and the day after. I am not so lucky to be one of them; everything I do and feel is like someone who does not believe in tomorrow, treating every day as if it were the last.

I do not just love you, you know this; I do not just love Gina. Tomorrow and the day after, I will love different scenes, paint different pictures. But I do not regret any love I have felt, nor will I for any wise or foolish things they do. I love you, perhaps because you and I are so similar. I love them because they are so different from me.

The Sound of Drowning#

He knew he was born different; Saturn looked at him with another gaze, and the gods wanted to play different songs on his strings.

I do not need weapons against death, for death does not exist. Only one thing exists: the fear of death. People can heal it; there are weapons against fear. You only need an hour of study to conquer fear. But Li Taibai does not want that; Li loves death, loves his fear of death, loves his melancholy and sorrow, for death makes him understand what he can do, what we love about him.

He knew he was born different; Saturn looked at him with another gaze, and the gods wanted to play different songs on his strings.

I do not need weapons against death, for death does not exist. Only one thing exists: the fear of death. People can heal it; there are weapons against fear. You only need an hour of study to conquer fear. But Li Taibai does not want that; Li loves death, loves his fear of death, loves his melancholy and sorrow, for death makes him understand what he can do, what we love about him.

August Night#

Leaves fall from the tree of life. Oh, splendid world, how do you satisfy, how do you bore, how do you intoxicate? What is bright today will perish tomorrow. The biting cold wind will soon blow over my brown-gray grave. Mother bends down, leaning towards the little child. I want to see her eyes again; her gaze is my starlight, everything else will fade away, everything is dying, everything longs to die. Only the eternal mother remains, that is our origin; her delicate fingers write our names in the fleeting air.

Self-Portrait#

Elegant because of every desire, sickly because of every vice, celebrating the sinking because of knowledge. Ready for every step forward, also ready for every step back, incredibly bright yet incredibly weary. Like an addict yielding to morphine, yielding to fate and pain. Lonely, hollow, old, both Faust and the Brothers Karamazov, beast and wise man. Absolutely candid, without ambition, completely exposed, childlike in fear of death. Waiting in exhaustion, waiting for death.

Postscript: Remembering Klingsor's Summer#

It has been ten years since Klingsor's summer shone, and I have been with him, singing Klingsor's drunken songs in warm long nights accompanied by fine wine and beautiful women! How clear and different my nights are now, and how peaceful the days that follow! Even if there were a spell to bring me back to that madness—I would not want it anymore. No longer pushing the racing wheels back. Accepting the peaceful death in my blood, no longer demanding the absurd, is my wisdom and kindness now. Grasping a new happiness, a new magic, from now on, I sometimes am just a mirror, like the moon's reflection in the Rhine, allowing stars, gods, and angels to reflect within, lasting for hours.

Rural Life#

I understand that I am a nomad, not a farmer; a seeker, not a holder. I have held onto rigid gods and doctrines for too long, and this is my error, my pain, my shared sin against the world's suffering: by inflicting violence upon myself, by not daring to walk the path of release, I have added sin and suffering to this world. The path of release is neither left nor right; it leads to the self within. Here, there is only the divine, here, there is only peace.

Mountain Pass#

Even while wandering, every road will lead us home.

That madness is no longer there, that desire is gone—no longer willing to show all those I love the beautiful distance and personal happiness. The heart transitions from spring to summer. Greetings from foreign lands sound different now. It echoes in my chest, calming down. I no longer throw my hat into the air, no longer sing. But I am smiling, not just with my mouth, but with my soul, smiling with my eyes, smiling with my whole skin. When I feel with a different awareness, the pastoral fragrance that rises up becomes more subtle, peaceful, sharp, more seasoned, more grateful. Now, all of this belongs to me even more, the expression is richer, the layers are more delicate. My desire no longer seeks to paint the hazy colors of the distant; my eyes are satisfied with what they see because they have learned to look. Since then, the world has become more beautiful. The world is becoming more beautiful. I am alone, yet very comfortable. I ask for nothing more, just want to be soaked in sunlight. I long for maturity. Ready to die, ready to be reborn. The world is becoming more beautiful.

Even while wandering, every road will lead us home.

That madness is no longer there, that desire is gone—no longer willing to show all those I love the beautiful distance and personal happiness. The heart transitions from spring to summer. Greetings from foreign lands sound different now. It echoes in my chest, calming down. I no longer throw my hat into the air, no longer sing. But I am smiling, not just with my mouth, but with my soul, smiling with my eyes, smiling with my whole skin. When I feel with a different awareness, the pastoral fragrance that rises up becomes more subtle, peaceful, sharp, more seasoned, more grateful. Now, all of this belongs to me even more, the expression is richer, the layers are more delicate. My desire no longer seeks to paint the hazy colors of the distant; my eyes are satisfied with what they see because they have learned to look. Since then, the world has become more beautiful. The world is becoming more beautiful. I am alone, yet very comfortable. I ask for nothing more, just want to be soaked in sunlight. I long for maturity. Ready to die, ready to be reborn. The world is becoming more beautiful.

Village#

But I am destined to be unfaithful, belonging to the kind who can only fall in love with love, but not with women.

We wanderers are accustomed to keeping our desires in a state of dissatisfaction, scattering the love that should be given to women freely among villages and mountains, lakes and valleys, sharing it with the children on the road, the beggars on the bridges, the cows on the grass, the birds and butterflies. We detach love from specific objects; love itself is enough. Just as we wanderers do not seek a destination, but simply enjoy the journey itself, the process of being on the road. Oh, young woman with a fresh and beautiful face, I do not wish to know your name, nor do I wish to possess and nurture my love for you. You are not the purpose of love, but the motivation for me to love. I send this love away, to the flowers on the road, to a ray of sunlight in the wine glass, to the red onion dome of the church tower. It is you who makes me love this world.

But I am destined to be unfaithful, belonging to the kind who can only fall in love with love, but not with women.

We wanderers are accustomed to keeping our desires in a state of dissatisfaction, scattering the love that should be given to women freely among villages and mountains, lakes and valleys, sharing it with the children on the road, the beggars on the bridges, the cows on the grass, the birds and butterflies. We detach love from specific objects; love itself is enough. Just as we wanderers do not seek a destination, but simply enjoy the journey itself, the process of being on the road. Oh, young woman with a fresh and beautiful face, I do not wish to know your name, nor do I wish to possess and nurture my love for you. You are not the purpose of love, but the motivation for me to love. I send this love away, to the flowers on the road, to a ray of sunlight in the wine glass, to the red onion dome of the church tower. It is you who makes me love this world.

Bridge#

Those things in life that once twisted and tormented me, that often blocked my heart with heavy fear, will no longer happen. With the last fatigue, peace will come, and the maternal earth will embrace me. It is not towards an end, but towards a rebirth. There will be a bath, a short nap, in which the old and decayed will sink, and the new youth will begin to breathe. Thus, I am willing to walk this path again, with different feelings, listening to the brook, gazing at the night sky, again and again.

Farm#

Thoughts and worries seem to have been left on the other side of the snowy mountains. I used to think too much among those worried people and troubling matters! Because over there, finding a reason for existence is incredibly important, despairingly important—otherwise, how can one live? It is immense pain that makes people profound. But here, there is no such problem—existence needs no reason, thought is just a game. One can feel: the world is beautiful, life is short. Not all wishes are stable: I want another pair of eyes, a lung; I stretch my feet into the grass, hoping they will grow a bit more.

Rain#

Heart, you have been torn apart so painfully; now, empty yourself to explore how joyful it can be, no need to think, no need to know, just breathe, just feel!

Trees#

Trees have always been my most earnest mentors. I admire the trees that live in families in forests and groves, but I admire even more the trees that grow alone. They are not weak escapees but great loners, like Beethoven and Nietzsche—their treetops chant the world, their roots are anchored in eternity. They do not lose themselves in solitude but pursue a goal with all their life force: to realize that unique law that resides in the heart, to perfect themselves, to reveal their true selves. Nothing is more sacred, more exemplary than a strong and beautiful tree: when a tree is cut down, its fatal wound exposed to the sun, you can read all its history on the light-colored cross-section of the stump: the growth rings and scars faithfully record all struggles, hardships, diseases, happiness, prosperity, years of disaster and abundance, the blows and storms it has endured. And every farmer's child knows that the most solid and noble trees have the densest growth rings; they grow high on the mountains, in endless dangers, producing the most unbreakable, strongest, and most exemplary branches. Trees are sages. Those who understand how to converse with trees, who listen to trees, can attain truth. They do not preach with dogmas and means; they do not care about trivialities; they only teach the fundamental truths of life.

When we feel sad and can no longer endure life, a tree will say to us: Be quiet, be quiet! Look at me! Life is neither easy nor hard. Let the divine speak in your heart, and those delusions will fall silent. You are anxious because the path you walk deviates from your mother and homeland; but in fact, every step you take, every day, brings you closer to your mother. The homeland is not here or there; except in your heart, the homeland will not be anywhere. When I hear the trees rustling in the night wind, my heart is torn by the desire to wander. Listening for a long time, this desire to wander reveals its core and meaning: it seems to escape pain, but in fact, it is a memory of the homeland, of the mother, a longing for a new meaning in life, a path of return. Every road leads home, every step is a rebirth, every step is death, every grave is a womb. When we harbor fear of our delusions, the trees sing like this in the night. The thoughts of trees are slower, longer, and more peaceful, just as they have longer lives than we do. When we still cannot understand trees, they are wiser than we are; once we learn to listen, our short, hurried, foolish minds will gain unparalleled joy. Those who learn to listen to the language of trees will no longer desire to become a tree, nor seek outward: this is the homeland, this is happiness.

Trees have always been my most earnest mentors. I admire the trees that live in families in forests and groves, but I admire even more the trees that grow alone. They are not weak escapees but great loners, like Beethoven and Nietzsche—their treetops chant the world, their roots are anchored in eternity. They do not lose themselves in solitude but pursue a goal with all their life force: to realize that unique law that resides in the heart, to perfect themselves, to reveal their true selves. Nothing is more sacred, more exemplary than a strong and beautiful tree: when a tree is cut down, its fatal wound exposed to the sun, you can read all its history on the light-colored cross-section of the stump: the growth rings and scars faithfully record all struggles, hardships, diseases, happiness, prosperity, years of disaster and abundance, the blows and storms it has endured. And every farmer's child knows that the most solid and noble trees have the densest growth rings; they grow high on the mountains, in endless dangers, producing the most unbreakable, strongest, and most exemplary branches. Trees are sages. Those who understand how to converse with trees, who listen to trees, can attain truth. They do not preach with dogmas and means; they do not care about trivialities; they only teach the fundamental truths of life.

When we feel sad and can no longer endure life, a tree will say to us: Be quiet, be quiet! Look at me! Life is neither easy nor hard. Let the divine speak in your heart, and those delusions will fall silent. You are anxious because the path you walk deviates from your mother and homeland; but in fact, every step you take, every day, brings you closer to your mother. The homeland is not here or there; except in your heart, the homeland will not be anywhere. When I hear the trees rustling in the night wind, my heart is torn by the desire to wander. Listening for a long time, this desire to wander reveals its core and meaning: it seems to escape pain, but in fact, it is a memory of the homeland, of the mother, a longing for a new meaning in life, a path of return. Every road leads home, every step is a rebirth, every step is death, every grave is a womb. When we harbor fear of our delusions, the trees sing like this in the night. The thoughts of trees are slower, longer, and more peaceful, just as they have longer lives than we do. When we still cannot understand trees, they are wiser than we are; once we learn to listen, our short, hurried, foolish minds will gain unparalleled joy. Those who learn to listen to the language of trees will no longer desire to become a tree, nor seek outward: this is the homeland, this is happiness.

Rainy Day#

I know why this is so; it is not because of the wine I drank yesterday, nor the broken bed I slept on last night, nor the rainy day, but because the devil is there, plucking my heartstrings one by one, creating a harsh noise. That fear has returned, stemming from childhood dreams and fairy tales, from the fear of the fate of a schoolboy, the fear of a monotonous and closed existence, that melancholy, that disgust. How dull the world tastes, waking up tomorrow, eating, living again—how terrifying! Why live on? Why be so foolishly happy? Why not throw myself into the lake early? There is not a blade of grass on the opposite side. You cannot be both a wanderer and an artist while also being a citizen and a respectable healthy person. You will experience intoxication and also the pain that follows intoxication. You must accept the beautiful dreams of sunshine, and also accept the disgusting and filthy. Everything is within you, gold and dung, joy and pain, the laughter of children and the fear of death. Accept everything, do not escape anything, do not try to deceive yourself! You are neither a citizen nor a Greek; you are not harmonious, nor your own master; you are a bird in the storm! Let the wind rage, let the self roll in the storm! You have told too many lies! How many times have you pretended to be harmonious and wise? Even in verses and books, pretending to be happy, pretending to be clear! Those people play heroes in the invasion war, even though their guts are trembling! Oh God, how pitiful humans are, monkeys and liars—especially artists, especially poets, especially me!

My lovely and wonderful life must repay itself with such gloomy days. Such days and nights will come sooner or later, these fears, disgusts, and despairs. But I will live on, and I will still love life.

I know why this is so; it is not because of the wine I drank yesterday, nor the broken bed I slept on last night, nor the rainy day, but because the devil is there, plucking my heartstrings one by one, creating a harsh noise. That fear has returned, stemming from childhood dreams and fairy tales, from the fear of the fate of a schoolboy, the fear of a monotonous and closed existence, that melancholy, that disgust. How dull the world tastes, waking up tomorrow, eating, living again—how terrifying! Why live on? Why be so foolishly happy? Why not throw myself into the lake early? There is not a blade of grass on the opposite side. You cannot be both a wanderer and an artist while also being a citizen and a respectable healthy person. You will experience intoxication and also the pain that follows intoxication. You must accept the beautiful dreams of sunshine, and also accept the disgusting and filthy. Everything is within you, gold and dung, joy and pain, the laughter of children and the fear of death. Accept everything, do not escape anything, do not try to deceive yourself! You are neither a citizen nor a Greek; you are not harmonious, nor your own master; you are a bird in the storm! Let the wind rage, let the self roll in the storm! You have told too many lies! How many times have you pretended to be harmonious and wise? Even in verses and books, pretending to be happy, pretending to be clear! Those people play heroes in the invasion war, even though their guts are trembling! Oh God, how pitiful humans are, monkeys and liars—especially artists, especially poets, especially me!

My lovely and wonderful life must repay itself with such gloomy days. Such days and nights will come sooner or later, these fears, disgusts, and despairs. But I will live on, and I will still love life.

Little Chapel#

The path to piety varies from person to person. For me, it must go through many wrongs, sufferings, self-examinations, and immense foolishness; yes, it must pass through the primitive forest of foolishness. I was once a free thinker, believing that piety was a mental illness; I was once an ascetic, letting nails pierce my flesh. At that time, I did not know that piety means health and happiness. Piety is trust. Simple, healthy, and harmless humans, children, and wild animals all possess trust. We, who are neither simple nor harmless, can only find trust on the winding paths. Trusting oneself is a beginning: without the need for karma, self-blame, and guilt, without the need for asceticism and sacrifice, one can also attain faith. All these "efforts" are directed towards a god outside of oneself; however, the god we must believe in is within the heart. How can one who says "no" to oneself say "yes" to God?

Of course, the thorny path is not walked in vain; those who travel far and return home are different from those who have only dwelled in one place for long. They love more sincerely and can transcend fairness and delusion. Fairness is the virtue of the resident, an ancient, primitive human virtue. But we, this renewed humanity, do not need such virtues; we only recognize one happiness: love, and one virtue: trust.

And we, this kind of people, those who have wandered the world, our piety and faith are lonely. Those who cling to old beliefs do not wish to associate with us, while the currents of the world have long surpassed our islands, flowing far away.

The path to piety varies from person to person. For me, it must go through many wrongs, sufferings, self-examinations, and immense foolishness; yes, it must pass through the primitive forest of foolishness. I was once a free thinker, believing that piety was a mental illness; I was once an ascetic, letting nails pierce my flesh. At that time, I did not know that piety means health and happiness. Piety is trust. Simple, healthy, and harmless humans, children, and wild animals all possess trust. We, who are neither simple nor harmless, can only find trust on the winding paths. Trusting oneself is a beginning: without the need for karma, self-blame, and guilt, without the need for asceticism and sacrifice, one can also attain faith. All these "efforts" are directed towards a god outside of oneself; however, the god we must believe in is within the heart. How can one who says "no" to oneself say "yes" to God?

Of course, the thorny path is not walked in vain; those who travel far and return home are different from those who have only dwelled in one place for long. They love more sincerely and can transcend fairness and delusion. Fairness is the virtue of the resident, an ancient, primitive human virtue. But we, this renewed humanity, do not need such virtues; we only recognize one happiness: love, and one virtue: trust.

And we, this kind of people, those who have wandered the world, our piety and faith are lonely. Those who cling to old beliefs do not wish to associate with us, while the currents of the world have long surpassed our islands, flowing far away.

Afternoon Rest#

After eating, I spread my jacket on the grass, resting my head on it, watching my little smoke offering rise into the pale blue sky. I feel that I should have some music and celebration, so I search my mind for a few poems by Eichendorff that I can recite. Not much comes to mind, and I have forgotten some of the words. I imitate the tunes of Hugo Wolf and Osma Schreck to chant these verses. "To the Traveler" and "You Loyal and Lovely Lute" are the most beautiful. These songs are full of melancholy, but melancholy is just the summer clouds, behind which is sunlight and trust. This is Eichendorff; in this regard, he surpasses Morike and Reinau.

Overcast Sky#

I deserve my sins; I am the one who brought disorder and resentment to the world.

Red House#

And my life has no center; I swing between two poles, walking many paths in between. At times longing for home, at other times longing to be on the road; at times needing solitude and a monastery, at other times needing love and connection; I collect books and beautiful paintings, then pass them on to others; I indulge and squander, then turn to asceticism. I once believed in life as a reality to be revered, but the result is that I only regarded it as a practical thing to understand and love. But "self-change" is not a matter of the self, but a matter of miracles. If you seek, call, and assist miracles, they will only evade you. My task is to swing amidst many tense oppositions and be prepared when miracles strike me; my task is to never be satisfied, to endure unease.

I will still walk many winding paths and feel disappointed by many "realizations." But everything will ultimately realize its meaning. There, where contradictions and oppositions cease, is nirvana. The star of beloved desire still burns brightly for me.

And my life has no center; I swing between two poles, walking many paths in between. At times longing for home, at other times longing to be on the road; at times needing solitude and a monastery, at other times needing love and connection; I collect books and beautiful paintings, then pass them on to others; I indulge and squander, then turn to asceticism. I once believed in life as a reality to be revered, but the result is that I only regarded it as a practical thing to understand and love. But "self-change" is not a matter of the self, but a matter of miracles. If you seek, call, and assist miracles, they will only evade you. My task is to swing amidst many tense oppositions and be prepared when miracles strike me; my task is to never be satisfied, to endure unease.

I will still walk many winding paths and feel disappointed by many "realizations." But everything will ultimately realize its meaning. There, where contradictions and oppositions cease, is nirvana. The star of beloved desire still burns brightly for me.

Translator's Postscript#

In this crisis-ridden time, you write, paint, wander, drink, trying to combat depression and heal yourself. In pursuit of inner truth, you reject all worldly labels: willingly abandoning a stable life, becoming a destitute wanderer; willingly giving up the role of a sage recognized by the world, revealing madness; willingly breaking all self-glory, sinking to the dust. Even if it hurts, even if it bleeds, as long as you can feel that the soul is alive, that is enough. You rush under the blazing sun of Ticino, vaguely knowing that the cyclical dark tides in life are only temporary; you are dying but will also be reborn, feeling the golden stream flowing through your body, feeling your heart's blood burning fiercely. In the summer of 1919, you see the stars and moon spinning in the sky, understanding that "where contradictions and oppositions cease, is nirvana."

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