"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 heart of human nature, and in a brief moment, it profoundly expresses the doubts of a thinker, perhaps a prophet, about dignity and the meaning of human life. This glance seems to say: "Look! We are this foolish! Look! This is humanity!" All honor, intelligence, all spiritual achievements, all pursuits of excellence, all quests for the greatness and immortality of humanity are nothing but a foolish game!
I see the loneliness in him and the death of his soul. During this period, I increasingly realize that the suffering of this painful person does not stem from a defect in his character; rather, it arises from his rich yet discordant talents and strengths. I conclude that Haller is a genius skilled in suffering. According to some of Nietzsche's sayings, he has nurtured a talent within himself, an infinite and astonishing ability to endure pain. I also conclude that his pessimism is not based on contempt for the world, but on contempt for himself, because when he mercilessly lashes out at various institutions and individuals, he never excludes himself. His arrows always first point at himself. He is the one he hates and denies the most...
He was educated by parents and teachers who were 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 thought throughout his life. In any case, in this regard, 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 courage and seriousness, trying to love them, treat them fairly, and not harm them. Because in his heart, love for others and hatred for oneself are equally deep-rooted. Thus, his entire life serves to prove this truth: a person who does not love themselves cannot love others; the same goes for self-hatred, which ultimately, like extreme selfishness, leads to terrible isolation and despair.
"Most people do not want to swim when they cannot swim." How witty, isn't it? Of course, they 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, may continue to think deeply, but they mistakenly take land for water and will eventually drown one day."
He knows he is isolated from the world, but he will not commit suicide because the remaining belief tells him he must taste pain, taste the evil pain in his heart, until the end. He must die from enduring this pain.
All this text signifies 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 heart of human nature, and in a brief moment, it profoundly expresses the doubts of a thinker, perhaps a prophet, about dignity and the meaning of human life. This glance seems to say: "Look! We are this foolish! Look! This is humanity!" All honor, intelligence, all spiritual achievements, all pursuits of excellence, all quests for the greatness and immortality of humanity are nothing but a foolish game!
I see the loneliness in him and the death of his soul. During this period, I increasingly realize that the suffering of this painful person does not stem from a defect in his character; rather, it arises from his rich yet discordant talents and strengths. I conclude that Haller is a genius skilled in suffering. According to some of Nietzsche's sayings, he has nurtured a talent within himself, an infinite and astonishing ability to endure pain. I also conclude that his pessimism is not based on contempt for the world, but on contempt for himself, because when he mercilessly lashes out at various institutions and individuals, he never excludes himself. His arrows always first point at himself. He is the one he hates and denies the most...
He was educated by parents and teachers who were 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 thought throughout his life. In any case, in this regard, 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 courage and seriousness, trying to love them, treat them fairly, and not harm them. Because in his heart, love for others and hatred for oneself are equally deep-rooted. Thus, his entire life serves to prove this truth: a person who does not love themselves cannot love others; the same goes for self-hatred, which ultimately, like extreme selfishness, leads to terrible isolation and despair.
"Most people do not want to swim when they cannot swim." How witty, isn't it? Of course, they 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, may continue to think deeply, but they mistakenly take land for water and will eventually drown one day."
He knows he is isolated from the world, but he will not commit suicide because the remaining belief tells him he must taste pain, taste the evil pain in his heart, until the end. He must die from enduring this pain.
All this text signifies 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#
Because what I curse and detest the most is primarily this bourgeois satisfaction, health, and comfort, this carefully maintained optimism, this domesticated mediocrity and banality.
I also like this contrast: my loneliness, my ruthlessness and fatigue, my muddled and chaotic life contrasted with this family and its bourgeois spirit. I enjoy breathing in the quiet, orderly, neat, and polite atmosphere here on the stairs; it always moves me amidst my hatred for bourgeois society.
Ah! In these contented days we live, in an era full of bourgeois spirit yet spiritually impoverished, in these buildings and shops, among politicians and crowds, how difficult it is to capture the trace of the divine! 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 boast, a true Steppenwolf, a beast lost in a world it cannot understand and feels deeply 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 in the ruins of his life, endures the torment of meaningless things, lives a life close to madness, yet secretly, in the final frenzy and chaos, longs for revelation and closeness to God?
Because what I curse and detest the most is primarily this bourgeois satisfaction, health, and comfort, this carefully maintained optimism, this domesticated mediocrity and banality.
I also like this contrast: my loneliness, my ruthlessness and fatigue, my muddled and chaotic life contrasted with this family and its bourgeois spirit. I enjoy breathing in the quiet, orderly, neat, and polite atmosphere here on the stairs; it always moves me amidst my hatred for bourgeois society.
Ah! In these contented days we live, in an era full of bourgeois spirit yet spiritually impoverished, in these buildings and shops, among politicians and crowds, how difficult it is to capture the trace of the divine! 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 boast, a true Steppenwolf, a beast lost in a world it cannot understand and feels deeply 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 in the ruins of his life, endures the torment of meaningless things, lives a life close to madness, yet secretly, in the final frenzy and chaos, longs for revelation and closeness to God?
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 achieves his goals, 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 seek in their hearts. But the liberated Harry suddenly realizes that his freedom is death. Alone, the world silences him in a terrifying way. 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 desires and goals, but his fate, his judgment. Once the curse takes effect, it can never be retracted.
Thus, he always recognizes 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 and grew up in rigid rituals and customs. A part of his soul always remains within the order of this world, even though he has long formed a personality that transcends the standards recognized by bourgeois norms, 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 barbaric individuals can be accommodated. Our Steppenwolf Harry is a typical example. The Steppenwolf is a person who far exceeds the criteria for measuring bourgeois values, developing individuality; someone who knows how to indulge 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 bourgeois identity. Thus, a broad crowd settles around the truly bourgeois native population, thousands of them, full of vitality and wisdom. Each of them transcends the bourgeois spirit, carries a mission, and lives out the intensity of life with an inevitable momentum, yet each is emotionally attached to bourgeois identity out of childish feelings, tainted by weakened life intensity, and in some way remains stuck in the bourgeois group, belonging to it, constrained by it, serving it.
Only the strongest among them can break through the atmosphere of bourgeois identity and step into the cosmos; the rest resign themselves or ultimately compromise. They despise it, yet belong to it. To survive, they must ultimately affirm it, reinforce it, and praise it. This does not necessarily 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 shackles step into the absolute realm, and they walk toward destruction in an admirable way. They are tragic. They are very few. Those who are still constrained by bourgeois identity are often respected by the bourgeois group for their talents. Before them opens a door to a third kingdom, a fictional yet independent world: humor. And the restless Steppenwolves continue to endure terrible suffering; they lack the strength necessary to step into tragedy, break free from their shackles, and enter the starry sky. They can sense the call of the absolute realm but cannot live in the absolute realm: if their spirits can become strong and flexible in pain, they will surely discover the balanced path to humor. Humor always exists within bourgeois identity, although true bourgeois individuals lack the capacity to understand humor. In the illusionary celestial body of humor, all the tricky 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 realize all these highly favored and constantly expressed noble ways of living.
To achieve this goal, or for one day to have the courage to leap into the cosmos, a Steppenwolf like him must face himself, examine the chaos deep within his soul, and gain sufficient self-awareness. In this way, his questionable existence will reveal its immutability; he will not be able to escape from the abyss of desire to the melancholy philosophical consolation time and again, nor escape from this consolation to blind intoxication with wolfishness. Wolves and humans will be forced to remove their false sensual masks and gaze at each other nakedly. They will either break apart, eternally separate, so that there will never be a Steppenwolf, or they will forge a rational marriage in the light of humor.
Because humanity lacks advanced thinking abilities. Even the wisest and most knowledgeable individuals 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 free themselves from the delusion of a 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 help from science, diagnosing them with schizophrenia to prevent hearing the cries of truth from these unfortunate individuals.
It can be said that humans are not fixed, unchanging constructs (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 toward the spirit, toward God, while their fervent inner desire drives them back to nature, back 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 achieves his goals, 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 seek in their hearts. But the liberated Harry suddenly realizes that his freedom is death. Alone, the world silences him in a terrifying way. 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 desires and goals, but his fate, his judgment. Once the curse takes effect, it can never be retracted.
Thus, he always recognizes 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 and grew up in rigid rituals and customs. A part of his soul always remains within the order of this world, even though he has long formed a personality that transcends the standards recognized by bourgeois norms, 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 barbaric individuals can be accommodated. Our Steppenwolf Harry is a typical example. The Steppenwolf is a person who far exceeds the criteria for measuring bourgeois values, developing individuality; someone who knows how to indulge 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 bourgeois identity. Thus, a broad crowd settles around the truly bourgeois native population, thousands of them, full of vitality and wisdom. Each of them transcends the bourgeois spirit, carries a mission, and lives out the intensity of life with an inevitable momentum, yet each is emotionally attached to bourgeois identity out of childish feelings, tainted by weakened life intensity, and in some way remains stuck in the bourgeois group, belonging to it, constrained by it, serving it.
Only the strongest among them can break through the atmosphere of bourgeois identity and step into the cosmos; the rest resign themselves or ultimately compromise. They despise it, yet belong to it. To survive, they must ultimately affirm it, reinforce it, and praise it. This does not necessarily 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 shackles step into the absolute realm, and they walk toward destruction in an admirable way. They are tragic. They are very few. Those who are still constrained by bourgeois identity are often respected by the bourgeois group for their talents. Before them opens a door to a third kingdom, a fictional yet independent world: humor. And the restless Steppenwolves continue to endure terrible suffering; they lack the strength necessary to step into tragedy, break free from their shackles, and enter the starry sky. They can sense the call of the absolute realm but cannot live in the absolute realm: if their spirits can become strong and flexible in pain, they will surely discover the balanced path to humor. Humor always exists within bourgeois identity, although true bourgeois individuals lack the capacity to understand humor. In the illusionary celestial body of humor, all the tricky 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 realize all these highly favored and constantly expressed noble ways of living.
To achieve this goal, or for one day to have the courage to leap into the cosmos, a Steppenwolf like him must face himself, examine the chaos deep within his soul, and gain sufficient self-awareness. In this way, his questionable existence will reveal its immutability; he will not be able to escape from the abyss of desire to the melancholy philosophical consolation time and again, nor escape from this consolation to blind intoxication with wolfishness. Wolves and humans will be forced to remove their false sensual masks and gaze at each other nakedly. They will either break apart, eternally separate, so that there will never be a Steppenwolf, or they will forge a rational marriage in the light of humor.
Because humanity lacks advanced thinking abilities. Even the wisest and most knowledgeable individuals 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 free themselves from the delusion of a 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 help from science, diagnosing them with schizophrenia to prevent hearing the cries of truth from these unfortunate individuals.
It can be said that humans are not fixed, unchanging constructs (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 toward the spirit, toward God, while their fervent inner desire drives them back to nature, back 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 frightening. On the road to it, it is precisely those few who today ascend the guillotine and tomorrow the monument, who endure terrible torment yet walk a short distance in a daze—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, sometimes he can take a small hesitant step and pay a huge price of pain and loneliness for it, yet deep within 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 by others, force him to give up completely, and perhaps send him to the guillotine—even if the end of this path is the alluring 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 closed, refusing to recognize: desperately relying on "I," desperately unwilling to die, is a reliable path to eternal death, while dying, transforming, and eternally dedicating oneself to change is the path to immortality.
You have embarked on a longer and more difficult road 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 reach 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 isolation 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 encompass the entire universe.
A person capable of understanding the Buddha, a person who perceives the sublimation and degradation of humanity, should not live in a world dominated by common sense, democracy, and bourgeois education. He merely lives there out of cowardice, and whenever the scale of this world torments and troubles him, whenever the narrow space of bourgeois society is 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 stood among the immortals, having reached the destination he considers a difficult and arduous road, how surprised he must be to look back at his busyness and hesitation, to look back at the thorns and twists he encountered along the way. How should he respond to this Steppenwolf with an encouraging, condemning, sympathetic, and joyful smile!
4#
It just took me a long time to realize that the game also has its time of satiety.
It just took me a long time to realize that the game also has its time of satiety.
5#
I am no longer interested in cognition and insight. It is precisely their excessive nurturing that has caused me pain, and I feel ashamed to be aware of 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 and even every individual, instead of being blinded by fabricated political accountability issues, should examine themselves, reflect on which mistakes, omissions, and outdated customs are responsible for wars and other disasters in the world. 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 have participated in the chaos and evil of the world—look, no one wants to do this! Everything will continue as usual. Day by day, thousands of people will be eager to prepare for the next war. Since realizing 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 striving for and achieving the opposite goal day after day.
We will all eventually die; everything is in vain. Compromising with this truth will only make 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 that 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 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 has caused me pain, and I feel ashamed to be aware of 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 and even every individual, instead of being blinded by fabricated political accountability issues, should examine themselves, reflect on which mistakes, omissions, and outdated customs are responsible for wars and other disasters in the world. 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 have participated in the chaos and evil of the world—look, no one wants to do this! Everything will continue as usual. Day by day, thousands of people will be eager to prepare for the next war. Since realizing 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 striving for and achieving the opposite goal day after day.
We will all eventually die; everything is in vain. Compromising with this truth will only make 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 that 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 because of it that fragile life blooms with a brief light.
6#
Because I am like you. Because I am as lonely as you, unable to love life, love others, love myself, unable to take life seriously, to treat others and myself seriously. I am like you. Yes, there are always such people who have high demands on life yet cannot tolerate the foolishness and brutality of life.
As I gradually destroy the personality I once boasted of, I begin to understand why I was 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 identity. That Mr. Harry—an exceptionally talented writer, a connoisseur of Mozart and Goethe, who has written insightful articles contemplating humanity, art, metaphysics, 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, he did not suffer the dire 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 like this. Harry Haller cleverly disguises himself as an idealist and a cynic, as a sorrowful recluse and an angry prophet, but deep down, he is just a bourgeois. He considers the life that Hermina leads as base and lowly; 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 years 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 times before the war, because life then was much more comfortable than growing through suffering. Damn it! The disgusting Mr. Harry! I still hold onto him, clutching his nearly falling-off mask, nostalgic for his display of talent, nostalgic for his bourgeois panic towards disorder and change (including death). I mock and envy the newly born Harry, that somewhat shy half-wit on the dance floor, comparing him to the idealized image of Harry from the fabricated past, and discovering all my fatal characteristics completely consistent 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 the solemnity, wisdom, and brilliance of humanity as if waxed, proud of his exalted soul! Damn it, this lovely painting now has several malicious holes poked in it; the idealized Mr. Harry has been tragically dismembered! He looks like a once-wealthy nobleman, robbed and 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 medals still hang on his tattered clothes, 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 realities, 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 in submission and bowing to misfortune. The generals and industrialists are right: we "spiritual believers" are utterly useless. We are a group of dispensable, naive, irresponsible talkers. Damn it! I really want to pick up a razor!
I have once again experienced what I long forgot in pain. They are the wealth of my life and will continue to exist indelibly. These experiences have transformed into stars; although forgotten, they are eternally indestructible. They are a string of legends in my life, and that shining starlight is the solid value of my existence. My life is arduous 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 years on the road to destruction, full of 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 like you. Because I am as lonely as you, unable to love life, love others, love myself, unable to take life seriously, to treat others and myself seriously. I am like you. Yes, there are always such people who have high demands on life yet cannot tolerate the foolishness and brutality of life.
As I gradually destroy the personality I once boasted of, I begin to understand why I was 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 identity. That Mr. Harry—an exceptionally talented writer, a connoisseur of Mozart and Goethe, who has written insightful articles contemplating humanity, art, metaphysics, 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, he did not suffer the dire 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 like this. Harry Haller cleverly disguises himself as an idealist and a cynic, as a sorrowful recluse and an angry prophet, but deep down, he is just a bourgeois. He considers the life that Hermina leads as base and lowly; 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 years 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 times before the war, because life then was much more comfortable than growing through suffering. Damn it! The disgusting Mr. Harry! I still hold onto him, clutching his nearly falling-off mask, nostalgic for his display of talent, nostalgic for his bourgeois panic towards disorder and change (including death). I mock and envy the newly born Harry, that somewhat shy half-wit on the dance floor, comparing him to the idealized image of Harry from the fabricated past, and discovering all my fatal characteristics completely consistent 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 the solemnity, wisdom, and brilliance of humanity as if waxed, proud of his exalted soul! Damn it, this lovely painting now has several malicious holes poked in it; the idealized Mr. Harry has been tragically dismembered! He looks like a once-wealthy nobleman, robbed and 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 medals still hang on his tattered clothes, 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 realities, 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 in submission and bowing to misfortune. The generals and industrialists are right: we "spiritual believers" are utterly useless. We are a group of dispensable, naive, irresponsible talkers. Damn it! I really want to pick up a razor!
I have once again experienced what I long forgot in pain. They are the wealth of my life and will continue to exist indelibly. These experiences have transformed into stars; although forgotten, they are eternally indestructible. They are a string of legends in my life, and that shining starlight is the solid value of my existence. My life is arduous 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 years on the road to destruction, full of 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 endure more happiness. But if this happiness occasionally awakens my desires for an hour, then what I desire is not to possess this happiness forever, but to suffer, just a little less painfully, a little more beautifully than before. I long to suffer. Suffering makes me willing to die, prepares me for death.
Today I want to tell you what 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. Yet the more life awakens you, bringing you back 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 destiny of humanity, can no longer help you; it all becomes worthless, even vanishes. 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, 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 true music, eliminating noise, hoping the soul replaces money, true work replaces business, true passion replaces leisure—this splendid world is certainly not a home for those with such 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 free time during school age. It has always been this way, and it will not change in the future: time and the world, wealth and power belong to the small-minded and mediocre, while others, the true humans, have nothing but death.
However, every image of real action, the power of true emotions, even if no one knows, sees, or records it for posterity, belongs to eternity. In eternity, there is no future, 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, firm 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 yearn for there, Steppenwolf, and that is precisely why we long 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 Goethe dream, remembering that 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 he steps into eternity, into space. And "eternity" is nothing but liberation from time. In a sense, eternity is a return to simplicity, a return to the heavens.
To this, I scoff. I am neither a modern person nor an old-fashioned one. I have transcended the era, approached death, and seek death wholeheartedly. I do not oppose sentimentality; I am glad and grateful that I can still feel a trace of sentimentality in my anxious heart. Thus, I allow myself to fall into memories of the old tavern, into the attachment to the old, 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, everything I am familiar with in this tavern, I love those disappointed people, the way they drink dreamily; 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. Back then, inns, red wine, and cigars were still forbidden, strange, and wonderful things. It’s just that 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 waning fate.
Yes! I am satisfied with my happiness and can endure more happiness. But if this happiness occasionally awakens my desires for an hour, then what I desire is not to possess this happiness forever, but to suffer, just a little less painfully, a little more beautifully than before. I long to suffer. Suffering makes me willing to die, prepares me for death.
Today I want to tell you what 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. Yet the more life awakens you, bringing you back 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 destiny of humanity, can no longer help you; it all becomes worthless, even vanishes. 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, 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 true music, eliminating noise, hoping the soul replaces money, true work replaces business, true passion replaces leisure—this splendid world is certainly not a home for those with such 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 free time during school age. It has always been this way, and it will not change in the future: time and the world, wealth and power belong to the small-minded and mediocre, while others, the true humans, have nothing but death.
However, every image of real action, the power of true emotions, even if no one knows, sees, or records it for posterity, belongs to eternity. In eternity, there is no future, 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, firm 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 yearn for there, Steppenwolf, and that is precisely why we long 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 Goethe dream, remembering that 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 he steps into eternity, into space. And "eternity" is nothing but liberation from time. In a sense, eternity is a return to simplicity, a return to the heavens.
To this, I scoff. I am neither a modern person nor an old-fashioned one. I have transcended the era, approached death, and seek death wholeheartedly. I do not oppose sentimentality; I am glad and grateful that I can still feel a trace of sentimentality in my anxious heart. Thus, I allow myself to fall into memories of the old tavern, into the attachment to the old, 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, everything I am familiar with in this tavern, I love those disappointed people, the way they drink dreamily; 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. Back then, inns, red wine, and cigars were still forbidden, strange, and wonderful things. It’s just that 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 waning fate.
9#
The concept of duty is something I certainly do not understand now, nor did I understand it in the past, but I often dealt with it. I was once 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 condemned 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 will; I willingly bear the guilt. I do not oppose smashing this stupid and crowded world; I am willing to be an accomplice in destroying the world, and I am willing to be destroyed 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 diligent work is ennobled through collaboration with some madmen and the genius of artists locked in asylums—take these images, keep them safe. The game will 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 whether it is a tamer, a pastor, a general, or a madman, the thoughts and scenes they plan in their minds are equally ugly, barbaric, evil, cruel, and absurdly entrenched in me.
The concept of duty is something I certainly do not understand now, nor did I understand it in the past, but I often dealt with it. I was once 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 condemned 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 will; I willingly bear the guilt. I do not oppose smashing this stupid and crowded world; I am willing to be an accomplice in destroying the world, and I am willing to be destroyed 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 diligent work is ennobled through collaboration with some madmen and the genius of artists locked in asylums—take these images, keep them safe. The game will 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 whether it is a tamer, a pastor, a general, or a madman, the thoughts and scenes they plan in their minds 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 cold and unchanging is our eternal existence; cold as the brilliant starlight is our eternal laughter.
Just as life, the so-called reality, subverts the vivid image games of the world, letting a report on how to conceal the assets and liabilities of medium-sized industrial enterprises follow Handel's music, turning the enchanting orchestral music into a mass of nauseating sound slime, stuffing the tricks and overly zealous propaganda from the report, the livelihoods and vanity required in its barren land, 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 first! Learn to take seriously what deserves to be taken seriously, and laugh at the rest! Can you do better, nobler, wiser, or more elegantly? Oh no, Mr. Haller, you cannot. 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 pretense 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 it. That’s all I require of you.
I know that my pocket is filled with millions of game pieces of life, and I shockingly sense their meaning. I am willing to start the game again, to taste its bitterness again, to shudder 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 cold and unchanging is our eternal existence; cold as the brilliant starlight is our eternal laughter.
Just as life, the so-called reality, subverts the vivid image games of the world, letting a report on how to conceal the assets and liabilities of medium-sized industrial enterprises follow Handel's music, turning the enchanting orchestral music into a mass of nauseating sound slime, stuffing the tricks and overly zealous propaganda from the report, the livelihoods and vanity required in its barren land, 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 first! Learn to take seriously what deserves to be taken seriously, and laugh at the rest! Can you do better, nobler, wiser, or more elegantly? Oh no, Mr. Haller, you cannot. 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 pretense 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 it. That’s all I require of you.
I know that my pocket is filled with millions of game pieces of life, and I shockingly sense their meaning. I am willing to start the game again, to taste its bitterness again, to shudder 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 depend on each other in the construction and reflection of reason, 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 and 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 depend on each other in the construction and reflection of reason, 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 and 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.
This article was automatically generated by the WeRead-xLog synchronization tool.