The Journey to the East

But no doubt I should immediately get the worst of it and be beaten in an argument with such a psychologist, for psychologists are, of course, people who always win. As far as I am concerned, they may be right. Then everything else that I have considered good and fine, and for which I have made sacrifices, has only been my egoistic desires.

For our goal was not only the East, or rather the East was not only a country and something geographical, but it was the home and youth of the soul, it was everywhere and nowhere, it was the union of all times.

The grievances, indictments and self-accusations tumbled from me like water from a breaking jug, without reflection, without faith, without hope of reply, only with the desire to unburden myself. While it was yet night I took the thick, confused letter to the nearest letter-box. Then, at last, it was nearly morning. I turned out the light, went to the small attic-bedroom next to my living-room and went to bed. I fell asleep immediately and slept very deeply and for a long time.

You ask if I know you. Well, what person really knows another or even himself? As for me, I am not one who understands people at all. I am not interested in them. Now, I understand dogs quite well, and also birds and cats -- but I don't really know you, sir."

You are a strange person, too."

"Am I? Why?"

"Well, because you have enough money and yet you sell your violin. Don't you like music any more?"

"Oh, yes, but sometimes a man no longer finds pleasure in something he previously loved. Sometimes a man sells his violin or throws it against the wall, or a painter burns all his pictures. Have you never heard of such a thing?"

"Oh, yes. That comes from despair. It does happen. I even knew two people who committed suicide. Such people are stupid and can be dangerous. One just cannot help some people. But what do you do now that you no longer have your violin?"

"Oh, this, that and the other. I do not really do much. I am no longer young and I am also often ill.

"You whistle very well," I said. "I heard you earlier on in Seilergraben. It gave me very much pleasure. I used to be a musician."

"Oh, were you!" he said in a friendly manner. "It's a great profession. Have you given it up?"

"Yes, for the time being. I have even sold my violin."

"Anima pia," he said and bade me be constant in faith, courageous in danger, and to love my fellow-men.

Does not each generation, by means of suppression, concealment and ridicule, efface what the previous generation considered most important?

"He who travels far will often see things

Far removed from what he believed was Truth.

When he talks about it in the fields at home,

He is often accused of lying,

For the obdurate people will not believe

What they do not see and distinctly feel.

Inexperience, I believe,

Will give little credence to my song."

The whole of world history often seems to me nothing more than a picture book which portrays humanity's most powerful and senseless desire -- the desire to forget. Does not each generation, by means of suppression, concealment and ridicule, efface what the previous generation considered most important?