"Steppenwolf (Guomai Classics)" Reading Notes

"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 Foreword#

No, a glimpse of Steppenwolf sees through an 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 glimpse also sees more profoundly into our era, our spiritual world, our cultural poverty and hopelessness. It strikes at the heart of humanity, and in a brief moment, it profoundly articulates a philosopher, perhaps a prophet's doubt about dignity and the meaning of human life. This glimpse 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 realized that the suffering of this painful person does not stem from a defect in his nature; rather, it arises from his rich yet disharmonious 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, for he has never excluded himself when mercilessly whipping and criticizing various institutions and individuals. His arrows always point first at himself. He is the one he most despises and denies...

He was educated by parents and teachers who were loving yet extremely strict and devout. These people used "crushing 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 talented. Education failed to obliterate his personality but taught him one thing: to hate himself. Opposing himself, opposing his innocent and noble essence, drained his imagination and thinking throughout his life. In any case, on this point, 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? They certainly do not want to swim! They were born for land, not for water. They certainly do not wish to think; they were born to live, not to think! Yes, whoever thinks, considering thinking as the most important thing, may continue to think deeply, but they mistakenly take land for water and will eventually drown one day."

He knows well that he is isolated from the world, but he will not commit suicide, for the remaining belief tells him that he must taste pain, taste the evil pain in his heart, until the end. He must die from enduring this pain.

All these words signify a journey through hell, a journey that is sometimes fearful and sometimes brave, traversing hell with will in the chaos of the dark soul world, facing chaos, enduring evil, until the end.

Every era, every culture, every custom and tradition has its own style, with its own suitable softness and cruelty, beauty and brutality, all taking for granted the endurance of certain sufferings and the tolerance of certain vices. Humanity truly suffers only when living between the conflicts of two eras, two cultures, and religions, like entering hell.

No, a glimpse of Steppenwolf sees through an 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 glimpse also sees more profoundly into our era, our spiritual world, our cultural poverty and hopelessness. It strikes at the heart of humanity, and in a brief moment, it profoundly articulates a philosopher, perhaps a prophet's doubt about dignity and the meaning of human life. This glimpse 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 realized that the suffering of this painful person does not stem from a defect in his nature; rather, it arises from his rich yet disharmonious 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, for he has never excluded himself when mercilessly whipping and criticizing various institutions and individuals. His arrows always point first at himself. He is the one he most despises and denies...

He was educated by parents and teachers who were loving yet extremely strict and devout. These people used "crushing 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 talented. Education failed to obliterate his personality but taught him one thing: to hate himself. Opposing himself, opposing his innocent and noble essence, drained his imagination and thinking throughout his life. In any case, on this point, 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? They certainly do not want to swim! They were born for land, not for water. They certainly do not wish to think; they were born to live, not to think! Yes, whoever thinks, considering thinking as the most important thing, may continue to think deeply, but they mistakenly take land for water and will eventually drown one day."

He knows well that he is isolated from the world, but he will not commit suicide, for the remaining belief tells him that he must taste pain, taste the evil pain in his heart, until the end. He must die from enduring this pain.

All these words signify a journey through hell, a journey that is sometimes fearful and sometimes brave, traversing hell with will in the chaos of the dark soul world, facing chaos, enduring evil, until the end.

Every era, every culture, every custom and tradition has its own style, with its own suitable softness and cruelty, beauty and brutality, all taking for granted the endurance of certain sufferings and the tolerance of certain vices. Humanity truly suffers only when living between the conflicts of two eras, two cultures, and religions, like entering hell.

1#

For what I curse and detest the most is, first of all, this bourgeois satisfaction, health, and comfort, this carefully maintained optimism, this domesticated mediocrity and banality.

I also like this contrast: my loneliness, my ruthlessness and fatigue, my muddled and chaotic life, contrasted with this family and its bourgeois atmosphere. I like to breathe the gentle, orderly, and polite atmosphere here on the stairs; it always touches me amidst my hatred for bourgeois society.

Ah! In these days of contentment we live, in this 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 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, receiving calls from the higher world.

Who seeks broken meaning on the ruins of his life, enduring the torment of meaningless things, living a life close to madness, yet secretly thirsting for revelation and closeness to God in the final frenzy and chaos?

For what I curse and detest the most is, first of all, this bourgeois satisfaction, health, and comfort, this carefully maintained optimism, this domesticated mediocrity and banality.

I also like this contrast: my loneliness, my ruthlessness and fatigue, my muddled and chaotic life, contrasted with this family and its bourgeois atmosphere. I like to breathe the gentle, orderly, and polite atmosphere here on the stairs; it always touches me amidst my hatred for bourgeois society.

Ah! In these days of contentment we live, in this 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 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, receiving calls from the higher world.

Who seeks broken meaning on the ruins of his life, enduring the torment of meaningless things, living a life close to madness, yet secretly thirsting for revelation and closeness to God in the final frenzy and chaos?

2#

Those who pursue power are destroyed by power, those who pursue wealth are destroyed by wealth, those who bow and scrape are destroyed by blind obedience, those who seek pleasure are destroyed by greed, while the Steppenwolf is destroyed by his individuality. He has achieved his purpose, becoming increasingly independent, with no one able to command him; he never obeys anyone. He freely and independently decides his actions and choices. Every strong person undoubtedly can obtain what they truly seek in their hearts. But the liberated Harry suddenly realizes that his freedom is death. He is alone, and the world has silenced 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 acknowledges and affirms one half of his nature and actions. One half rebels against the other half, one half denies the other half. He comes from a cultured bourgeois family, growing up in rigid rituals and customs. A part of his soul always remains tied to the order of this world, even though he has long formed a personality that transcends the standards recognized by bourgeois norms and has long escaped from bourgeois ideals and beliefs.

Indeed, the vitality of the bourgeois class does not come from the character of the normal members among them, 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 tenaciously barbaric individuals can be included. Our Steppenwolf Harry is a typical example. The Steppenwolf is a person who far exceeds the criteria for measuring bourgeois standards, developing individuality; a person who knows how to indulge in meditation, just as he knows how to take pleasure in hatred and self-hatred; a person who despises law, virtue, and common sense, yet remains a prisoner of the bourgeois spirit, unable to escape the shackles of bourgeoisity. Thus, a broad group resides around the truly bourgeois native population, thousands of them, full of vitality and wisdom. Each of them transcends the bourgeois spirit, bears a mission, lives life with an inevitable intensity, yet each is emotionally attached to bourgeoisity in a childish way, tainted by weakened life intensity, and in some way remains stuck in the bourgeois group, belonging to it, bound by it, serving it.

Only the strongest among them can break through the atmosphere of bourgeoisity and step into the universe; the rest resign themselves to fate or ultimately compromise. They despise it, yet belong to it. To survive, they must ultimately affirm it, strengthen it, and praise it. This does not lead this group into tragedy, but it is enough to bring them considerable disaster and misfortune. Their talents bear fruit in the hell of disaster and misfortune. A few who break free from their bonds step into the absolute realm, and they walk towards destruction in an admirable way. They are tragic. They are very few. Those who are still constrained by bourgeoisity are often respected by the bourgeois group for their talents. Before them, a door to a third kingdom opens, a fictitious 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 bonds, and step into the starry sky. They can sense the call of the absolute realm but cannot live in the absolute realm: if their spirit can become strong and flexible in pain, then they should discover the balanced path to humor. Humor always exists within bourgeoisity, even though true bourgeois people lack the ability to understand humor. In the illusionary celestial body of humor, all the thorny 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, constantly expressed noble ways of living.

To achieve this goal, or for one day to have the courage to leap into the universe, a Steppenwolf like him must face himself, examine the chaos deep within his soul, and gain sufficient self-awareness. In this way, his questionable existence will reveal its unchangeability; he will not be able to escape from the abyss of desire to the melancholy philosophical consolation again and again, nor escape from this consolation to the blind intoxication of wolfishness. Wolves and humans will be forced to remove their false sensuous masks and gaze at each other nakedly. They will either break apart, eternally separated, so that there will be no more Steppenwolf, or they will forge a rational marriage in the light of humor.

Because humans do not possess advanced thinking abilities. Even the wisest and most knowledgeable people often view the world and themselves—especially themselves—through extremely naive, crude, and deceitful formulaic glasses!

If those gifted and gentle human souls can 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 turn to science, diagnosing them with schizophrenia to prevent hearing the cries of truth from these unfortunate souls.

It can be said that humans are not fixed, unchanging structures (this is an ancient ideal, although it contradicts the intuitions of philosophers of that time). Humans are transitions, a narrow and dangerous bridge between nature and spirit. Their inner mission is to move towards the spirit, towards God, while their fervent inner desire drives them to return to nature, to return to the womb: their lives tremble between these two forces.

Those who pursue power are destroyed by power, those who pursue wealth are destroyed by wealth, those who bow and scrape are destroyed by blind obedience, those who seek pleasure are destroyed by greed, while the Steppenwolf is destroyed by his individuality. He has achieved his purpose, becoming increasingly independent, with no one able to command him; he never obeys anyone. He freely and independently decides his actions and choices. Every strong person undoubtedly can obtain what they truly seek in their hearts. But the liberated Harry suddenly realizes that his freedom is death. He is alone, and the world has silenced 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 acknowledges and affirms one half of his nature and actions. One half rebels against the other half, one half denies the other half. He comes from a cultured bourgeois family, growing up in rigid rituals and customs. A part of his soul always remains tied to the order of this world, even though he has long formed a personality that transcends the standards recognized by bourgeois norms and has long escaped from bourgeois ideals and beliefs.

Indeed, the vitality of the bourgeois class does not come from the character of the normal members among them, 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 tenaciously barbaric individuals can be included. Our Steppenwolf Harry is a typical example. The Steppenwolf is a person who far exceeds the criteria for measuring bourgeois standards, developing individuality; a person who knows how to indulge in meditation, just as he knows how to take pleasure in hatred and self-hatred; a person who despises law, virtue, and common sense, yet remains a prisoner of the bourgeois spirit, unable to escape the shackles of bourgeoisity. Thus, a broad group resides around the truly bourgeois native population, thousands of them, full of vitality and wisdom. Each of them transcends the bourgeois spirit, bears a mission, lives life with an inevitable intensity, yet each is emotionally attached to bourgeoisity in a childish way, tainted by weakened life intensity, and in some way remains stuck in the bourgeois group, belonging to it, bound by it, serving it.

Only the strongest among them can break through the atmosphere of bourgeoisity and step into the universe; the rest resign themselves to fate or ultimately compromise. They despise it, yet belong to it. To survive, they must ultimately affirm it, strengthen it, and praise it. This does not lead this group into tragedy, but it is enough to bring them considerable disaster and misfortune. Their talents bear fruit in the hell of disaster and misfortune. A few who break free from their bonds step into the absolute realm, and they walk towards destruction in an admirable way. They are tragic. They are very few. Those who are still constrained by bourgeoisity are often respected by the bourgeois group for their talents. Before them, a door to a third kingdom opens, a fictitious 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 bonds, and step into the starry sky. They can sense the call of the absolute realm but cannot live in the absolute realm: if their spirit can become strong and flexible in pain, then they should discover the balanced path to humor. Humor always exists within bourgeoisity, even though true bourgeois people lack the ability to understand humor. In the illusionary celestial body of humor, all the thorny 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, constantly expressed noble ways of living.

To achieve this goal, or for one day to have the courage to leap into the universe, a Steppenwolf like him must face himself, examine the chaos deep within his soul, and gain sufficient self-awareness. In this way, his questionable existence will reveal its unchangeability; he will not be able to escape from the abyss of desire to the melancholy philosophical consolation again and again, nor escape from this consolation to the blind intoxication of wolfishness. Wolves and humans will be forced to remove their false sensuous masks and gaze at each other nakedly. They will either break apart, eternally separated, so that there will be no more Steppenwolf, or they will forge a rational marriage in the light of humor.

Because humans do not possess advanced thinking abilities. Even the wisest and most knowledgeable people often view the world and themselves—especially themselves—through extremely naive, crude, and deceitful formulaic glasses!

If those gifted and gentle human souls can 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 turn to science, diagnosing them with schizophrenia to prevent hearing the cries of truth from these unfortunate souls.

It can be said that humans are not fixed, unchanging structures (this is an ancient ideal, although it contradicts the intuitions of philosophers of that time). Humans are transitions, a narrow and dangerous bridge between nature and spirit. Their inner mission is to move towards the spirit, towards God, while their fervent inner desire drives them to return to nature, to return to the womb: their lives tremble between these two forces.

3#

"Human" is not a perfect creation, but a spiritual need, a distant possibility that is both desirable and 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 drunkenly walk a short distance—Steppenwolf is also aware of this. However, what is called "human" in him, as opposed to the wolf, is mostly nothing but the mediocre "human" of the bourgeois concept. Although Harry can foresee the path to becoming a true human, the path to the immortals, and sometimes can take a small hesitant step, paying a huge price of pain and loneliness for it, deep in his soul, he fears that supreme demand, fears to affirm and strive to realize the true adulthood that the spirit seeks, fears to walk the narrow path to eternity. He clearly feels that this path will lead him to deeper pain, cause him to be despised, 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 aware of the goal of "becoming a true human" than the bourgeois, he still keeps his eyes tightly shut, refusing to recognize: desperately relying on "I," desperately unwilling to die, is a reliable path to eternal death, while dying, undergoing a rebirth, eternally dedicating oneself to transformation, 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 embedding 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 all have completed this adventurous journey. Every birth signifies breaking free from the universe, signifies separation and isolation from God, signifies the painful rebirth. And returning to the universe, abolishing the pain of individual differentiation, becoming God, means that his soul must expand to be able to once again embrace the entire universe.

A person capable of understanding the Buddha, a person who perceives the sublimation and fall of humanity, should not live in a world dominated by common sense, democracy, and bourgeois education. He merely lives in it out of cowardice, and whenever the scale of this world torments and troubles him, whenever the narrow space of bourgeois society 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 way alone. If he has already stood among the immortals, having reached the destination he sees as a difficult and arduous path, how surprised he must be to look back at his busyness and hesitations, to look back at the thorns and twists he encountered along the way. How he should smile at this Steppenwolf with an encouraging, condemning, sympathetic, and joyful smile!

"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 drunkenly walk a short distance—Steppenwolf is also aware of this. However, what is called "human" in him, as opposed to the wolf, is mostly nothing but the mediocre "human" of the bourgeois concept. Although Harry can foresee the path to becoming a true human, the path to the immortals, and sometimes can take a small hesitant step, paying a huge price of pain and loneliness for it, deep in his soul, he fears that supreme demand, fears to affirm and strive to realize the true adulthood that the spirit seeks, fears to walk the narrow path to eternity. He clearly feels that this path will lead him to deeper pain, cause him to be despised, 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 aware of the goal of "becoming a true human" than the bourgeois, he still keeps his eyes tightly shut, refusing to recognize: desperately relying on "I," desperately unwilling to die, is a reliable path to eternal death, while dying, undergoing a rebirth, eternally dedicating oneself to transformation, 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 embedding 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 all have completed this adventurous journey. Every birth signifies breaking free from the universe, signifies separation and isolation from God, signifies the painful rebirth. And returning to the universe, abolishing the pain of individual differentiation, becoming God, means that his soul must expand to be able to once again embrace the entire universe.

A person capable of understanding the Buddha, a person who perceives the sublimation and fall of humanity, should not live in a world dominated by common sense, democracy, and bourgeois education. He merely lives in it out of cowardice, and whenever the scale of this world torments and troubles him, whenever the narrow space of bourgeois society 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 way alone. If he has already stood among the immortals, having reached the destination he sees as a difficult and arduous path, how surprised he must be to look back at his busyness and hesitations, to look back at the thorns and twists he encountered along the way. How he should smile at this Steppenwolf with an encouraging, condemning, sympathetic, and joyful smile!

4#

It took me a long time to realize that even games have their limits.

5#

I am no longer interested in cognition and insight. It is precisely their excessive nurturing that causes me pain, that makes me feel ashamed for being able to realize and see my situation.

But what I urgently need, what I absolutely crave, is not knowledge and opinions, but to experience, to decide, to collide and leap.

But if you need someone else's permission to enjoy happiness, then you are truly a pitiful creature.

I have expressed my views many times: every nation 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 perfectly fine 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 it always has. 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, yet 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 all have to die; everything is in vain. Compromising with this truth only makes life mediocre and foolish. Should we give up everything, give up all spiritual pursuits, give up ideals and humanity? Continue to let ambition and money manipulate us while we only care about drinking 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 and believe you will surely succeed, that would be much more mediocre. Can ideals really be realized? Are we alive to conquer death? No, we live to fear death and then fall in love with it. It is precisely because of it that fragile life blooms with a brief light.

I am no longer interested in cognition and insight. It is precisely their excessive nurturing that causes me pain, that makes me feel ashamed for being able to realize and see my situation.

But what I urgently need, what I absolutely crave, is not knowledge and opinions, but to experience, to decide, to collide and leap.

But if you need someone else's permission to enjoy happiness, then you are truly a pitiful creature.

I have expressed my views many times: every nation 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 perfectly fine 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 it always has. 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, yet 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 all have to die; everything is in vain. Compromising with this truth only makes life mediocre and foolish. Should we give up everything, give up all spiritual pursuits, give up ideals and humanity? Continue to let ambition and money manipulate us while we only care about drinking 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 and believe you will surely succeed, that would be much more mediocre. Can ideals really be realized? Are we alive to conquer death? No, we live to fear death and then fall in love with it. It is precisely because of it that fragile life blooms with a brief light.

6#

Because I am 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 my past self-proclaimed personality gradually crumbles, I begin to understand why I was once so desperate yet extremely afraid of death. I begin to realize that the shameful and detestable fear of death is part of my hypocritical bourgeois spirit. That Mr. Harry—an exceptionally talented writer, an expert in Mozart and Goethe, a perceptive writer who has penned metaphysical articles contemplating humanity, art, genius, and tragedy, a sentimental hermit 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 vigorously advocates reason and humanity, fiercely protests against the brutality of war, yet during the war, he did not suffer the dire consequences that his thoughts should have led to—being dragged to the execution ground and shot; instead, he found some form of adaptation—of course, a very noble and dignified way, yet merely a compromise. Moreover, he opposed power and exploitation, yet held securities from various 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 to be base and vile; he feels indignant and guilty for wasting time and money in restaurants at night, yet does not seek his own liberation and perfection; on the contrary, he longs to return to the comfortable years when spiritual games could still bring him pleasure and prestige, just as those newspaper readers he despises and mocks long to return to the ideal times before the war, for life then was much more pleasant than growing through suffering. Damn it! That disgusting Mr. Harry! I still hold onto him, clinging to his nearly falling-off mask, nostalgic for his show-off 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 fabricated ideal image of Harry from the past, and discovering all my fatal characteristics that are 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 by the bourgeois, a spiritual hero, noble in gaze, radiating solemnity, wisdom, and the brilliance of humanity, proud of his exalted soul! Damn it, this lovely painting now has several malicious holes poked in it; the ideal Harry has been tragically dismembered! He looks like a nobleman robbed by thugs, 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 continue receiving the dignity he has lost.

We, who advocate spirituality, are homeless in reality, at odds with reality, out of place. For this reason, spirituality is so humble in the reality, history, politics, and public opinion of Germany. Of course, 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 once again appreciate what I have long forgotten in pain. They are the wealth of my life and will continue to exist indelibly. These experiences have turned into stars; although forgotten, they are eternally indestructible. They are a string of legends in my life, and that shining starlight is the solid value of my existence. My life is hard and unfortunate, struggling and destitute, leading to despair, even denying life—it has tasted the bitter salt of human fate, yet is abundantly proud, living like a king even in pain. Even if I have wasted my youth on the road to destruction, filled with sorrow, the core of my life remains noble. It is not base, it has character; it is not about money, but about stars.

Because I am 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 my past self-proclaimed personality gradually crumbles, I begin to understand why I was once so desperate yet extremely afraid of death. I begin to realize that the shameful and detestable fear of death is part of my hypocritical bourgeois spirit. That Mr. Harry—an exceptionally talented writer, an expert in Mozart and Goethe, a perceptive writer who has penned metaphysical articles contemplating humanity, art, genius, and tragedy, a sentimental hermit 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 vigorously advocates reason and humanity, fiercely protests against the brutality of war, yet during the war, he did not suffer the dire consequences that his thoughts should have led to—being dragged to the execution ground and shot; instead, he found some form of adaptation—of course, a very noble and dignified way, yet merely a compromise. Moreover, he opposed power and exploitation, yet held securities from various 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 to be base and vile; he feels indignant and guilty for wasting time and money in restaurants at night, yet does not seek his own liberation and perfection; on the contrary, he longs to return to the comfortable years when spiritual games could still bring him pleasure and prestige, just as those newspaper readers he despises and mocks long to return to the ideal times before the war, for life then was much more pleasant than growing through suffering. Damn it! That disgusting Mr. Harry! I still hold onto him, clinging to his nearly falling-off mask, nostalgic for his show-off 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 fabricated ideal image of Harry from the past, and discovering all my fatal characteristics that are 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 by the bourgeois, a spiritual hero, noble in gaze, radiating solemnity, wisdom, and the brilliance of humanity, proud of his exalted soul! Damn it, this lovely painting now has several malicious holes poked in it; the ideal Harry has been tragically dismembered! He looks like a nobleman robbed by thugs, 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 continue receiving the dignity he has lost.

We, who advocate spirituality, are homeless in reality, at odds with reality, out of place. For this reason, spirituality is so humble in the reality, history, politics, and public opinion of Germany. Of course, 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 once again appreciate what I have long forgotten in pain. They are the wealth of my life and will continue to exist indelibly. These experiences have turned into stars; although forgotten, they are eternally indestructible. They are a string of legends in my life, and that shining starlight is the solid value of my existence. My life is hard and unfortunate, struggling and destitute, leading to despair, even denying life—it has tasted the bitter salt of human fate, yet is abundantly proud, living like a king even in pain. Even if I have wasted my youth on the road to destruction, filled with sorrow, the core of my life remains noble. It is not base, it has character; it is not about money, but about stars.

7#

Yes! I am satisfied with my happiness and can endure more happiness. But if this happiness occasionally wakes me up for an hour, awakening my desires, then what I desire is not to always have this happiness, but to suffer, just a little less painfully, a little more beautifully than before. I crave suffering. Suffering makes me willing to die, prepares me for death.

Today I want to tell you what I have long known, what you have also long known. However, you may not have said it to yourself. Let me tell you what I know, you and I, our fate. Harry, you are an artist, a thinker, a person full of joy and faith. You are always pursuing greatness and eternity, never coveting beautiful and base things. But the more life awakens you, bringing you back to your nature, the heavier your sense of crisis becomes, the deeper your pain, until you fall into despair and anxiety, gasping for breath. And everything you understand as sacred and beautiful, everything you love and respect, your belief in humanity and the noble fate 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 who have these desires...

The so-called "world history" in schools and the things students must memorize for education, all heroes, geniuses, great deeds, and emotions, are nothing but 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 petty and the mediocre, while others, the true people, have nothing but death.

However, every image of real action, the power of true emotions, even if no one knows, no one sees, no one records and preserves 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, established their saints. Saints are the true humans, the brothers of the savior. The path to them requires us to walk a complete life with unceasing good deeds, steadfast faith, and love. Early painters depicted the saints in a golden sky, radiant, beautiful, and peaceful—it is what I previously referred to as "eternity," the realm beyond time and appearance. That is our destination, our home. Our hearts long for there, Steppenwolf, and that is precisely why we desire to die. You will see your Goethe, your Novalis, and Mozart there. And I will find my saints, Christopher, Philip Neri, and all the saints. Many saints were once evil sinners. Sin can become a path to the sacred, and sinners and evildoers can also become saints.

I recall my dream of Goethe, 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 immortals. This laughter is not directed at anyone; it is simply light, it is divine. It is the laughter left by a true person who has experienced much pain, mistakes, vices, passions, and misunderstandings as they step 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 modern nor old-fashioned. I have transcended the times, approaching death, seeking death with all my heart. I do not oppose sentimentality; I am glad and grateful that I can still feel a trace of sentimentality in my anxious heart. So I let myself fall into memories of the old tavern, into the attachment to the old and heavy chairs, into the smell of smoke and alcohol, into the warmth and familiarity that all this gives me, the feeling of home. Farewells are beautiful, gentle. I love the hard chairs here, the clumsy wine glasses, the fruity taste of Alsace wine, I love everything familiar in this tavern, I love those disheartened people, their dreamlike drinking; I have long been their brother. The petty bourgeois melancholy I feel here gently mingles with the romantic atmosphere of the old-fashioned inn of my youth. Back then, inns, red wine, and cigars were still forbidden, strange, and wonderful things. Yet the Steppenwolf did not leap up, baring its fangs at me, tearing my sentiment into pieces. I sit calmly, illuminated by the afterglow of the past and the now faded fate.

Yes! I am satisfied with my happiness and can endure more happiness. But if this happiness occasionally wakes me up for an hour, awakening my desires, then what I desire is not to always have this happiness, but to suffer, just a little less painfully, a little more beautifully than before. I crave suffering. Suffering makes me willing to die, prepares me for death.

Today I want to tell you what I have long known, what you have also long known. However, you may not have said it to yourself. Let me tell you what I know, you and I, our fate. Harry, you are an artist, a thinker, a person full of joy and faith. You are always pursuing greatness and eternity, never coveting beautiful and base things. But the more life awakens you, bringing you back to your nature, the heavier your sense of crisis becomes, the deeper your pain, until you fall into despair and anxiety, gasping for breath. And everything you understand as sacred and beautiful, everything you love and respect, your belief in humanity and the noble fate 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 who have these desires...

The so-called "world history" in schools and the things students must memorize for education, all heroes, geniuses, great deeds, and emotions, are nothing but 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 petty and the mediocre, while others, the true people, have nothing but death.

However, every image of real action, the power of true emotions, even if no one knows, no one sees, no one records and preserves 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, established their saints. Saints are the true humans, the brothers of the savior. The path to them requires us to walk a complete life with unceasing good deeds, steadfast faith, and love. Early painters depicted the saints in a golden sky, radiant, beautiful, and peaceful—it is what I previously referred to as "eternity," the realm beyond time and appearance. That is our destination, our home. Our hearts long for there, Steppenwolf, and that is precisely why we desire to die. You will see your Goethe, your Novalis, and Mozart there. And I will find my saints, Christopher, Philip Neri, and all the saints. Many saints were once evil sinners. Sin can become a path to the sacred, and sinners and evildoers can also become saints.

I recall my dream of Goethe, 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 immortals. This laughter is not directed at anyone; it is simply light, it is divine. It is the laughter left by a true person who has experienced much pain, mistakes, vices, passions, and misunderstandings as they step 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 modern nor old-fashioned. I have transcended the times, approaching death, seeking death with all my heart. I do not oppose sentimentality; I am glad and grateful that I can still feel a trace of sentimentality in my anxious heart. So I let myself fall into memories of the old tavern, into the attachment to the old and heavy chairs, into the smell of smoke and alcohol, into the warmth and familiarity that all this gives me, the feeling of home. Farewells are beautiful, gentle. I love the hard chairs here, the clumsy wine glasses, the fruity taste of Alsace wine, I love everything familiar in this tavern, I love those disheartened people, their dreamlike drinking; I have long been their brother. The petty bourgeois melancholy I feel here gently mingles with the romantic atmosphere of the old-fashioned inn of my youth. Back then, inns, red wine, and cigars were still forbidden, strange, and wonderful things. Yet the Steppenwolf did not leap up, baring its fangs at me, tearing my sentiment into pieces. I sit calmly, illuminated by the afterglow of the past and the now faded fate.

9#

I certainly do not understand the concept of duty now, but I often dealt with it in the past. I was once a theology professor. I also served in the military and participated in wars. All actions taken out of duty, all obeying authority and superior orders, are not good things, so I would rather go against them. 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 judged 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 willingly; I have willingly accepted the guilt. I do not oppose smashing this stupid and crowded world; I am willing to be an accomplice in destroying the world, and I am willing to perish 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 it, keep these images. Games often bring you joy. You can demote the puppets that make you unbearable today, those images that ruin your game, to insignificant supporting roles tomorrow. You can turn those poor little characters, seemingly destined for misfortune and disaster, 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 plot in their minds are equally ugly, barbaric, evil, cruel, and absurdly entrenched in me.

I certainly do not understand the concept of duty now, but I often dealt with it in the past. I was once a theology professor. I also served in the military and participated in wars. All actions taken out of duty, all obeying authority and superior orders, are not good things, so I would rather go against them. 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 judged 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 willingly; I have willingly accepted the guilt. I do not oppose smashing this stupid and crowded world; I am willing to be an accomplice in destroying the world, and I am willing to perish 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 it, keep these images. Games often bring you joy. You can demote the puppets that make you unbearable today, those images that ruin your game, to insignificant supporting roles tomorrow. You can turn those poor little characters, seemingly destined for misfortune and disaster, 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 plot 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; the cold, like the brilliance of stars, 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 charming orchestral music into a mass of nauseating sonic slime, stuffing the tricks and overly zealous propaganda from the report, the livelihood 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 other things! 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 you have not created enough disasters! Now the embellishment and murder should end; you should be rational! You must live, learn to laugh. You must learn to listen to the damn broadcast music of life, learn to respect the spirit behind it, and laugh at the dross within. That's it; this is all I ask of you.

I know that my pocket is filled with millions of game pieces of life, shocked by the meaning within them. 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 of my heart.

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; the cold, like the brilliance of stars, 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 charming orchestral music into a mass of nauseating sonic slime, stuffing the tricks and overly zealous propaganda from the report, the livelihood 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 other things! 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 you have not created enough disasters! Now the embellishment and murder should end; you should be rational! You must live, learn to laugh. You must learn to listen to the damn broadcast music of life, learn to respect the spirit behind it, and laugh at the dross within. That's it; this is all I ask of you.

I know that my pocket is filled with millions of game pieces of life, shocked by the meaning within them. 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 of my heart.

Postscript#

The soul is like "an onion composed of a thousand layers of thin skin, 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 humorously accept life, harmonizing oneself in self-mockery and mocking the shortcomings of culture and society. Only by viewing reality humorously, only by dancing lightly through life, laughing heartily, can one find a way out of the crisis of existence, taking a small step on the journey to perfection. This is the most brutal celebration of being human, a courageous poem against mediocrity. It reveals the absurdity of desire and fear, acknowledging and addressing the volcanic eruptions of the inner unconscious with honesty and frankness.

This article was automatically generated by the WeRead-xLog synchronization tool.