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955 pages, Hardcover
First published April 1, 2004
Outside the window, the world rages – a twilight zone of glass and concrete. Rain falls solemnly. The buildings are so colorlessly gray that they vanish in the drizzle. This city is condemned to live in an eternal fog, in an everlasting in-between season that dares not speak its name. No wonder that the local myths of immortality, the Wagnerian dramas that draw the masses to the opera houses, are so sluggish and top-heavy. Their strength lies in muscular power, in heroic courage and mysterious anonymity; they have nothing in common with the sheer madness of the Greek heart. If Orpheus had been German he would have entered the underworld with a drawn sword instead of a lyre with broken strings.
We firmly believe that the world in which we live is ultimately comprehensible. Yet the only reason why we hold on to this absurd notion is that little flesh machine lodged inside our skulls; it’s hooked on meaning and cohesion. Something clicks between the synchronicity waves of our neuronal fields and certain harmonic structures in our perception. That is all. The world is an illusion.
There is nothing moral about a biography, there is nothing ethical about history: It’s all a naked sequence of bare facts. Events happen the way they happen to those they happen to. To say otherwise is to take away human freedom; it denies the existence of stupid bad luck or simple good fortune.
Time is not a circle. Time is a nautilus. Are we traveling on the spiral that leads inward, or on the spiral that take us outside?