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152 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1957
Recently I had to sort out my books again, because circumstances forced me to give away part of my library. And so I stood in front of the bookcases, went step by step along the rows of books, and thought to myself, “Do you need this book? Do you love it? Are you sure that will you read it again? Would it pain you to part with it?”
Dear Herr B.,
…Unhappily I must disappoint you completely. Your questions and the whole way in which you regard poetry comes as no surprise to me, to be sure; you have thousands of colleagues who think as you do, but your questions, which are without exception unanswerable, all flow from the same source of error.
This business of “interpretation” is an intellectual game, a pretty enough game, suitable for people who are smart but who are strangers to art, who can read and write books about Negro sculpture or the twelve-tone scale but never find their way inside of a work of art because they stand at the gate fiddling at it with a hundred keys and never notice that the gate, in fact, is open.
The soul has no knowledge, no judgement, no program. It has simply impetus, feeling, the future. The great saints and preachers followed it, the heroes and sufferings, the great generals and conquerors; the great magicians and artists followed it, and all those whose way began in the commonplace and ended on the holy heights. The way of millionaires is a different way and ends in a sanatorium.
It was then that you suddenly became animated and your voice grew loud and rather unpleasant as you looked at me with a malicious smile and shouted, “Oh, come now, you artists and writers are exactly like everyone else! You think about money and profits and that’s all!
Think of me what you will. Believe, if you wish, that I actually agreed with you on that occasion. Believe, for all I care, that I have always been of that opinion and still hold it today. Consider me one of those who are related to that world of art only by accident and profession... It makes no difference to me; I can get along very well without your regard. But, Herr M., you wealthy man with your fine house and garden, just do not believe that one can commit with impunity small murders such as you committed on that occasion by your words! I know you have already begun to feel the punishment, and I know it will grow more and more painful, it will increasingly ruin your life. And until you make some move to restore faith to your soul, until you seriously think once more about the existence of the good, your soul will be sick and will suffer. You will be condemned to see everywhere and always that precisely what is best, precisely what is most beautiful, precisely what is most desirable, money cannot buy! The best, the most beautiful, the most desirable things in the world can be paid for only with one's own soul, just as love can never be bought. And he whose soul is not pure, not capable of goodness or at least of believing in the good, no longer distinguishes the best and noblest clearly and completely and must forever content himself with that diminished, distorted, cloudy picture of the world that his ideas have created for his own suffering and impoverishment.
"The eye of desire dirties and distorts. Only when we desire nothing, only when our gaze becomes pure contemplation, does the soul of things (which is beauty) open itself to us. ... At the moment when desire ceases and contemplation, pure seeing, and self-surrenderer begin, everything changes. ... For indeed contemplation is not scrutiny or criticism, it is nothing but love. It is the highest and most desirable state of our souls: undemanding love."For about the first hundred pages I thought that reading these essays was reminiscent of when I first read Emerson. Then I got to Books on Trial in which Hesse purges unnecessary volumes from his library. "Nietzsche? Indispensable, together with his letters. Fechner? He would be a loss, and so remains. Emerson? Let him go!" Oops. Thought wrong.
Creo que, a pesar de su aparente absurdo, la vida tiene su razón; y aunque reconozco que este sentido último de la vida no lo puedo captar con el raciocinio estoy dispuesto a seguirlo aun cuando signifique sacrificarme a mí mismo. (...) Este credo no obedece órdenes ni se puede llegar a él por la fuerza. Sóo es posible sentirlo dentro de sí mismo
El error de nuestras preguntas y lamentaciones estriba probablemente en que nos gustaría recibir del exterior un regalo que sólo podemos conseguir nosotros mismos, con la entrega propia. Nos empeñamos en que la vida ha de tener un sentido, pero lo cierto es que tiene exactamente el sentido que nosotros somos capaces de darle. Como el indivduo sólo puede hacerlo de modo imperfecto, en las religiones y filosofías se ha intentado dar una respuesta consoladora.
Estas respuestas son siempre las mismas: la vida solamente encuentra sentido a través del amor. Es decir: cuanto más amamos y mejor sabemos entregarnos, tanto más sentido tendra nuestra vida.
El racional es responsable de que existan las penas de muerte, las prisiones, las guerras, los cañones, pero el piadoso no ha hecho nada para que todo esto sea imposible
El racional siente en ocasiones odio y resentimiento hacia los piadosos, que no creen en su progreso y contituyen un obstáculo para la realización de sus ideales. Recordemos el fanatismo de los revolucionarios, recordemos las expresiones de la más violenta impaciencia contra los heterdoxos, de todos los autores progresistas, socialistas y democráticos