He stared
gloomily
into the confusing tangle of people.
Musil - Man Without Qualities - v2
) (Every time I've yielded we were de- stroyed.
We just didn't know that in doing it we were drinking a drop of the greatest poison in the world.
)
- O h ? Ulrich said. - S o it's like that again between you?
Clarisse flashed at him from her eyes, pulled out the thumbtack again, and nodded.
- I t is and it isn't; I'm already a lot further. What's the extreme oppo- site ofletting things happen; that one yields to . . . impressing? You un- derstand, he wants to impress; nothing else! She did not wait for a response. - T o make a mark! she said. Her tiny figure had been striding up and down the room with supple energy, her hands at her back; now she stopped and sought with her eyes to hold fast to Ulrich's, for the words she was now searching for made her mind somewhat unsteady. - T o inscribe himself, I'm saying. Lately I've discovered something else that's really uncanny, it sounds so simple: Half our life is expression. (The) impressions are nothing. A heap of earthworms! When do you un- derstand a piece of music? When you yourself create it inwardly! When do you understand a person? When for a moment you make yourselfjust like him! In art, in politics, but also in love, we're trying painfully to ex- press ourselves. We re-deem ourselves to the outside. You see-with her hand she described an acute angle lying horizontally, which involun- tarily reminded Ulrich of a phallus-like this. That is the expression; the active form ofour existence, the pointed form, the- She became quite excited by the effort to make herself understandable to Ulrich. Ulrich must have been rather taken aback, for Clarisse went on to declare: -That's already in the words re-deem and redemption, both, the "deeming" and the active "re-" Now you understand, of course one has to practice it, but ultimately everything will be like an arrow.
From the Posthumous Papers · 1541
-Dear Clarisse-Ulrich pleaded-please speak so that I can under- standyou.
/Continuation: The Dionysiac. The murderer/
At this moment Siegfried came in. Ulrich had not interrupted Cla- risse. She had nonetheless retreated and was standing excitedly, as if he were crowding her, against the wall. Ulrich was accustomed to how hard it was for her to find the right words and how she often tried to seize them with her whole body, so that the meaning for which the words were lacking lay in the movement. But this time he was a little aston- ished. Clarisse, however, was not yet satisfied, there was still something she had to say. -Y ou know, if I'm unfaithful to him-or let's assume anyway that he is to me--then it's like digging into one's own raw flesh. Then you can't do anything that doesn't cut deep. Then you can't talk about that table over there without there being a feeling of bleeding. A smile forced its way through her excitement because Siegfried was lis- tening, but Siegfried was watching her calmly, as if it were a gymnastics exercise. He had taken off his jacket while working, and his hands and shoes were full of dirt. He had been accustomed since Clarisse's mar- riage to be the confidant of surprising secrets, and used a glance at his watch to urge haste in a businesslike way. Ulrich felt that this last gesture was directed very much at him.
Clarisse quickly changed her dress. The door remained open, and it hardly seemed accidental that he could see her, standing among her skirts like a boy. Siegfried was saying: - T h e assistant at the clinic was a fellow student. - Y o u don't say, Ulrich said. - W h a t do you really want ofhim? Siegfried shrugged his shoulders. -Either this Moosbrugger is mentally ill or he's a criminal. That's correct. But if Clarisse imagines that she can help him . . . ? I'm a doctor, and I also have to let the hospi- tal chaplain imagine the same thing. Redeem! she says. Well, why shouldn't she at least see him there? Siegfried went through his calm routine, brushed off his pants and shoes, and washed his hands. Looking at him, it was hard to believe his broad, modishly trimmed mustache. Then they drove to the clinic. Ulrich was in a state in which he would, without resisting, have let far crazier things happen to him.
1542 · THE MAN WITHOUT QUALITIES
The physician to whom Wotan conducted them was an artist in his profession.
This is something that exists in every profession that depends on working with one's head and consists of unsatisfied emotions.
In earlier decades there were photographers who placed the leg of the person to be immortalized on a cardboard boulder; today they strip him naked and have him emote at the sunset; at that time they were wearing curled beards and flowing neckties, today they are clean-shaven and un- derline their art's organ of procreation-in precisely the same way a naked African emphasizes her pudenda with a loincloth of mussel shells-by means of glasses. But there were also such artists in the sciences, on the General Staff, and in industry. In such professions they are considered interesting not-just-experts and often, too, as liberators from the narrowness of the craft. In, for instance, the biology of the gen- eral doctrine oflife, it has been discovered that mechanical, dead, causal explanations and functional laws are inadequate, and that life has to be explained by life or, as they call it, the life force; and in the War they sacrificed entire divisions, or had the population of whole regions shot, because they were generous I thought they owed something to a certain heroic generosity.
With doctors, this romanticism often takes only the harmless form of the family adviser who prescribes marriage, automobile trips, and thea- ter tickets, or advises a neurasthenic who is deeply depressed by his fail- ing business not to pay any attention to the business for a period of two months. It was only psychiatry that occupied a special position, for in science the slighter the success in precision, the greater, generally speaking, is the artistic component, and up until a few years ago psychia- try was by far the most artistic of all modem sciences, with a literature as ingenious as that of theology and a success rate that could not be dis- cerned in the earthly realm here below I was to be as little discerned here below as theology's. Its representatives were therefore often I fre- quently I, and today to some extent still are, great artists, and Dr. Fried, Wotan's university friend, was one of these. If one asked him about the prospects for a cure he would dismiss it with an ironic or a fatigued ges- ture, while on the other hand there was always lying on his desk a cleanly prepared and beautifully dyed section of brain on a slide, beside the mi- croscope through which he would look into the incomprehensible astral world of cell tissue, and on his face there was the expression of a man practicing a black art, a notorious but admired craft that brings him into daily contact with the incomprehensible and with depraved desires. His black hair was plastered down demoniacally, as if it would otherwise
From the Posthumous Papers · 1543
stand on end; his movements were soft and unnatural, and his eyes those of a cardsharp, hypnotist, master detective, gravedigger, or hangman.
Of the three visitors, he devoted himself from the beginning exclu- sively to Clarisse. He showed Ulrich the least possible politeness. Since this left Ulrich free to obsetve him in peace and with annoyance, he soon discovered the man's major points. Clarisse, on the other hand, who from the beginning regarded her desire as fulfilled, was charging ahead too impetuously, and as clinical assistant and instructor, Dr. Fried saw himself compelled to raise obstacles. Clarisse was a woman and not a doctor, and science demands strictly circumscribed limits. Wotan wanted to assume the responsibility of having his sister let in with false documents. But since this was stated openly, the assistant could only smile wearily. -Since we aren't doctors-Ulrich asked-couldn't we be a pair ofwriters, who for research purposes . . . ? The doctor dismissed this with a gesture: - I f you were Zola and Selma Lagerlof I would be charmed by your visit, which ofcourse I am anyway, but here only scien- tific interests are recognized. Unless-he made a smiling gesture of yielding-the ambassadors of your countries had made application for you to the administration of the clinic.
-Then I know what we can do, Ulrich said: -We'll invent some charitable motivation. If the lady is not permitted to see the patients, she can at least visit the prisoner. It's no trouble for me to get her the legitimation of a charitable organization and permission of the district court.
-That would be fine. Come here to my official residence; the best time would be after the Chief Physician's rounds. As long as you're in my company nobody would, of course, think of asking to see your creden- tials. But naturally I have to have a cover for my conscience.
Clarisse, excited by the difficulties that had to be overcome, beamed, and Dr. Fried spoke of his conscience at the last in a highly patronizing way, rather in the tone of a prince giving an order to the lowest of his subjects.
About a week passed.
Clarisse was as excited as a neiVOus child in the week before Christ- mas. It gave the impression that she was imparting a symbolic impor- tance to her encounter with Moosbrugger, like the meeting of two rulers.
- I believe I have the strength to help him when I see him, she as- serted.
1544 · THE MAN WITH0UT QUALITIES
Why don't you take him a sausage instead-Ulrich answered-and cigarettes.
Wotan laughed and proffered a medical joke; but afteiWard he again gave the impression of being grateful for the greater energy that ra- diated into his darkness from Clarisse's ideas, like a thunderstorm below the horizon.
Clarisse was tinglingly strengthened when she felt her influence over him.
- I f you had first met him a hundred years ago, you would have fallen weeping on his breast, Ulrich remarked.
Wotan of course added that at that time the emotions were not as disturbed as they are today.
-Quite the contrary, Ulrich maintained. -All the weeping and em- bracing was a sign that people never really possessed these emotions; that'swhytheywereforced. Isn'tittrue-heturnedtoWotan-thatthis is the same mechanism as in hysteria?
Wotan made a joke about his wife, who he said was hysterical, and all the medical theories he had no idea what to do with. He already had three children.
-When she's playing the piano fortissimo-Walter defended Cla- risse-when she's excited and has tears in her eyes: isn't she absolutely right in refusing to get on the streetcar, travel to the clinic, and behave there as if it had been 'just music' and not real tears?
He had, incidentally, excluded himself and did not go along to the clinic.
-She's completely wrong, Ulrich responded. -For Moosbrugger's sentiments toward a sausage are unaffected and healthy, while on the other hand, Clarisse's importunate behavior will only make him regret not being able to plunge a knife into her belly.
- Y o u really think so? Clarisse liked that. She thought it over and said: - I t was only the substitute women he was angry at; that's what it was.
- H e ' s an idiot, Ulrich said clearly and calmly. Struggling around Cla- risse's mouth were a laugh, a difficulty, and the desire to let Ulrich know that she was reaching an understanding with him'. -Y ou're a pessimist! she finally said; and nothing else, except: Nietzsche! Would Ulrich un- derstand this? Would Walter intuit what had just taken place? Her thoughts had squeezed into a very small package, into a sentence and into a word, inserted into the smallest space as miraculously as the bur- glar's tool that nothing can resist; she was strangely excited. Every eve- ning now she took a volume of Nietzsche to bed with her. "Is there a pessimism of strength? " That was the sentence that had occurred to her; it continues:". . . an intellectual predilection for what is hard, gruesome,
From the Posthumous Papers · 1545
evil, and problematical in existence? " She did not remember it exactly anymore, but an unarticulated essence of these qualities hovered before her, associated with Ulrich, who from-indeed, now this expression popped up-"depths of antimoral inclination," while she constantly had to struggle against the moral inclination to feel sympathy for Walter, made everything look ridiculous and therefore strangely allied with her. She was half fainting as these connections crackled like lightning, half philosophy and half adultery, and all squeezed into a single word as into a hiding place. And like a new avalanche, a sentence rolled down and engulfed her, "the desire for the horrible as the worthy enemy," and fragments from a long quotation swirled around her: "Is insanity per- haps not necessarily the symptom of degeneration? Are there perhaps neuroses of health? What does the synthesis of god and he-goat in the satyr indicate? Out ofwhat experience of the self did the Greeks have to think ofthe enthusiast and primitive person as satyr? . . . " All that lay in a laugh, a word, and a twisting of the mouth. Walter noticed nothing. Ul- rich looked at her with calm merriment-what hardness lay in this un- concem! -and said they should hurry up.
As they were walking to the terminus of the streetcar, she asked Ul- rich: "Ifhe's 'only an idiot,' why are you going? " "Oh, for heaven's sake," he replied, "I always do what I don't believe in. " He was surprised be- cause Clarisse did not look at him but stared radiantly straight ahead and gave his hand a strong squeeze.
[Clarisse drags Ulrich to a concert of avant-garde music in the studio of some painter friends of hers. This scene is sketched out more fully later. ] From the study of law Walter was driven to music; from music to the theater; from the theater to an art gallery; from the art gallery back to art; from art . . . ? Now he is stuck, no longer has the energy to make another change, is contentedly unhappy, curses us all, and goes punctu- ally to his office. And while he is in his office something may perhaps happen between Clarisse and Ulrich, but if he were to flnd out about it, it would put him in an enormous uproar, as if the whole ocean of world history were surging. He's as blind as the moon about what goes on be- hind his back. To Ulrich, on the other hand, all this was far more a mat- ter of indifference. Or: He almost envied him. Clarisse, sitting there hunched over and holding her fingers clenched while the other sounds
1546 · THE MAN WITH0UT QUALITIES
sifted and shook, he found almost as unpleasant as a caricature of the sensibility of genius, of the revolutionary, the activist; that no emotion, no idea, is worth being the ultimate one, that one should not linger over anything because the sky leads endlessly upward. He is sleepy, but she will not let him rest. But there is something surrounding her! She always has to be doing something. Simply from tension, to get rid ofsomething, to get past the last minute. And Walter? He is the born talented medioc- rity; unhappy, but lucky, and everyone likes him; everyone invites him to stick around; with titanic effort he is constantly pulling his feet out ofsoil where they could take root so beautifully. Ulrich smiled maliciously. -He's really not a weak character at all. It's unbelievably difficult to achieve nothing ifyou don't have any talent!
And finally he will be happy.
Clarisse would be making a bad exchange.
During the intermission Clarisse sat down beside Ulrich. - I can't take any more, she said. -W hen I hear music I'd like to either laugh or cry or run away.
- W i t h Meingast? Ulrich asked.
- T h a t was only an experiment. She seized his hand and held it fast. -No, with someone who could make music. Without conscience. A world. I hear that world sometimes.
Ulrich said angrily: "You're primitive, you musicians. What kind of subtle, unheard-of motivation does it take to produce a raging outburst after sinking into oneself in silence! You do it with five notes!
- I t ' s something you don't understand, Uli. Clarisse laughed.
- A n d it doesn't bother you? Ulrich challenged her scornfully. -You don't understand it--Clarisse said tenderly-that's just why
you're so hard. You don't have a soft conscience. You were never sick.
- I ' d cheat on you, Ulrich said.
-Being cheated is meaningless to us. We have to give everything
we've got. We can only cheat ourselves. Her fingers snaked around his hand. -Music either is or it isn't.
-You'll run out on me with somebody from the circus, Ulrich said pensively.
He stared gloomily into the confusing tangle of people. -Y ou'll be disappointed. For me it's all a tissue ofcontradictions among
From the Posthumous Papers · 1547
which there is no resolution. But perhaps you're right. A few blasts on the trumpet. Fantasized ones. Run to them.
Evening was coming on. Wandering dark-blue clouds were in the sky beyond the studio windows. The tips ofa tree reached up from below- houses stood with the backs of their roofs turned upward. - H o w should they stand otherwise? Ulrich thought, and yet there are moments when the small sorrow that one feels falls into the world as ifonto a muffled giant drum. He thought of Agathe and was unspeakably sad. This small creature at his side was rushing forward at an unnatural speed. As if under the pressure ofsome kind ofprogram. That wasn't the natural way for love to develop. And anyway, there could be no talk oflove. He was quite clear about that. And yet he yielded without resistance. He was consoled by a vague thought; something like this: a person is insulted and makes a great invention; that's how the real deeds of the human will come about. Never in a straight line. I love Agathe and am letting myself be seduced by Clarisse. Clarisse believes that the small stir she makes is her will, but mine lies motionless beneath it like the water beneath the waves.
The music, which kindled people's eyes like lights in the darkening room and blew their bodies through each other like smoke, had started up again.
The cleaning woman had already left; Walter was in the middle of his day in the office; Ulrich now chose such hours. for his visits, without thinking about the significance of his choice. Yet until a particular Sun- day, nothing happened. Walter had received an invitation that called him into town until evening, and half an hour before, after lunch, Ulrich had shown up without suspecting anything and in a bad mood, for the prospect of an afternoon in the presence of his friend had enticed him so little that he really only started out from habit. But when Walter imme- diately began to say good-bye, Ulrich felt it as a signal. Clarisse had the same thought. They both knew it.
She would play for him, Clarisse said. Clarisse began. From the win- dow Ulrich waved to Walter, who waved back. Keeping his eyes in the room, he leaned farther and farther out, after the vanishing figure. Cla- risse suddenly broke off and came to the window too: Walter was no longer to be seen. Clarisse returned to playing. Ulrich now turned his back to her, as if it did not concern him; leaning into the window frame. Clarisse again stopped playing, ran into the hall; Ulrich heard her put- ting the chain on the door. When she came back he slowly turned
1548 · THE MAN WITH0UT QUALITIES
around; said nothing; swayed for a moment. She played on. He went up to her and laid his hand on her shoulder. Without turning her head, she pushed his hand away with her shoulder. -Scoundrel! she said; played on. -Strange? he thought. -Does she want to feel force? The idea that urged itself upon him, that he ought to seize her by both shoulders and pull her down off the piano stool, seemed to him as comical as rocking a loose tooth. This constrained him. He went into the middle of the room. Alerted his hearing and sought an opening. But before anything oc- curred to him his mouth said: "Clarisse! " That had cut loose, detached itself gurgling from his throat, had grown out of his throat like a strange creature. Clarisse obediently stood up and came over to him. Her eyes were wide open. At this moment he understood for the first time that Clarisse was trying artificially, perhaps without knowing it, to evoke the excitement ofa tremendous sacrificial act. Since she was standing beside him, the decision had to be made in an instant, but Ulrich was overcome by all the force of these inhibitions; his legs would no longer support him, he could not utter a word, and threw himself on the sofa.
This excitement infecting him really ought to be made more appealing.
At the same instant, Clarisse threw herselfon his lap. Her lizard arms slung themselves around his head and neck. She seemed to be tearing at her arms, but without being able to loosen them from the embrace. Heated air came from her mouth and burned words into his face that he could not understand. There were tears in her eyes. Then everything of which he was normally constituted collapsed. He, too, uttered some- thing that had no meaning, but before the eyes ofthem both; veins shiv- ered and stood out like bars on a cage, their souls went at each other like bulls, and this riot was accompanied by the feeling of a tremendous moral decision. Now neither ofthem restrained words, faces, hands any longer. Their faces pressed themselves on ea~ other, wet with tears and sweat, as pure flesh; all the words oflove that were to be rehearsed tum- bled over each other, as if the contents of a marriage had been shaken out upside down; the lascivious, hardened words that come only with long intimacy came first, unmediated, inciting, and yet bringing horror with them. Ulrich had half sat up; everything was so slippery (from their faces to their words) that their gliding into each other no longer made a sound.
From the Posthunwus Papers · 1549
Clarisse tore her hat from the hook and stormed out. He with her. Wordless. Where to? This question was ridiculously lonely in his brain, swept clean by the storm.
Clarisse rushed over paths, across meadows, through hedges, through woods. She was not one of those women who are broken softly, but be- came hard and angry after the fall. They finally found themselves in a quiet remote comer of the zoo that adjoined the woods. A small rococo summerhouse stood there. Empty. Here she presented herself to him once again. This time with many words and confessions. Driven by the impatience of desire and the fear that people might come by. It was hor- rible. This time Ulrich became quite cold and hard with remorse. Ulrich left her there. He did not care how she would get home, but rushed off.
When Ulrich got back to the house later, he found Walter there. Cla- risse was still angry, and making a gentle show of marital concord. But with a single pouting look she made Ulrich feel that the two of them still belonged together. Only afteiWard did it occur to him how strange the expression ofher eyes had been twice that afternoon: delirious and mad.
In the excitement, Ulrich had agreed to participate in freeing Moos- brugger. Now he fell in with this idea because it had already gone so far. He did not believe in it, and made the preparations convinced that it would not be possible to cany them out.
Attending physician: Stay in a sanatorium advised; a little rest-and- diet cure. It's not good for the nerves to lie there without any fat-after he had observed Clarisse's body, which had become totally boyish.
To Walter's joyful surprise, Clarisse offered no resistance. (She felt: None ofthem amount to much: Walter, Ulrich, Meingast. ) I have to take it upon myself alone. Her head felt like the peak of a mountain around which clouds gather; she felt a longing for the horizontal, to stretch out, lie down, in a more bracing air than that of the city. Greenness, vine- twistingness, light-dapplingness hovered before her; countryside, like a strong hand compelling sleep.
1550 · THE MAN WITHOUT QUALITIES
She has come through the first phase; now it is a good idea for her to rest and strengthen herself. Moreover, she had the feeling: "I have to do everything by myself. "
Wotan had offered to take her; Walter couldn't get away from work; suffered as under a knife when he saw the two of them leave. Suffered as if his heart had been put through a meat grinder I stone crusher.
When Clarisse entered the sanatorium, she inspected it like a general. A feeling of mission and divinity was already mingling again with her depression; she confidently tested the arrangements and the doctors on the question of whether they would be able to shelter and protect the revolution in world ideas that would now be emanating from this place.
So it was also the need to collect herself that had led her there.
The diagnosis put fmward for her was general exhaustion and neuras- thenia; Clarisse lived quietly and was solicitously cared for. The persist- ent blows that had shaken her body like a railway journey ceased; she suddenly came to realize that she had been ill, while the ground beneath her feet was becoming firmer and more elastic again; she felt tenderness for her healing body, which was also now "solicitously caring for" her mind, as she ascertained, delighted at this unity of events.
Previously lack of appetite, diarrhea, etc.
But the most recent events suddenly appeared problematical to her.
She got hold of writing materials and proceeded to write down her experiences.
She wrote for a whole day, almost from morning to evening. Without the need for fresh air or food; it struck her that her bodily activities receded almost entirely, and only a certain timidity about the strict house rules of the sanatorium moved her to go to the dining hall. Some time earlier she had read somewhere an article on Francis of Assisi; he
From the Posthumous Papers · 1551
showed up again in the notebook she was working on, in whole para- graphs that were repeated with trivial individual changes without this bothering her. The originality of intellectual achievements is judged falsely even today. The traditional idea of the hero still battles for prior- ity with every new idea and new invention, although we have long known from the history ofthese controversies that every new idea arises in sev- eral minds at the same time, but that for some reason the heroic sense finds it more fitting to imagine genius as a bubbling spring instead of a broad current made up of many tributaries and combinations, although the greatest ideas ofgenius are nothing more than modifications ofother ideas of genius, with minor additions. That is why on the one hand "we no longer have any geniuses"-because we think we see the point of origin all too clearly and will not abandon ourselves to believing in the genius of an accomplishment composed of nothing but ideas, emotions, and other elements that, taken singly, we must have unavoidably already encountered here and there. On the other hand, we exaggerate our imag- inings about the nature of genius's originality-especially where the testing by facts and by success is lacking; in short, wherever it is a ques- tion of nothing less than our soul-in such a senseless and perverted way that we have a great many geniuses whose heads have no more content than the page ofa newspaper, but a flashy and original makeup by way of compensation. This makeup-allied with the false belief in the inescap- able originality of genius, at odds with the obscure feeling of there being nothing behind it, which climaxes in a total incapacity to take the count- less elements of an age and create structures of intellectual life that are nothing more than experiments, yet have the full seriousness of impar-
tiality-belongs to that tepid mood full of doubts about the possibility of genius and the adoration of many ersatz geniuses that prevails today.
In spite of her many weaknesses, Clarisse, for whom genius was a matter of the will, belonged neither to the shrilly got-up people nor to the disheartened ones. She wrote down with great energy what she had read, and in doing so had the right feeling of originality in assimilating this material and feeling it mysteriously becoming part of her inmost being, as in the vividly leaping flames of an immolation. "By accident," she wrote, "while I was already thinking of my departure, memories clashed in my head. That the Sienese (Perugia? ) in the year . . . carried a portrait . . . into the church, that Dante . . . names the fountain that is still standing today in the Piazza . . . And that Dante said about the piety of Francis of Assisi, who was canonized shortly afterward: It rose among us like a shining star. "
Where she no longer remembered the names she put in periods. There was time for that later. But the words "rose like a shining star" she
1552 · THE MAN WITHOUT QUALITIES
felt in her body. That she-incidentally-had hit upon the article she had read had come about because she longed for better times; not as an escape, but because-as she felt-something active had to happen.
This Francis of Assisi-she wrote-was the son ofprosperous Sienese citizens, a draper, and before that a smart young man about town. Peo- ple of today like Ulrich, who have access to science, are reminded by his later behavior (after his religious awakening) ofcertain manic states, and it cannot be denied that they are right in doing so. But what in 1913 is mental illness can in 13 . . . (periodic insanity, hysteria, of course not illnesses with an anatomical course, only those that coexist with health! ! ) merely have been seen as a one-sided debit of health. The etiology of certain diseases is not only a personal but also a social phenomenon- she underlined this sentence. In parentheses she threw in a few addi- tional words: (Hysteria. Freud. Delirium: its forms are different according to the society. Mass psychology offers images that do not dif- fer greatly from the clinical). Then came a sentence that she also under- lined: It is by no means excluded that what today becomes mere inner destruction will one day again have constructive value.
If the healthy person is a social phenomenon, then so is the sick person.
It went through her mind that Dante and Francis of Assisi were actu- ally one and the same person; it was a tremendous discovery. She did not, however, write it down but undertook to look into this problem later, and the next moment her splendor, too, was extinguished. The de- cisive thing is-she wrote-that at that time a person, whom today we would in good conscience put in a sanatorium, could live, teach, and lead his contemporaries! That the best of his contemporaries saw him as an honor and an illumination! That at that time Siena was a center of cul- ture. But she wrote in the margin: All people are one person? Then she went on more calmly: It fascinates me to imagine how things looked then. That age did not have much intelligence. It did not test things; it believed like a good child, without bothering itself about what was im- probable. Religion went along with local patriotism; it was not the indi- vidual Sienese who would enter into heaven, but one day the whole city of Siena that would be transplanted there as a unit. For one loved heaven by loving the city. (The cheerfulness, the sense of ornament, the broad vistas of small Italian cities! ) Religious eccentrics were few; peo- ple were proud of their city; what they shared was a common experi- ence. Heaven belonged to this city, how should it be otherwise? The
From the Posthumous Papers · 1553
priests were considered not particularly religious people but merely a kind of official; for in all religions God was always something far away and uncertain, but the faith that the Son of God had come to visit, that one still had the writings of those who had seen Him with their own eyes, imparted an enormous vitality, nearness, and security to the expe- rience, which the priests were there to confirm. The officer corps of God.
Ifin the midst ofthis one is brushed by God, as Saint Francis was, it is only a new reassurance, which does not disturb the civic cheerfulness of the experience. Because everyone believed, a few could do so in a partic- ular way, and thus intellectual wealth was added to simple, legitimate security. For in sum more energies flow from opposition than from agreement. . . .
Here deep furrows formed on Clarisse's forehead. Nietzsche oc- curred to her, the enemy of religion: here there were still some difficult things for her to reconcile. -1 do not presume to know the enormous history of these emotions-she told herself-but one thing is certain: today the religious experience is no longer the action of all, of a commu- nity, but only of individuals. And apparently that is why this experience is sick.
Feeling of solitude in the sea of the spirit, which is in motion in all direc- tions.
I Note: Mass experience connected with Meingast. I
She stopped writing and walked slowly up and down the room, excit- edly rubbing her hands against each other or rubbing her forehead with a finger. It was not from despondency that she fled into past and remote times; it was absolutely clear to her that she, striding up and down in this room, was connected with the Siena of the past. Thoughts of recent days were intermingled with this: she was in some fashion or other not only destined but already actually involved in taking over the mission that re- curred over the centuries, like God in every new Host. But she was not thinking of God; remarkably enough, this was the only idea she did not think of, as if it had no role in it at all; perhaps it would have disturbed her, for everything else was as vivid as ifshe had to get on a train tomor- row to travel there. By the windows great masses of green leaves waved in at her; tree balls; they steeped the whole room in a watery green. This
1554 ·THE MAN WITHOUT QUALITIES
color, "with which at that time my soul was filled," as she said later,
played a great role in her as the chief color of these ideas.
This connection to the past, which Ulrich lacks.
Feeling! Pealing of bells. Processions march with banners to the Vir- gin and gorgeous robes. She was walking in the middle. When they stopped, however, the crowd did not stop. But that was not upsetting.
[Clarisse flees to Italy, where she joins Ulrich on the "Island of Health":]
-In Pompeii-Ulrich said-the cast of a woman has been found sealed in a fraction of a second into the cooling lava like a statue by the gases into which her body dissolved when the terrible stream of fire en- veloped her. This nearly naked woman, whose shift had slid up to her back, had been overtaken as she was running and fallen facedown with her arms outstretched, while her small hair-knot, untidily put up, still sat fumly on the back of her head; she was neither ugly nor beautiful, nei- ther voluptuous from living well nor gnawed by poverty, neither twisted by horror nor unwittingly overpowered without fear; but just because of all that, this woman, who many centuries ago jumped out of bed and was thrown on her stomach, has remained as incredibly alive as ifat any sec- ond she could stand up again and run on. Clarisse understood exactly what he meant. Whenever she scratched her thoughts and emotions in the sand, with some mark or other that was as charged with them as a boat that can hardly stay afloat for the multiplicity of its cargo, and the wind then blew on it for a day, animal tracks ran over it, or rain made pockmarks in it and eroded the sharpness of the outlines the way the cares of life erode a face, but most especially when one had forgotten it completely and only through some chance stumbled on it again and sud- denly confronted oneself, confronted an instant compressed and full of emotions and thoughts that had become sunken, faded, small, and barely recognizable, overgrown from left to right but not vanished, with
grasses and animals living around it without shyness, when it had become world, earth: then .
- O h ? Ulrich said. - S o it's like that again between you?
Clarisse flashed at him from her eyes, pulled out the thumbtack again, and nodded.
- I t is and it isn't; I'm already a lot further. What's the extreme oppo- site ofletting things happen; that one yields to . . . impressing? You un- derstand, he wants to impress; nothing else! She did not wait for a response. - T o make a mark! she said. Her tiny figure had been striding up and down the room with supple energy, her hands at her back; now she stopped and sought with her eyes to hold fast to Ulrich's, for the words she was now searching for made her mind somewhat unsteady. - T o inscribe himself, I'm saying. Lately I've discovered something else that's really uncanny, it sounds so simple: Half our life is expression. (The) impressions are nothing. A heap of earthworms! When do you un- derstand a piece of music? When you yourself create it inwardly! When do you understand a person? When for a moment you make yourselfjust like him! In art, in politics, but also in love, we're trying painfully to ex- press ourselves. We re-deem ourselves to the outside. You see-with her hand she described an acute angle lying horizontally, which involun- tarily reminded Ulrich of a phallus-like this. That is the expression; the active form ofour existence, the pointed form, the- She became quite excited by the effort to make herself understandable to Ulrich. Ulrich must have been rather taken aback, for Clarisse went on to declare: -That's already in the words re-deem and redemption, both, the "deeming" and the active "re-" Now you understand, of course one has to practice it, but ultimately everything will be like an arrow.
From the Posthumous Papers · 1541
-Dear Clarisse-Ulrich pleaded-please speak so that I can under- standyou.
/Continuation: The Dionysiac. The murderer/
At this moment Siegfried came in. Ulrich had not interrupted Cla- risse. She had nonetheless retreated and was standing excitedly, as if he were crowding her, against the wall. Ulrich was accustomed to how hard it was for her to find the right words and how she often tried to seize them with her whole body, so that the meaning for which the words were lacking lay in the movement. But this time he was a little aston- ished. Clarisse, however, was not yet satisfied, there was still something she had to say. -Y ou know, if I'm unfaithful to him-or let's assume anyway that he is to me--then it's like digging into one's own raw flesh. Then you can't do anything that doesn't cut deep. Then you can't talk about that table over there without there being a feeling of bleeding. A smile forced its way through her excitement because Siegfried was lis- tening, but Siegfried was watching her calmly, as if it were a gymnastics exercise. He had taken off his jacket while working, and his hands and shoes were full of dirt. He had been accustomed since Clarisse's mar- riage to be the confidant of surprising secrets, and used a glance at his watch to urge haste in a businesslike way. Ulrich felt that this last gesture was directed very much at him.
Clarisse quickly changed her dress. The door remained open, and it hardly seemed accidental that he could see her, standing among her skirts like a boy. Siegfried was saying: - T h e assistant at the clinic was a fellow student. - Y o u don't say, Ulrich said. - W h a t do you really want ofhim? Siegfried shrugged his shoulders. -Either this Moosbrugger is mentally ill or he's a criminal. That's correct. But if Clarisse imagines that she can help him . . . ? I'm a doctor, and I also have to let the hospi- tal chaplain imagine the same thing. Redeem! she says. Well, why shouldn't she at least see him there? Siegfried went through his calm routine, brushed off his pants and shoes, and washed his hands. Looking at him, it was hard to believe his broad, modishly trimmed mustache. Then they drove to the clinic. Ulrich was in a state in which he would, without resisting, have let far crazier things happen to him.
1542 · THE MAN WITHOUT QUALITIES
The physician to whom Wotan conducted them was an artist in his profession.
This is something that exists in every profession that depends on working with one's head and consists of unsatisfied emotions.
In earlier decades there were photographers who placed the leg of the person to be immortalized on a cardboard boulder; today they strip him naked and have him emote at the sunset; at that time they were wearing curled beards and flowing neckties, today they are clean-shaven and un- derline their art's organ of procreation-in precisely the same way a naked African emphasizes her pudenda with a loincloth of mussel shells-by means of glasses. But there were also such artists in the sciences, on the General Staff, and in industry. In such professions they are considered interesting not-just-experts and often, too, as liberators from the narrowness of the craft. In, for instance, the biology of the gen- eral doctrine oflife, it has been discovered that mechanical, dead, causal explanations and functional laws are inadequate, and that life has to be explained by life or, as they call it, the life force; and in the War they sacrificed entire divisions, or had the population of whole regions shot, because they were generous I thought they owed something to a certain heroic generosity.
With doctors, this romanticism often takes only the harmless form of the family adviser who prescribes marriage, automobile trips, and thea- ter tickets, or advises a neurasthenic who is deeply depressed by his fail- ing business not to pay any attention to the business for a period of two months. It was only psychiatry that occupied a special position, for in science the slighter the success in precision, the greater, generally speaking, is the artistic component, and up until a few years ago psychia- try was by far the most artistic of all modem sciences, with a literature as ingenious as that of theology and a success rate that could not be dis- cerned in the earthly realm here below I was to be as little discerned here below as theology's. Its representatives were therefore often I fre- quently I, and today to some extent still are, great artists, and Dr. Fried, Wotan's university friend, was one of these. If one asked him about the prospects for a cure he would dismiss it with an ironic or a fatigued ges- ture, while on the other hand there was always lying on his desk a cleanly prepared and beautifully dyed section of brain on a slide, beside the mi- croscope through which he would look into the incomprehensible astral world of cell tissue, and on his face there was the expression of a man practicing a black art, a notorious but admired craft that brings him into daily contact with the incomprehensible and with depraved desires. His black hair was plastered down demoniacally, as if it would otherwise
From the Posthumous Papers · 1543
stand on end; his movements were soft and unnatural, and his eyes those of a cardsharp, hypnotist, master detective, gravedigger, or hangman.
Of the three visitors, he devoted himself from the beginning exclu- sively to Clarisse. He showed Ulrich the least possible politeness. Since this left Ulrich free to obsetve him in peace and with annoyance, he soon discovered the man's major points. Clarisse, on the other hand, who from the beginning regarded her desire as fulfilled, was charging ahead too impetuously, and as clinical assistant and instructor, Dr. Fried saw himself compelled to raise obstacles. Clarisse was a woman and not a doctor, and science demands strictly circumscribed limits. Wotan wanted to assume the responsibility of having his sister let in with false documents. But since this was stated openly, the assistant could only smile wearily. -Since we aren't doctors-Ulrich asked-couldn't we be a pair ofwriters, who for research purposes . . . ? The doctor dismissed this with a gesture: - I f you were Zola and Selma Lagerlof I would be charmed by your visit, which ofcourse I am anyway, but here only scien- tific interests are recognized. Unless-he made a smiling gesture of yielding-the ambassadors of your countries had made application for you to the administration of the clinic.
-Then I know what we can do, Ulrich said: -We'll invent some charitable motivation. If the lady is not permitted to see the patients, she can at least visit the prisoner. It's no trouble for me to get her the legitimation of a charitable organization and permission of the district court.
-That would be fine. Come here to my official residence; the best time would be after the Chief Physician's rounds. As long as you're in my company nobody would, of course, think of asking to see your creden- tials. But naturally I have to have a cover for my conscience.
Clarisse, excited by the difficulties that had to be overcome, beamed, and Dr. Fried spoke of his conscience at the last in a highly patronizing way, rather in the tone of a prince giving an order to the lowest of his subjects.
About a week passed.
Clarisse was as excited as a neiVOus child in the week before Christ- mas. It gave the impression that she was imparting a symbolic impor- tance to her encounter with Moosbrugger, like the meeting of two rulers.
- I believe I have the strength to help him when I see him, she as- serted.
1544 · THE MAN WITH0UT QUALITIES
Why don't you take him a sausage instead-Ulrich answered-and cigarettes.
Wotan laughed and proffered a medical joke; but afteiWard he again gave the impression of being grateful for the greater energy that ra- diated into his darkness from Clarisse's ideas, like a thunderstorm below the horizon.
Clarisse was tinglingly strengthened when she felt her influence over him.
- I f you had first met him a hundred years ago, you would have fallen weeping on his breast, Ulrich remarked.
Wotan of course added that at that time the emotions were not as disturbed as they are today.
-Quite the contrary, Ulrich maintained. -All the weeping and em- bracing was a sign that people never really possessed these emotions; that'swhytheywereforced. Isn'tittrue-heturnedtoWotan-thatthis is the same mechanism as in hysteria?
Wotan made a joke about his wife, who he said was hysterical, and all the medical theories he had no idea what to do with. He already had three children.
-When she's playing the piano fortissimo-Walter defended Cla- risse-when she's excited and has tears in her eyes: isn't she absolutely right in refusing to get on the streetcar, travel to the clinic, and behave there as if it had been 'just music' and not real tears?
He had, incidentally, excluded himself and did not go along to the clinic.
-She's completely wrong, Ulrich responded. -For Moosbrugger's sentiments toward a sausage are unaffected and healthy, while on the other hand, Clarisse's importunate behavior will only make him regret not being able to plunge a knife into her belly.
- Y o u really think so? Clarisse liked that. She thought it over and said: - I t was only the substitute women he was angry at; that's what it was.
- H e ' s an idiot, Ulrich said clearly and calmly. Struggling around Cla- risse's mouth were a laugh, a difficulty, and the desire to let Ulrich know that she was reaching an understanding with him'. -Y ou're a pessimist! she finally said; and nothing else, except: Nietzsche! Would Ulrich un- derstand this? Would Walter intuit what had just taken place? Her thoughts had squeezed into a very small package, into a sentence and into a word, inserted into the smallest space as miraculously as the bur- glar's tool that nothing can resist; she was strangely excited. Every eve- ning now she took a volume of Nietzsche to bed with her. "Is there a pessimism of strength? " That was the sentence that had occurred to her; it continues:". . . an intellectual predilection for what is hard, gruesome,
From the Posthumous Papers · 1545
evil, and problematical in existence? " She did not remember it exactly anymore, but an unarticulated essence of these qualities hovered before her, associated with Ulrich, who from-indeed, now this expression popped up-"depths of antimoral inclination," while she constantly had to struggle against the moral inclination to feel sympathy for Walter, made everything look ridiculous and therefore strangely allied with her. She was half fainting as these connections crackled like lightning, half philosophy and half adultery, and all squeezed into a single word as into a hiding place. And like a new avalanche, a sentence rolled down and engulfed her, "the desire for the horrible as the worthy enemy," and fragments from a long quotation swirled around her: "Is insanity per- haps not necessarily the symptom of degeneration? Are there perhaps neuroses of health? What does the synthesis of god and he-goat in the satyr indicate? Out ofwhat experience of the self did the Greeks have to think ofthe enthusiast and primitive person as satyr? . . . " All that lay in a laugh, a word, and a twisting of the mouth. Walter noticed nothing. Ul- rich looked at her with calm merriment-what hardness lay in this un- concem! -and said they should hurry up.
As they were walking to the terminus of the streetcar, she asked Ul- rich: "Ifhe's 'only an idiot,' why are you going? " "Oh, for heaven's sake," he replied, "I always do what I don't believe in. " He was surprised be- cause Clarisse did not look at him but stared radiantly straight ahead and gave his hand a strong squeeze.
[Clarisse drags Ulrich to a concert of avant-garde music in the studio of some painter friends of hers. This scene is sketched out more fully later. ] From the study of law Walter was driven to music; from music to the theater; from the theater to an art gallery; from the art gallery back to art; from art . . . ? Now he is stuck, no longer has the energy to make another change, is contentedly unhappy, curses us all, and goes punctu- ally to his office. And while he is in his office something may perhaps happen between Clarisse and Ulrich, but if he were to flnd out about it, it would put him in an enormous uproar, as if the whole ocean of world history were surging. He's as blind as the moon about what goes on be- hind his back. To Ulrich, on the other hand, all this was far more a mat- ter of indifference. Or: He almost envied him. Clarisse, sitting there hunched over and holding her fingers clenched while the other sounds
1546 · THE MAN WITH0UT QUALITIES
sifted and shook, he found almost as unpleasant as a caricature of the sensibility of genius, of the revolutionary, the activist; that no emotion, no idea, is worth being the ultimate one, that one should not linger over anything because the sky leads endlessly upward. He is sleepy, but she will not let him rest. But there is something surrounding her! She always has to be doing something. Simply from tension, to get rid ofsomething, to get past the last minute. And Walter? He is the born talented medioc- rity; unhappy, but lucky, and everyone likes him; everyone invites him to stick around; with titanic effort he is constantly pulling his feet out ofsoil where they could take root so beautifully. Ulrich smiled maliciously. -He's really not a weak character at all. It's unbelievably difficult to achieve nothing ifyou don't have any talent!
And finally he will be happy.
Clarisse would be making a bad exchange.
During the intermission Clarisse sat down beside Ulrich. - I can't take any more, she said. -W hen I hear music I'd like to either laugh or cry or run away.
- W i t h Meingast? Ulrich asked.
- T h a t was only an experiment. She seized his hand and held it fast. -No, with someone who could make music. Without conscience. A world. I hear that world sometimes.
Ulrich said angrily: "You're primitive, you musicians. What kind of subtle, unheard-of motivation does it take to produce a raging outburst after sinking into oneself in silence! You do it with five notes!
- I t ' s something you don't understand, Uli. Clarisse laughed.
- A n d it doesn't bother you? Ulrich challenged her scornfully. -You don't understand it--Clarisse said tenderly-that's just why
you're so hard. You don't have a soft conscience. You were never sick.
- I ' d cheat on you, Ulrich said.
-Being cheated is meaningless to us. We have to give everything
we've got. We can only cheat ourselves. Her fingers snaked around his hand. -Music either is or it isn't.
-You'll run out on me with somebody from the circus, Ulrich said pensively.
He stared gloomily into the confusing tangle of people. -Y ou'll be disappointed. For me it's all a tissue ofcontradictions among
From the Posthumous Papers · 1547
which there is no resolution. But perhaps you're right. A few blasts on the trumpet. Fantasized ones. Run to them.
Evening was coming on. Wandering dark-blue clouds were in the sky beyond the studio windows. The tips ofa tree reached up from below- houses stood with the backs of their roofs turned upward. - H o w should they stand otherwise? Ulrich thought, and yet there are moments when the small sorrow that one feels falls into the world as ifonto a muffled giant drum. He thought of Agathe and was unspeakably sad. This small creature at his side was rushing forward at an unnatural speed. As if under the pressure ofsome kind ofprogram. That wasn't the natural way for love to develop. And anyway, there could be no talk oflove. He was quite clear about that. And yet he yielded without resistance. He was consoled by a vague thought; something like this: a person is insulted and makes a great invention; that's how the real deeds of the human will come about. Never in a straight line. I love Agathe and am letting myself be seduced by Clarisse. Clarisse believes that the small stir she makes is her will, but mine lies motionless beneath it like the water beneath the waves.
The music, which kindled people's eyes like lights in the darkening room and blew their bodies through each other like smoke, had started up again.
The cleaning woman had already left; Walter was in the middle of his day in the office; Ulrich now chose such hours. for his visits, without thinking about the significance of his choice. Yet until a particular Sun- day, nothing happened. Walter had received an invitation that called him into town until evening, and half an hour before, after lunch, Ulrich had shown up without suspecting anything and in a bad mood, for the prospect of an afternoon in the presence of his friend had enticed him so little that he really only started out from habit. But when Walter imme- diately began to say good-bye, Ulrich felt it as a signal. Clarisse had the same thought. They both knew it.
She would play for him, Clarisse said. Clarisse began. From the win- dow Ulrich waved to Walter, who waved back. Keeping his eyes in the room, he leaned farther and farther out, after the vanishing figure. Cla- risse suddenly broke off and came to the window too: Walter was no longer to be seen. Clarisse returned to playing. Ulrich now turned his back to her, as if it did not concern him; leaning into the window frame. Clarisse again stopped playing, ran into the hall; Ulrich heard her put- ting the chain on the door. When she came back he slowly turned
1548 · THE MAN WITH0UT QUALITIES
around; said nothing; swayed for a moment. She played on. He went up to her and laid his hand on her shoulder. Without turning her head, she pushed his hand away with her shoulder. -Scoundrel! she said; played on. -Strange? he thought. -Does she want to feel force? The idea that urged itself upon him, that he ought to seize her by both shoulders and pull her down off the piano stool, seemed to him as comical as rocking a loose tooth. This constrained him. He went into the middle of the room. Alerted his hearing and sought an opening. But before anything oc- curred to him his mouth said: "Clarisse! " That had cut loose, detached itself gurgling from his throat, had grown out of his throat like a strange creature. Clarisse obediently stood up and came over to him. Her eyes were wide open. At this moment he understood for the first time that Clarisse was trying artificially, perhaps without knowing it, to evoke the excitement ofa tremendous sacrificial act. Since she was standing beside him, the decision had to be made in an instant, but Ulrich was overcome by all the force of these inhibitions; his legs would no longer support him, he could not utter a word, and threw himself on the sofa.
This excitement infecting him really ought to be made more appealing.
At the same instant, Clarisse threw herselfon his lap. Her lizard arms slung themselves around his head and neck. She seemed to be tearing at her arms, but without being able to loosen them from the embrace. Heated air came from her mouth and burned words into his face that he could not understand. There were tears in her eyes. Then everything of which he was normally constituted collapsed. He, too, uttered some- thing that had no meaning, but before the eyes ofthem both; veins shiv- ered and stood out like bars on a cage, their souls went at each other like bulls, and this riot was accompanied by the feeling of a tremendous moral decision. Now neither ofthem restrained words, faces, hands any longer. Their faces pressed themselves on ea~ other, wet with tears and sweat, as pure flesh; all the words oflove that were to be rehearsed tum- bled over each other, as if the contents of a marriage had been shaken out upside down; the lascivious, hardened words that come only with long intimacy came first, unmediated, inciting, and yet bringing horror with them. Ulrich had half sat up; everything was so slippery (from their faces to their words) that their gliding into each other no longer made a sound.
From the Posthunwus Papers · 1549
Clarisse tore her hat from the hook and stormed out. He with her. Wordless. Where to? This question was ridiculously lonely in his brain, swept clean by the storm.
Clarisse rushed over paths, across meadows, through hedges, through woods. She was not one of those women who are broken softly, but be- came hard and angry after the fall. They finally found themselves in a quiet remote comer of the zoo that adjoined the woods. A small rococo summerhouse stood there. Empty. Here she presented herself to him once again. This time with many words and confessions. Driven by the impatience of desire and the fear that people might come by. It was hor- rible. This time Ulrich became quite cold and hard with remorse. Ulrich left her there. He did not care how she would get home, but rushed off.
When Ulrich got back to the house later, he found Walter there. Cla- risse was still angry, and making a gentle show of marital concord. But with a single pouting look she made Ulrich feel that the two of them still belonged together. Only afteiWard did it occur to him how strange the expression ofher eyes had been twice that afternoon: delirious and mad.
In the excitement, Ulrich had agreed to participate in freeing Moos- brugger. Now he fell in with this idea because it had already gone so far. He did not believe in it, and made the preparations convinced that it would not be possible to cany them out.
Attending physician: Stay in a sanatorium advised; a little rest-and- diet cure. It's not good for the nerves to lie there without any fat-after he had observed Clarisse's body, which had become totally boyish.
To Walter's joyful surprise, Clarisse offered no resistance. (She felt: None ofthem amount to much: Walter, Ulrich, Meingast. ) I have to take it upon myself alone. Her head felt like the peak of a mountain around which clouds gather; she felt a longing for the horizontal, to stretch out, lie down, in a more bracing air than that of the city. Greenness, vine- twistingness, light-dapplingness hovered before her; countryside, like a strong hand compelling sleep.
1550 · THE MAN WITHOUT QUALITIES
She has come through the first phase; now it is a good idea for her to rest and strengthen herself. Moreover, she had the feeling: "I have to do everything by myself. "
Wotan had offered to take her; Walter couldn't get away from work; suffered as under a knife when he saw the two of them leave. Suffered as if his heart had been put through a meat grinder I stone crusher.
When Clarisse entered the sanatorium, she inspected it like a general. A feeling of mission and divinity was already mingling again with her depression; she confidently tested the arrangements and the doctors on the question of whether they would be able to shelter and protect the revolution in world ideas that would now be emanating from this place.
So it was also the need to collect herself that had led her there.
The diagnosis put fmward for her was general exhaustion and neuras- thenia; Clarisse lived quietly and was solicitously cared for. The persist- ent blows that had shaken her body like a railway journey ceased; she suddenly came to realize that she had been ill, while the ground beneath her feet was becoming firmer and more elastic again; she felt tenderness for her healing body, which was also now "solicitously caring for" her mind, as she ascertained, delighted at this unity of events.
Previously lack of appetite, diarrhea, etc.
But the most recent events suddenly appeared problematical to her.
She got hold of writing materials and proceeded to write down her experiences.
She wrote for a whole day, almost from morning to evening. Without the need for fresh air or food; it struck her that her bodily activities receded almost entirely, and only a certain timidity about the strict house rules of the sanatorium moved her to go to the dining hall. Some time earlier she had read somewhere an article on Francis of Assisi; he
From the Posthumous Papers · 1551
showed up again in the notebook she was working on, in whole para- graphs that were repeated with trivial individual changes without this bothering her. The originality of intellectual achievements is judged falsely even today. The traditional idea of the hero still battles for prior- ity with every new idea and new invention, although we have long known from the history ofthese controversies that every new idea arises in sev- eral minds at the same time, but that for some reason the heroic sense finds it more fitting to imagine genius as a bubbling spring instead of a broad current made up of many tributaries and combinations, although the greatest ideas ofgenius are nothing more than modifications ofother ideas of genius, with minor additions. That is why on the one hand "we no longer have any geniuses"-because we think we see the point of origin all too clearly and will not abandon ourselves to believing in the genius of an accomplishment composed of nothing but ideas, emotions, and other elements that, taken singly, we must have unavoidably already encountered here and there. On the other hand, we exaggerate our imag- inings about the nature of genius's originality-especially where the testing by facts and by success is lacking; in short, wherever it is a ques- tion of nothing less than our soul-in such a senseless and perverted way that we have a great many geniuses whose heads have no more content than the page ofa newspaper, but a flashy and original makeup by way of compensation. This makeup-allied with the false belief in the inescap- able originality of genius, at odds with the obscure feeling of there being nothing behind it, which climaxes in a total incapacity to take the count- less elements of an age and create structures of intellectual life that are nothing more than experiments, yet have the full seriousness of impar-
tiality-belongs to that tepid mood full of doubts about the possibility of genius and the adoration of many ersatz geniuses that prevails today.
In spite of her many weaknesses, Clarisse, for whom genius was a matter of the will, belonged neither to the shrilly got-up people nor to the disheartened ones. She wrote down with great energy what she had read, and in doing so had the right feeling of originality in assimilating this material and feeling it mysteriously becoming part of her inmost being, as in the vividly leaping flames of an immolation. "By accident," she wrote, "while I was already thinking of my departure, memories clashed in my head. That the Sienese (Perugia? ) in the year . . . carried a portrait . . . into the church, that Dante . . . names the fountain that is still standing today in the Piazza . . . And that Dante said about the piety of Francis of Assisi, who was canonized shortly afterward: It rose among us like a shining star. "
Where she no longer remembered the names she put in periods. There was time for that later. But the words "rose like a shining star" she
1552 · THE MAN WITHOUT QUALITIES
felt in her body. That she-incidentally-had hit upon the article she had read had come about because she longed for better times; not as an escape, but because-as she felt-something active had to happen.
This Francis of Assisi-she wrote-was the son ofprosperous Sienese citizens, a draper, and before that a smart young man about town. Peo- ple of today like Ulrich, who have access to science, are reminded by his later behavior (after his religious awakening) ofcertain manic states, and it cannot be denied that they are right in doing so. But what in 1913 is mental illness can in 13 . . . (periodic insanity, hysteria, of course not illnesses with an anatomical course, only those that coexist with health! ! ) merely have been seen as a one-sided debit of health. The etiology of certain diseases is not only a personal but also a social phenomenon- she underlined this sentence. In parentheses she threw in a few addi- tional words: (Hysteria. Freud. Delirium: its forms are different according to the society. Mass psychology offers images that do not dif- fer greatly from the clinical). Then came a sentence that she also under- lined: It is by no means excluded that what today becomes mere inner destruction will one day again have constructive value.
If the healthy person is a social phenomenon, then so is the sick person.
It went through her mind that Dante and Francis of Assisi were actu- ally one and the same person; it was a tremendous discovery. She did not, however, write it down but undertook to look into this problem later, and the next moment her splendor, too, was extinguished. The de- cisive thing is-she wrote-that at that time a person, whom today we would in good conscience put in a sanatorium, could live, teach, and lead his contemporaries! That the best of his contemporaries saw him as an honor and an illumination! That at that time Siena was a center of cul- ture. But she wrote in the margin: All people are one person? Then she went on more calmly: It fascinates me to imagine how things looked then. That age did not have much intelligence. It did not test things; it believed like a good child, without bothering itself about what was im- probable. Religion went along with local patriotism; it was not the indi- vidual Sienese who would enter into heaven, but one day the whole city of Siena that would be transplanted there as a unit. For one loved heaven by loving the city. (The cheerfulness, the sense of ornament, the broad vistas of small Italian cities! ) Religious eccentrics were few; peo- ple were proud of their city; what they shared was a common experi- ence. Heaven belonged to this city, how should it be otherwise? The
From the Posthumous Papers · 1553
priests were considered not particularly religious people but merely a kind of official; for in all religions God was always something far away and uncertain, but the faith that the Son of God had come to visit, that one still had the writings of those who had seen Him with their own eyes, imparted an enormous vitality, nearness, and security to the expe- rience, which the priests were there to confirm. The officer corps of God.
Ifin the midst ofthis one is brushed by God, as Saint Francis was, it is only a new reassurance, which does not disturb the civic cheerfulness of the experience. Because everyone believed, a few could do so in a partic- ular way, and thus intellectual wealth was added to simple, legitimate security. For in sum more energies flow from opposition than from agreement. . . .
Here deep furrows formed on Clarisse's forehead. Nietzsche oc- curred to her, the enemy of religion: here there were still some difficult things for her to reconcile. -1 do not presume to know the enormous history of these emotions-she told herself-but one thing is certain: today the religious experience is no longer the action of all, of a commu- nity, but only of individuals. And apparently that is why this experience is sick.
Feeling of solitude in the sea of the spirit, which is in motion in all direc- tions.
I Note: Mass experience connected with Meingast. I
She stopped writing and walked slowly up and down the room, excit- edly rubbing her hands against each other or rubbing her forehead with a finger. It was not from despondency that she fled into past and remote times; it was absolutely clear to her that she, striding up and down in this room, was connected with the Siena of the past. Thoughts of recent days were intermingled with this: she was in some fashion or other not only destined but already actually involved in taking over the mission that re- curred over the centuries, like God in every new Host. But she was not thinking of God; remarkably enough, this was the only idea she did not think of, as if it had no role in it at all; perhaps it would have disturbed her, for everything else was as vivid as ifshe had to get on a train tomor- row to travel there. By the windows great masses of green leaves waved in at her; tree balls; they steeped the whole room in a watery green. This
1554 ·THE MAN WITHOUT QUALITIES
color, "with which at that time my soul was filled," as she said later,
played a great role in her as the chief color of these ideas.
This connection to the past, which Ulrich lacks.
Feeling! Pealing of bells. Processions march with banners to the Vir- gin and gorgeous robes. She was walking in the middle. When they stopped, however, the crowd did not stop. But that was not upsetting.
[Clarisse flees to Italy, where she joins Ulrich on the "Island of Health":]
-In Pompeii-Ulrich said-the cast of a woman has been found sealed in a fraction of a second into the cooling lava like a statue by the gases into which her body dissolved when the terrible stream of fire en- veloped her. This nearly naked woman, whose shift had slid up to her back, had been overtaken as she was running and fallen facedown with her arms outstretched, while her small hair-knot, untidily put up, still sat fumly on the back of her head; she was neither ugly nor beautiful, nei- ther voluptuous from living well nor gnawed by poverty, neither twisted by horror nor unwittingly overpowered without fear; but just because of all that, this woman, who many centuries ago jumped out of bed and was thrown on her stomach, has remained as incredibly alive as ifat any sec- ond she could stand up again and run on. Clarisse understood exactly what he meant. Whenever she scratched her thoughts and emotions in the sand, with some mark or other that was as charged with them as a boat that can hardly stay afloat for the multiplicity of its cargo, and the wind then blew on it for a day, animal tracks ran over it, or rain made pockmarks in it and eroded the sharpness of the outlines the way the cares of life erode a face, but most especially when one had forgotten it completely and only through some chance stumbled on it again and sud- denly confronted oneself, confronted an instant compressed and full of emotions and thoughts that had become sunken, faded, small, and barely recognizable, overgrown from left to right but not vanished, with
grasses and animals living around it without shyness, when it had become world, earth: then .
