Soul of the Age by Hermann Hesse Read Free Book Online

haven, in your heart. If anybody understands me, it is you. You are the only person who knows that I, too, am capable of love. I hope these lines persuade you that I also want to be loving. I often think that I shall never, never regain my health; I realize now (only now?) how sick I am, not just physically, but in the core of my being, in my very heart. I’ve been suffering for a long time from this condition. I felt initially that my first love would soon take care of that, but that passion of mine for a beautiful, warmhearted creature, the sight of those beautiful eyes, the sound of her dear voice actually worsened my sufferings; I wanted to end that anguish by killing myself.
    Then there was the time when Father and Theo said to me: “You can defy us for as long as you want.” So I did. But I now realize how ill I am. I feel so weak, I’m anxious about the future. Even though I usually greatly enjoy being here, this time I’m aware of my illness, since I’m surrounded by really hale and hearty boys, including Heinz Pfisterer, who is the same age as me. When somebody asks me to play a game outside, I feel sad having to say: “I can’t jump,” or when somebody asks me why my vacation is so long.
    So forgive me! Neither of us will be able to forget the past, but we should be able to forgive. When you’re well again, could you ever write, simply as a mother writing to her son, could you?
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    PS: Please say hello to the others! Fräulein Häfelinger feels sorry for you and sends all her best.
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    [ Cannstatt, January 15/16, 1893 ]
    Thanks for the packet! I’m now living in the adjoining room, where I immediately set up my things. Today (Sunday), I was out on the frozen lake, where I ran into Metzger von Altburg, Bühner, and some other people I know …
    But why talk about all that nonsense! I might just as well be reeling off the names of the cheese stores and factories in Cannstatt. Well, it’s just that my head is filled with memories and I want to stay with these thoughts as I write.
    Turgenev talks about how pleasurably painful it is to reopen wounds that have already healed. That’s just how I feel. I like thinking about last year, especially in Boll, the last place where I felt well for a time. I’m still virtually a child, yet feel I have aged a lot since last spring. I have had many different experiences—some you already know about. There was just too much going on in such a short stretch of time; then, after all the terrible excitement, which lasted right up to Stetten and Basel, came a lull; for months my nerves were in continuous, feverish excitement. Now the worst of the storm is over; the tree has lost its blossoms, and the branches are tired, drooping. You can probably more or less sense what I mean. As a man, scholar, etc., etc., Papa will no doubt dismiss these lines as useless, fantastical palaver. I myself relish opening these wounds, and, anyhow, you don’t have to read this.
    I’ve spent many happy hours here. For a time I was enthralled with the school and the teacher, tried to find friends, sought contact with people my own age; then there was a time when I hovered about in an unreal world, where everything seemed bathed in a more beautiful light. The whole experience culminates in the bittersweet feeling of love, in songs and wooing—then the abrupt end, despair, madness, and then deep, dark, sultry night.
    Yes, it’s so nice to be watching all of this again, one picture after another, as in a peep show. I would like to laugh out loud at the whole thing now, all that purely imaginary happiness, all that unnecessary fervor, the madcap illusion of love and suffering, ideals and friendship; I would like to laugh about this, but it’s finished and … will it happen again or is it all over? When I recall how interested I was in interpretations of the Bible, etymology, history, etc., the way I made