The Bird Fights Its Way Out of the Egg

My painted dream-bird was on its way, searching out my friend. An answer came to me in the most curious manner.

My painted dream-bird was on its way, looking for my friend. The answer came to me in a very curious way.

In my classroom in school I found at my desk, in the interval between two lessons, a piece of paper slipped between the pages of my book. It was folded in the manner we used for passing notes to one another in class. I wondered who could have sent me such a note, as I was not so intimate with any of the boys that one of them should wish to write to me. I thought it was a summons to participate in some school rag or other, in which however I should not have taken part, and I replaced the note unopened in my book. During the lesson it fell by chance into my hands again.

Between lessons, I found a piece of paper tucked between the pages of my book on my desk. It was folded the way we folded notes to pass them around in class. I wondered who could have sent it. I wasn’t close enough to any of the boys for one of them to want to write to me. I thought it was an invitation to take part in some school prank or other. But I wouldn’t have joined in, so I put the note back in my book without opening it. During the lesson, I happened to pick it up again.

I toyed with the paper, unfolded it without thinking, and discovered a few words written thereon. I threw a glance at the writing, one word riveted my attention. Terrified, I read on, while my heart seemed to become numb with a sense of destiny.

I played with the paper and unfolded it without thinking. I found a few words written on it. I glanced at the writing, and one word caught my attention. Terrified, I read on, and my heart seemed to grow numb with a sense of destiny.

“The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Whoever will be born must destroy a world. The bird flies to God. The name of the god is Abraxas.”

“The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Anyone who wants to be born must destroy a world. The bird flies to God. The god's name is Abraxas.”

I sank into deep meditation after I had read the words through several times. It admitted of no doubt: this was Demian’s answer. None could know of the bird, except our two selves. He had received my picture. He had understood and helped me to explain its significance. But where was the connection in all this? And—what worried me above all—what did Abraxas mean? I had never read or heard of the word. “The name of the god is Abraxas!”

After reading the words several times, I sank into deep thought. There was no doubt about it: this was Demian’s answer. No one but the two of us could know about the bird. He had received my picture. He had understood it and helped me explain what it meant. But how did it all connect? And what worried me most was this: what did Abraxas mean? I had never read or heard the word before. “The name of the god is Abraxas!”

The hour passed without my hearing anything of the lesson. The next lesson began, the last of the morning. It was taken by quite a young assistant master, fresh from the University, to whom we had already taken a liking, because he was young and pretended to no false dignity with us.

The hour passed without my hearing anything from the lesson. Then the last lesson of the morning began. It was taught by a fairly young assistant teacher, fresh from university. We had already come to like him because he was young and didn't put on a dignified air with us.

We were reading Herodotus under Doctor Follen’s guidance. This was one of the few school subjects which interested me. But this time my attention wandered. I had mechanically flung open my book, but I did not follow the translation, and remained lost in thought. For the rest, I had already several times had the experience that what Demian had said to me in the confirmation class was right. If you willed a thing strongly enough, it happened. If during the lesson I was deeply immersed in thought, I need not fear that the master would disturb my peace. Certainly, if you were absent-minded or sleepy, then he stood suddenly there; that had already happened to me several times. But if you were really thinking, if you were genuinely sunk in thought, then you were safe. And I had already put to the test what he had said to me about fixing a person with one’s eyes. When at school with Demian I had never been successful in this attempt, but now I often realized that you could accomplish much simply by a fixed look and deep thinking.

We were reading Herodotus with Doctor Follen. It was one of the few school subjects that interested me. But this time my attention wandered. I had opened my book without thinking, but I wasn’t following the translation. I was lost in thought. By then, I had already found several times that Demian was right about what he had told me in confirmation class. If you wanted something strongly enough, it happened. If I was deep in thought during a lesson, I didn’t have to worry about the teacher disturbing me. Of course, if you were absent-minded or sleepy, he would suddenly appear beside you. That had already happened to me several times. But if you were really thinking, truly absorbed in thought, you were safe. I had also tested what Demian had told me about fixing your eyes on someone. I had never managed it when I was at school with Demian. But now I often found that you could accomplish a lot just by staring steadily and thinking deeply.

So I was sitting now, my thoughts far from Herodotus and school. But the master’s voice unexpectedly fell on my consciousness like a thunder-crash, so that I started with fright. I listened to his voice, he was standing quite close to me, I thought he had already called me by name. But he did not look at me. I breathed a sigh of relief.

I sat there, my thoughts far from Herodotus and school. But the teacher’s voice suddenly broke through my thoughts like a thunderclap, making me jump in fright. I listened to him. He was standing quite close to me, and I thought he had already called my name. But he did not look at me. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Then I heard his voice again. Loudly the word “Abraxas” fell from his lips.

Then I heard his voice again. He spoke the word “Abraxas” loudly.

Continuing his explanation, the beginning of which had escaped me, Doctor Follen said: “We must not imagine the ideas of those sects and mystical corporations of antiquity to be as naïve as they appear from the standpoint of a rationalistic outlook. Antiquity knew absolutely nothing of science, in our sense of the word. On the other hand more attention was paid to truths of a philosophical, mystical nature, which often attained to a very high stage of development. Magic in part arose therefrom, and often led to fraud and crime. But none the less, magic had a noble origin and was inspired by deep thought. So it was with the teaching of Abraxas, which I have just cited as an example. This name is used in connection with Greek charm formulas. Many opinions coincide in thinking it is the name of some demon of magic, such as some savage people worship to-day. But it appears that Abraxas had a much wider significance. We can imagine the name to be that of a divinity on whom the symbolical task was imposed of uniting the divine and the diabolical.”

Doctor Follen continued his explanation, though I had missed the beginning: “We must not assume that ancient sects and mystical groups held ideas as naive as they seem from a rationalist point of view. The ancient world knew absolutely nothing of science as we understand it. On the other hand, people paid more attention to philosophical and mystical truths. These often reached a very high level of development. Magic arose partly from such thinking and often led to fraud and crime. But magic nonetheless had a noble origin and was inspired by deep thought. The same was true of the teaching of Abraxas, which I have just given as an example. The name appears in Greek magic formulas. Many believe it is the name of a magical demon, like those some so-called savage peoples worship today. But Abraxas seems to have had a much broader meaning. We can imagine the name belonged to a divinity whose symbolic task was to unite the divine and the diabolical.”

The learned little man continued his discourse with much seriousness, no one was very attentive, and as the name did not recur, I was soon immersed in my own thoughts again.

The learned little man continued speaking with great seriousness, but no one paid much attention. Since the name did not come up again, I soon became lost in my own thoughts.

“To unite the divine and the diabolical,” rang in my ears. Here was a starting-point. I was familiar with that idea from my conversations with Demian in the very last period of our friendship. Demian told me then, we had indeed a God whom we revered, but this God represented part of the world only, the half which was arbitrarily separated from the rest (it was the official, permitted, “bright” world). But one should be able to hold the whole world in honor. One should either have a god who was at the same time a devil, or one should institute devil worship together with worship of God. And now Abraxas was the god, who was at the same time god and devil.

“To unite the divine and the diabolical,” rang in my ears. Here was a starting point. I knew the idea from my conversations with Demian toward the very end of our friendship. Demian had told me that we did have a God we worshipped. But this God represented only part of the world, the half that had been arbitrarily separated from the rest. It was the official, permitted, “bright” world. But we should be able to honor the whole world. We should either have a god who was also a devil, or worship the devil alongside God. And now Abraxas was the god who was both god and devil.

For a long time I zealously sought to follow up the trail of ideas farther, without success. In addition, I rummaged through a whole library to find out more about Abraxas, but in vain. However, it was not my nature to concentrate my energies on a methodical search after knowledge, a search which would reveal truths of a dead, useless, documentary kind.

For a long time, I eagerly tried to follow this train of thought further, but without success. I also searched through an entire library for more information about Abraxas, but found nothing. Still, it was not in my nature to devote myself to a methodical search for knowledge. Such a search would reveal truths that were dead and useless, the kind found in documents.

The figure of Beatrice, which had for a certain time occupied so much of my attention, vanished by degrees from my mind, or rather receded slowly, drawing nearer and nearer to the horizon, becoming paler, more like a shadow, as it retreated. She satisfied my soul no longer. A new spiritual development now began to take place in the dreamy existence I led, this existence in which I was strangely wrapped up in myself. The longing for a full life glowed in me, or rather the longing for love. The sex instinct, which for a time had been merged into my worship of Beatrice, required new pictures and aims. Fulfillment was denied me, and it was more impossible than ever for me to delude myself by expecting anything of the girls who seemed to have the happiness of my comrades in their keeping. I again dreamed vividly, even more by day than by night. Images presented themselves to me, desires in the shape of pictures rose up in my imagination, withdrawing me from the outside world, so that my relations with these pictures, with these dreams and shadows, were more real and more intimate than with my actual surroundings.

The image of Beatrice had occupied so much of my attention for a time. Now it gradually faded from my mind. Or rather, it slowly receded toward the horizon, growing paler and more shadowlike as it went. She no longer satisfied my soul. A new spiritual development began in my dreamy existence, in which I was strangely wrapped up in myself. A longing for a full life glowed inside me, or rather, a longing for love. My sexual desire had for a time merged with my worship of Beatrice. Now it needed new images and goals. Fulfillment was denied me. It was more impossible than ever to fool myself into expecting anything from the girls who seemed to hold my companions’ happiness in their hands. Once again, I dreamed vividly, even more during the day than at night. Images appeared to me. Desires rose in my imagination as pictures and drew me away from the outside world. My relationships with these pictures, dreams, and shadows became more real and intimate than my relationships with my actual surroundings.

A certain dream, or play of fantasy, which recurred to me, was full of significance. This dream, the most important and the most enduring of my life, was as follows: I returned home—over the front door shone the crest with the yellow bird on the blue ground—my mother came to meet me—but as I entered and wished to embrace her, it was not she, but a shape I had never before seen, tall and powerful, resembling Max Demian and my painting, yet different, and quite womanly in spite of its size. This figure drew me towards it, and held me in a quivering, passionate embrace. Rapture and horror were mixed, the embrace was a sort of divine worship, and yet a crime as well. Too much of the memory of my mother, too much of the memory of Max Demian was contained in the form which embraced me. The embrace seemed repulsive to my sentiment of reverence, yet I felt happy. I often awoke out of this dream with a deep feeling of contentment, often with the fear of death and a tormenting conscience as if I were guilty of a terrible sin.

A recurring dream, or flight of imagination, held great meaning for me. It was the most important and lasting dream of my life. In the dream, I returned home. Above the front door shone the crest with the yellow bird on a blue background. My mother came to meet me. But when I entered and tried to embrace her, it was not my mother. It was a figure I had never seen before, tall and powerful. The figure resembled Max Demian and my painting, yet was different, and quite womanly despite its size. The figure drew me close and held me in a trembling, passionate embrace. I felt both rapture and horror. The embrace was a kind of divine worship, yet also a crime. The figure embracing me held too much of my memory of my mother and too much of my memory of Max Demian. The embrace offended my sense of reverence, yet I felt happy. I often woke from this dream with a deep sense of contentment. At other times, I woke fearing death and tormented by guilt, as if I had committed a terrible sin.

It was only gradually and unconsciously that I realized the connection between this mental picture and the hint which had come to me from outside concerning the god of whom I was in search. However, this connection became closer and more intimate, and I began to feel that precisely in this dream, this presentiment, I was invoking Abraxas. Rapture and horror, man and woman, the most sacred things and the most abominable interwoven, the darkest guilt with the most tender innocence—such was the dream picture of my love, such also was Abraxas. Love was no longer a dark, animal impulse, as I had felt with considerable anxiety in the beginning. Neither was it a pious spiritualized form of worship any longer, such as I had bestowed upon the picture of Beatrice. It was both—both and yet much more, it was the image of an angel and of Satan, man and woman in one, human being and animal, the highest good and lowest evil. It was my destiny, it seemed that I should experience this in my own life. I longed for it and was afraid of it, I followed it in my dreams and took to flight before it; but it was always there, was always standing over me.

Only gradually and unconsciously did I realize that this mental image was connected to the hint I had received from outside. The hint concerned the god I was searching for. But the connection grew closer and more intimate. I began to feel that in this very dream, this sense of what was to come, I was calling on Abraxas. Rapture and horror, man and woman, the most sacred and the most hateful things were intertwined. So were the darkest guilt and the most tender innocence. This was the dream image of my love, and this was Abraxas too. Love was no longer a dark, animal impulse, as I had felt with great anxiety at first. Nor was it a pious, spiritual form of worship, like the worship I had given the picture of Beatrice. It was both, and yet much more. It was the image of an angel and Satan, man and woman in one, human and animal, the highest good and the lowest evil. It was my destiny. It seemed I was meant to experience this in my own life. I longed for it and feared it. I followed it in my dreams and fled from it. But it was always there, always standing over me.

The next spring I was to leave school and go to some university to study, where and what I knew not. A small moustache grew on my lip, I was a grown man, and yet completely hopeless and aimless. Only one thing was firm: the voice in me, the dream picture. I felt it my duty to follow this guidance blindly. But it was difficult, and daily I was on the point of revolting. Perhaps I was mad, I often used to think; perhaps I was not as other men? But I could do everything the others did; with a little pains and industry I could read Plato, I could solve a trigonometrical problem or work out a chemical analysis. Only one thing I could not do: Discover the dark, concealed aim within me and make up my mind, as others did—others, who knew well enough whether they wanted to be professors or judges, doctors or artists. They knew what career to follow and what advantages they would gain by it. But I was not like that. Perhaps I would be like them some day, but how was I to know? Perhaps I should have to seek and seek for years, and would make nothing of myself, would attain no end. Perhaps I should attain an end, but it might be wicked, dangerous, terrible.

The following spring, I was to leave school and go to a university. I didn’t know where I would go or what I would study. A small mustache was growing on my lip. I was a grown man, yet I felt completely hopeless and aimless. Only one thing was certain: the voice inside me, the image in my dreams. I felt it was my duty to follow this guidance blindly. But it was difficult, and every day I was close to rebelling. I often thought that perhaps I was mad, or perhaps I wasn’t like other people. But I could do everything the others did. With a little effort and hard work, I could read Plato, solve a trigonometry problem, or perform a chemical analysis. There was only one thing I couldn’t do. I couldn’t discover the hidden, mysterious purpose within me and make up my mind, as others did. They knew well enough whether they wanted to be professors or judges, doctors or artists. They knew what career to pursue and what benefits it would bring. But I wasn’t like that. Perhaps I would be like them someday, but how could I know? Perhaps I would have to search for years and make nothing of myself, achieving nothing. Perhaps I would achieve something, but it might be wicked, dangerous, terrible.

I wanted only to try to live in obedience to the promptings which came from my true self. Why was that so very difficult?

I only wanted to try to live according to the urges that came from my true self. Why was that so difficult?

I often made the attempt to paint the powerful love-figure of my dream. But I never succeeded. If I had been successful I would have sent the picture to Demian. Where was he? I knew not. I only knew there was a bond of union between us. When should I see him again?

I often tried to paint the powerful figure I loved in my dream. But I never succeeded. If I had, I would have sent the picture to Demian. Where was he? I didn’t know. I only knew that we shared a bond. When would I see him again?

The pleasant tranquillity of those weeks and months of the Beatrice period was long since gone. I thought at that time I had reached a haven and had found peace. But it was ever so—scarcely did I begin to adapt myself to circumstances, scarcely had a dream done me good, when it faded again. In vain to complain! I now lived in a fire of unstilled desires, of tense expectation, which often rendered me completely wild and mad. I frequently saw before me the picture of my dream-mistress with extraordinary clearness, much more clearly than I saw my own hand. I spoke to it, wept over it, cursed it. I called it mother and knelt before it in tears. I called it my beloved and felt its ripe kiss of fulfilled desire. I called it devil and whore, vampire and murderer. It invited me to the tenderest dreams of love and to the most horrible abominations—nothing was too good and precious for it, nothing too bad and vile.

The peaceful calm of those weeks and months during the Beatrice period was long gone. At the time, I thought I had reached a haven and found peace. But it was always the same. As soon as I began to adjust to my circumstances, or a dream brought me comfort, it faded again. There was no use complaining! Now I lived in a fire of unfulfilled desires and tense expectation. This often drove me completely wild and mad. I often saw the image of my dream-mistress with extraordinary clarity, much more clearly than I saw my own hand. I spoke to the image, wept over it, and cursed it. I called it mother and knelt before it in tears. I called it my beloved and felt its ripe kiss of fulfilled desire. I called it devil and whore, vampire and murderer. It invited me to the tenderest dreams of love and the most horrible abominations. Nothing was too good or precious for it, and nothing was too bad or vile.

I passed the whole of that winter in a state of inward tumult difficult to describe. I had long been accustomed to loneliness—that did not depress me. I lived with Demian, with the hawk, with my picture of the big dream-figure, which was my fate and my mistress. It sufficed to live in close communion with those things, since they opened up a large and broad perspective, leading to Abraxas. But I was not able to summon up these dreams, these thoughts, at will. I could not invest them in colors, as I pleased. They came of themselves, taking possession of me, governing me and shaping my life.

I spent that whole winter in a state of inner turmoil that is hard to describe. I had long been used to loneliness, and it did not depress me. I lived with Demian, the hawk, and my picture of the great figure from my dream. That figure was my fate and my mistress. It was enough to live in close communion with them because they opened up a vast perspective leading to Abraxas. But I could not summon these dreams and thoughts at will. I could not give them whatever colors I chose. They came on their own, taking possession of me, ruling me, and shaping my life.

I was secure in so far as the outside world was concerned. I was afraid of no one. My schoolfellows had learned to recognize that, and observed a secret respect towards me, which often caused me to smile. When I wished, I could penetrate most of them with a look, thereby surprising them occasionally. Only, I seldom or never wanted to do this. It was my own self which occupied my attention, always myself. And yet I longed ardently to live a bit of real life, to give something of myself to the world, to enter into contact and battle with it. Sometimes as I wandered through the streets in the evening and could not, through restlessness, return home before midnight, I thought to myself: Now I cannot fail to meet my beloved, I shall overtake her at the next corner, she will call to me from the next window. Sometimes all this seemed to torture me unbearably, and I was quite prepared to take my own life some day.

As far as the outside world was concerned, I felt secure. I was afraid of no one. My schoolmates had learned this, and they showed me a secret respect that often made me smile. When I wanted to, I could see through most of them with a glance, sometimes taking them by surprise. But I seldom, if ever, wanted to do this. My attention was fixed on myself, always on myself. And yet I longed intensely to live a little real life. I wanted to give something of myself to the world, to make contact with it and struggle against it. Sometimes I wandered the streets in the evening, too restless to go home before midnight. I would think: Now I am sure to meet my beloved. I will catch up with her at the next corner, or she will call to me from the next window. Sometimes it all seemed to torment me beyond bearing, and I was quite ready to take my own life someday.

At that time I found a peculiar refuge—by “chance,” as one says. But really such happenings cannot be attributed to chance. When a person is in need of something, and the necessary happens, this is not due to chance but to himself; his own desire leads him compellingly to the object of which he stands in need.

At that time I found an unusual refuge, “by chance,” as people say. But such things cannot really be attributed to chance. When a person needs something and what they need happens, it is not by chance but because of the person. Their own desire draws them irresistibly toward what they need.

Two or three times during my wanderings through the streets I had heard the strains of an organ coming from a little church in the suburbs, without, however, stopping to listen. The next time I passed by the church I heard it again, and recognized that Bach was being played. I went to the door, which I found to be locked. As the street was practically empty I sat down on a curb-stone close to the church, turned up the collar of my coat and listened. It was not a large organ, but a good one nevertheless. Whoever was playing played wonderfully well, almost like a virtuoso, but with a peculiar, highly personal expression of will and perseverance, which seemed to make the music ring out like a prayer. I had the feeling that the man who was playing knew a treasure was shut up in the music and he struggled and tapped and knocked to get at the treasure, as if his life depended on his finding it. In the technical sense I do not understand very much about music, but this form of the soul’s expression I have from my childhood intuitively understood; I feel music is something which I can comprehend without initiation.

Two or three times, while wandering through the streets, I had heard an organ playing in a small suburban church. But I had not stopped to listen. The next time I passed the church, I heard the organ again and recognized the music as Bach. I went to the door, but it was locked. Since the street was almost empty, I sat on the curb near the church, turned up my coat collar, and listened. The organ was not large, but it was a good one. Whoever was playing played wonderfully, almost like a virtuoso. But the playing also expressed a distinctive, deeply personal sense of determination and persistence. It seemed to make the music ring out like a prayer. I felt that the man playing knew a treasure was hidden in the music. He struggled, tapped, and knocked to reach it, as if his life depended on finding it. I do not know much about the technical side of music. But since childhood, I have understood this way of expressing the soul intuitively. I feel that music is something I can understand without any special training.

The organist next played something modern, it might have been Reger. The church was almost completely dark, only a very narrow beam of light shone through the window nearest to me. I waited until the end, and then walked up and down till the organist came out. He was still a young man, though older than myself, robust and thick-set. He walked quickly, taking powerful strides, but as if forcing the pace against his will.

The organist next played something modern. It might have been Reger. The church was almost completely dark. Only a very narrow beam of light shone through the window nearest me. I waited until the music ended, then paced until the organist came out. He was still a young man, though older than I was, strong and stocky. He walked quickly, taking powerful strides, but as if forcing himself to keep up the pace.

Many an evening thereafter I sat before the church, or walked up and down. Once I found the door open, and for half an hour I sat shivering and happy inside, while the organist played in the organ loft by the dim gas light. Of the music he played I heard not only what he himself put into it. There seemed also to be a secret coherence in his repertory, each piece seemed to be the continuation of the one preceding. Everything he played was pious, expressing faith and devotion. But not pious like church-goers and clergymen, but like pilgrims and beggars of the Middle Ages, pious with a reckless surrender to a world-feeling, which was superior to all confessions of faith. He frequently played music by the pre-Bach composers, and old Italian music. And all the pieces said the same thing, all expressed what the musician had in his soul: longing, a longing to identify oneself with the world and to tear oneself free again, listening to the workings of one’s own dark soul, an orgy of devotion and lively curiosity of the wonderful.

Many evenings after that, I sat outside the church or walked back and forth. Once I found the door open. I sat inside for half an hour, shivering and happy, while the organist played in the loft by dim gaslight. I heard more in the music than he himself put into it. There also seemed to be a secret connection among the pieces he played. Each one seemed to continue the one before it. Everything he played was religious, expressing faith and devotion. But the music was not religious in the way churchgoers and clergy were. It was religious like the pilgrims and beggars of the Middle Ages. It expressed a reckless surrender to a feeling of oneness with the world, a feeling above all statements of faith. He often played music by composers who came before Bach, as well as old Italian music. All the pieces said the same thing. They all expressed what the musician held in his soul: longing. It was a longing to become one with the world and then tear oneself free again. It was a longing to listen to the workings of one’s own dark soul, an outpouring of devotion and lively curiosity about the wonders of the world.

I once secretly followed the organist as he left the church. He continued his way to the outskirts of the town and entered a little tavern. I could not resist the temptation to go in after him. For the first time I had a clear view of him. He sat at the table in the corner of the little room, a black felt hat on his head, a measure of wine before him, and his face was just as I had expected it to be. It was ugly and somewhat uncouth, with the look of a seeker and of an eccentric, obstinate and strong-willed, with a soft and childish mouth. The expression of what was strong and manly lay in the eyes and forehead; on the lower half of the face sat a look of gentleness and immaturity, rather effeminate and showing a lack of self-mastery. The chin indicated a boyish indecision, as if in contradiction with the eyes and forehead. I liked the dark brown eyes, full of pride and hostility.

Once, I secretly followed the organist as he left the church. He went to the edge of town and entered a small tavern. I couldn’t resist going in after him. For the first time, I saw him clearly. He sat at a table in the corner of the small room, wearing a black felt hat. A measure of wine stood before him, and his face was just as I had expected. It was ugly and somewhat coarse, with the look of a seeker and an eccentric. He looked stubborn and strong-willed, but his mouth was soft and childlike. His eyes and forehead showed strength and manliness. The lower half of his face looked gentle and immature, rather feminine and lacking in self-control. His chin suggested a boyish indecision, as if it contradicted his eyes and forehead. I liked his dark brown eyes, which were full of pride and hostility.

Silently I took my place opposite him. There was no one else in the tavern. He glared at me, as if he wished to chase me away. Nevertheless I maintained my position, looking at him unflinchingly, until at last he growled testily: “What the deuce are you staring at me for? Do you want anything of me?”

I silently sat down opposite him. There was no one else in the tavern. He glared at me as if he wanted to drive me away. But I stayed where I was, looking steadily back at him. At last he growled irritably: “What the hell are you staring at me for? Do you want something from me?”

“I don’t want anything,” I said. “You have already given me much.”

“I don’t want anything,” I said. “You’ve already given me a lot.”

He wrinkled his forehead.

He furrowed his brow.

“Ah, you’re a music enthusiast, are you? I think it’s disgusting to go mad over music.”

“Oh, so you’re a music lover? I think it’s disgusting to be obsessed with music.”

I did not let myself be intimidated.

I refused to be intimidated.

“I have so often listened to your playing, there in the church,” I said. “But I don’t want to bother you. I thought perhaps I should discover something in you, something special, I don’t know exactly what. But please don’t mind me. I can listen to you in the church.”

“I’ve listened to you play in the church so many times,” I said. “But I don’t want to bother you. I thought perhaps I’d find something special in you. I’m not sure exactly what. But please don’t mind me. I can listen to you in the church.”

“Why, I always lock the door!”

“But I always lock the door!”

“Just lately you forgot, and I sat inside. Otherwise I stand outside or sit on the curb-stone.”

“Recently, you forgot, and I sat inside. Otherwise, I stand outside or sit on the curb.”

“Is that so? Another time you can come inside, it’s warmer. You’ve simply got to knock on the door. But loudly, and not while I’m playing. Now—what did you want to say? But you’re quite young, apparently a schoolboy or student. Are you a musician?”

“Is that so? Next time you can come inside. It’s warmer in here. You just have to knock on the door. But knock loudly, and not while I’m playing. Now, what did you want to say? But you’re quite young. You seem to be a schoolboy or a student. Are you a musician?”

“No. I like music, but only the kind you play, absolute music, where one feels that someone is trying to fathom heaven and hell. I like music so much, I think, because it is not concerned with morals. Everything else is a question of morals, and I am looking for something different. Whatever has been concerned with morals has caused me only suffering. I don’t express myself properly. Do you know that there must be a god who is at the same time god and devil? There must have been one, I have heard so.”

“No. I like music, but only the kind you play. I like absolute music, where you can feel someone trying to understand heaven and hell. I think I like music so much because it has nothing to do with morals. Everything else is a question of morals, and I’m looking for something different. Everything concerned with morals has brought me only suffering. I’m not explaining myself well. Do you know there must be a god who is both god and devil? There must have been one. I’ve heard there was.”

The organist pushed back his broad hat and shook the dark hair from his forehead. He looked at me penetratingly and bent forward his face towards me over the table.

The organist pushed back his wide hat and shook his dark hair off his forehead. He looked at me intently and leaned across the table toward me.

Softly and tensely he questioned:

He asked softly and tensely:

“What’s the name of the god of whom you are talking?”

“What’s the name of the god you’re talking about?”

“Unfortunately I know practically nothing about him really, only his name. His name’s Abraxas.”

“Unfortunately, I know almost nothing about him. I only know his name. His name is Abraxas.”

The musician looked distrustfully around, as if someone might be eavesdropping. Then he bent towards me and said in a whisper: “I thought so. Who are you?”

The musician looked around suspiciously, as if someone might be listening. Then he leaned toward me and whispered: “I thought so. Who are you?”

“I’m a student from the school.”

“I’m a student from the school.”

“How do you know about Abraxas?”

“How do you know about Abraxas?”

“By chance.”

“By chance.”

He thumped on the table, so that his wine spilled over.

He thumped the table, spilling his wine.

“Chance! Don’t talk nonsense, young man! One doesn’t know of Abraxas by chance, mark you. I will tell you something more of him. I know a little about him!”

“Chance! Don’t talk nonsense, young man! People don’t learn about Abraxas by chance, remember that. I’ll tell you more about him. I know a little about him!”

He ceased talking and pushed back his chair. I looked at him expectantly, and he made a grimace.

He stopped talking and pushed back his chair. I looked at him expectantly, and he grimaced.

“Not here! another time. There, take these!”

“Not here! Another time. Here, take these!”

He dug his hand into the pocket of his overcoat, which he had not taken off, and pulled out a couple of roasted chestnuts, which he threw to me.

He had not taken off his overcoat. He reached into its pocket and pulled out a couple of roasted chestnuts. He threw them to me.

I said nothing. I took and ate them, and was very contented.

I said nothing. I took them, ate them, and felt very content.

“Well,” he whispered after a while. “How do you know about—him?”

“Well,” he whispered after a while. “How do you know about... him?”

I did not hesitate to tell him.

I didn't hesitate to tell him.

“I was lonely and perplexed,” I related. “I called to mind a friend of former years who, I think, knows a great deal. I had painted something, a bird coming out of a terrestrial globe. I sent this to him. After a time, when I had begun to lose hope of a reply, a piece of paper fell into my hands. On it was written: ‘The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Whoever will be born must destroy a world. The bird flies to God. The name of the god is Abraxas.’”

“I was lonely and confused,” I said. “I thought of an old friend who, I believe, knows a great deal. I had painted a bird coming out of a globe of the earth. I sent him the painting. After a while, I began to lose hope of a reply. Then a piece of paper came into my hands. It said: ‘The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Whoever wants to be born must destroy a world. The bird flies to God. The name of the god is Abraxas.’”

He answered nothing. We peeled our chestnuts and ate them, and drank our wine.

He said nothing. We peeled and ate our chestnuts and drank our wine.

“Shall we have another drink?” he asked.

“Should we have another drink?” he asked.

“Thanks, no. I don’t care much for drinking.”

“Thanks, no. I don’t really like drinking.”

He laughed, somewhat disappointedly.

He laughed, sounding a little disappointed.

“As you wish! I am different. I am staying here. You can go now!”

“Have it your way! I’m different. I’m staying here. You can go now!”

The next time I saw him after the organ recital, he was not very communicative. He conducted me through an old street to an old, stately house and upstairs into a large, somewhat gloomy and untidy room where, besides a piano, there was nothing to indicate that its occupant was a musician. Instead, a huge bookcase and writing table gave the room a somewhat scholarly air.

The next time I saw him after the organ recital, he did not say much. He led me down an old street to a grand old house. Upstairs, he took me into a large room that was somewhat gloomy and untidy. Apart from a piano, nothing in the room suggested that its occupant was a musician. Instead, a huge bookcase and a writing desk gave the room a somewhat scholarly feel.

“What a lot of books you have!” I said appreciatively.

“You have so many books!” I said, admiringly.

“A part of them belongs to the library of my father, with whom I live. Yes, young man, I live with my father and mother, but I cannot introduce you to them, as I and my acquaintances meet with but scant respect at home. I am a prodigal son, you see. My father is very much looked up to, he is a well-known clergyman and preacher in this town. And I, to let you know at once, am his talented and promising son, who, however, is guilty of many back-slidings, and, to a certain extent, mad. I was studying theology, and deserted this worthy faculty shortly before my final examination, although really I am still in the same line, as far as concerns my private studies. For me it is still of the highest importance and interest what sort of gods people have invented for themselves at various times. I am a musician into the bargain, and shall soon get a post as organist, I think. Then I shall be in the church again.”

“Some of them belong to my father’s library. I live with him. Yes, young man, I live with my father and mother. But I cannot introduce you to them, because my acquaintances and I get little respect at home. You see, I am a prodigal son. My father is highly respected, a well-known clergyman and preacher in this town. And I might as well tell you at once that I am his talented and promising son. But I have often gone astray and am, to some extent, mad. I was studying theology, but I left that worthy field shortly before my final exam. Still, I continue to study theology privately. For me, the kinds of gods people have invented for themselves at different times remain deeply important and interesting. I am also a musician, and I think I will soon get a job as an organist. Then I will be back in the church.”

I glanced over the backs of the books and found Greek, Latin, Hebrew titles, as far as I could see by the feeble light of the lamp on the table. My acquaintance, meanwhile, had taken up a position on the floor in the dark by the wall.

I glanced at the spines of the books. As far as I could see in the dim light of the lamp on the table, the titles were in Greek, Latin, and Hebrew. Meanwhile, my acquaintance had settled on the floor in the dark by the wall.

“Come here,” he called after a while, “we will practice a little philosophy. That means keeping one’s mouth shut, lying on one’s stomach and thinking.”

“Come here,” he called after a while. “Let’s practice a little philosophy. That means keeping your mouth shut, lying on your stomach, and thinking.”

He struck a match and applied it to the paper and wood in the fireplace, in front of which he was lying. The flame leapt up; he poked and blew the fire with great skill. I lay down near him on the ragged carpet. He stared into the flames, which drew my attention as well, and we lay silent for perhaps a whole hour stretched out in front of the flaring wood fire. We watched it flame and roar, die down and flicker up again, until finally it settled down into a subdued glow.

He struck a match and lit the paper and wood in the fireplace in front of him. The flames leapt up. He expertly poked the fire and blew on it. I lay down beside him on the ragged carpet. He stared into the flames, and they drew my attention too. We stretched out in front of the blazing wood fire and lay silent for perhaps a whole hour. We watched the fire flare and roar, die down and flicker up again. Finally, it settled into a quiet glow.

“Fire worship was not by any means the silliest form of worship invented,” he murmured without looking up. Those were the only words spoken. With staring eyes I gazed into the fire. Lulled by the tranquillity of the room, I sank in dreams, seeing shapes in the smoke and pictures in the ashes. Once I started up. My companion had thrown a little bit of resin into the glow. A little slender flame shot up, I saw in it the bird with the gold hawk’s head. In the glow which died away in the fireplace, golden glittering threads wove themselves together into a net, letters and pictures, memories of faces, of animals, of plants, of worms and serpents. When I woke from my reveries and looked across at my companion, he was absorbed, staring at the ashes with the fixed gaze of a fanatic, his chin in his hands.

“Fire worship was far from the silliest form of worship ever invented,” he murmured without looking up. Those were the only words spoken. I stared into the fire. Calmed by the quiet room, I drifted into dreams, seeing shapes in the smoke and pictures in the ashes. Once, I started up. My companion had thrown a little resin into the embers. A small, slender flame shot up, and I saw the bird with the golden hawk’s head in it. In the dying glow of the fireplace, glittering golden threads wove themselves into a net. They formed letters and pictures, memories of faces, animals, plants, worms, and serpents. When I came out of my daydream and looked across at my companion, he was absorbed. With his chin in his hands, he stared at the ashes with the fixed gaze of a fanatic.

“I must go now,” I said softly.

“I have to go now,” I said softly.

“Well, go then, good-bye!”

“Well, go then. Goodbye!”

He did not get up, and as the lamp had gone out, I had to feel my way across the dark room, through dark corridors and down the stairs, and so out of the enchanted old dwelling. Once in the street I stopped and looked up at the house. In not one of the windows was a light burning. A little brass-plate shone in the gleam of the gas-lamp before the door.

He did not get up, and the lamp had gone out. So I felt my way across the dark room, through dark corridors, and down the stairs. Then I left the enchanted old house. Once in the street, I stopped and looked up at the house. There was no light in any of its windows. A small brass plate shone in the light of the gas lamp by the door.

“Pistorius, vicar,” I read thereon. As I sat in my little room after supper I remembered that I had learnt nothing about Abraxas, or anything else from Pistorius. We had scarcely exchanged ten words. But I was quite contented with the visit I had paid him. And he had promised to play next time an exquisite piece of organ music, a Passacaglia by Buxtehude.

“Pistorius, vicar,” I read there. After supper, I sat in my little room and remembered that I had learned nothing from Pistorius about Abraxas or anything else. We had hardly exchanged ten words. But I was quite content with my visit. And he had promised to play a beautiful piece of organ music next time, a Passacaglia by Buxtehude.

Without my having realized it, the organist Pistorius had given me a first lesson, as we lay on the floor in front of the fireplace of his melancholy hermit’s room. Staring into the fire had done me good, it had confirmed and set in activity tendencies which I had always had, but had never really followed. Gradually and in part I saw light on the subject.

Without my realizing it, the organist Pistorius had given me my first lesson. We had been lying on the floor in front of the fireplace in his gloomy, solitary room. Staring into the fire had done me good. It had confirmed and stirred tendencies I had always had but never really followed. Gradually, I began to understand them, at least in part.

When quite a child I had from time to time the propensity to watch bizarre forms of nature, not observing them closely, but simply surrendering myself to their peculiar magic, absorbed by the contemplation of their curling shapes. Long dignified tree-roots, colored veins in stone, flecks of oil floating on water, flaws in glass—all things of a similar nature had had great charm for me at that time, above all, water and fire, smoke, clouds, dust, and especially the little circulating colored specks which I saw when I closed my eyes. In the days following my first visit to Pistorius this began to come back to me. I noticed that I was indebted solely to staring into the open fire for a certain strength and pleasure, for the increase in my depth of feeling which I had felt since. It was curiously beneficial and enriching—dreaming and staring into the fire!

When I was very young, I sometimes liked to watch strange shapes in nature. I didn’t study them closely. I simply gave myself over to their peculiar magic, absorbed in watching their curling forms. Long, stately tree roots, colored veins in stone, flecks of oil floating on water, and flaws in glass all fascinated me then. So did everything of that kind. Above all, I loved water and fire, smoke, clouds, dust, and especially the little colored specks that moved around when I closed my eyes. In the days after my first visit to Pistorius, this habit began to return. I realized that I owed a certain strength and pleasure entirely to staring into the open fire. I also owed to it the deeper feelings I had experienced since. Dreaming and staring into the fire were strangely helpful and enriching!

To the few experiences I had gained on the road to the attainment of my proper ends in life was added this new one: The contemplation of such shapes, the surrendering of oneself to these irrational, twisting, odd forms of nature, engenders in us a feeling of the harmony of our inner being with the will which brought forth these shapes; we soon feel the temptation to look upon them as our own creations, as if made by our own moods; we see the boundary between ourselves and nature waver and vanish; we learn to know the state of mind by outside impressions, or by inward. In no way so simply and so easily as by this practice do we discover to what a great extent we are creators, to what a great extent our souls have part in the continual creation of the world. Or rather, it is the same indivisible godhead, which is active in us and in nature. If the outside world fell in ruins, one of us would be capable of building it up again, for mountain and stream, tree and leaf, root and blossom, all that is shaped by nature lies modeled in us, comes from the soul, whose essence is eternity, of whose essence we are ignorant, but which is revealed to us for the most part as love-force and creative power.

I had gained only a few experiences on the way to fulfilling my true purpose in life. Now I gained another: when we contemplate these irrational, twisting, strange forms in nature and surrender ourselves to them, we feel a harmony between our inner selves and the will that created them. We soon feel tempted to see these forms as our own creations, as if our moods had made them. We see the boundary between ourselves and nature waver and disappear. We learn to recognize a state of mind through impressions from outside or within. Nothing reveals so simply and easily how much we are creators, how much our souls share in the world's continual creation. Or rather, the same indivisible divine power is at work in us and in nature. If the outside world fell into ruins, any one of us would be capable of rebuilding it. Mountains and streams, trees and leaves, roots and blossoms, everything shaped by nature, exist as models within us. They come from the soul, whose essence is eternity. We do not know the soul's essence, but it reveals itself to us mostly as the force of love and creative power.

Many years later I found this observation confirmed in a book, one of Leonardo da Vinci’s, who in one passage remarks how good and deeply moving it is to look at a wall on which many people have spat. He felt the same sensation before those spots on the wet wall as Pistorius and I before the fire.

Many years later, I found this observation confirmed in a book by Leonardo da Vinci. In one passage, he says how good and deeply moving it is to look at a wall where many people have spat. The spots on the wet wall gave him the same feeling that Pistorius and I had before the fire.

At our next meeting the organist enlightened me still further on the subject.

At our next meeting, the organist told me more about the subject.

“We confine our personality within much too narrow bounds. We count as composing our person only that which distinguishes us as individuals, only that which we recognize as irregular. But we are made up from the entire world stock, each one of us, and just as in our body is displayed the genealogical table of development back to the fish stage and still further, so we have accumulated in our souls all the experiences through which a human soul has ever lived. All the gods and devils which have ever been, whether those of the Greeks or Chinese or Zulus, all are in us, are there as potentialities, as desires, as starting points. If all mankind died out, with the exception of a single moderately gifted child, who had not enjoyed the slightest instruction, so would this child rediscover the whole process of things; it would be able to produce gods, demons, paradises, the commandments and prohibitions, old and new testaments—everything.”

“We define our personalities far too narrowly. We think of ourselves as made up only of what sets us apart, what we recognize as unusual. But each of us is made up of everything the world contains. Our bodies show the whole history of our development, going back to fish and even further. In the same way, our souls contain all the experiences any human soul has ever had. All the gods and devils that have ever existed are within us, whether Greek, Chinese, or Zulu. They are there as possibilities, desires, and starting points. If all humanity died out except for one moderately gifted child who had received no education at all, that child would rediscover the whole course of events. The child would be able to create gods, demons, paradises, commandments and prohibitions, old and new testaments, everything.”

“Well and good,” I objected; “but then what does the worth of the individual consist of? Why do we continue to strive if everything has already been achieved in us?”

“All right,” I objected. “But then what gives an individual value? Why do we keep striving if everything has already been achieved in us?”

“Stop!” exclaimed Pistorius vehemently. “There is a great difference between whether one merely carries the world in oneself, or whether one is conscious of that as well. A madman can have ideas which remind one of Plato, and a pious little boy in a Moravian boarding school will recreate in his thought profound mythological ideas which occur in the gnostics or in Zoroaster. But he does not realize it! He is a tree or a stone, at best an animal, as long as he does not know it. But, when the first spark of this knowledge glimmers in him he becomes a man. You will not consider all the two-legged creatures who walk out there in the street as human beings, simply because they walk erect and carry their young nine months in the womb? Look how many of them are fish or sheep, worms or leeches, how many are ants or bees. Well, in reach of them are the possibilities of becoming human creatures, but only when they feel this, it is only when, if even in part, they learn to make them conscious, that these potentialities become theirs.”

“Stop!” Pistorius exclaimed fiercely. “There is a great difference between carrying the world within yourself and being aware that you carry it. A madman can have ideas that remind us of Plato. A devout little boy at a Moravian boarding school may think up profound mythological ideas found in the gnostics or in Zoroaster. But he does not realize it! As long as he does not know it, he is a tree or a stone, or at best an animal. But when the first spark of this knowledge glimmers in him, he becomes a man. “Surely you don’t consider all the two-legged creatures walking out there in the street human beings. Not simply because they walk upright and carry their young in the womb for nine months. Look how many of them are fish or sheep, worms or leeches, ants or bees. Well, each of them has the possibility of becoming human within reach. But these possibilities become theirs only when they feel them and learn to become conscious of them, even if only in part.”

Our conversations were somewhat after this style. They seldom taught me anything completely new, anything absolutely surprising. But all, even the most banal, hit like a light persistent hammer-stroke on the same point in me, all helped in my development, all helped to peel off skins, to break up eggshells, and after each talk I held my head somewhat higher, I was more sure of myself until my yellow bird pushed his beautiful bird-of-prey crest through the ruins of the world-shell.

Our conversations were much like this. They rarely taught me anything completely new or absolutely surprising. But every conversation, even the most ordinary, struck the same point in me like a light, persistent hammer. Each one helped me grow, shedding layers of skin and breaking open eggshells. After each talk, I held my head a little higher and felt more sure of myself. This continued until my yellow bird pushed his beautiful bird-of-prey crest through the ruins of the world-shell.

We frequently related our dreams to one another. Pistorius knew how to interpret them. A curious example comes to my mind. I dreamed I was able to fly. I was flung through the air, so to speak—impelled by a great force over which I had not the mastery. The sensation of this flight was exhilarating, but soon changed to fear as I saw myself snatched up involuntarily to risky heights. There I made the saving discovery that I could control my rise and fall by arresting my breath and by breathing again.

We often told each other our dreams. Pistorius knew how to interpret them. One curious example comes to mind. I dreamed I could fly. I was flung through the air, as if driven by a great force I could not control. Flying felt exhilarating at first. But I soon grew afraid as I saw myself being pulled against my will to dangerous heights. Then I discovered something that saved me. I could control how high or low I went by holding my breath and breathing again.

Pistorius interpreted it as follows: “The swing, which sent you up into the air, is the great property of mankind, which everyone possesses. It is the feeling of close relationship with the springs of every force, but it soon causes anxiety. It is cursedly dangerous! For that reason most people willingly renounce flying, preferring to walk according to prescribed laws along the footpath. But not you. You fly higher, as befits an intelligent fellow. And behold, you make a wonderful discovery there, namely, you gradually get the mastery over the impelling force. In other words, you acquire a fine little force of your own, an instrument, a rudder. That is splendid. Without that one goes floating into the air without any will of one’s own; madmen, for instance, do that. They have deeper presentiments than the people on the footpath. But they have no key and no rudder, they fall whistling through the air, down into the fathomless depths. But you, Sinclair, you manage all right! And how, pray? You probably don’t even know. You manage with a new instrument, with a breath regulator. And now you can see, that your soul isn’t really ‘personal’ at bottom. I mean that you didn’t invent this regulator. It isn’t new. It is a loan, it has existed for thousands of years. It is the balancing organ fish have—the air-bladder. Even to-day we actually still have a few very rare kinds of fish whose air-bladder is at the same time a sort of lung; and on occasion can use it to breathe with. In your dream you made use of your lungs in exactly the same way as these fish do their air-bladder.”

Pistorius interpreted it this way: “The swing that sent you up into the air is a great gift that belongs to everyone. It is the feeling of a close connection to the sources of every force, but it soon causes anxiety. It is damned dangerous! That is why most people willingly give up flying. They prefer to walk along the footpath, following prescribed rules. But not you. You fly higher, as an intelligent fellow should. And look, you make a wonderful discovery up there. Gradually, you learn to control the force that drives you. In other words, you acquire a fine little force of your own, an instrument, a rudder. That is splendid. Without it, you float into the air without any will of your own. Madmen, for instance, do that. They have deeper presentiments than the people on the footpath. But they have no key and no rudder. They fall whistling through the air, down into the bottomless depths. “But you, Sinclair, you manage all right! And how, may I ask? You probably don’t even know. You manage with a new instrument, a breath regulator. And now you can see that your soul isn’t really ‘personal’ at its core. I mean that you didn’t invent this regulator. It isn’t new. It is borrowed, and it has existed for thousands of years. It is the organ fish use for balance, the air bladder. Even today, we still have a few very rare kinds of fish whose air bladder also serves as a kind of lung. They can sometimes use it to breathe. In your dream, you used your lungs in exactly the same way these fish use their air bladder.”

He even brought me a volume on zoölogy, and showed me the original drawings of these ancient fish. And with a peculiar thrill I felt an organ of early evolutionary epochs functioning in me.

He even brought me a book on zoology and showed me the original drawings of these ancient fish. I felt a strange thrill as an organ from an early stage of evolution worked inside me.