Jacob Wrestles with God

I cannot relate in brief all that I learned from the singular musician Pistorius about Abraxas. The most important result of his teaching was that I made a further step forward on the road to self-realization. I was then about eighteen years old. I was a young man rather out of the ordinary, precocious in a hundred things, in a hundred other things backward and helpless. When from time to time I used to compare myself with others, I was often proud and conceited, but just as frequently I felt depressed and humiliated. I had often looked upon myself as a genius, often as half mad. I could not share the pleasures and life of the fellows of my age, and often I heaped reproaches on myself and was consumed with cares, thinking I was hopelessly cut off from them, and that life was closed to me.

I cannot briefly tell all that I learned about Abraxas from Pistorius, the unusual musician. The most important result of his teaching was that I took another step toward understanding myself. I was about eighteen then. I was an unusual young man, advanced in a hundred ways, but behind and helpless in a hundred others. When I sometimes compared myself with others, I often felt proud and conceited. But just as often, I felt depressed and ashamed. I had often thought of myself as a genius, and often as half mad. I could not share in the pleasures and lives of the boys my age. I often blamed myself and was consumed with worry. I thought I was hopelessly cut off from them and that life was closed to me.

Pistorius, himself full-grown and an eccentric, taught me to preserve my courage and my self-esteem. In constantly finding some value in my words, in my dreams, in the play of my imagination and in my ideas, in taking them seriously and discussing them, he set me an example.

Pistorius, an adult and an eccentric himself, taught me to hold on to my courage and self-esteem. He always found some value in my words, dreams, flights of imagination, and ideas. He set an example for me by taking them seriously and discussing them.

“You have told me,” he said, “that you like music because it is not moral. Well, all right. But you should be no moralist yourself! You should not compare yourself with others. If nature had created you to be a bat, you ought not to want to make yourself into an ostrich. You often consider yourself as singular, you reproach yourself with going ways different from most people. You must get out of that habit. Look in the fire, look at the clouds, and as soon as you have presentiments, and the voices of your soul begin to speak, yield to them and don’t first ask what the opinion of your master or your father would be, or whether they would be pleasing to some god or other. One spoils oneself that way. In doing that one treads the common road, becomes a fossil. Sinclair, my dear fellow, the name of our god is Abraxas. He is God and he is Satan; he has the light and the dark world in him. Abraxas has no objection to urge against any of your ideas or against any of your dreams. Never forget that. But he deserts you if you ever become blameless and normal. He deserts you and seeks out another pot in order to cook his ideas therein.”

“You told me,” he said, “that you like music because it is not moral. All right. But you shouldn’t be a moralist yourself! You shouldn’t compare yourself to others. If nature made you a bat, you shouldn’t want to turn yourself into an ostrich. You often think of yourself as unusual. You blame yourself for taking paths different from most people’s. You must break that habit. Look into the fire, look at the clouds. When you sense what is coming and the voices of your soul begin to speak, give in to them. Don’t first ask what your master or your father would think, or whether some god would approve. You spoil yourself that way. You take the common road and become a fossil. “Sinclair, my dear fellow, the name of our god is Abraxas. He is God and he is Satan. He holds the light and dark worlds within him. Abraxas has no objection to any of your ideas or dreams. Never forget that. But he abandons you if you ever become blameless and normal. He abandons you and looks for another pot in which to cook his ideas.”

Of all my dreams, that dark love-dream recurred most frequently. Often, often have I dreamed of it; often I stepped under the crest with the bird on it into our house, and wished to draw my mother to me, but instead of her I found I was embracing the tall, manly, half-motherly woman, of whom I was afraid, and yet to whom I was drawn by a most ardent desire. And I could never relate this dream to my friend. I kept it back, although I had opened my heart to him on everything else. It was my secret, my retreat, my refuge.

Of all my dreams, that dark dream of love came back most often. I dreamed it again and again. Often, I entered our house beneath the crest with the bird on it and wanted to pull my mother close. But instead, I found myself embracing the tall, manly, almost motherly woman. I was afraid of her, yet I felt an intense desire for her. And I could never tell my friend about this dream. I kept it to myself, although I had opened my heart to him about everything else. It was my secret, my retreat, my refuge.

When I was depressed, I used to beg Pistorius to play me the Passacaglia of old Buxtehude. I sat in the dark church in the evening, engrossed in this singularly intimate music, which seemed to be hearkening to itself, as if entirely self-absorbed. Each time it did me good and made me more ready to follow the promptings of my inward self.

When I felt depressed, I used to beg Pistorius to play the Passacaglia by old Buxtehude for me. In the evening, I sat in the dark church, absorbed in the unusually intimate music. It seemed to be listening to itself, as if it were completely absorbed in itself. Each time, the music did me good and made me more ready to follow the promptings of my inner self.

Sometimes we stayed awhile in the church after the strains of the organ had died away. We sat and watched the feeble light shine through the high lancet window; the light seemed to lose itself in the body of the church.

Sometimes we stayed in the church for a while after the organ music had faded. We sat and watched the faint light shine through the tall, pointed window. The light seemed to disappear into the church’s interior.

“It sounds funny,” said Pistorius, “that I once did theology and almost became a parson. But it was only an error in form that I committed. To be a priest, that is my vocation and my aim. Only I was too easily satisfied, and gave myself to the service of Jehovah before ever I knew Abraxas. Ah, every religion is beautiful! Religion is soul. It is all one whether you take communion as a Christian or whether you make a pilgrimage to Mecca.”

“It sounds funny,” said Pistorius, “that I once studied theology and almost became a pastor. But my mistake was only in the form it took. My calling and my goal are to be a priest. I was just too easily satisfied. I devoted myself to serving Jehovah before I ever knew Abraxas. Ah, every religion is beautiful! Religion is the soul. It makes no difference whether you take communion as a Christian or make a pilgrimage to Mecca.”

“Then really you might have been a clergyman,” I suggested.

“Then you really could have been a minister,” I suggested.

“No, Sinclair, no. I should have had to have lied in that case. Our religion is so practised, as if it were none. It is carried on as if it were a work of the understanding. A Catholic I could well be, if need were, but a Protestant clergyman—no! There are two kinds of genuine believers—I know such—who hold gladly to the literal interpretation. I could not say to them that for me Christ was not a mere person, but a hero, a myth, a wonderful shadow-picture, in which mankind sees itself painted on the wall of eternity. And what should I find to say to the other sort, those who go to church to hear wise words, to fulfill a duty, in order to leave nothing undone, etc.? Convert them, you think, perhaps? But that is not at all my idea. The priest does not wish to convert. He only wants to live among the believers, among those of his own kind, so that through him they may find expression for that feeling out of which we make our gods.”

“No, Sinclair, no. I would have had to lie. Our religion is practiced as if it were not a religion at all. It is treated as if it were a matter of understanding. I could be a Catholic if I had to, but not a Protestant minister. There are two kinds of genuine believers. I know some who gladly hold to the literal interpretation. I could not tell them that, for me, Christ was not merely a person. He was a hero, a myth, a wonderful shadow image. In that image, humanity sees itself painted on the wall of eternity. And what could I say to the other kind? They go to church to hear wise words, to do their duty, to leave nothing undone, and so on. Convert them, perhaps you think? But that is not at all what I have in mind. The priest does not want to convert anyone. He only wants to live among believers, among people like himself. Through him, they can express the feeling from which we make our gods.”

He broke off. Then he continued: “Our new faith, for which we have now chosen the name of Abraxas, is beautiful, my friend. It is the best we have. But it is still a nestling. Its wings have not yet grown. Alas, a lonely religion, that is not yet the true one. It must become an affair of many, it must have cult and orgy, feasts and mysteries....”

He stopped. Then he continued: “Our new faith, which we have chosen to call Abraxas, is beautiful, my friend. It is the best we have. But it is still a baby bird. Its wings have not yet grown. Sadly, a faith held alone is not yet a true faith. Many people must share it. It must have rituals and orgies, feasts and mysteries....”

He was sunk in reflection.

He was deep in thought.

“Can one not celebrate mysteries alone, or in a very small circle?” I asked hesitatingly.

“Can’t you celebrate mysteries alone, or in a very small group?” I asked hesitantly.

“Yes, one can,” he nodded. “I have been celebrating them for a long time past. I have celebrated cults for which I should have been imprisoned for years in a convict station, if they had been found out. But I know it is not the right thing.”

“Yes, you can,” he said, nodding. “I have been practicing them for a long time. I have practiced cults that would have landed me in prison for years if they had been discovered. But I know it is not the right thing to do.”

He suddenly clapped me on the shoulder, making me jump. “Young friend,” he said impressively, “you also have mysteries. I know that you must have dreams of which you make no mention to me. I don’t wish to know them. But I tell you: Live them, these dreams, play your destined part, build altars to them! It is not yet the perfect religion, but it is a way. Whether you and I and a few other people will one day renew the world remains to be seen. But we must renew it daily within us, otherwise we are of no account. Think over it! You are eighteen, Sinclair, you don’t go with loose women, you must have love-dreams, desires. Perhaps they are such that you are frightened by them! They are the best you have! Believe me! I have lost a great deal by doing violence to these love-dreams when I was your age. One should not do that. When one knows of Abraxas, one should do that no more. We should fear nothing. We should hold nothing forbidden which the soul in us desires.”

He suddenly clapped me on the shoulder, making me jump. “Young friend,” he said solemnly, “you have mysteries too. I know you must have dreams you don’t tell me about. I don’t want to know them. But I tell you: Live those dreams, play your destined part, build altars to them! It isn’t yet the perfect religion, but it is a way. Whether you and I and a few others will one day renew the world remains to be seen. But we must renew the world within ourselves every day, or we count for nothing. Think about it! “You’re eighteen, Sinclair. You don’t go with loose women, so you must have dreams of love and desires. Perhaps they frighten you! They are the best things you have! Believe me! I lost a great deal by suppressing those dreams of love when I was your age. You shouldn’t do that. Once you know about Abraxas, you shouldn’t do it anymore. We should fear nothing. We should consider nothing forbidden that our souls desire.”

Frightened, I objected: “But you can’t do everything which comes into your mind! You can’t murder a man because you can’t tolerate him.”

Frightened, I protested: “But you can’t do everything that comes to mind! You can’t murder a man because you can’t stand him.”

He pressed closer to me.

He pressed closer to me.

“There are cases where you can. Only, generally it’s a mistake. I don’t mean that you can simply do everything which comes into your mind. No, but you shouldn’t do injury to those ideas in which there is sense, you shouldn’t banish them from your mind or moralize about them. Instead of getting oneself crucified or crucifying others, one can solemnly drink wine out of a cup, thinking the while on the mystery of sacrifice. One can, without such actions, treat one’s impulses and one’s so-called temptations with esteem and love. Then you discover their meaning, and they all have meaning. Next time the idea takes you to do something really mad and sinful, Sinclair, if you would like to murder someone or to do something dreadfully obscene, then think a moment, that it is Abraxas who is indulging in a play of fancy. The man you would like to kill is never really Mr. So and So, that is really only a disguise. When we hate a man, we hate in him something which resides in us ourselves. What is not in us does not move us.”

“There are cases where you can. But generally, it’s a mistake. I don’t mean you can simply do everything that comes into your mind. No, but you shouldn’t hurt the ideas that make sense. You shouldn’t banish them from your mind or moralize about them. Instead of having yourself crucified or crucifying others, you can solemnly drink wine from a cup. As you drink, you can think about the mystery of sacrifice. Without doing such things, you can treat your impulses and your so-called temptations with respect and love. Then you discover their meaning, and they all have meaning. Next time you feel like doing something really mad and sinful, Sinclair, pause for a moment. If you want to murder someone or do something terribly obscene, remember that Abraxas is playing with an idea. The man you want to kill is never really Mr. So-and-So. That is only a disguise. When we hate a man, we hate something in him that also lives in us. What is not in us does not move us.”

Never had Pistorius said anything to me which went home so deeply as this. I could not reply. But what moved me most singularly and most powerfully was that Pistorius in this conversation had struck the same note as Demian, whose words I had carried in my mind for years and years past. They knew nothing of one another, and both said to me the same thing.

Nothing Pistorius had ever said to me had affected me so deeply. I could not reply. But what moved me most, in a strange and powerful way, was how much Pistorius sounded like Demian. I had carried Demian’s words in my mind for years and years. The two men knew nothing about each other, yet both said the same thing to me.

“The things we see,” said Pistorius softly, “are the same things which are in us. There is no reality except that which we have in ourselves. For that reason most people live so unreally, because they hold the impressions of the outside world for real, and their own world in themselves never enters into their consideration. You can be happy like that. But if once you know of the other, then you no longer have the choice to go the way most people go. Sinclair, the road for most people is easy, ours is hard. Let us go.”

“The things we see,” Pistorius said softly, “are the same things that are inside us. There is no reality except the one within us. That is why most people live so unrealistically. They take their impressions of the outside world as real and never consider the world within themselves. You can be happy living that way. But once you know about the world within, you can no longer choose the path most people take. Sinclair, the road is easy for most people, but hard for us. Let us go.”

A few days later, after I had on two occasions waited for him in vain, I met him late one evening in the street. He came stumbling round a corner, blown along by the cold night wind. He was very drunk. I did not like to call him. He passed by without noticing me, staring in front of him with strange, glowing eyes, as though he were moving in obedience to a dark call from the unknown. I followed him down one street. He drifted along as if drawn by an invisible wire, with the swaying gait of a fanatic, or like a ghost. Sadly I went home, to the unsolved problems of my dreams.

A few days later, I met him on the street late one evening. I had waited for him twice, but he had not come. He stumbled around a corner, blown along by the cold night wind. He was very drunk. I did not want to call out to him. He passed without noticing me, staring ahead with strange, glowing eyes. He seemed to be answering a dark call from the unknown. I followed him down a street. He drifted along as if pulled by an invisible wire, swaying like a fanatic or a ghost. Sadly, I went home to the unsolved problems of my dreams.

“Thus he renews the world in himself!” I thought, and felt instantly that my thought was base and moral. What did I know of his dreams? Perhaps in his intoxication he was going a surer way than in my anxiety.

“So he renews the world within himself!” I thought, and immediately felt that my thought was low and moralizing. What did I know about his dreams? Perhaps, in his intoxication, he was on a surer path than I was in my anxiety.

In the intervals between lessons it struck me once or twice that a boy who had never before attracted my notice was hovering about in my proximity. It was a little, weak-looking, slim youngster with reddish-blond thin hair, who had something peculiar in his look and behavior. One evening as I came home he was on the watch for me in the street. He let me pass by, then walked behind me; and remained standing in front of the door of the house.

Once or twice between lessons, I noticed a boy hanging around near me. I had never noticed him before. He was small, slim, and weak-looking, with thin, reddish-blond hair. There was something odd about his expression and behavior. One evening, as I came home, he was waiting for me in the street. He let me pass, then followed me and stopped in front of the house.

“Can I do anything for you?” I asked.

“Can I do anything for you?” I asked.

“I only want to speak to you,” he said timidly. “Be good enough to come a few steps with me.”

“I just want to talk to you,” he said timidly. “Please walk a few steps with me.”

I followed him, observing that he was deeply excited and full of expectation. His hands trembled.

I followed him and noticed that he was deeply excited and full of anticipation. His hands trembled.

“Are you a Spiritualist?” he asked quite suddenly.

“Are you a Spiritualist?” he asked suddenly.

“No, Knauer,” I said, laughing. “Not a bit. How did you get hold of that idea?”

“No, Knauer,” I said, laughing. “Not at all. Where did you get that idea?”

“But you are a Theosophist?”

“But you’re a Theosophist?”

“No again.”

“No again.”

“Oh, please don’t be so reserved. I feel with absolute certitude there is something singular about you. It is in your eyes. I thought it certain you communed with spirits. I am not asking out of curiosity, Sinclair, no! I am myself a seeker, you know, and I am so lonely.”

“Oh, please don’t be so guarded. I’m absolutely certain there’s something special about you. I can see it in your eyes. I was sure you communicated with spirits. I’m not asking out of curiosity, Sinclair, no! I’m a seeker myself, you know, and I’m so lonely.”

“Tell me, then!” I encouraged him. “I know absolutely nothing of ghosts. I live in my dreams: that is what you have felt about me. Other people live in dreams as well, but not in their own, that is the difference.”

“Tell me, then!” I encouraged him. “I know absolutely nothing about ghosts. I live in my dreams. That’s what you’ve sensed about me. Other people live in dreams too, but not their own. That’s the difference.”

“Yes, perhaps so,” he whispered. “Only it depends on the sort of dreams you live in. Have you ever heard of white magic?”

“Yes, perhaps so,” he whispered. “But it depends on the kind of dreams you live in. Have you ever heard of white magic?”

I had to admit my ignorance.

I had to admit I didn't know.

“It’s when you learn to get the mastery over yourself. You can be immortal, and have magical powers as well. Have you never practised such experiments?”

“It’s when you learn to master yourself. You can be immortal and have magical powers too. Haven’t you ever tried such experiments?”

On my evincing curiosity with regard to those practices, he was mysteriously silent, but when I turned to go he burst out in explanation.

When I showed curiosity about those practices, he was mysteriously silent. But when I turned to leave, he suddenly began to explain.

“For example, when I go to sleep or when I wish to concentrate my thoughts I do such exercises. I think of something or other, a word for instance, or a name, or a geometrical figure. Then I think it into myself, as strongly as I can. I try to get it into my head, until I feel it is there. Then I think it in my neck, and so on, until I am quite full of it. Then my thoughts are concentrated and nothing more can disturb my repose.”

“For example, I do these exercises when I go to sleep or want to concentrate. I think of something, perhaps a word, a name, or a geometric shape. Then I think it into myself as strongly as I can. I try to get it into my head until I feel it is there. Then I think it into my neck, and so on, until I am completely full of it. Then my thoughts are focused, and nothing can disturb my peace.”

I understood to a certain degree what he meant. Yet I felt he had something else in his mind, he was oddly excited and hasty. I tried to make the questions easy for him, and he soon gave me an indication of what immediately concerned him.

I understood what he meant, at least to some extent. But I felt he had something else on his mind. He seemed strangely excited and rushed. I tried to make the questions easier for him. Soon he gave me a hint of what was on his mind just then.

“You are also continent?” he asked me anxiously.

“Are you also sexually abstinent?” he asked me anxiously.

“What do you mean by that? Do you mean it from the sex point of view?”

“What do you mean by that? Do you mean it in a sexual way?”

“Yes, yes. I have been continent for two years, since I knew of what I have told you. Before that I practised a vice, you know what. You have never been with a woman, then?”

“Yes, yes. I have abstained from sex for two years, since I learned what I told you about. Before that, I practiced a vice, you know which one. So you have never been with a woman?”

“No,” I said. “I haven’t found the right one.”

“No,” I said. “I haven’t found the right one.”

“But if you should find her, the one you consider the right one, then would you sleep with her?”

“But if you found her, the one you think is right for you, would you sleep with her?”

“Yes, naturally. If she had nothing against it,” I said with some scorn.

“Yes, of course. If she didn’t mind,” I said, with some scorn.

“Oh, then you are on a false track! One can only perfect one’s inner forces if one remains entirely continent. I have done it, for two whole years. Two years and a little more than a month! It’s so hard. Often I can scarcely hold out any longer.”

“Oh, then you’re on the wrong track! You can only perfect your inner powers if you abstain completely from sex. I’ve done it for two whole years. Two years and a little over a month! It’s so hard. Often I can barely keep it up any longer.”

“Listen, Knauer, I don’t believe that continency is so terribly important.”

“Listen, Knauer, I don’t think sexual abstinence is so terribly important.”

“I know,” he parried, “they all say that. But I did not expect to hear it from you. Whoever will go the higher spiritual way must remain pure, unconditionally!”

“I know,” he replied, “they all say that. But I didn’t expect to hear it from you. Anyone who wants to follow the higher spiritual path must remain pure, without exception!”

“Well, then, do so! But I don’t understand why one man should be purer than another, because he represses his sex instincts. Or can you switch off all sexual matters from your thoughts and dreams?”

“Well, then, do it! But I don’t understand why one man should be purer than another because he suppresses his sexual instincts. Can you shut out all sexual thoughts from your mind and dreams?”

He looked despairingly at me.

He looked at me in despair.

“No, that’s just it. God! and yet it must be. At night I have dreams which I couldn’t relate even to myself. Terrible dreams, terrible!”

“No, that’s just it. God! And yet it must be. At night I have dreams I couldn’t even tell myself about. Terrible dreams, terrible!”

I recollected what Pistorius had said to me. But however much I felt his words to be right I could not pass them on. I could not give advice which did not result from my own experience, advice the observance of which I did not yet feel myself equal to. I was silent and felt humiliated that someone should come to me for counsel when I had none to give.

I remembered what Pistorius had told me. But no matter how right his words felt, I could not pass them on. I could not give advice that did not come from my own experience. Nor could I give advice that I did not yet feel capable of following myself. I stayed silent and felt humiliated that someone had come to me for advice when I had none to give.

“I have tried everything!” wailed Knauer beside me. “I have done all that a man can do, with cold water, with snow, with gymnastic exercises and running, but all that doesn’t help a bit. Each night I wake up out of dreams on which I dare not think. And most dreadful of all, I am by degrees losing everything that I had gained spiritually. It is almost impossible for me any longer to concentrate my thoughts or to lull myself to sleep. Often I lie awake the whole night through. I shall not be able to bear that much longer. Finally, when I can carry on the struggle no further, when I give in and make myself impure again, then I shall be worse than all the others who have never struggled against it. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I’ve tried everything!” Knauer wailed beside me. “I’ve done everything a man can do. I’ve tried cold water, snow, exercises, and running, but none of it helps at all. Every night I wake from dreams I don’t dare think about. Worst of all, I’m gradually losing everything I’ve gained spiritually. I can hardly concentrate or soothe myself to sleep anymore. I often lie awake all night. I can’t bear this much longer. Finally, when I can’t go on fighting, when I give in and make myself impure again, I’ll be worse than all the others who have never fought against it. You understand that, don’t you?”

I nodded, but could say nothing to the point. He began to bore me, and I was horrified at myself, because his obvious need and despair made no deep impression on me. My only sentiment was: I can’t help you.

I nodded, but I had nothing useful to say. He began to bore me, and I was horrified at myself. His obvious need and despair barely affected me. All I felt was: I can’t help you.

“Then you know nothing that would help me?” he asked at last, exhausted and sad. “Nothing at all? There must be some way! How do you manage?”

“So you don't know anything that could help me?” he finally asked, exhausted and sad. “Nothing at all? There must be some way! How do you manage?”

“I cannot tell you anything, Knauer. People can’t help one another in this case. No one has helped me, either. You must think of something yourself, and you must obey the prompting which really comes from your own nature. There is nothing else. If you cannot find yourself, you won’t find any spirits, either.”

“I can’t tell you anything, Knauer. People can’t help each other in this situation. No one has helped me, either. You must think of something yourself, and follow the promptings that truly come from your own nature. There is nothing else. If you can’t find yourself, you won’t find any spirits, either.”

Disappointed, and suddenly become dumb, the little fellow looked at me. Then his look suddenly glowed with hate, he made a grimace at me and cried with rage: “Ah, you’re a nice sort of saint! You have your vice as well, I know! You pretend to wisdom, and secretly you stick in the same filth as I and all of us! You’re swine, swine, like myself. We are all swine!”

Disappointed and suddenly speechless, the little fellow looked at me. Then his eyes suddenly burned with hate. He made a face at me and cried out in rage: “Oh, some saint you are! You have your own vice too, I know! You pretend to be wise, but secretly you’re stuck in the same filth as me and everyone else! You’re a pig, a pig like me. We’re all pigs!”

I went away and left him standing there. He made two, three steps in my direction, then he stopped, turned round and ran away. I felt sick from a feeling of pity and horror. I could not get rid of the feeling until I got home to my little room, and placing my few pictures before me, I surrendered myself up with passionate fervor to my dreams. My dreams came back at once, the dream of front door and crest, of mother and the strange woman, and I saw the features of the woman so very clearly that I began to draw her picture the same evening.

I walked away and left him standing there. He took two or three steps toward me, then stopped, turned around, and ran away. I felt sick with pity and horror. I couldn't shake the feeling until I got home to my little room. There, I placed my few pictures in front of me and gave myself over passionately to my dreams. They came back at once: the dream of the front door and crest, of my mother and the strange woman. I saw the woman's features so clearly that I began to draw her that same evening.

In a few days this drawing was finished, painted in as if unconsciously in dreamy quarter-of-an-hour periods. In the evening I hung it on the wall, put the reading lamp in front of it, and stood before it as before a spirit with whom I had to fight until victory should be decided one way or the other. It was a face similar to the former, resembling my friend Demian, in certain traits even resembling myself. One eye stood perceptibly higher than the other, the look passed over me, sunk in a staring gaze, full of destiny.

Within a few days, I finished the drawing. I had painted it in dreamy fifteen-minute spells, as if without thinking. In the evening, I hung it on the wall and placed the reading lamp in front of it. I stood before it as if it were a spirit I had to fight until one of us won. The face was similar to the previous one. It resembled my friend Demian and, in some features, even resembled me. One eye was noticeably higher than the other. Its gaze passed over me, fixed in a stare full of destiny.

I stood before it. Such was my inward exertion that I became cold to the marrow. I questioned the picture, I abused it, I caressed it, I prayed to it. I called it mother, I called it beloved, called it strumpet and whore, called it Abraxas. Meanwhile words of Pistorius crossed my mind, or of Demian? I could not recollect on what occasion they had been spoken, but I thought I heard them again. They were the words of Jacob wrestling with the angel of God. “I will not let thee go, except thou bless me.”

I stood before it. The effort inside me was so intense that I felt cold to the bone. I questioned the picture, cursed it, caressed it, and prayed to it. I called it mother and beloved. I called it a slut and a whore. I called it Abraxas. Meanwhile, words from Pistorius crossed my mind. Or were they Demian’s? I couldn’t remember when the words had been spoken, but I thought I heard them again. They were Jacob’s words as he wrestled with the angel of God. “I will not let you go unless you bless me.”

The painted face in the lamplight changed at each appeal. It was bright and shining, was black and gloomy; it closed pale lids over dead eyes, opened them again and flashed a burning look. It was woman, man, girl, was a little child, an animal, vanished to a speck, was again tall and clear. At last, in response to a strong inward prompting, I closed my eyes, and saw the picture inwardly in me, stronger and more powerful. I wished to kneel down before it, but it was so much within me, that I could separate it from myself no more; it seemed as if it had entirely identified itself with me.

The painted face changed in the lamplight with each appeal. It was bright and shining, then dark and gloomy. It closed pale lids over dead eyes, then opened them again and flashed a burning look. It was a woman, a man, a girl, a small child, an animal. It vanished to a speck, then grew tall and clear again. At last, feeling a strong inner urge, I closed my eyes. I saw the picture within me, stronger and more powerful. I wanted to kneel before it, but it was so deeply within me that I could no longer separate it from myself. It seemed as if it had become completely one with me.

Then I heard a loud confused roar as of a spring storm. I trembled in an indescribably new feeling of fear and excitement. Stars darted before me and died out, recollections even of the first forgotten years of my childhood, of a time further back still, of a pre-existence and the early stages of existence, pressed through me. But the recollections which seemed to piece together my life’s whole history even to its most secret details did not cease with yesterday and to-day, they went farther, mirrored the future, tearing me away from to-day, changing me into new forms of life, of which the pictures were very bright and blinding. But of none of them could I call up a just image later.

Then I heard a loud, confused roar like a spring storm. I trembled with a feeling of fear and excitement unlike anything I had known. Stars flashed before me and faded. Memories surged through me, even from the forgotten first years of my childhood. Others came from a still earlier time, from a pre-existence and the earliest stages of existence. These memories seemed to piece together my whole life story, down to its most secret details. But they did not stop with yesterday and today. They went further and reflected the future. They pulled me away from the present and changed me into new forms of life. The images of these forms were intensely bright and blinding. But later I could not recall an accurate image of any of them.

In the night I woke up out of a deep sleep. I was dressed and lying transversely across the bed. I struck a light, feeling that I must try to remember something important that had happened. I knew nothing of the hours just passed. I turned on the light, and recollection came back gradually. I looked for the picture. It was not hanging on the wall, neither was it lying on the table. I thought confusedly that I must have burned it. Or was it a dream, that I had burned it in my hands and had eaten the ashes?

During the night, I woke from a deep sleep. I was fully dressed, lying sideways across the bed. I lit a match, feeling that I needed to remember something important that had happened. I could remember nothing of the past few hours. I turned on the light, and my memories gradually returned. I looked for the picture. It was not hanging on the wall or lying on the table. I thought, in my confusion, that I must have burned it. Or had I dreamed that I burned it in my hands and ate the ashes?

A great inquietude convulsed me and drove me forth. I put on my hat, went out of the house and down the street, as if under coercion. I walked and walked through streets and squares as if blown along by a storm, I listened in front of the gloomy church of my friend, searched in obedience to a blind impulse, without knowing what I was looking for. I went through a suburb, where brothels stood. Here and there a light was still shining. Further on stood new buildings and brick heaps, covered in part with grey snow. I went on through this wilderness, driven forward by a strange impulse, like a man walking in a dream. The thought of the new building in my native town crossed my mind, that building to which my tormentor Kromer had drawn me to settle accounts with him. In the grey night a similar building stood there in front of me, its black doorway yawning wide. I was drawn towards it, but wanted to shun it and stumbled over sand and rubbish. The impulse was stronger than I, I had to go in.

A great restlessness shook me and drove me outside. I put on my hat and went down the street, as if forced to go. I walked and walked through streets and squares as if a storm were blowing me along. I stopped and listened outside my friend's gloomy church. Driven by a blind impulse, I searched without knowing what I was looking for. I walked through a suburb where brothels stood. A light still shone here and there. Farther on were new buildings and piles of bricks, partly covered with gray snow. I went on through this wilderness, driven by a strange impulse, like a man walking in a dream. I thought of the new building in my hometown. My tormentor Kromer had drawn me there to settle accounts with him. In the gray night, a similar building stood in front of me, its black doorway gaping open. I was drawn toward it, but I wanted to avoid it and stumbled over sand and rubbish. The impulse was stronger than I was. I had to go in.

I staggered over planks and broken bricks into the deserted room. There was a mouldy smell of damp, cold stones. A heap of sand lay there, a grey bright speck, otherwise all else was dark.

I staggered over planks and broken bricks into the empty room. It smelled of mold and damp, cold stones. A heap of sand lay there, a bright gray speck. Everything else was dark.

Suddenly a terrified voice called to me: “In God’s name, Sinclair, where have you come from?”

Suddenly, a frightened voice called out to me: “For God’s sake, Sinclair, where did you come from?”

And a human figure rose out of the darkness close to me, a little thin shape like a ghost. I recognized, while yet my hair was standing on end, my school companion Knauer.

A figure rose from the darkness close to me, a small, thin shape like a ghost. My hair was still standing on end when I recognized my schoolmate Knauer.

“How did you get here?” he asked, as if mad with excitement. “How have you been able to find me?”

“How did you get here?” he asked, as if frantic with excitement. “How did you find me?”

I did not understand.

I didn't understand.

“I wasn’t looking for you,” I said, dazed. I spoke with difficulty, the words came from me painfully, as if from dead, heavy, frozen lips.

“I wasn’t looking for you,” I said, dazed. I could barely speak. The words came painfully, as if my lips were dead, heavy, and frozen.

“You weren’t looking for me?”

“You weren’t looking for me?”

“No. I was drawn here. Did you call me? You must have called. But what are you doing here? It’s still night.”

“No. I felt drawn here. Did you call me? You must have called. But what are you doing here? It’s still night.”

He put his thin arms convulsively round me.

He wrapped his thin arms around me in a sudden, uncontrollable movement.

“Yes, night. But it must soon be morning. Oh, Sinclair, to think that you didn’t forget me! Can you ever forgive me?”

“Yes, night. But morning must be coming soon. Oh, Sinclair, I can’t believe you didn’t forget me! Can you ever forgive me?”

“What then?”

“What happened then?”

“Ah, I was so hateful!”

“Oh, I was so hateful!”

Then I recollected our conversation. Had that taken place four, five days ago? It seemed to me like a lifetime. But suddenly I knew all. Not only what had occurred between us, but also why I had come and what Knauer wanted to do there.

Then I remembered our conversation. Had it happened four or five days ago? It felt like a lifetime ago. But suddenly I understood everything. I understood not only what had happened between us, but also why I had come and what Knauer wanted to do there.

“You wanted, then, to take your life, Knauer?”

“So you wanted to kill yourself, Knauer?”

He shuddered through cold and fear.

He shivered from cold and fear.

“Yes, I wanted to. I don’t know whether I could have. I wished to wait until the morning came.”

“Yes, I wanted to. I don’t know if I could have. I wanted to wait until morning.”

I drew him into the open. The first oblique rays of day glimmered indescribably cold through the grey atmosphere.

I led him out into the open. The first slanting rays of daylight glimmered through the gray air, cold beyond words.

I led the boy on my arm a little way. I heard my own voice saying: “Now go home, and don’t say anything to anybody. You were on a false track, a false track! And we are not swine, as you think. We are men. We make gods, and we wrestle with them, and they bless us.”

I led the boy a short way, holding his arm. I heard my own voice saying: “Now go home, and don’t tell anyone anything. You were on the wrong track, the wrong track! And we are not pigs, as you think. We are men. We make gods, and we wrestle with them, and they bless us.”

Silently we went on, and separated. When I came home it was day.

We walked on in silence, then parted. When I got home, it was daylight.

The best that mystery in St. —— had yet to give me was the hours with Pistorius at the organ or by the chimney fire. We read a Greek text about Abraxas together. He read to me portions of a translation of the Veda and taught me to say the sacred “Om.” However, it was not this learned instruction which was of service to my inner self, but rather the contrary. What did me good was the self-progression I made, the increasing confidence in my own dreams, thoughts and presentiments, and the consciousness of the power that I carried in me.

The best part of the mystery in St. —— was still the hours I spent with Pistorius at the organ or by the fire. We read a Greek text about Abraxas together. He read me passages from a translation of the Veda and taught me to say the sacred “Om.” But his learned instruction did not help my inner self. It was quite the opposite. What helped me was my own progress, my growing confidence in my dreams, thoughts, and intuitions, and my awareness of the power within me.

I had an excellent understanding with Pistorius in every way. I needed only to think intently of him, and I could be sure that he, or a greeting from him, would come to me. I could ask him, just as I could Demian, something or other, without his being there in person. I needed only to imagine his presence and to put my questions to him as intensive thoughts. Then all the soul-force I had put into the question came back to me as answer. Only it was not the person of Pistorius which I called up in my imagination; nor that of Max Demian, but it was the picture I had painted and of which I had dreamed. It was the half-man, half-woman, dream picture of my dæmon, to which I called. It lived now not only in my dreams, it was no longer painted on paper, but it was in me, as a desire-picture and an enhancement of my spiritual self.

Pistorius and I understood each other perfectly in every way. I only had to think intently of him to be sure that he, or a greeting from him, would come to me. I could ask him something without his being there in person, just as I could ask Demian. I only had to imagine Pistorius was there and ask him questions in intense thoughts. Then all the soul-force I had put into the question came back to me as an answer. But the person I imagined was not Pistorius or Max Demian. It was the picture I had painted and dreamed about. I called out to the dream image of my dæmon, half man and half woman. It no longer lived only in my dreams or on paper. It was within me now, an image of desire that deepened my spiritual self.

The relation into which the unsuccessful suicide Knauer entered with me was peculiar and sometimes amusing. Since the night I had been sent to him, he dogged my steps like a faithful servant or hound, sought to attach himself to me and followed me blindly. He came to me with curious questions and wishes. He wanted to see spirits, to learn the Cabbala, and he did not believe me when I assured him I understood nothing of all these things. He credited me with being able to do anything. But it was singular that he often came to me with his queer and silly questions just at the moment when I myself had a mental knot to be disentangled. His moody ideas and concerns often gave me the cue, the impulse which helped me in the solution of my own problems. He was often tiresome and I imperiously drove him away. I felt, however, that he had been sent to me, and what I gave to him, I received twofold in return. He also was a guide, or rather a way. The mad books and publications he brought me, and in which he sought the key to happiness, taught me more than I realized at the time.

My relationship with Knauer, after his failed suicide attempt, was strange and sometimes amusing. From the night I had been sent to him, he followed me everywhere, like a faithful servant or hound. He tried to become close to me and followed me blindly. He came to me with strange questions and requests. He wanted to see spirits and learn the Cabbala. He did not believe me when I assured him I knew nothing about these things. He believed I could do anything. Strangely, he often came to me with his odd, silly questions just when I was struggling with a problem of my own. His troubled thoughts and concerns often gave me a clue or impulse that helped me solve my own problems. He was often tiresome, and I ordered him away. But I felt that he had been sent to me, and I received twice as much as I gave him. He, too, was a guide, or rather a path. The crazy books and publications he brought me taught me more than I realized at the time. He searched them for the key to happiness.

This Knauer vanished later from my path, neither did I miss him. No arrangement, no understanding was necessary with him. But it was with Pistorius. Towards the close of my school career in St. —— I lived through another peculiar experience with my friend.

Knauer later disappeared from my life, and I did not miss him. I did not need to come to any agreement or understanding with him. But I did with Pistorius. Near the end of my school years in St. ..., I had another strange experience with my friend.

Even innocuous, innocent people are not altogether spared the shock of a conflict. Even they come once in their lives in conflict with the beautiful virtues of piety and gratitude. Each must make the step which parts him from his father, from his teachers. Each must once feel something of the bitterness of loneliness, though most people cannot support it for long and soon creep back to their homes again. It was not a great struggle for me to part from my parents and their world, the “bright” world of my beautiful childhood. But slowly and almost imperceptibly I had got further from them and become more of a stranger to them. I regretted it; it often caused me bitter hours during my visits home; but it was not deep. I could bear it.

Even harmless, innocent people are not entirely spared the shock of conflict. Even they come into conflict with the beautiful virtues of piety and gratitude at least once in their lives. Everyone must take the step that separates them from their father and their teachers. Everyone must feel some of the bitterness of loneliness at least once. But most people cannot bear loneliness for long and soon creep back home. It was not a great struggle for me to leave my parents and their world, the “bright” world of my beautiful childhood. But slowly and almost without noticing, I had grown more distant from them and become more of a stranger to them. I regretted the distance, and it often caused me bitter hours when I visited home. But the pain was not deep. I could bear it.

But when we have offered love and reverence of our own accord, and not out of habit, when we have been disciples and friends with our innermost feelings—then it is a bitter and terrible moment when the realization is suddenly brought home to us that the guiding current of our life is bearing us away from those we love. Then every thought of ours which rejects our friend and teacher enters our own heart like a poisoned sting, every blow of self-defense strikes back into our own face. Then he who felt that the dictates of his own conscience were an authentic guide reproaches himself with the terms “faithlessness” and “ingratitude.” Then the terrified heart flees anxiously back to the valleys of childhood virtues, and cannot believe that the rupture must take place, that another bond must be severed.

But when we have offered love and respect willingly, not out of habit, and have been disciples and friends with our deepest feelings, the realization comes as a bitter and terrible shock. The current guiding our lives is carrying us away from those we love. Then every thought that rejects our friend and teacher enters our own heart like a poisoned sting. Every blow we strike in self-defense hits us in the face. Then, even though we believed our conscience was a true guide, we accuse ourselves of “faithlessness” and “ingratitude.” Our terrified hearts flee back to the valleys of childhood virtues. We cannot believe the break must happen, that another bond must be severed.

In the course of time a feeling had slowly developed in me which refused to recognize my friend Pistorius unconditionally as my guide. What I experienced in the most important moments of my youth was my friendship with him, his counsel, his consolation, his proximity. God had spoken to me through him. Through him my dreams returned to me, from his mouth came their explanation, from him I learned their significance. He had given me the courage to realize myself. And now, alas, I felt a growing opposition against him. In his conversation he evinced too clearly a desire to instruct me. I felt it was only one side of my nature that he thoroughly understood.

Over time, I slowly came to feel that I could not accept my friend Pistorius as my guide without reservation. During the most important moments of my youth, I had his friendship, his advice, his comfort, and his presence. God had spoken to me through him. He brought my dreams back to me and explained what they meant. He had given me the courage to become myself. And now, sadly, I felt a growing resistance to him. When we talked, he showed too clearly that he wanted to teach me. I felt he fully understood only one side of my nature.

There was no quarrel, no scene between us, no rupture. I said to him only a single, really harmless word, but nevertheless it was the moment when an illusion between us fell in colored pieces.

We had no quarrel, no scene, no break between us. I said just one word to him, a harmless one. But in that moment, an illusion between us fell into colored pieces.

The presentiment had for some time already oppressed me, but one Sunday in his scholarly old room this presentiment changed to a definite feeling. We were lying on the floor before the fire. He was speaking of mysteries and religious forms which he was studying, and on which he was meditating. He occupied himself with trying to picture their possible future. To me all this seemed curious and interesting, but scarcely of vital importance. It smacked of erudition. It was like a fatiguing search among the ruins of former worlds. And all at once I felt an aversion from the whole business, from this cult of mythology, from this sort of piecing together, this mosaic work of religious forms which had been handed down to posterity.

A sense of foreboding had weighed on me for some time. But one Sunday, in his scholarly old room, that foreboding became a definite feeling. We were lying on the floor in front of the fire. He was talking about mysteries and religious forms that he was studying and thinking about. He was trying to imagine what their future might be. All of this seemed curious and interesting to me, but hardly vital. It had an air of scholarship. It was like an exhausting search through the ruins of former worlds. And suddenly I felt a dislike for the whole business. I disliked this cult of mythology and the way it pieced together religious forms handed down from the past, like a mosaic.

“Pistorius,” I said suddenly, in a malicious outburst which surprised and frightened even myself, “relate a dream, a real dream, one that you have had in the night. What you have just been talking about is so—so cursedly antiquarian!”

“Pistorius,” I said suddenly, in a spiteful outburst that surprised and frightened even me, “tell me a dream. A real dream, one you had at night. What you’ve just been talking about is so, so damn old-fashioned!”

He had never heard me speak thus. With shame and terror I realized the very same moment that the arrow I had shot at him, and which had entered his heart, was taken from his own quiver—I realized that I had heard him reproach himself in an ironical tone on this very account, and that now I had maliciously turned one of his own reproaches against him like a resharpened arrow.

He had never heard me speak that way before. At that very moment, I realized with shame and terror that the arrow I had shot into his heart came from his own quiver. I had heard him criticize himself for the very same thing in an ironic tone. Now I had maliciously sharpened one of his own criticisms and turned it against him like an arrow.

He felt it instantly, and was silent. I looked at him with terror in my heart and saw that he had become very pale.

He felt it at once and fell silent. I looked at him, terrified, and saw that he had turned very pale.

After a long, heavy pause he put some wood on the fire and said quietly: “You are quite right, Sinclair. You’re a wise fellow. I will spare you all this antiquarian business.”

After a long, heavy pause, he put some wood on the fire and said quietly: “You’re absolutely right, Sinclair. You’re a wise man. I’ll spare you all this talk about old things.”

He spoke very quietly, but his tone told me how deeply he had been wounded. What had I done!

He spoke very quietly, but his tone told me how deeply I had hurt him. What had I done!

I was on the point of tears. I wanted to beg his pardon with all my heart, to assure him of my affection and gratitude. Moving words came into my mind—but I could not utter them. He was silent as well, and so we lay there, while the flames leaped up and then sank, and with each flame that paled fell something beautiful and fervid that ceased to glow and had vanished—never again to come back.

I was close to tears. I wanted with all my heart to ask his forgiveness and tell him how much affection and gratitude I felt for him. Moving words came to mind, but I could not say them. He was silent too, so we lay there as the flames rose and fell. With each fading flame, something beautiful and passionate died out and vanished, never to return.

“I fear you have misunderstood me,” I said at last, much crushed, and with a dry, hoarse voice. The silly, senseless words came as if mechanically from my lips, as if I had been reading them out of a news sheet.

“I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me,” I said at last, deeply hurt, my voice dry and hoarse. The silly, senseless words came from my lips as if automatically, as if I were reading them from a newspaper.

“I understood you perfectly,” said Pistorius softly. “You are quite right.” We waited. Then he continued slowly: “So far as one man can be right in his judgment of another.”

“I understood you perfectly,” Pistorius said softly. “You are right.” We waited. Then he continued slowly: “As right as one person can be when judging another.”

No, no, a voice inside me said, I am wrong; but I could not say anything. I knew that I had aimed my single little word at his one essential weakness. I had touched the point of which he himself was distrustful. His idea was “antiquarian.” He was a seeker, but retrogressive, he was a romantic. And suddenly I realized that it was just what he had been to me and had given me that he could not be and give to himself. He had guided me to a point on the road, beyond which he, the guide, could not go.

No, no, a voice inside me said, I am wrong. But I could not say anything. I knew that my one small word had struck at his one essential weakness. I had touched on the very thing he himself doubted. His idea was “antiquarian.” He was a seeker, but he looked backward. He was a romantic. Suddenly I realized that he could not be for himself what he had been for me. Nor could he give himself what he had given me. He had guided me to a point on the road beyond which he could not go.

God knows how I could have uttered such a word! I had not meant it badly. I had had no idea it would lead to a catastrophe. I had uttered something, the import of which I did not myself realize at the moment of utterance. I had surrendered myself to a somewhat witty, somewhat malicious inspiration, and fate used it as her instrument. I had been guilty of a little thoughtlessness, crudeness, and he had accepted it as a judgment.

God knows how I could have said such a thing! I had meant no harm. I had no idea it would lead to a catastrophe. I had said something without realizing what it meant at the time. I had given in to an impulse that was somewhat witty and somewhat malicious, and fate used it as her instrument. I had been a little thoughtless and crude, and he had taken it as a judgment.

Oh, how much I wished then that he would have got angry, have defended himself, have shouted at me! But he did nothing. I had all that to do within myself. He would have smiled, had he been able. The fact that he could not, showed me more than anything else how hard I had hit him.

Oh, how I wished then that he would get angry, defend himself, and shout at me! But he did nothing. I had to do all of that inside myself. He would have smiled if he could. The fact that he couldn't smile showed me more than anything else how hard I had hit him.

And because Pistorius took the blow from me, his presumptuous and ungrateful pupil, so quietly, because he silently agreed with me, because he recognized my word as a judgment of fate, he caused me to hate myself, he made my thoughtlessness seem a thousand times greater than it was. As I struck, I had thought to hit a strong man, capable of defending himself—now he was a meek, suffering creature, defenseless, who surrendered in silence.

Pistorius took the blow from me, his arrogant and ungrateful pupil, so quietly. He agreed with me in silence and accepted my words as a judgment of fate. Because of this, I hated myself. He made my thoughtlessness seem a thousand times worse than it was. When I struck, I thought I was hitting a strong man who could defend himself. But now he was a gentle, suffering creature, defenseless and surrendering in silence.

We remained a long time lying before the dying fire, in which each glowing figure, each crumbling ash heap called to my memory happy, beautiful, rich hours, making my guilt and my obligation to Pistorius greater and greater. Finally I could bear it no longer. I got up and went. A long time I stood before his door, a long time I listened on the dark staircase, a long time I stood outside in front of the house, waiting to see whether perhaps he would come out to me. Then I went on, walking for hours and hours through town and suburbs, park and wood, until evening fell. At that moment I felt for the first time the mark of Cain on my forehead.

We lay for a long time before the dying fire. Each glowing shape and crumbling pile of ash reminded me of happy, beautiful, rich hours. My guilt and my sense of obligation to Pistorius grew greater and greater. Finally, I could bear it no longer. I got up and left. I stood outside his door for a long time. I listened on the dark staircase for a long time. Then I stood outside the house for a long time, waiting to see if perhaps he would come out to me. I went on, walking for hours and hours through the town and suburbs, parks and woods, until evening fell. At that moment, I felt the mark of Cain on my forehead for the first time.

I fell to pondering and rumination. I had every intention, in thinking matters over, to accuse myself and to defend Pistorius. But all ended to the contrary. A thousand times I was ready to repent of my rash word and to withdraw it—but it had been true, nevertheless. Now I succeeded in understanding Pistorius, in building up his whole dream. This dream had been to be a priest, to proclaim a new religion, to invent new forms of exultation, of love, of worship, to set up new symbols. But this was not within his province. He lingered too long in the past, he knew too much of what had been, he knew too much of Egypt, of India, of Mithras, of Abraxas. His love was attached to ideas with which the world was already familiar. And in his inmost self he probably recognized that the new religion had to be different, that it had to spring from fresh sources and not be drawn out of collections and libraries. His office was, perhaps, to help men to find themselves, as he had done with me. But to found a new doctrine, to give new gods to the world, was not his function in life.

I began to think things over. I fully intended to blame myself and defend Pistorius. But it all turned out the other way around. A thousand times I was ready to regret my rash words and take them back. But they had been true all the same. Now I understood Pistorius and could piece together his whole dream. He had dreamed of becoming a priest and proclaiming a new religion. He wanted to invent new forms of celebration, love, and worship, and establish new symbols. But that was beyond his reach. He lingered too long in the past. He knew too much about what had been, too much about Egypt, India, Mithras, and Abraxas. He loved ideas the world already knew. And deep down, he probably recognized that the new religion had to be different. It had to spring from fresh sources, not be drawn from collections and libraries. Perhaps his role was to help people find themselves, as he had helped me. But his role in life was not to found a new doctrine or give the world new gods.

And at this point the realization came upon me that everyone has an “office,” a charge. But to no one is it permitted to choose his office for himself, and to discharge it as he likes. It was wrong to want new gods, it was entirely wrong to wish to give the world anything. A man has absolutely no other duty than this: to seek himself, to grope his own way forward, no matter whither it leads. That thought impressed itself deeply on me; that was the fruit of this new event for me. Often had I pictured the future. I had dreamed of filling rôles which might be destined for me, as poet perhaps or as prophet, as painter, or some such rôle. All that was of no account. I was not here to write, to preach, to paint, neither I nor anyone else was here for that purpose. All that was secondary. The true vocation for everyone was only to attain to self-realization. He might end as poet or as madman, as prophet or as criminal—that was not his affair, that was of no consequence in the long run. His business was to work out his own destiny, not any destiny, but his own, to live for that, entirely and uninterruptedly. Everything else was merely an attempt to shun his fate, to fly back to the ideals of the masses, to adapt himself to circumstances. It was fear of his own inner being. There rose before me this new picture, terrible and sacred, suggested to me a hundred times ere this, perhaps often already expressed, but now for the first time lived. I was a throw from nature’s dice box, a projection into the unknown, perhaps into something new, perhaps into the void, and my sole vocation was to let this throw-up from primeval depths work itself out in me, to feel its will in me and to make it mine. That solely!

At that moment, I realized that everyone has an “office,” a task. But no one is allowed to choose that task or carry it out however they like. It was wrong to want new gods. It was completely wrong to want to give the world anything. A person has only one duty: to seek themselves and find their own way forward, wherever it leads. That thought stayed with me. It was what I gained from this new experience. I had often imagined the future. I had dreamed of taking on roles that might be meant for me, perhaps as a poet or prophet, a painter, or something like that. None of that mattered. I was not here to write, preach, or paint. Neither I nor anyone else was here for that purpose. All of that was secondary. Everyone’s true calling was simply to become who they were. A person might end up a poet or a madman, a prophet or a criminal. That was not their concern. In the long run, it was of no consequence. Their task was to work out their own destiny, not just any destiny, but their own. They had to live for it completely, without interruption. Everything else was merely an attempt to escape their fate, return to the ideals of the masses, and adapt to circumstances. It was fear of their own inner being. A new picture appeared before me, terrible and sacred. It had been suggested to me a hundred times before and perhaps often expressed already. But now, for the first time, I had lived it. I was a throw of nature’s dice, cast into the unknown, perhaps into something new, perhaps into the void. My only calling was to let what had been thrown up from those ancient depths unfold within me. I had to feel its will within me and make it my own. That alone!

I had already known what it was to be very lonely. Now I felt I could be lonelier still, and that I could not escape from it.

I already knew what it was like to be very lonely. Now I felt I could be even lonelier, and that I could not escape that loneliness.

I made no attempt to reconcile myself with Pistorius. We remained friends, but our relation towards one another had changed. Only one single time did we mention it, or rather, it was only he who spoke of the matter. He said: “I want to be a priest, you know that. I would best of all like to be the priest of the religion of which we have so many presentiments. I can never be that, I know. I have known it already for some time, without fully admitting it. I will do some other priestly service, perhaps at the organ, perhaps in another way. But I must always be surrounded by something which I find beautiful and sacred, organ music and mysteries, symbol and myth, I need that and cannot persuade myself to leave it—that is my weakness. I often realize, Sinclair, that I should not have such desires, that they are a luxury and a weakness. It would be greater, it would be more right, if I placed myself quite simply at the disposition of fate, without pretensions. That is the sole thing I cannot do. Perhaps you will some time be able to do it. It is hard, it is the only thing really hard there is, my friend. I have often dreamed of it, but I cannot do it, I tremble at the thought of it. I cannot stand so completely naked and alone. I am a poor, weak hound, who needs a little warmth and food, who occasionally likes to feel the proximity of his own kind. He whose only desire it is to work out his own destiny has no kith or kin, but stands alone and has only the cold world space around him. Do you know, that is Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane? There have been martyrs who willingly let themselves be nailed to the cross, but even they were not heroes, they were not free, they also wished for something to which they had been accustomed, which they had loved; with which they had felt at home. They had examples or ideals. He who will fulfill his destiny has neither examples nor ideals, he has nothing dear to him, nothing to comfort him. And one really ought to go this way. People like you and I are certainly very lonely, but we still have each other, we have the secret satisfaction of being different, of revolting, of wanting the unusual. But we must drop that, too, if we would go the whole way. We must not wish to be revolutionaries, or examples, or martyrs. To think the thought to its logical end——”

I made no attempt to make peace with Pistorius. We remained friends, but our relationship had changed. We mentioned the change only once, or rather, only he spoke of it. He said: “I want to be a priest. You know that. More than anything, I would like to be a priest of the religion we both sense is coming. I know I can never be that priest. I have known it for some time, without fully admitting it. I will serve as a priest in some other way, perhaps at the organ, perhaps elsewhere. But I must always be surrounded by things I find beautiful and sacred. I need organ music and mysteries, symbols and myths. I cannot persuade myself to leave them behind. That is my weakness. “I often realize, Sinclair, that I should not have such desires. They are a luxury and a weakness. It would be greater and more right to put myself entirely in the hands of fate, without making any demands. That is the one thing I cannot do. Perhaps someday you will be able to do it. It is hard, my friend. It is the only thing that is truly hard. I have often dreamed of it, but I cannot do it. I tremble at the thought. I cannot stand so completely naked and alone. I am a poor, weak hound who needs a little warmth and food. Now and then, I like to feel others of my own kind nearby. “A person whose only desire is to work out their own destiny has no family or friends. They stand alone, surrounded only by the cold vastness of the world. Do you know, that is Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane? Some martyrs willingly allowed themselves to be nailed to the cross. But even they were not heroes. They were not free. They too longed for something familiar, something they had loved and felt at home with. They had examples or ideals. A person who seeks to fulfill their destiny has neither examples nor ideals. They have nothing they hold dear, nothing to comfort them. And we really ought to follow that path. “People like you and I are certainly very lonely, but we still have each other. We take secret satisfaction in being different, in rebelling, in wanting the unusual. But we must give that up too, if we want to go all the way. We must not wish to be revolutionaries, or examples, or martyrs. To follow that thought to its logical end...”

No, one could not think beyond that. But one could dream of it, could sense it, could anticipate it. A few times I realized something of this, in a very quiet hour. Then I looked straight into the open, staring eyes of my fate. They could have been full of wisdom, or full of madness, they could be full of love or full of wickedness, it was all one. One was to choose nothing of all that; one was to want nothing, one was only to want oneself, one’s destiny. In that way had Pistorius served me, for a time, as guide.

No, one could not think beyond that. But one could dream of it, sense it, and anticipate it. A few times, in a very quiet moment, I understood something of this. Then I looked straight into the open, staring eyes of my fate. They could have been full of wisdom or madness, love or wickedness. It was all the same. One was not to choose any of those things or want anything. One was only to want oneself, one’s own destiny. In this way, Pistorius had been my guide for a time.

In those days I walked about as if I were blind, storms roared within me, every step meant danger. I was conscious of nothing but the precipitous darkness in front of me, down to which all the roads I had trodden hitherto seemed to lead. And in my inward self I saw the picture of the guide, who resembled Demian, and in whose eyes stood my fate.

In those days, I walked around as if I were blind. Storms raged inside me, and every step was dangerous. I could see nothing but the steep darkness ahead of me. All the roads I had traveled until then seemed to lead down into it. Inside myself, I saw the image of the guide. He looked like Demian, and my fate lay in his eyes.

I wrote on a sheet of paper: “A guide has left me. I stand in complete darkness. I cannot take a step alone. Help me!”

I wrote on a piece of paper: “A guide has left me. I am in complete darkness. I cannot take a step alone. Help me!”

I wished to send that to Demian. Yet I omitted to do this, for each time I wished to do it, it seemed foolish and meaningless. But I knew that little prayer by heart, and often said it to myself. It accompanied me hourly. I began to realize what prayer is.

I wanted to send that to Demian. But I never did, because every time I thought about it, it seemed foolish and meaningless. Still, I knew that little prayer by heart and often said it to myself. It stayed with me every hour. I began to understand what prayer is.

My school career was over. My father had arranged that during the holidays I was to travel and then I was to go to the University. In which faculty, I knew not. I was to be allowed to take philosophy for one semester. I should have been equally content with anything else.

My school days were over. My father had arranged for me to travel during the holidays and then go to university. I didn't know what subject I would study. I would be allowed to study philosophy for one semester. I would have been just as content with anything else.