The Thief on the Cross

I could describe scenes of my childhood, spent in peaceful security at the side of father and mother, relate how I passed this period of my life, playing contentedly in the midst of surroundings brightened by love and tenderness. But others have done that. I am only interested in the steps I took in life, in order to attain self-realization. All the pretty resting-places, happy isles and children’s paradises, whose charm is not unknown to me, I leave lying behind me in the shimmer of a distant horizon, and I have no desire to set foot there again.

I could describe scenes from my childhood, when I lived in peace and security with my father and mother. I could tell how I spent those years playing happily, surrounded by love and tenderness. But others have done that. I am interested only in the steps I took in life to achieve self-realization. I leave all those lovely resting places, happy islands, and childhood paradises behind me, shimmering on a distant horizon. I know their charm, but I have no desire to return to them.

For that reason I will speak, so far as I intend to dwell on the period of my childhood, only of new events which overtook me, of what impelled me forward enabling me to throw off my shackles.

For that reason, I will speak of my childhood only in terms of new events that happened to me. I will speak only of what pushed me forward and helped me break free of my chains.

These impulses always came from the “other” world, they always brought fear, coercion and a bad conscience in their train, they were always of a revolutionary tendency and a danger to the peace in which I would willingly have been allowed to remain.

These impulses always came from the “other” world. They always brought fear, pressure, and a guilty conscience with them. They always tended toward rebellion and threatened the peace in which I would gladly have stayed.

There came the years in which I had to discover anew that there was within me an instinct which had to lie close and concealed in the bright world of moral sanction. As to every man, the slowly awakening sense of sex came to me as an enemy and a destroyer, as something forbidden, as seduction and sin. What my curiosity sought to know, what caused me dreams, desire and fear, the great secret of puberty, that was not at all in keeping with the guarded happiness of my peaceful childhood. I did as everyone else. I led the double life of a child, who is yet a child no longer. My conscious self lived under the conditions sanctioned at home; it denied the existence of the new world whose dawn glimmered before me. But I lived as well in dreams, impelled by desires of a secret nature, upon which my conscious self anxiously attempted to build a new fabric, as the world of my childhood fell in ruins about me. Like almost all parents, my own did nothing to help the awakening life-instincts, about which not a syllable was uttered. They only aided, with untiring care, my hopeless attempts to deny the reality, and to continue my existence in a child-like world which was ever becoming more unreal and more mendacious. I do not know whether parents can do much in such a case, and I make mine no reproach. It was my own affair, to settle my difficulties and to find my way, and I carried through the business badly, like most of those who are well brought up.

Then came the years when I had to discover again that I had an instinct I had to hide in the bright world of approved morals. As with every man, my slowly awakening sense of sex came as an enemy and a destroyer, something forbidden, a temptation and a sin. The great secret of puberty stirred my curiosity and filled me with dreams, desire, and fear. It had no place in the protected happiness of my peaceful childhood. I did what everyone else did. I led the double life of a child who is no longer quite a child. My conscious self lived by the rules accepted at home. It denied the existence of the new world beginning to appear before me. But I also lived in dreams, driven by secret desires. As my childhood world fell apart around me, my conscious self anxiously tried to build a new one from those desires. Like almost all parents, mine did nothing to help my awakening life instincts. Not a word was said about them. Instead, my parents helped me, with endless care, in my hopeless attempts to deny reality. They helped me go on living in a childlike world that was becoming ever more unreal and false. I do not know whether parents can do much in such a case, and I do not blame mine. It was up to me to settle my difficulties and find my way. I handled the task badly, like most people who are well brought up.

Every man passes through this difficulty. For the average person, this is the point in his life where the demands of his own life come most in conflict with his surroundings, where the road forward has to be attained through the bitterest fighting. For many people this is the only time in their lives that they experience the sequence of death and rebirth that is our fate, when they become conscious of the slow process of the decay and breaking up of the world of their childhood, when everything beloved of us leaves us, and we suddenly feel the loneliness and deathly cold of the universe around us. And for very many this pitfall is fatal. They cling their whole life long painfully to the irrevocable past, to the dream of a lost paradise, the worst and most deadly of all dreams.

Every man goes through this difficulty. For the average person, this is when the demands of his own life clash most with the world around him. It is when he must fight hardest to find a way forward. For many people, this is the only time they experience the cycle of death and rebirth that is our fate. They become aware of the slow decay and breakup of their childhood world. Everything we love leaves us, and we suddenly feel the loneliness and deadly cold of the universe around us. For very many, this danger is fatal. All their lives, they cling painfully to the past that cannot be recovered, to the dream of a lost paradise. It is the worst and most deadly of all dreams.

But to return to the story. The sensation and dream pictures in which the close of childhood presented itself to me are not important enough to be described. The important point was that I was once again conscious of the existence of the “dark” world, the “other” world. What Frank Kromer had once been to me, was now present within myself. And so, from the outside as well, the other world once more gained power over me.

But to return to the story. The feelings and dream images that marked the end of my childhood are not important enough to describe. What mattered was that I was once again aware of the “dark” world, the “other” world. What Frank Kromer had once been to me was now inside me. And so the other world once again gained power over me from the outside as well.

Several years had passed since my affair with Kromer. That dramatic and guilty time of my life lay far behind me at that time and seemed to have passed like a quick nightmare into nothingness. Frank Kromer had long since disappeared from my life; I scarcely gave it a moment’s thought if I chanced to meet him. But the other important figure in my tragedy, Max Demian, never entirely disappeared from my life. However, for a long time he stood on the far horizon, visible, but not affecting me. Only by degrees he approached me again, and I came once more under the ray of his power and influence.

Several years had passed since my trouble with Kromer. That dramatic, guilt-ridden time was far behind me. It seemed to have vanished like a brief nightmare. Frank Kromer had long since disappeared from my life. If I happened to meet him, I barely thought about him. But Max Demian, the other important figure in my tragedy, never entirely disappeared from my life. For a long time, though, he remained on the distant horizon, visible but having no effect on me. Only gradually did he come closer again, and I once more came under the ray of his power and influence.

I will try to recollect what I know of Demian in that period. Perhaps for a year, or longer, I did not have a single conversation with him. I avoided him, and he in no wise forced himself on me. Once or twice, when we met, he nodded to me in friendly greeting. Then it seemed to me at times that there was a note of scorn or ironical reproach in his friendliness, but that might only have been imagination on my part. My relation with him, and the strange influence he had exercised over me, were as if forgotten, by him as well as by me.

I will try to remember what I know about Demian during that time. Perhaps for a year or longer, I did not have a single conversation with him. I avoided him, and he made no attempt to force himself on me. Once or twice when we met, he nodded to me in a friendly greeting. At times, I thought I sensed scorn or ironic reproach in his friendliness, but I may have imagined it. It was as if we had both forgotten our relationship and the strange influence he had had on me.

I try to recall his face—as I recollect him, I see that I was conscious of his existence after all, and took notice of him. I can see him going to school, alone or with some of the other big boys. I see him walking among them like a stranger, lonely and still like a celestial body, enveloped in a different atmosphere and subject to his own laws. No one liked him, he was intimate with no one, except his mother, and his relations with her did not seem like those of a child, but those of a grown-up person. The masters left him as much as possible in peace. He was a good pupil, but he did not go out of his way to please them. From time to time we heard, in gossip, of a word, a comment or a retort he had made to a master, and which left nothing to be desired in the way of blunt challenge or irony.

I try to remember his face. As I recall him, I realize that I was aware of him after all, and that I noticed him. I can see him going to school, alone or with some of the other older boys. Among them, he walked like a stranger. He was lonely and still, like a heavenly body surrounded by a different atmosphere and governed by its own laws. No one liked him. He was close to no one except his mother. But his relationship with her seemed like that of an adult, not a child. The teachers left him alone as much as possible. He was a good student, but he did not go out of his way to please them. From time to time, we heard gossip about something he had said to a teacher, a comment or a reply that was as bluntly defiant or ironic as anyone could wish.

I call him to mind, as I close my eyes, and I see his picture emerge. Where was it? Ah, now I have it again. It was in the street, in front of our house. There one day I saw him standing, a note book in his hand. I saw that he was drawing. He was drawing the old crest with the bird over the door of our house. And I stood at a window, concealed behind a curtain, and gazed at him. I saw with astonishment his attentive, cool, bright features turned to the crest, the features of a man, of a research worker, or an artist, superior and full of will-power, oddly bright and cool, with knowing eyes.

I close my eyes and picture him. Where was it? Ah, now I remember. It was on the street, in front of our house. One day I saw him standing there with a notebook in his hand. He was drawing the old crest with the bird above our door. I stood at a window, hidden behind a curtain, and watched him. I was amazed by his attentive, cool, bright features as he looked at the crest. His was the face of a man, a researcher or an artist, confident and strong-willed. It was strangely bright and cool, with knowing eyes.

And again I can see him. It was a little later, in the street; we had come out of school and were all standing round a horse that had fallen down. It lay, still harnessed to the shaft, in front of a peasant’s cart, and sniffed the air pitifully with open nostrils, while blood flowed from an invisible wound, so that the white dust in the street darkened as it became slowly saturated. As I, with a feeling of nausea, turned my gaze away, I saw Demian’s face. He had not pressed forward, he stood furthest back of all, rather elegant, quite at his ease, as was proper to him. His gaze seemed to be directed at the horse’s head, and expressed again that deep, quiet, almost fanatical and yet calm attentiveness. I could not resist watching him some considerable time, and I remember feeling, though quite unconsciously, that there was something very peculiar about him. I saw Demian’s face, I saw not only that he had not the face of a boy, but that of a man; I saw still more, I thought I saw, or felt, that it was not the face of a man either but something else besides. There seemed to be also something of the woman in his features, and particularly it seemed to me for a moment, not manly or boyish, nor old or young, but somehow or other a thousand years old, not to be measured by time, bearing the stamp of other epochs. Animals could look like that, or trees, or stones—I did not realize that precisely, I did not experience the exact sensation which I, a grown-up person, am now describing, but what I felt then approximated in some way to what I have just related. Perhaps he was beautiful, perhaps he pleased me, perhaps even he was repugnant—I could not then determine. I saw only that he was different from us, he was like an animal, or a spirit, or a picture, I know not what he was like, but he was different, inconceivably different from us all.

And again I can see him. It was a little later, in the street. We had come out of school and were all standing around a fallen horse. It lay in front of a peasant’s cart, still harnessed to the shaft. Its nostrils were open as it sniffed the air pitifully. Blood flowed from a wound I could not see, slowly soaking and darkening the white dust in the street. Feeling sick, I looked away and saw Demian’s face. He had not pushed forward. He stood furthest back of all, rather elegant and completely at ease, as was usual for him. He seemed to be looking at the horse’s head. Once again, his expression showed that deep, quiet attentiveness, almost fanatical and yet calm. I could not resist watching him for quite a while. I remember sensing, though quite unconsciously, that there was something very strange about him. As I looked at Demian’s face, I saw that he had the face of a man, not a boy. But I saw more than that. I thought I saw, or felt, that it was not a man’s face either, but something else. There seemed to be something of a woman in his features too. For a moment, his face seemed neither manly nor boyish, neither old nor young. Somehow it seemed a thousand years old, beyond the measure of time, marked by other ages. Animals could look like that, or trees, or stones. I did not understand that clearly at the time. I did not experience exactly what I am now describing as an adult. But what I felt then came close in some way to what I have just described. Perhaps he was beautiful. Perhaps I liked him. Perhaps he even repelled me. I could not decide then. I saw only that he was different from us. He was like an animal, or a spirit, or a picture. I don’t know what he was like, but he was different, unimaginably different from all of us.

My reminiscence tells me nothing more, and perhaps even what has been described has arisen, in part, from later impressions.

I remember nothing more. And perhaps even some of what I have described comes from later impressions.

Until I was several years older, I did not come into close contact with him again. Contrary to custom, Demian had not been confirmed with the boys of his year, and in consequence fresh rumors concerning him were set afloat. In school they were again saying that he was really a Jew, or no, a heathen, and others pretended to know that he and his mother professed no religion, or that they belonged to a bad sect in mythology. In connection with this I seem to remember that he was suspected of living with his mother as with a mistress. Presumably the facts were that he had been, up to that time, brought up without any denominational creed, and that it was now thought that this might be disadvantageous for his future career. In any case, his mother now decided after all to allow him to be prepared for confirmation, two years later than the boys of his own age. Hence it came about that for months he was my classmate in the confirmation class.

I did not have close contact with Demian again until I was several years older. Contrary to custom, he had not been confirmed with the boys his age. As a result, new rumors began to spread about him. At school, people were again saying that he was really a Jew, or no, a heathen. Others claimed to know that he and his mother had no religion, or that they belonged to a bad sect in mythology. I seem to remember that he was also suspected of living with his mother as if she were his mistress. Presumably, he had been brought up without any denominational creed until then. It was now thought that this might put him at a disadvantage in his future career. In any case, his mother finally decided to let him prepare for confirmation, two years later than the boys his age. As a result, he was my classmate in confirmation class for several months.

For a time I kept out of his way, I did not want to have anything to do with him; too many mysterious rumors had become attached to his name. But above all things I was worried by a sense of obligation, implanted in me since my affair with Kromer. And just at that time I had enough to do with my own secrets. For the confirmation class coincided with the period when I was definitively enlightened on matters of sex, and in spite of my good will, my interest in the pious instruction was on that account greatly diminished. The things of which the clergyman spoke lay far from me in a still, sacred unreality; they may have been quite beautiful and valuable, but in no way real and stirring, as were in the highest degree, these other things.

For a while, I avoided him. I wanted nothing to do with him because too many mysterious rumors surrounded his name. But more than anything, I was troubled by a sense of obligation that had stayed with me since my affair with Kromer. And at the time, I had enough to deal with in my own secrets. My confirmation class coincided with the time when I finally learned the facts about sex. Despite my good intentions, this greatly reduced my interest in the religious instruction. What the clergyman spoke about seemed distant, still, sacred, and unreal. His teachings may have been beautiful and valuable, but they were not real or exciting. These other things were both, to the highest degree.

The more indifferent I became, under these conditions, to our spiritual instruction, the more was my interest drawn towards Max Demian again. Something or other seemed to unite us. As nearly as I remember it began in class early one morning, while the light was still burning in the schoolroom. The clergyman taking the confirmation class happened to be talking about Cain and Abel. I hardly paid any attention, I was sleepy and scarcely listened. Then with raised voice the clergyman began to speak fervently of Cain’s sign. At this moment I felt a sort of contact or exhortation and looking up I saw Demian’s face turned toward me from a row of desks in front, with a bright speaking look, which could have expressed scorn as much as seriousness. He looked at me for a moment only, and suddenly I was listening intently to the clergyman’s words. I heard him speak of Cain and the mark on his forehead, and suddenly I felt deep within me the knowledge that the story could have a different signification, that it could be looked at from another view, that it was possible to be critical.

Under these conditions, the less I cared about our religious instruction, the more my interest turned back to Max Demian. Something seemed to connect us. As nearly as I remember, it began in class early one morning, while the schoolroom light was still on. The clergyman teaching the confirmation class happened to be talking about Cain and Abel. I was sleepy and hardly paid attention. Then the clergyman raised his voice and began to speak passionately about Cain’s mark. At that moment I felt a kind of contact or prompting. I looked up and saw Demian’s face turned toward me from a row of desks in front of me. His eyes were bright and expressive, and their look could have meant scorn or seriousness. He looked at me for only a moment. Suddenly, I was listening intently to the clergyman. I heard him speak of Cain and the mark on his forehead. Deep inside, I suddenly knew that the story could mean something different. It could be seen from another point of view. It was possible to question it.

From that instant the bond of communication between Demian and myself was again established. And oddly enough, scarcely had this sense of a certain solidarity between us presented itself to my mind, than I saw it transferred as if by magic from the ideal world to the world of space. I did not know whether he had been able to arrange it himself, or whether it was pure chance—at that time I believed firmly in chance—but a few days after I noticed Demian had suddenly changed his place and was now sitting directly in front of me. (I recollect still how pleasant it was, in the midst of the miserable workhouse atmosphere of the overcrowded schoolroom, to sense the delicate, fresh aroma of soap from his neck in the morning.) A few days later he had changed again, and now sat next to me. And there he stayed, occupying the same place through the whole of that winter and spring.

From that moment, Demian and I were connected again. Strangely enough, almost as soon as I felt this sense of solidarity between us, it took physical form, as if by magic. I didn’t know whether he had arranged it himself or whether it was pure chance. At the time, I firmly believed in chance. But a few days later, I noticed that Demian had suddenly changed seats and was sitting directly in front of me. (I still remember how pleasant it was to smell the delicate, fresh scent of soap on his neck in the morning, amid the miserable workhouse atmosphere of the overcrowded classroom.) A few days later, he changed seats again and sat next to me. He stayed there throughout that winter and spring.

Morning lessons had quite changed. They were no longer sleepy and boring. I looked forward to them. Sometimes we both listened to the clergyman with the greatest attention. A glance from my neighbor would suffice, calling my attention to a strange story or a peculiar text. And another glance from him, a very decided one, acted on me as an admonition, arousing criticism and doubt.

Morning lessons had changed completely. They were no longer sleepy and boring. I looked forward to them. Sometimes we both listened to the clergyman very closely. A glance from my neighbor was enough to draw my attention to a strange story or an unusual passage. Another, more emphatic glance served as a warning, prompting me to question and doubt what I heard.

But very often we were bad pupils and heard nothing of the lesson. Demian was always courteous towards masters and schoolfellows. I never saw him commit a schoolboy prank, never heard him laugh out loud or talk in class; he never drew on himself the master’s blame. But noiselessly, rather by signs and glances than by whispered words, he knew how to let me share in his own occupations. These were, in part, of a peculiar nature.

But very often we were poor students and paid no attention to the lesson. Demian was always polite to teachers and classmates. I never saw him play a schoolboy prank or heard him laugh out loud or talk in class. He never gave the teacher reason to blame him. But silently, using signs and glances more than whispered words, he found ways to share his activities with me. Some of those activities were peculiar.

For instance, he told me which of the fellows interested him; and in what manner he studied them. He judged many of them with accuracy. He used to say to me before the lesson: “When I signal to you with my thumb, so and so will look round at us, or will scratch his neck, etc.” Then during the lesson, when I scarcely gave a thought to what he had told me, Max would attract my attention by suddenly bending his thumb. I would look up quickly at the boy already designated, and every time, as if attached to a wire, the fellow would make the gesture required of him. I bothered Max to try this on the master, but he did not want to do it. But once, when I came into class and told him I had not done my preparation, and that I hoped the clergyman would not question me that day, he helped me. The master looked round for a boy to recite a portion of the catechism, and his roving eye rested on me. He approached me slowly, stretched out his finger in my direction, and already had my name on his lips—when suddenly he became absent-minded or uneasy, put his hand to his collar, stepped up to Demian who looked fixedly into his face. He seemed to want to ask him something but he turned away, to our surprise, coughed a little, and put his question to another boy.

For example, he told me which boys interested him and how he studied them. He judged many of them accurately. Before class, he would say to me, “When I signal with my thumb, a certain boy will turn around, or scratch his neck, or something like that.” Then, during class, I would hardly be thinking about what he had said. Suddenly, Max would get my attention by bending his thumb. I would quickly look at the boy he had named. Every time, the boy would make the predicted gesture, as if he were attached to a wire. I pestered Max to try this on the teacher, but he refused. Once, though, I came into class and told him I had not prepared my lesson. I hoped the clergyman would not call on me that day, and Max helped me. The teacher looked around for a boy to recite part of the catechism, and his wandering gaze settled on me. He slowly approached me and pointed in my direction. He was just about to say my name when he suddenly seemed distracted or uneasy. He touched his collar and stepped up to Demian, who looked steadily into his face. The teacher seemed about to ask Demian something. But, to our surprise, he turned away, coughed a little, and asked another boy the question.

These jokes amused me very much, but only gradually did I notice that my friend frequently played the same game with me. It would happen that on my way home from school I had suddenly the feeling Demian was a little way behind me, and when I turned round, there he was, sure enough.

These jokes amused me a lot, but I only gradually noticed that my friend often played the same game with me. Sometimes, on my way home from school, I suddenly felt that Demian was just behind me. When I turned around, sure enough, there he was.

“Can you really make another person think what you want him to?” I asked him.

“Can you really make someone think what you want them to?” I asked him.

He gave me information on the subject readily enough, quietly and pertinently, in his grown-up manner.

He readily told me what I wanted to know, speaking quietly and to the point, in his grown-up way.

“No,” he said, “that can’t be done. That is to say, one hasn’t a free will, even if the person acts that way. Neither can the other person think as he will, nor can I make him think what I want him to. But you can observe someone well, and then you can say fairly exactly what he thinks or feels; in this way you can generally predict what he will do the moment after. It’s quite simple, but people merely do not know it. Naturally it requires practice. To take an example from the butterfly world, there is a certain species of moth, of which the female is much rarer than the male. The moths reproduce like other animals, the male impregnates the female, who then lays the egg. Suppose you have in your possession a female of this type of moth—naturalists have often made the experiment—then the male moths fly in the night to this female, they even make a flight of several hours’ duration! Think of it! For many miles around all the males are conscious of the whereabouts of the only female moth in the district. People have tried to explain that, but it is not easy. Moths must have a sense of smell, or something like it, which allows them to pick up and follow an almost imperceptible scent, like a good hound. You understand? There are such things, nature is full of them, and no one can explain them. Now I draw the conclusion that if among this class of moths the females were as abundant as the males, then these latter would not have such a refined sense of smell! They have it simply because they have been trained like that. If an animal or a man concentrates his whole attention and his whole will-power on a certain thing then he attains it. That’s all. And it is just the same with what you have asked me. Observe a man sufficiently well, and you will know more about him than he does himself.”

“No,” he said, “that can’t be done. I mean, people don’t have free will, even if they act as though they do. The other person can’t think whatever he wants, and I can’t make him think what I want him to. But you can observe someone closely and then say fairly accurately what he thinks or feels. In this way, you can generally predict what he will do next. It’s quite simple, but people just don’t know about it. Of course, it takes practice. “Take an example from the world of butterflies. There is a species of moth whose females are much rarer than its males. The moths reproduce like other animals. The male impregnates the female, who then lays the egg. Suppose you have a female of this species. Naturalists have often tried this experiment. Male moths will fly to her at night, sometimes flying for several hours! Think of it! All the males for many miles around know where the only female moth in the area is. People have tried to explain this, but it isn’t easy. Moths must have a sense of smell, or something like it. It lets them pick up and follow an almost undetectable scent, like a good hound. Do you understand? Such things exist. Nature is full of them, and no one can explain them. “Now, I conclude that if females of this species were as common as males, the males wouldn’t have such a refined sense of smell! They have it simply because they have been trained that way. If an animal or a person concentrates all their attention and willpower on one thing, they achieve it. That’s all. And it’s just the same with what you asked me. Observe a man closely enough, and you will know more about him than he knows himself.”

It lay on the tip of my tongue to mention the word “mind-reading,” and so to remind him of the scene with Kromer, now relegated to such a distant past. But the odd thing between us both was that neither he nor I ever made the slightest reference to the fact that several years ago he had intervened so decisively in my life. It was as if formerly there had been nothing between us, or as if each of us reckoned that the other had forgotten the affair. It even happened once or twice when we were together that we met Frank Kromer in the street, but we exchanged no look, neither did we speak of him.

I almost said “mind-reading” to remind him of the scene with Kromer, which now seemed so long ago. But strangely, neither of us ever mentioned how decisively he had changed my life several years earlier. It was as if nothing had happened between us before, or as if we each thought the other had forgotten. Once or twice, we even ran into Frank Kromer on the street while we were together. But we did not exchange a glance or speak of him.

“But what has that got to do with will-power?” I asked. “You said there was no such thing as free will. And then you said one only had to concentrate one’s will on something to be able to attain one’s ends. That doesn’t agree! If I am not master of my will, then I can’t direct it here or there as I wish.”

“But what does that have to do with willpower?” I asked. “You said there was no such thing as free will. Then you said a person only had to focus their will on something to achieve their goals. Those two things don’t agree! If I don’t control my will, I can’t direct it wherever I want.”

“A good question!” he said, laughing. “You should always ask questions, you must always doubt. But the explanation is very simple. If a moth for instance wants to concentrate his will-power on a star or something like that, he can’t do it. Only—he doesn’t try. He seeks only what has sense and value for him, satisfies his needs, he gets what he absolutely must have. And it is just there that the unbelievable succeeds—he develops a marvelous sixth sense, that no other animal besides him has! People in our position have more elbow-room, certainly, and more interests than an animal. But even we are confined to a comparatively small space, beyond which we cannot go. To be sure, I can imagine this or that, or make myself believe that I absolutely want to get to the North Pole or somewhere, but I can only carry that out and wish it strongly enough when the desire lies right in myself, when my whole being is really filled with it. As soon as that is the case, as soon as you try to carry out an inward command, then you succeed, then you can harness your will as you would a good nag. If for instance I resolved that our good Mr. Parson shall not wear his spectacles for the future, then that wouldn’t work. That is merely play. But when last autumn I had the fixed intention of getting myself moved to another desk, I succeeded. Someone suddenly arrived who came before me in the alphabet and who up to then had been ill. Because someone had to make room for him, it was naturally I who did it, because my willing it had made me ready to seize the opportunity.”

“A good question!” he said, laughing. “You should always ask questions. You must always doubt. But the explanation is very simple. If a moth wanted to focus its willpower on a star, for instance, it couldn’t. But it doesn’t try. It seeks only what makes sense and has value for it, what satisfies its needs. It gets what it absolutely must have. And that is where the unbelievable happens. It develops a marvelous sixth sense that no other animal has! “People in our position have more freedom and more interests than an animal, certainly. But even we are confined to a relatively small space that we cannot go beyond. I can imagine this or that, of course. I can even convince myself that I absolutely want to reach the North Pole or somewhere else. But I can only want to go strongly enough and actually get there if the desire comes from deep inside me. My whole being must be filled with it. As soon as that happens, as soon as you try to carry out an inner command, you succeed. Then you can harness your will like a good old horse. “If, for example, I decided that our good Mr. Parson should stop wearing his glasses, it wouldn’t work. That would be just a game. But last autumn I was determined to move to another desk, and I succeeded. Someone suddenly arrived whose name came before mine in the alphabet. He had been ill until then. Someone had to make room for him, and naturally I was the one who did. My desire to move had made me ready to seize the opportunity.”

“Yes,” I said, “that seemed to me very strange at the time. From the moment we began to get interested in one another, you managed to get nearer and nearer to me. But how was that? You did not immediately take a place next to me; for a few lessons at first you were sitting in the row of desks in front of me, weren’t you? How did that come about?”

“Yes,” I said, “that seemed very strange to me at the time. Once we began to take an interest in each other, you managed to get closer and closer to me. But how did that happen? You didn’t sit next to me right away. For the first few lessons, you sat in the row of desks in front of me, didn’t you? How did that happen?”

“It was like this. I wasn’t quite certain where I wanted to go when I wished to move from my first place. I only knew that I wanted to sit further back. It was my wish to move towards you, but I was not conscious of this at the time. Simultaneously your own will was working with mine and helped me. It was only when I sat in front of you that I realized my wish was only half fulfilled—I noticed that really I had desired nothing else than to sit next to you.”

“This is how it happened. When I wanted to leave my first seat, I wasn’t quite sure where I wanted to go. I only knew I wanted to sit farther back. I wanted to move toward you, but I didn’t realize it at the time. At the same time, your own will was working with mine and helped me. Only when I sat in front of you did I realize I had only partly fulfilled my wish. I saw that all I had really wanted was to sit next to you.”

“But on that occasion no newcomer arrived.”

“But no newcomer arrived that time.”

“No, but then I simply did what I wished, and sat next to you without hesitation. The boy with whom I changed places was simply surprised, and let me do it without further say. And the parson indeed noticed once that a change had taken place—in fact, whenever he looks at me something worries him secretly. That is to say, he knows my name is Demian, and that something must be wrong that I, whose initial is D, am sitting back there among the S’s! But that does not penetrate his consciousness because my will is against it, because I prevent him again and again from becoming conscious of it. He notices now and then that something is wrong. He looks at me and begins to study the question, the good fellow. But I have a simple means at my disposal. I look at him very, very fixedly in the eyes. Hardly anyone can bear that. They always get restive. If you want to get something out of a person, and you fix him unexpectedly with your eyes, and if he doesn’t get restive, then give it up! You won’t get anything out of him, ever! But that happens seldom. I know only one single person with whom this trick won’t help me.”

“No, but then I just did what I wanted and sat next to you without hesitating. The boy who changed places with me was simply surprised and let me do it without another word. The parson did notice once that someone had changed places. In fact, whenever he looks at me, something secretly troubles him. He knows my name is Demian, and that something must be wrong. My name begins with D, yet I’m sitting back there among the S’s! But he never becomes fully aware of it because my will is against it. I keep him from becoming aware of it again and again. Now and then he notices that something is wrong. He looks at me and starts to puzzle over it, the good fellow. But I have a simple way to stop him. I look him very, very steadily in the eyes. Hardly anyone can stand that. They always become uneasy. If you want to get something out of someone, look them unexpectedly in the eye. If they don’t become uneasy, give up! You’ll never get anything out of them! But that seldom happens. I know only one person this trick won’t work on.”

“Who is that?” I asked quickly.

“Who is that?” I asked quickly.

He looked at me, with eyes somewhat closed; as his fashion was when he meditated. Then he looked away and gave no answer, and in spite of my lively curiosity I could not bring myself to repeat the question.

He looked at me with his eyes partly closed, as he often did when he was thinking. Then he looked away without answering. Though I was very curious, I could not bring myself to ask the question again.

But I believe he was referring to his mother. He seemed to live on very intimate terms with her, but he never spoke about her, never invited me to his house. I scarcely knew what his mother looked like.

But I believe he was referring to his mother. He seemed to be very close to her, but he never spoke about her or invited me to his house. I hardly knew what his mother looked like.

Several times I attempted to imitate his example by concentrating my will-power on something so firmly that I would have to attain it. I had desires which seemed to me sufficiently pressing. But nothing came of it. I could not bring myself to talk matters over with Demian. I should not have been able to make him understand what I wanted. He did not ask, either.

Several times, I tried to follow his example. I focused my will on something so strongly that I would have to achieve it. I had desires that seemed urgent enough to me. But nothing came of it. I couldn't bring myself to talk things over with Demian. I wouldn't have been able to make him understand what I wanted. He didn't ask, either.

My faith in matters of religion had meanwhile suffered many a breach. Yet in my manner of thinking, which was entirely under the influence of Demian, I was to be distinguished from those of my schoolfellows who professed an entire disbelief. There were a few such who let occasional phrases be overheard, to the effect that it was laughable and unworthy of man’s dignity to believe in a God, and that stories such as those of the Trinity and the immaculate conception of the Virgin Mary were simply a joke. It was disgraceful, they said, that such rubbish was peddled about to-day. This was by no means my way of thinking. Even where I had doubts, the whole experience of my childhood taught me to believe in the efficacy of a godly life such as that led by my parents, which I knew to be neither contemptible nor hypocritical. On the contrary, now as before, I had the greatest reverence for the spirit of religion. Only Demian had accustomed me to consider and explain the stories and articles of belief from a more liberal and more personal point of view, a point of view in which fantasy and imagination had their share. At least, I always took great pleasure and enjoyment in the interpretations he suggested to me. To be sure much seemed to me too crude; such as the affair of Cain. And once, during the preparation for confirmation, I was terrified by a conception, which, if that were possible, seemed to me even still more daring. The master had been speaking of Golgotha. The Biblical account of the Passion and Death of Christ had, from my earliest years, made a deep impression on me. As a little boy, on such days as Good Friday, after my Father had read out to us the story of the Passion, I had lived in imagination and with much emotion in Gethsemane and on Golgotha, in that world so poignantly beautiful, pale and ghostlike, and yet so terribly alive. And when I listened to the Passion according to St. Matthew by Bach, I felt the mystical thrills of this dark, powerful, mysterious world of passion and suffering. I find in this music, even to-day and in the “actus tragicus,” the essence of all poetry and of all artistic expression.

Meanwhile, my religious faith had suffered many setbacks. Yet my thinking, which was entirely under Demian’s influence, was different from that of my schoolmates who professed complete disbelief. A few of them occasionally let others hear their views. They said it was laughable and beneath human dignity to believe in a God. They called beliefs such as the Trinity and the immaculate conception of the Virgin Mary simply a joke. It was disgraceful, they said, that such rubbish was still being peddled today. I did not think that way at all. Even when I had doubts, my whole childhood experience taught me to believe in the power of a godly life. My parents led such a life, and I knew it was neither contemptible nor hypocritical. On the contrary, I still had the greatest reverence for the spirit of religion. Demian had merely taught me to consider and explain religious stories and beliefs from a more liberal and personal point of view. Fantasy and imagination had a place in that view. At least, I always took great pleasure in the interpretations he suggested to me. Still, much seemed too crude to me, such as the matter of Cain. And once, while preparing for confirmation, I was terrified by an idea that seemed, if possible, even more daring. The teacher had been speaking about Golgotha. The Biblical account of Christ’s Passion and Death had deeply moved me from my earliest years. When I was a little boy, my Father would read us the story of the Passion on days like Good Friday. I would then imagine myself in Gethsemane and on Golgotha, deeply moved. That world was so painfully beautiful, pale and ghostlike, yet so terribly alive. And when I listened to Bach’s Passion according to St. Matthew, I felt the mystical thrill of that dark, powerful, mysterious world of passion and suffering. Even today, I find in this music and in the “actus tragicus” the essence of all poetry and all artistic expression.

At the conclusion of the lesson Demian said to me contemplatively:

At the end of the lesson, Demian said to me thoughtfully:

“There’s something in this, Sinclair, which I don’t like. Read through the story, consider it, there’s something there which sounds insipid. I mean this business of the two thieves. It’s sublime, the three crosses standing side by side on the hill! But what about this sentimental story of the honest thief, which reads more like a tract? First he was a criminal who had perpetrated crimes, and God knows what, and now he breaks out in tears and is consumed by feelings of contrition and repentance. I ask you what’s the sense of such a repentance two steps from the grave? It’s nothing but a real parson’s story, mawkish and mendacious, larded with emotion, and having a most edifying background. If to-day you had to choose one of the two thieves as your friend, or if you consider which of the two you would the sooner have trusted, it would most certainly not be this weeping convert. No, it’s the other, who’s a real fellow with plenty of character. He doesn’t care a straw about conversion, which in his case can mean simply nothing more than pretty speeches. He goes his way bravely to the end, without being such a coward as to renounce the devil in the last moment who up to that point has had to help him. He is a character, and in Biblical history people of character always come off second best. Perhaps he’s a descendant of Cain. Don’t you think so?”

“There’s something in this story I don’t like, Sinclair. Read it and think about it. Something in it sounds bland. I mean the part about the two thieves. The three crosses standing side by side on the hill are magnificent! But what about this sentimental story of the good thief? It reads more like a religious pamphlet. First, he was a criminal who had committed crimes and God knows what else. Now he bursts into tears, overwhelmed by remorse and repentance. What’s the point of such repentance when he’s two steps from the grave? It’s just the kind of story a preacher would tell. It’s sentimental and dishonest, full of emotion and meant to teach a moral lesson. “If you had to choose one of the two thieves as your friend today, which would you choose? Or which would you trust sooner? It certainly wouldn’t be this weeping convert. No, it would be the other one. He’s a real man with plenty of character. He doesn’t care at all about conversion, which in his case could mean nothing more than pretty speeches. He bravely follows his path to the end. He isn’t cowardly enough to turn his back at the last moment on the devil who had helped him until then. He has character, and in the Bible people with character always come off second best. Perhaps he’s a descendant of Cain. Don’t you think so?”

I was dismayed. I had believed myself to be quite familiar with the story of the crucifixion, and now I saw for the first time what little personal judgment I had brought to bear on it, with what little force of imagination and of fantasy I had listened to it and read it. Demian’s new ideas, therefore, were quite annoying, threatening to overthrow conceptions, the stability of which I had believed it necessary to maintain. No, one could not deal with anything and everything like that, certainly not with the All Holiest.

I was dismayed. I had thought I knew the story of the crucifixion quite well. Now, for the first time, I saw how little judgment I had used in thinking about it. I had listened to and read the story with so little imagination or fantasy. Demian’s new ideas were therefore quite annoying. They threatened to overturn beliefs I had thought it necessary to keep intact. No, one could not treat everything like that, certainly not the All Holiest.

As always, he noticed my opposition immediately, even before I had spoken a word.

As always, he immediately noticed my resistance, even before I said a word.

“I know,” said he, in a tone of resignation, “it’s the old story. Everything is all right until you’re serious about it! But I’ll tell you something: this is one of the points where one can clearly see the shortcomings of this religion. The fact is that this God, of the old and of the new dispensation, may be an excellent conception, but He is not what He really ought to be. He is everything that is good, noble, fatherly, beautiful, sublime and sentimental certainly! But the world consists of other things which are simply ascribed to the devil. All this part of the world, a good half, is suppressed and hushed up. Just the same as they praise God as the Father of all life, but pass over the whole sex-life, on which all life depends, and declare it to be sinful and the work of the devil! I have nothing to say against honoring this God Jehovah, nothing at all. But I think we should reverence everything and look upon the whole world as sacred, not merely this artificially separated, official half of it! We ought then to worship the devil as well as God. I should find that quite right. Or we ought to create a God, who would embody the devil as well, and before whom we should not have to close our eyes, when the most natural things in the world take place.”

“I know,” he said, sounding resigned. “It’s the same old story. Everything is fine until you get serious about it! But I’ll tell you something: this is one point where you can clearly see the shortcomings of this religion. The God of the Old and New Testaments may be an excellent idea, but he is not what he really ought to be. He is everything good, noble, fatherly, beautiful, sublime, and sentimental, certainly! But the world contains other things that are simply blamed on the devil. This whole part of the world, a good half of it, is suppressed and kept quiet. “It’s just like the way people praise God as the Father of all life. Yet they ignore sex, on which all life depends, and declare it sinful and the devil’s work! I have nothing against honoring this God, Jehovah, nothing at all. But I think we should revere everything and see the whole world as sacred. We should not see only this artificially separated, official half as sacred! Then we should worship the devil as well as God. I would find that quite right. Or we should create a God who includes the devil too. Then we would not have to close our eyes before him when the most natural things in the world happen.”

Contrary to his custom, he had become almost vehement, but he smiled again immediately and pressed me no further.

Unusually for him, he had become almost forceful. But he immediately smiled again and did not press me further.

But in me these words encountered the riddle of my whole boyhood, which I had hourly carried with me, but of which I had never spoken to anyone. What Demian had said about God and the devil, about the official godly world and the suppressed devil’s world, that was exactly my own idea, my own myth, the idea of the two worlds or two halves of the world—the light and the dark. The realization that my problem was a problem of humanity as a whole, of life and thought in general, suddenly dawned on me, and this recognition inspired me with fear and awe as I suddenly felt to what an extent my own innermost personal life and thought were part of the eternal stream of great ideas. The realization was not joyful, although it confirmed my mode of thought and made me happy to a certain extent. It was hard and tasted raw, because a hint of responsibility lay therein, telling me to put away childish things and to stand alone.

But Demian’s words touched on the mystery that had troubled me throughout my boyhood. I had carried it with me every hour, but I had never spoken of it to anyone. What Demian said about God and the devil, about the officially accepted world of God and the suppressed world of the devil, was exactly my own idea, my own myth. It was the idea of two worlds, or two halves of the world: the light and the dark. I suddenly realized that my problem was a problem for all humanity, for life and thought in general. I felt fear and awe as I realized how deeply my own innermost life and thoughts belonged to the eternal stream of great ideas. The realization was not joyful, although it confirmed my way of thinking and made me happy to some extent. It felt harsh and raw, because it carried a hint of responsibility. It told me to put away childish things and stand alone.

I told my friend—the first time in my life I had revealed so deep a secret—of my conception of the “two worlds,” a conception which had been formed since the earliest years of my childhood. He at once saw that I was in thorough agreement with him. But he was not the kind to make the most of this. He listened with greater attention than he had ever given me, and looked me in the eyes until I had to turn away. I again noticed in his look this odd, animal-like timelessness, this inconceivably old age.

I told my friend about my idea of the “two worlds.” It had been taking shape since my earliest childhood. It was the first time in my life I had revealed such a deep secret. He immediately saw that I completely agreed with him. But he was not the kind of person to make too much of that. He listened more closely than he ever had before and looked into my eyes until I had to look away. Again, I noticed that strange, animal-like timelessness in his gaze, that unimaginable age.

“We will talk more about that another time,” he said considerately: “I see that you think more than you can express. But if that is so, then you also know that you have never lived in experience all that you have thought, and that is not good. Only the thought that we live through in experience has any value. You knew that your ‘world of sanction’ was simply one-half of the world, and yet you tried to suppress the other half in you, as do the parsons and teachers. You will not succeed. No one succeeds who has once began to think.”

“We’ll talk more about that another time,” he said gently. “I can see that you think more than you can express. But if that’s so, you also know you haven’t experienced everything you’ve thought about. And that isn’t good. Only thoughts we live out through experience have any value. You knew that your ‘world of sanction’ was only half the world. Yet you tried to suppress the other half within yourself, just as pastors and teachers do. You won’t succeed. No one who has begun to think ever succeeds.”

This impressed me deeply.

This made a deep impression on me.

“But,” I almost shouted, “there are horrible things which are really and actually forbidden—you can’t deny that fact. And they are forbidden once for all, and so we must renounce them. I know of course that there are such things as murder, and all possible kinds of vice, but shall I then, simply because such things exist, go and become a criminal?”

“But,” I almost shouted, “there are horrible things that are truly forbidden. You can’t deny that. They are forbidden once and for all, so we must give them up. Of course, I know that murder and all kinds of vice exist. But should I become a criminal simply because such things exist?”

“We shan’t be able to finish our discussion to-day,” said Max, in a milder tone. “You must certainly not commit murder or rape, no. But you haven’t yet reached that point where one can see what is ‘permitted’ and what is really ‘taboo.’ You have realized only a part of the truth. The remainder will come after, rely on it. For instance, for the past year or so you have had in you an instinct which is stronger than all the others, and which is held to be ‘taboo.’ The Greeks and many other people, on the contrary, made a sort of divinity out of this instinct, and honored it by great celebrations. What is now ‘taboo’ is therefore not eternally so, it can change. To-day everyone is permitted to sleep with a woman as soon as he has been with her to a parson and has gone through the ceremony of marriage. With other races it is different, even to-day. For that reason each one of us must find out for himself what is permitted and what is forbidden—forbidden, that is, to himself. You need never do anything that is forbidden and yet be a thorough rascal. And vice versa. It is really merely a question of convenience. Whoever is too lazy to think for himself and to constitute himself his own judge simply conforms to the taboos, whatever they happen to be. He has an easy time of it. Others realize they carry laws in themselves. For them things are forbidden which every man of honor does daily. On the other hand things are permitted them which are otherwise taboo. Everyone must stand up for himself.”

“We won’t be able to finish our discussion today,” said Max, in a gentler tone. “You certainly must not commit murder or rape. But you haven’t yet reached the point where you can see what is ‘permitted’ and what is truly ‘taboo.’ You have realized only part of the truth. The rest will come later, you can count on it. “For example, for about a year now, you have had an instinct stronger than all the others. This instinct is considered ‘taboo.’ The Greeks and many other peoples, by contrast, made a kind of god out of this instinct. They honored it with great celebrations. So what is ‘taboo’ now is not taboo forever. It can change. “Today, everyone is allowed to sleep with a woman once he has married her in a church ceremony. Among other peoples, things are different, even today. For that reason, each of us must discover for himself what is permitted and what is forbidden to him. You can avoid doing anything forbidden and still be a complete rascal. The reverse is also true. “It is really just a question of convenience. Anyone too lazy to think for himself and be his own judge simply follows the taboos, whatever they happen to be. He has an easy time of it. Others realize that they carry laws within themselves. For them, things are forbidden that every honorable man does daily. On the other hand, they are permitted to do things that are otherwise taboo. Everyone must stand up for himself.”

Suddenly he seemed to regret having said so much, and broke off. I felt I could understand to a certain extent what his sentiment was. That is to say, however agreeably he used to present his ideas (apparently in a cursory manner) he could on no account tolerate a conversation made simply “for the sake of talking,” as he once said. He realized in my case that, although my interest was genuine enough, I was too much inclined to look upon discussion as a game, too fond of clever talking—in short I was lacking in perfect seriousness.

Suddenly, he seemed to regret saying so much and stopped. I felt I could understand his feelings to some extent. He used to present his ideas pleasantly, and apparently casually. But he could never stand a conversation held simply “for the sake of talking,” as he once said. He saw that my interest was genuine enough. But I was too inclined to treat discussion as a game and too fond of clever talk. In short, I was not entirely serious.

As I read again the words I have just written—“perfect seriousness”—another scene suddenly comes into my mind, the most impressive experience I lived through with Max Demian in those still half-childlike times.

As I reread the words I just wrote, “perfect seriousness,” another scene suddenly comes to mind. It was my most memorable experience with Max Demian during those years when we were still partly children.

Our confirmation classes were drawing to an end, and the closing lessons were devoted to the Last Supper. The clergyman thought this very important, and he took pains to make us feel something of the inspiration and sacred character of his teaching. However, precisely in those last few lessons, thoughts were diverted to another object, to the person of my friend. Looking forward to my confirmation, which was explained to us as being our solemn admission into the community of the Church, the thought presented itself imperatively to me that the value of this half-year’s religious instruction did not lie for me in what I had learned in class, but rather in Demian’s presence and influence. It was not into the Church that I was ready to be received, but into something else, into an order of ideas and of personalities which surely existed somewhere or other on earth, and of which I felt my friend was the representative or messenger.

Our confirmation classes were coming to an end, and the final lessons were devoted to the Last Supper. The clergyman thought the Last Supper was very important. He took care to help us feel some of the inspiration and sacred nature of what he taught. But during those very last lessons, my thoughts turned elsewhere, to my friend. As I looked forward to my confirmation, I could not escape a thought. We had been told that confirmation was our solemn admission into the Church community. Yet, for me, the value of those six months of religious instruction lay not in what I had learned in class, but in Demian’s presence and influence. I was not ready to be received into the Church, but into something else. It was a world of ideas and people that surely existed somewhere on earth. I felt that my friend was its representative or messenger.

I tried to repress this thought. In spite of everything, I earnestly intended to go through the ceremony of confirmation with a certain dignity, and the new notions I was forming seemed scarcely compatible with this. Yet do what I would, the idea was there, and gradually identified itself with the approaching religious ceremony. I was ready to celebrate it in a different fashion from the other confirmation candidates. For me it would mean admission into a world of ideas, with which I had become acquainted through Demian.

I tried to push the thought away. Despite everything, I sincerely intended to go through the confirmation ceremony with some dignity. The new ideas I was forming hardly seemed compatible with that intention. But no matter what I did, the idea stayed with me. Gradually, it became linked in my mind with the approaching religious ceremony. I was ready to celebrate it differently from the other confirmation candidates. For me, it would mean entering a world of ideas that Demian had introduced me to.

In those days it happened that I had another discussion with him; it was just before a lesson. My friend was wrapped up in himself and took little pleasure in my talk, which was perhaps rather precocious and bombastic.

Around that time, I had another conversation with him, just before a lesson. My friend was absorbed in his own thoughts and took little pleasure in what I said. Perhaps I sounded rather precocious and pompous.

“We talk too much,” he said with unwonted gravity. “Wise speeches have no value at all, absolutely none. You only escape from yourself. To escape from yourself is a sin. You should be able to creep right into yourself, like a tortoise.”

“We talk too much,” he said, unusually serious. “Wise words have no value at all, absolutely none. You only escape from yourself. Escaping from yourself is a sin. You should be able to crawl right into yourself, like a tortoise.”

We entered the schoolroom immediately after. The lesson began. I took pains to listen, and Demian did not disturb me in my effort. After a while I began to feel something peculiar at my side where his place was, a sort of emptiness or coolness or something like that, as if his seat had suddenly become vacant. The feeling became oppressive and I turned round.

We entered the classroom right afterward. The lesson began. I tried hard to listen, and Demian did not interrupt me. After a while, I began to feel something strange beside me, where Demian sat. It was a kind of emptiness or coolness, as if his seat had suddenly become vacant. The feeling grew oppressive, and I turned around.

There I saw my friend sitting, upright and in his customary attitude. But he looked quite different from usual. Something I did not know went out from him, enveloped him. I thought his eyes were closed, until I saw he held them open. But they were stiff as if gazing within or directed to an object a great way off. He sat there perfectly motionless; he seemed not to be breathing and his mouth was as if carved out of wood or stone. His face was white, uniformly white, as stone. His brown hair showed more signs of life than did any other feature. His hands lay before him on the desk, without life, as still as inanimate objects, like stones or fruit, white and motionless, yet not relaxed, but as if controlling the secret springs of a powerful life force.

There I saw my friend sitting upright in his usual pose. But he looked very different. Something unfamiliar seemed to come from him and surround him. I thought his eyes were closed until I saw they were open. But they were fixed, as if looking inward or at something far away. He sat perfectly still. He seemed not to be breathing, and his mouth looked as if it had been carved from wood or stone. His face was white, as uniformly white as stone. His brown hair showed more life than any other part of him. His hands lay before him on the desk, lifeless and still like objects, like stones or fruit. They were white and motionless, but not relaxed. They looked as if they were controlling the hidden springs of a powerful life force.

The sight made me tremble. He is dead, I thought. I almost said it out loud. But I knew he was not dead. Mesmerized, I hung on his look; my eyes were riveted to this white, stone mask. I felt it was the real Demian. The Demian who was in the habit of walking and talking with me, that was only one side of him, a half. Demian, who from time to time played a part, who accommodated himself to circumstances out of mere complacence. But the real Demian looked like this, with just this look of stone, prehistorically old, like an animal, beautiful and cold, dead yet secretly full of fabulous life force. And around him this still emptiness, this infinite ethereal space, this lonely death!

The sight made me tremble. He is dead, I thought. I almost said it out loud. But I knew he was not dead. Mesmerized, I stared at his expression, my eyes fixed on that white, stone mask. I felt that this was the real Demian. The Demian who usually walked and talked with me was only one side of him, one half. From time to time, he played a part, adapting to circumstances simply to make things easier. But the real Demian looked like this, with that same stony expression. He looked ancient, like an animal, beautiful and cold, dead yet secretly full of an incredible life force. And around him lay this still emptiness, this endless, unearthly space, this lonely death!

“Now he has quite retired into himself,” I felt with a shudder. Never had I been so isolated. I had no part in him, he was unattainable, he was further from me than if he had been on the most distant isle in the world.

“Now he has withdrawn completely into himself,” I thought with a shudder. I had never felt so isolated. I had no part in his life. I could not reach him. He was farther from me than if he had been on the most distant island in the world.

I scarcely understood why no one besides myself noticed it. I thought that everyone would have to remark him, that everyone would shudder. But no one gave him any attention. He sat like a picture and, as I could not prevent myself from thinking, as stiff as a strange idol. A fly settled on his forehead, moved slowly down over his nose and lips—not a muscle, not a nerve in his face twitched.

I could hardly understand why no one else noticed it. I thought everyone would notice him and shudder. But no one paid him any attention. He sat like a picture. I could not help thinking he was as stiff as a strange idol. A fly landed on his forehead and slowly crawled down over his nose and lips. Not a muscle or a nerve in his face twitched.

Where, where was he now? What was he thinking, what was he feeling? Was he in heaven or in hell?

Where, where was he now? What was he thinking? What was he feeling? Was he in heaven or in hell?

It was impossible for me to question him. When I saw him at the end of the lesson living and breathing again, when his glance met mine, was he as he formerly had been? Where did he come from? Where had he been? He seemed tired. His face had its normal color, his hands moved again, but his brown hair was lustreless and fatigued, as it were.

I couldn’t question him. At the end of the lesson, I saw him living and breathing again. When his eyes met mine, was he the same as before? Where did he come from? Where had he been? He seemed tired. His face had its normal color, and his hands moved again. But his brown hair looked dull and almost tired itself.

In the days following I practised a new exercise in my bedroom several times. I sat stiffly on a chair, kept my eyes fixed, and held myself perfectly motionless. I waited to see how long I could maintain this attitude, and what the sensation would be like. However, I merely got very tired, and suffered from a violent twitching of the eyelids.

Over the next few days, I tried a new exercise in my bedroom several times. I sat stiffly in a chair, fixed my eyes on one spot, and kept perfectly still. I wanted to see how long I could hold the position and what it would feel like. But I only got very tired, and my eyelids twitched violently.

The confirmation took place soon after, of which no important recollections remain with me.

The confirmation took place soon after. I have no important memories of it.

Everything was now quite changed. Childhood fell about me in ruins. My parents used to look at me with a certain embarrassment. My sisters had become quite strange in their conduct towards me. A disillusionment falsified and weakened the old sentiments and pleasures, the garden was without fragrance, the wood was no longer inviting, the world around me seemed like a clearance-sale of old articles, insipid and without charm, books were merely paper, music a noise. The leaves fall thus from a tree in autumn, the tree feels it not, rain drips on it, sun comes and frost, and the life in it recedes slowly into the narrowest and most inward recess. The tree is not dying. It is waiting.

Everything had changed now. My childhood was falling apart around me. My parents looked at me with a certain embarrassment. My sisters behaved quite strangely toward me. Disillusionment distorted and weakened my old feelings and pleasures. The garden had no fragrance, and the woods no longer drew me in. The world around me seemed like a clearance sale of old things, dull and without charm. Books were nothing but paper, and music was noise. In the same way, leaves fall from a tree in autumn, but the tree does not feel it. Rain drips on the tree, then come sun and frost. The life within it slowly retreats to its smallest, deepest recess. The tree is not dying. It is waiting.

It was decided that after the holidays I should go to another school, leaving home for the first time. My mother meanwhile approached me with especial tenderness, a sort of preliminary good-bye, endeavoring to charm me with a love from which I should go with homesickness and unforgetfulness in my heart. Demian had gone away. I was alone.

It was decided that I would go to another school after the holidays and leave home for the first time. Meanwhile, my mother was especially tender with me, as if she were beginning to say goodbye. She tried to surround me with love so that I would leave with homesickness in my heart and never forget her. Demian had gone away. I was alone.