John the Seducer’s Speech

My dear boon companions, is Satan plaguing you? For, indeed, you speak like so many hired mourners, your eyes are red with tears and not with wine. You almost move me to tears also, for an unhappy lover does have a miserable time of it in life. Hinc illae lacrimae.⁴⁷ I, however, am a happy lover, and my only wish is to remain so. Very possibly, that is one of the concessions to woman which Victor is so afraid of. Why not? Let it be a concession! Loosening the lead foil of this bottle of champagne also is a concession; letting its foaming contents flow into my glass also is a concession; and so is raising it to my lips—now I drain it—concedo.⁴⁸ Now, however, it is empty, hence I need no more concessions. Just the same with girls. If some unhappy lover has bought his kiss too dearly, this proves to me only that he does not know, either how to take what is coming to him or how to do it. I never pay too much for this sort of thing—that is a matter for the girls to decide. What this signifies? To me it signifies the most beautiful, the most delicious, and well-nigh the most persuasive, argumentum ad hominem; but since every woman, at least once in her life, possesses this argumentative freshness I do not see any reason why I should not let myself be persuaded. Our young friend wishes to make this experience in his thought. Why not buy a cream puff and be content with looking at it? I mean to enjoy. No mere talk for me! Just as an old song has it about a kiss: es ist kaum zu sehn, es ist nur für Lippen, die genau sich verstehn⁴⁹—understand each other so exactly that any reflection about the matter is but an impertinence and a folly. He who is twenty and does not grasp the existence of the categorical imperative "enjoy thyself"—he is a fool; and he who does not seize the opportunity is and remains a Christianfelder.⁵⁰

My dear drinking companions, is Satan tormenting you? You certainly sound like hired mourners. Your eyes are red from tears, not wine. You almost bring me to tears too, for an unhappy lover really does have a miserable life. That is where the tears come from.⁴⁷ I, however, am a happy lover, and my only wish is to stay that way. Very possibly, that wish is one of the concessions to women that Victor fears so much. Why not? Let it be a concession! Loosening the lead foil on this champagne bottle is also a concession. Letting the foaming champagne flow into my glass is another concession. So is raising the glass to my lips. Now I drain it. I concede.⁴⁸ But now the glass is empty, so I need no more concessions. The same goes for girls. If some unhappy lover has paid too dearly for his kiss, that proves only one thing to me. He knows neither how to take what is coming to him nor how to go about it. I never pay too much for this sort of thing. That is for the girls to decide. What does this mean? To me, it means the most beautiful, most delicious, and almost most persuasive appeal to the person. But every woman, at least once in her life, has this freshness in her power to persuade. So I see no reason not to let myself be persuaded. Our young friend wants to have this experience in his thoughts. Why not buy a cream puff and be content just looking at it? I intend to enjoy myself. No mere talk for me! As an old song says about a kiss: it can hardly be seen, it is only for lips that understand each other perfectly⁴⁹. They understand each other so perfectly that any reflection on the matter is simply intrusive and foolish. Anyone who is twenty and fails to recognize the unconditional command "enjoy yourself" is a fool. And anyone who fails to seize the opportunity is and remains a Christianfelder.⁵⁰

However, you all are unhappy lovers, and that is why you are not satisfied with woman as she is. The gods forbid! As she is she pleases me, just as she is. Even Constantin's category of "the joke" seems to contain a secret desire. I, on the other hand, I am gallant. And why not? Gallantry costs nothing and gives one all and is the condition for all erotic pleasure. Gallantly is the Masonic language of the senses and of voluptuousness, between man and woman. It is a natural language, as love's language in general is. It consists not of sounds but of desires disguised and of ever changing wishes. That an unhappy lover may be ungallant enough to wish to convert his deficit into a draught payable in immortality—that I understand well enough. That is to say, I for my part do not understand it; for to me a woman has sufficient intrinsic value. I assure every woman of this, it is the truth; and at the same time it is certain that I am the only one who is not deceived by this truth. As to whether a despoiled woman is worth less than man—about that I find no information in my price list. I do not pick flowers already broken, I leave them to the married men to use for Shrove-tide decoration. Whether e. g. Edward wishes to consider the matter again, and again fall in love with Cordelia,⁵¹ or simply repeat the affair in his reflection—that is his own business. Why should I concern myself with other peoples' affairs! I explained to her at an earlier time what I thought of her; and, in truth, she convinced me, convinced me to my absolute satisfaction, that my gallantry was well applied.

But you are all unhappy lovers, and that is why you are not satisfied with woman as she is. The gods forbid! She pleases me as she is, just as she is. Even Constantin's category of "the joke" seems to hide a secret desire. I, on the other hand, am gallant. And why not? Gallantry costs nothing, gives you everything, and is necessary for all erotic pleasure. Gallantry is the secret Masonic language of the senses and sensual pleasure between man and woman. It is a natural language, as the language of love generally is. It consists not of sounds but of disguised desires and ever-changing wishes. An unhappy lover may be ungallant enough to turn his loss into a bill payable in immortality. I can understand that well enough. Or rather, I for my part do not understand it, because to me a woman has enough value in herself. I assure every woman of her value. It is the truth. Yet I am certainly the only one who is not deceived by this truth. As for whether a woman robbed of her virtue is worth less than a man, my price list says nothing. I do not pick flowers already broken. I leave them for married men to use as Shrove-tide decorations. Perhaps Edward wishes to reconsider the matter and fall in love with Cordelia⁵¹ again. Or perhaps he simply wishes to repeat the affair in his thoughts. That is his own business. Why should I concern myself with other people's affairs! I explained to her earlier what I thought of her. And, in truth, she convinced me, to my complete satisfaction, that my gallantry was well spent.

Concedo. Concessi.⁵² If I should meet with another Cordelia, why then I shall enact a comedy "Ring number 2.⁵³" But you are unhappy lovers and have conspired together, and are worse deceived than the girls, notwithstanding that you are richly endowed by nature. But decision—the decision of desire, is the most essential thing in life. Our young friend will always remain an onlooker. Victor is an unpractical enthusiast. Constantin has acquired his good sense at too great a cost; and the fashion dealer is a madman. Stuff and nonsense! With all four of you busy about one girl, nothing would come of it.

I concede. I have conceded.⁵² If I meet another Cordelia, then I’ll perform a comedy called "Ring number 2.⁵³" But you are unhappy lovers who have conspired together. You are more deceived than the girls, even though nature has given you many gifts. But making a decision, the decision of desire, is the most essential thing in life. Our young friend will always remain an onlooker. Victor is an impractical enthusiast. Constantin has gained his good sense at too high a price. And the fashion dealer is a madman. Stuff and nonsense! Even with all four of you pursuing one girl, nothing would come of your efforts.

Let one have enthusiasm enough to idealize, taste enough to join in the clinking of glasses at the festive board of enjoyment, sense enough to break off—to break off absolutely, as does Death, madness enough to wish to enjoy all over again—if you have all that you will be the favorite of gods and girls.

Have enough enthusiasm to idealize, and enough taste to join in clinking glasses at the festive table of pleasure. Have enough sense to stop, to stop completely, as Death does. Have enough madness to want to enjoy it all again. If you have all these qualities, you will be the favorite of gods and girls.

But of what avail to speak here? I do not intend to make proselytes. Neither is this the place for that. To be sure I love wine, to be sure I love the abundance of a banquet—all that is good; but let a girl be my company, and then I shall be eloquent. Let then Constantin have my thanks for the banquet, and the wine, and the excellent appointments—the speeches, however, were but indifferent. But in order that things shall have a better ending I shall now pronounce a eulogy on woman.

But what is the use of speaking here? I do not intend to win converts. Nor is this the place for that. Certainly I love wine, and certainly I love a lavish banquet. All of that is good. But give me a girl for company, and then I will be eloquent. So I thank Constantin for the banquet, the wine, and the excellent arrangements. The speeches, however, were rather mediocre. But to bring things to a better end, I will now give a speech in praise of woman.

Just as he who is to speak in praise of the divinity must be inspired by the divinity to speak worthily, and must therefore be taught by the divinity as to what he shall say, likewise he who would speak of women. For woman, even less than the divinity, is a mere figment of man's brain, a day-dream, or a notion that occurs to one and which one may argue about pro et contra. Nay, one learns from woman alone what to say of her. And the more teachers one has had, the better. The first time one is a disciple, the next time one is already over the chief difficulties, just as one learns in formal and learned disputations how to use the last opponent's compliments against a new opponent. Nevertheless nothing is lost. For as little as a kiss is a mere sample of good things, and as little as an embrace is an exertion, just as little is this experience exhaustive. In fact it is essentially different from the mathematical proof of a theorem, which remains ever the same, even though other letters be substituted. This method is one befitting mathematics and ghosts, but not love and women, because each is a new proof, corroborating the truth of the theorem in a different manner. It is my joy that, far from being less perfect than man, the female sex is, on the contrary, the more perfect. I shall, however, clothe my speech in a myth; and I shall exult, on woman's account whom you have so unjustly maligned, if my speech pronounce judgment on your souls, if the enjoyment of her beckon you only to flee you, as did the fruits from Tantalus; because you have fled, and thereby insulted, woman. Only thus, forsooth, may she be insulted, even though she scorn it, and though punishment instantly falls on him who had the audacity. I, however, insult no one. That is but the notion of married men, and a slander; whereas, in reality, I respect her more highly than does the man she is married to.

Anyone who wishes to praise the divine must be inspired by the divine to speak worthily. The divine must therefore teach him what to say. The same is true of anyone who wishes to speak of women. For woman, even less than the divine, is merely a product of a man's imagination. She is not a daydream or an idea that occurs to someone, to be argued for and against. No, only from woman can one learn what to say about her. And the more teachers one has had, the better. The first time, one is a student. The next time, one has already overcome the main difficulties. In much the same way, formal scholarly debates teach one to use a previous opponent's compliments against a new opponent. Yet nothing is lost. A kiss is not merely a sample of good things, nor is an embrace merely an exertion. Likewise, this experience does not exhaust what there is to experience. In fact, this experience differs fundamentally from the mathematical proof of a theorem. Such a proof always stays the same, even when different letters are substituted. That method suits mathematics and ghosts, but not love and women. For each woman is a new proof, confirming the theorem's truth in a different way. I delight in the fact that the female sex, far from being less perfect than men, is more perfect. I shall, however, put my words in the form of a myth. And for the sake of woman, whom you have so unjustly slandered, I shall rejoice if my words condemn your souls. I shall rejoice if the pleasure she offers beckons you, only to escape you, as the fruits escaped Tantalus. For you have fled from woman and, by doing so, insulted her. Indeed, only by fleeing can one insult her, even though she scorns the insult. And punishment immediately falls on the man who dares to insult her. I, however, insult no one. Only married men think I do, and their claim is slander. In reality, I respect her more highly than her husband does.

Originally there was but one sex, so the Greeks relate, and that was man's. Splendidly endowed he was, so he did honor to the gods—so splendidly endowed that the same happened to them as sometimes happens to a poet who has expended all his energy on a poetic invention: they grew jealous of man. Ay, what is worse, they feared that he would not willingly bow under their yoke; they feared, though with small reason, that he might cause their very heaven to totter. Thus they had raised up a power they scarcely held themselves able to curb. Then there was anxiety and alarm in the council of the gods. Much had they lavished in their generosity on the creation of man; but all must be risked now, for reason of bitter necessity; for all was at stake—so the gods believed—and recalled he could not be, as a poet may recall his invention. And by force he could not be subdued, or else the gods themselves could have done so; but precisely of that they despaired. He would have to be caught and subdued, then, by a power weaker than his own and yet stronger—one strong enough to compel him. What a marvelous power this would have to be! However, necessity teaches even the gods to surpass themselves in inventiveness. They sought and they found. That power was woman, the marvel of creation, even in the eyes of the gods a greater marvel than man—a discovery which the gods in their naïveté could not help but applaud themselves for. What more can be said in her praise than that she was able to accomplish what even the gods did not believe themselves able to do; and what more can be said in her praise than that she did accomplish it! But how marvelous a creation must be hers to have accomplished it.

Originally there was only one sex, the Greeks tell us, and it was male. Man was so richly gifted that he did the gods credit. But the gods found themselves in the position of a poet who has poured all his energy into a creation. They grew jealous of man. Yes, worse still, they feared he would not willingly submit to their rule. They feared, though with little reason, that he might shake their very heaven. So they had created a power they hardly believed they could control. Then anxiety and alarm spread through the council of the gods. In their generosity, they had lavished much on the creation of man. But now bitter necessity demanded that they risk everything, for everything was at stake, or so the gods believed. And they could not take man back, as a poet may take back his creation. Nor could man be subdued by force, or the gods themselves could have subdued him. But that was precisely what they had lost hope of doing. So man would have to be caught and subdued by a power weaker than his own, yet stronger. It would have to be strong enough to compel him. What an extraordinary power that would have to be! Yet necessity teaches even the gods to outdo themselves in inventiveness. They searched, and they found. That power was woman, the marvel of creation. Even to the gods, she was a greater marvel than man. In their innocence, the gods could not help congratulating themselves on this discovery. What greater praise could woman receive than that she could accomplish what even the gods did not believe they could do? And what greater praise could she receive than that she did accomplish it! But how extraordinary her creation must have been for her to accomplish it.

It was a ruse of the gods. Cunningly the enchantress was fashioned, for no sooner had she bewitched man than she changed and caught him in all the circumstantialities of existence. It was that the gods had desired. But what, pray, can be more delicious, or more entrancing and bewitching, than what the gods themselves contrived, when battling for their supremacy, as the only means of luring man? And most assuredly it is so, for woman is the only, and the most seductive, power in heaven and on earth. When compared with her in this sense man will indeed be found to be exceedingly imperfect.

It was a trick by the gods. The enchantress was cunningly made. No sooner had she bewitched man than she changed and trapped him in all the circumstances of existence. This was what the gods had wanted. But tell me, what could be more delightful, more captivating and bewitching, than what the gods themselves devised? They were fighting to preserve their supremacy, and this was their only means of luring man. And surely this is true, for woman is the only seductive power in heaven and on earth, and the most seductive. Compared with her in this respect, man is indeed deeply imperfect.

And the stratagem of the gods was crowned with success; but not always. There have existed at all times some men—a few—who have detected the deception. They perceive well enough woman's loveliness—more keenly, indeed than the others—but they also suspect the real state of affairs. I call them erotic natures and count myself among them. Men call them seducers, woman has no name for them—such persons are to her unnameable. These erotic natures are the truly fortunate ones. They live more luxuriously than do the very gods, for they regale themselves with food more delectable than ambrosia, and they drink what is more delicious than nectar; they eat the most seductive invention of the gods' most ingenious thought, they are ever eating dainties set for a bait—ah, incomparable delight, ah, blissful fare—they are ever eating but the dainties set for a bait; and they are never caught. All other men greedily seize and devour it, like bumpkins eating their cabbage, and are caught. Only the erotic nature fully appreciates the dainties set out for bait—he prizes them infinitely. Woman divines this, and for that reason there is a secret understanding between him and her. But he knows also that she is a bait, and that secret he keeps to himself.

And the gods’ trick succeeded, but not always. In every age, a few men have seen through the deception. They recognize women’s beauty well enough, indeed more keenly than other men do. But they also suspect how things really stand. I call them erotic natures and count myself among them. Men call them seducers. Women have no name for them. To women, such men are beyond naming. These erotic natures are the truly fortunate ones. They live more luxuriously than the gods themselves. They feast on food more delicious than ambrosia and drink something finer than nectar. They feast on the most seductive invention of the gods’ most ingenious thinking. They are always eating delicacies laid out as bait. Ah, incomparable delight, ah, blissful food! They are always eating only the delicacies laid out as bait, and they are never caught. All other men grab and devour the bait greedily, like country bumpkins eating their cabbage, and are caught. Only the erotic nature fully appreciates the delicacies laid out as bait. He values them infinitely. A woman senses his appreciation, and for that reason there is a secret understanding between them. But he also knows that she is bait, and he keeps that secret to himself.

That nothing more marvelous, nothing more delicious, nothing more seductive, than woman can be devised, for that vouch the gods and their pressing need which heightened their powers of invention; for that vouches also the fact that they risked all, and in shaping her moved heaven and earth.

Nothing more marvelous, more delightful, or more seductive than woman can be imagined. The gods bear witness to this, as does their urgent need, which sharpened their powers of invention. So does the fact that the gods risked everything and moved heaven and earth to shape her.

I now forsake the myth. The conception "man" corresponds to his "idea." I can therefore, if necessary, think of an individual man as existing. The idea of woman, on the other hand, is so general that no one single woman is able to express it completely. She is not contemporaneous with man (and hence of less noble origin), but a later creation, though more perfect than he. Whether now the gods took some part from him whilst he slept, from fear of waking him by taking too much; or whether they bisected him and made woman out of the one half—at any rate it was man who was partitioned. Hence she is the equal of man only after this partition. She is a delusion and a snarer, but is so only afterwards, and for him who is deluded. She is finiteness incarnate; but in her first stage she is finiteness raised to the highest degree in the deceptive infinitude of all divine and human illusions. Now, the deception does not exist—one instant longer, and one is deceived.

I now leave the myth behind. The concept of "man" corresponds to his "idea." So, if necessary, I can think of an individual man as existing. The idea of woman, however, is so general that no single woman can express it fully. Woman was not created at the same time as man (and is therefore of less noble origin). She was created later, though she is more perfect than he is. Perhaps the gods took some part of him while he slept, fearing that taking too much would wake him. Or perhaps they cut him in two and made woman from one half. Either way, man was the one divided. So woman is man's equal only after he has been divided. She is an illusion and a trap, but only afterward, and only for the man who is deceived. She is finiteness embodied. But in her first stage, she is finiteness raised to the highest degree within the deceptive infinity of all divine and human illusions. At present, the deception does not exist. One instant later, and one is deceived.

She is finiteness, and as such she is a collective: one woman represents all women. Only the erotic nature comprehends this and therefore knows how to love many without ever being deceived, sipping the while all the delights the cunning gods were able to prepare. For this reason, as I said, woman cannot be fully expressed by one formula, but is, rather, an infinitude of finalities. He who wishes to think her "idea" will have the same experience as he who gazes on a sea of nebulous shapes which ever form anew, or as he who is dazed by looking over the waves whose foamy crests ever mock one's vision; for her "idea" is but the workshop of possibilities. And to the erotic nature these possibilities are the everlasting reason for his worship.

She is finiteness, and as such she is a collective: one woman represents all women. Only someone with an erotic nature understands this and therefore knows how to love many women without ever being deceived. All the while, he savors all the delights the cunning gods were able to prepare. For this reason, as I said, woman cannot be fully captured in a single formula. Rather, she is an infinity of finite forms. Anyone who tries to grasp her "idea" will be like someone gazing at a sea of hazy, constantly changing shapes. Or he will be like someone dazed by watching waves whose foamy crests constantly play tricks on his eyes. For her "idea" is nothing but a workshop of possibilities. And for someone with an erotic nature, these possibilities are the eternal reason for his worship.

So the gods created her delicate and ethereal as if out of the mists of the summer night, yet goodly like ripe fruit; light like a bird, though the repository of what attracts all the world—light because the play of the forces is harmoniously balanced in the invisible center of a negative relation;⁵⁴ slender in growth, with definite lines, yet her body sinuous with beautiful curves; perfect, yet ever appearing as if completed but now; cool, delicious, and refreshing like new-fallen snow, yet blushing in coy transparency; happy like some pleasantry which makes one forget all one's sorrow; soothing as being the end of desire, and satisfying in herself being the stimulus of desire. And the gods had calculated that man, when first beholding her, would be amazed, as one who sees himself, though familiar with that sight—would stand in amaze as one who sees himself in the splendor of perfection—would stand in amaze as one who beholds what he did never dream he would, yet beholds what, it would seem, ought to have occurred to him before—sees what is essential to life and yet gazes on it as being the very mystery of existence. It is precisely tins contradiction in his admiration which nurses desire to life, while this same admiration urges him ever nearer, so that he cannot desist from gazing, cannot desist from believing himself familiar with the sight, without really daring to approach, even though he cannot desist from desiring.

So the gods made her delicate and airy, as if from the mists of a summer night, yet lovely like ripe fruit. She was light as a bird, though she held what attracts all the world. Her lightness came from forces balanced in harmony at the invisible center of a negative relation.⁵⁴ She was slender, with clear outlines, yet her body flowed with beautiful curves. She was perfect, yet always seemed to have been completed only a moment before. She was cool, delightful, and refreshing like freshly fallen snow, yet blushing through her shy transparency. She was happy like a playful joke that makes you forget all your sorrow. She was soothing because desire ended in her, and satisfying in herself because she stirred desire. And the gods had planned that man would be amazed when he first saw her. He would be like someone amazed to see himself, though familiar with the sight. He would stand amazed, as if seeing himself in the splendor of perfection. He would stand amazed, as if seeing something he had never dreamed he would see. Yet he would feel that the sight should have occurred to him before. He would see something essential to life, yet gaze at it as the very mystery of existence. This contradiction in his admiration is precisely what brings desire to life. At the same time, his admiration draws him ever closer, so that he cannot stop gazing. He cannot stop believing the sight is familiar, yet he does not really dare approach, though he cannot stop desiring.

When the gods had thus planned her form they were seized with fear lest they might not have the wherewithal to give it existence; but what they feared even more was herself. For they dared not let her know how beautiful she was, apprehensive of having some one in the secret who might spoil their ruse. Then was the crowning touch given to their wondrous creation: they made her faultless; but they concealed all this from her in the nescience of her innocence, and concealed it doubly from her in the impenetrable mystery of her modesty. Now she was perfect, and victory certain. Inviting she had been before, but now doubly so through her shyness, and beseeching through her shrinking, and irresistible through herself offering resistance. The gods were jubilant. And no allurement has ever been devised in the world so great as is woman, and no allurement is as compelling as is innocence, and no temptation is as ensnaring as is modesty, and no deception is as matchless as is woman. She knows of nothing, still her modesty is instinctive divination. She is distinct from man, and the separating wall of modesty parting them is more decisive than Aladdin's sword separating him from Gulnare;⁵⁵ and yet, when like Pyramis he puts his head to this dividing wall of modesty, the erotic nature will perceive all pleasures of desire divined within as from afar.

Once the gods had planned her form, they feared they might lack the means to bring her into existence. But they feared the woman herself even more. They dared not let her know how beautiful she was. They feared that someone who knew their secret might spoil their trick. Then they added the finishing touch to their wonderful creation: they made her flawless. But they hid her perfection from her in the unawareness of her innocence. They hid it doubly in the impenetrable mystery of her modesty. Now she was perfect, and victory was certain. She had been inviting before, but her shyness now made her doubly so. Her withdrawal made her seem to plead, and her own resistance made her irresistible. The gods rejoiced. No attraction ever devised in the world has been as great as woman. No attraction is as compelling as innocence, and no temptation is as ensnaring as modesty. No deception is as unmatched as woman. She knows nothing, yet her modesty is an instinctive power to foresee. She is distinct from man. The wall of modesty dividing them separates them more decisively than Aladdin's sword separates him from Gulnare.⁵⁵ Yet when, like Pyramis, he puts his head against this dividing wall of modesty, his erotic nature will sense something. He will sense, as though from afar, all the pleasures of desire foreseen within.

Thus does woman tempt. Men are wont to set forth the most precious things they possess as a delectation for the gods, nothing less will do. Thus is woman a show-bread, the gods knew of naught comparable to her. She exists, she is present, she is with us, close by; and yet she is removed from us to an infinite distance when concealed in her modesty—until she herself betrays her hiding place, she knows not how: it is not she herself, it is life which informs on her. Roguish she is like a child who in playing peeps forth from his hiding place, yet her roguishness is inexplicable, for she does not know of it herself, she is ever mysterious—mysterious when she casts down her eyes, mysterious when she sends forth the messengers of her glance which no thought, let alone any word, is able to follow. And yet is the eye the "interpreter" of the soul! What, then, is the explanation of this mystery if the interpreter too is unintelligible? Calm she is like the hushed stillness of eventide, when not a leaf stirs; calm like a consciousness as yet unaware of aught. Her heart-beats are as regular as if life were not present; and yet the erotic nature, listening with his stethoscopically practiced ear, detects the dithyrambic pulsing of desire sounding along unbeknown. Careless she is like the blowing of the wind, content like the profound ocean, and yet full of longing like a thing biding its explanation. My friends! My mind is softened, indescribably softened. I comprehend that also my life expresses an idea, even if you do not comprehend me. I too have discovered the secret of existence; I too serve a divine idea—and, assuredly, I do not serve it for nothing. If woman is a ruse of the gods, this means that she is to be seduced; and if woman is not an "idea," the true inference is that the erotic nature wishes to love as many of them as possible.

This is how woman tempts. Men usually offer their most precious possessions for the gods to enjoy. Nothing less will do. So woman is like sacred bread set before the gods. The gods knew nothing that compared with her. She exists, she is here, she is close to us. Yet her modesty conceals her, placing her infinitely far away, until she reveals her own hiding place without knowing how. She does not reveal herself. Life gives her away. She is mischievous like a child who peeks out from a hiding place during a game. Yet her mischief is inexplicable, because she herself knows nothing of it. She is always mysterious. She is mysterious when she lowers her eyes. She is mysterious when she sends out the messengers of her glance. No thought, much less any word, can follow those messengers. And yet the eye is the "interpreter" of the soul! How, then, can this mystery be explained if even the interpreter cannot be understood? She is calm like the hushed stillness of evening, when not a leaf stirs. She is calm like a mind not yet aware of anything. Her heartbeat is as regular as if no life were present. Yet the erotically inclined man listens with an ear trained like a doctor's using a stethoscope. He detects the ecstatic pulse of desire beating without her knowledge. She is carefree like the blowing wind, content like the deep ocean. Yet she is full of longing, like something waiting to be explained. My friends! My heart has softened, softened beyond words. I understand that my life, too, expresses an idea, even if you do not understand me. I too have discovered the secret of existence. I too serve a divine idea, and surely I do not serve that idea for nothing. If woman is a trick of the gods, then she is meant to be seduced. And if woman is not an "idea," the proper conclusion follows. The erotically inclined man wishes to love as many women as possible.

What luxury it is to relish the ruse without being duped, only the erotic nature comprehends. And how blissful it is to be seduced, woman alone knows. I know that from woman, even though I never yet allowed any one of them time to explain it to me, but re-asserted my independence, serving the idea by a break as sudden as that caused by death; for a bride and a break are to one another like female and male.⁵⁶ Only woman is aware of this, and she is aware of it together with her seducer. No married man will ever grasp this. Nor does she ever speak with him about it. She resigns herself to her fate, she knows that it must be so and that she can be seduced only once. For this reason she never really bears malice against the man who seduced her. That is to say, if he really did seduce her and thus expressed the idea. Broken marriage vows and that kind of thing is, of course, nonsense and no seduction. Indeed, it is by no means so great a misfortune for a woman to be seduced. In fact, it is a piece of good fortune for her. An excellently seduced girl may make an excellent wife. If I myself were not fit to be a seducer—however deeply I feel my inferior qualifications in this respect—if I chose to be a married man, I should always choose a girl already seduced, so that I would not have to begin my marriage by seducing my wife. Marriage, to be sure, also expresses an idea; but in relation to the idea of marriage that quality is altogether immaterial which is the absolutely essential condition for my idea. Therefore, a marriage ought never to be planned to begin as though it were the beginning of a story of seduction. So much is sure: there is a seducer for every woman. Happy is she whose good fortune it is to meet just him.

Only someone with an erotic nature understands the luxury of enjoying the deception without being fooled. And only a woman knows the bliss of being seduced. I learned that from women, though I never gave any of them time to explain it to me. Instead, I reasserted my independence, serving the idea through a break as sudden as death. For a bride and a break stand in the same relation as female and male.⁵⁶ Only a woman knows this, and she shares that knowledge with her seducer. No married man will ever understand it. Nor does she ever discuss it with him. She accepts her fate. She knows that things must be this way and that she can be seduced only once. For this reason, she never really resents the man who seduced her. That is, if he truly seduced her and in doing so expressed the idea. Broken marriage vows and that sort of thing are, of course, nonsense, not seduction. Indeed, being seduced is by no means such a great misfortune for a woman. In fact, it is good fortune for her. A girl who has been excellently seduced may make an excellent wife. Suppose I were not suited to being a seducer, though I feel deeply how poorly qualified I am for it. If I chose to marry, I would always choose a girl who had already been seduced. Then I would not have to begin my marriage by seducing my wife. Marriage, of course, also expresses an idea. But the quality absolutely essential to my idea is entirely irrelevant to the idea of marriage. Therefore, a marriage should never be planned to begin as though it were the start of a seduction story. This much is certain: there is a seducer for every woman. Happy is the woman fortunate enough to meet that very man.

Through marriage, on the other hand, the gods win their victory. In it the once seduced maiden walks through life by the side of her husband, looking back at times, full of longing, resigned to her fate, until she reaches the goal of life. She dies; but not in the same sense as man dies. She is volatilized and resolved into that mysterious primal element of which the gods formed her—she disappears like a dream, like an impermanent shape whose hour is past. For what is woman but a dream, and the highest reality withal! Thus does the erotic nature comprehend her, leading her, and being led by her in the moment of seduction, beyond time—where she has her true existence, being an illusion. Through her husband, on the other hand, she becomes a creature of this world, and he through her.

Through marriage, on the other hand, the gods win their victory. In marriage, the once-seduced young woman walks through life beside her husband. At times she looks back with longing, resigned to her fate, until she reaches life’s end. She dies, but not in the same sense that a man dies. She dissolves into vapor, returning to the mysterious primal element from which the gods formed her. She disappears like a dream, like a fleeting form whose time has passed. For what is woman but a dream, yet also the highest reality! This is how the erotic nature understands her. At the moment of seduction, it leads her beyond time and is led there by her. Beyond time, she has her true existence, since she is an illusion. Through her husband, on the other hand, she becomes a creature of this world, and he becomes one through her.

Marvelous nature! If I did not admire thee, a woman would teach me; for truly she is the venerabile of life. Splendidly didst thou fashion her, but more splendidly still in that thou never didst fashion one woman like another. In man, the essential is the essential, and insofar always alike; but in woman the adventitious is the essential, and is thus an inexhaustible source of differences. Brief is her splendor; but quickly the pain is forgotten, too, when the same splendor is proffered me anew. It is true, I too am aware of the unbeautiful which may appear in her thereafter; but she is not thus with her seducer.

Marvelous nature! If I did not admire you, a woman would teach me to. For truly she is life's object of reverence. You made her splendidly, but more splendidly still, you never made one woman like another. In men, essential qualities are what matter, and in that respect men are always alike. But in women, incidental qualities are what matter, and so provide an endless source of differences. Her splendor is brief. But the pain, too, is quickly forgotten when the same splendor is offered to me again. It is true, I too know that something unbeautiful may appear in her later. But she is not like that with her seducer.

They rose from the table. It needed but a hint from Constantin, for the participants understood each other with military precision whenever there was a question of face or turn about. With his invisible baton of command, elastic like a divining rod in his hand, Constantin once more touched them in order to call forth in them a fleeting reminiscence of the banquet and the spirit of enjoyment which had prevailed before but was now, in some measure, submerged through the intellectual effort of the speeches—in order that the note of glad festivity which had disappeared might, by way of resonance, return once more among the guests in a brief moment of recollection. He saluted with his full glass as a signal of parting, emptying it, and then flinging it against the door in the rear wall. The others followed his example, consummating this symbolic action with all the solemnity of adepts. Justice was thus done the pleasure of stopping short—that royal pleasure which, though briefer, yet is more liberating than any other pleasure. With a libation this pleasure ought to be entered upon, with the libation of flinging one's glass into destruction and oblivion, and tearing one's self passionately away from every memory, as if it were a danger to one's life: this libation is to the gods of the nether world. One breaks off, and strength is needed to do that, greater strength than to sever a knot by a sword-blow; for the difficulty of the knot tends to arouse one's passion, but the passion required for breaking off must be of one's own making. In a superficial sense the result is, of course, the same; but from an artistic point of view there is a world of difference between something ceasing or simply coming to an end, and it being broken off by one's own free will—whether it is a mere occurrence or a passionate decision; whether it is all over, like a school song, because there is no more to it, or whether it is terminated by the Cæsarian operation of one's own pleasure; whether it is a triviality every one has experienced, or the secret which escapes most.

They rose from the table. Constantin needed only to give a hint. The guests understood one another with military precision whenever they had to face about or turn around. Once more, Constantin touched them with his invisible baton of command, flexible as a divining rod in his hand. He wanted to awaken a fleeting memory of the banquet and the spirit of enjoyment that had filled it. The mental effort of the speeches had now partly submerged that spirit. His purpose was to bring back the vanished note of joyful celebration, like an echo, through a brief shared recollection. He raised his full glass in a farewell salute, emptied it, then hurled it against the door in the back wall. The others followed his example, completing this symbolic act with all the solemnity of initiates. They had thus done justice to the pleasure of breaking off. This royal pleasure, though briefer than any other, is more liberating. Such pleasure should begin with a libation: flinging your glass into destruction and oblivion. You should passionately tear yourself away from every memory, as if each memory threatened your life. This libation is offered to the gods of the underworld. Breaking off takes strength, greater strength than cutting a knot with a sword. The knot's difficulty tends to stir your passion. But you must create for yourself the passion needed to break off. On the surface, of course, the result is the same. But artistically, there is a world of difference between something ending and your freely choosing to break it off. There is a difference between a mere event and a passionate decision. A school song ends because there is no more to sing. That differs from ending something through the Caesarean operation of your own pleasure. One is a commonplace everyone has experienced. The other is a secret most people miss.

Constantin's flinging his beaker against the door was intended merely as a symbolic rite; nevertheless, his so doing was, in a way, a decisive act; for when the last glass was shattered the door opened, and just as he who presumptuously knocked at Death's door and, on its opening, beheld the powers of annihilation, so the banqueters beheld the corps of destruction ready to demolish everything—a memento which in an instant put them to flight from that place, while at the very same moment the entire surroundings had been reduced to the semblance of ruin.

Constantin threw his beaker against the door merely as a symbolic ritual. Even so, his action was, in a way, decisive. For when the last glass shattered, the door opened. Just as someone who presumptuously knocked at Death's door saw the powers of annihilation when it opened, so did the banqueters. They saw a demolition crew ready to destroy everything. This reminder instantly sent the banqueters fleeing from the place. At that very same moment, the entire surroundings had been made to look like ruins.

A carriage stood ready at the door. At Constantin's invitation they seated themselves in it and drove away in good spirits; for that tableau of destruction which they left behind had given their souls fresh elasticity. After having covered a distance of several miles a halt was made. Here Constantin took his leave as host, informing them that five carriages were at their disposal—each one was free to suit his own pleasure and drive wherever he wanted, whether alone or in company with whomsoever he pleased. Thus a rocket, propelled by the force of the powder, ascends at a single shot, remains collected for an instant, in order then to spread out to all the winds.

A carriage stood ready at the door. At Constantin's invitation, they got in and drove away in good spirits. For the scene of destruction they left behind had given their souls a fresh resilience. After traveling several miles, they stopped. Here Constantin ended his role as host and told them that five carriages were available for their use. Each person was free to go wherever he wanted, alone or with anyone he chose. Just so, a rocket shoots upward, driven by the force of gunpowder. It stays together for a moment, only to scatter in all directions.

While the horses were being hitched to the carriages the nocturnal banqueters strolled a little way down the road. The fresh air of the morning purified their hot blood with its coolness, and they gave themselves up to it entirely. Their forms, and the groups in which they ranged themselves, made a fantastic impression on me. For when the morning sun shines on field and meadow, and on every creature which in the night found rest and strength to rise up jubilating with the sun—in this there is only a pleasing, mutual understanding; but a nightly company, viewed by the morning light and in smiling surroundings, makes a downright uncanny impression. It makes one think of spooks which have been surprised by daylight, of subterranean spirits which are unable to regain the crevice through which they may vanish, because it is visible only in the dark; of unhappy creatures in whom the difference between day and night has become obliterated through the monotony of their sufferings.

While the horses were being hitched to the carriages, the guests from the night's banquet strolled a little down the road. The cool morning air purified their overheated blood, and they gave themselves over to it completely. Their figures and the groups they formed struck me as strange and dreamlike. For the morning sun shines on fields and meadows, and on every creature that rested and regained strength overnight. These creatures rise to greet the sun with joy. In all this, there is only a pleasant, mutual understanding. But a group of nighttime revelers, seen in the morning light amid cheerful surroundings, looks downright uncanny. The sight brings to mind ghosts caught out by daylight. It recalls underground spirits unable to return to the crack through which they can vanish, because it is visible only in darkness. It recalls unhappy creatures whose monotonous suffering has erased the difference between day and night.

A foot path led them through a small patch of field toward a garden surrounded by a hedge, from behind whose concealment a modest summer-cottage peeped forth. At the end of the garden, toward the field, there was an arbor formed by trees. Becoming aware of people being in the arbor, they all grew curious, and with the spying glances of men bent on observation, the besiegers closed in about that pleasant place of concealment, hiding themselves, and as eager as emissaries of the police about to take some one by surprise. Like emissaries of the police—well, to be sure, their appearance made the misunderstanding possible that it was they whom the minions of the law might be looking for. Each one had occupied a point of vantage for peeping in, when Victor drew back a step and said to his neighbor, "Why, dear me, if that is not Judge William and his wife!"

A footpath led them across a small patch of field toward a garden surrounded by a hedge. A modest summer cottage peeped out from behind the hedge. At the end of the garden, facing the field, trees formed an arbor. When they noticed people in the arbor, they all grew curious. With the watchful eyes of men intent on spying, the group closed in around that pleasant hiding place. They kept themselves hidden, as eager as police agents about to catch someone by surprise. Like police agents, indeed. To be fair, their appearance could have led someone to mistake them for the people the police were after. Each man had found a good spot to peer inside when Victor stepped back and said to his neighbor, "Well, goodness me, if that isn't Judge William and his wife!"

They were surprised—not the two whom the foliage concealed and who were all too deeply concerned with their domestic enjoyment to be observers. They felt themselves too secure to believe themselves an object of any one's observation excepting the morning sun's which took pleasure in looking in to them, whilst a gentle zephyr moved the boughs above them, and the repose-fulness of the countryside, as well as all things around them girded the little arbor about with peace. The happy married couple was not surprised and noticed nothing. That they were a married couple was clear enough; one could perceive that at a glance—alas! if one is something of an observer one's self. Even if nothing in the wide world, nothing, whether overtly or covertly, if nothing, I say, threatens to interfere with the happiness of lovers, yet they are not thus secure when sitting together. They are in a state of bliss; and yet it is as if there were some power bent on separating them, so firmly they clasp one another; and yet it is as if there were some enemy present against whom they must defend themselves; and yet it is as if they could never become sufficiently reassured. Not thus married people, and not thus that married couple in the arbor. How long they had been married, however, that was not to be determined with certainty. To be sure, the wife's activity at the tea-table revealed a sureness of hand born of practice, but at the same time such almost childlike interest in her occupation as if she were a newly married woman and in that middle condition when she is not, as yet, sure whether marriage is fun or earnest, whether being a housewife is a calling, or a game, or a pastime. Perhaps she had been married for some longer time but did not generally preside at the tea-table, or perhaps did so only out here in the country, or did it perhaps only that morning which, possibly, had a special significance for them. Who could tell? All calculation is frustrated to a certain degree by the fact that every personality exhibits some originality which keeps time from leaving its marks. When the sun shines in all his summer glory one thinks straightway that there must be some festal occasion at hand—that it cannot be so for every-day use, or that it is the first time, or at least one of the first times; for surely, one thinks, it cannot be repeated for any length of time. Thus would think he who saw it but once, or saw it for the first time; and I saw the wife of the justice for the first time. He who sees the object in question every day may think differently; provided he sees the same thing. But let the judge decide about that!

They were surprised. Not the two people hidden by the leaves, who were too absorbed in their domestic happiness to notice anything. The couple felt too secure to imagine anyone watching them except the morning sun, which enjoyed peeking in at them. A gentle breeze stirred the branches overhead. The quiet countryside and everything around them surrounded the little arbor with peace. The happily married couple was not surprised and noticed nothing. They were clearly married. You could tell at a glance, alas, if you were something of an observer yourself. Even if nothing in the whole world threatens lovers’ happiness, openly or secretly, lovers do not sit together so securely. They are blissfully happy. Yet they hold each other so tightly that some power seems bent on separating them. And it is as if an enemy were present, against whom they must defend themselves. And it is as if they could never feel reassured enough. Married people are not like that, nor was the married couple in the arbor. How long they had been married, however, could not be determined with certainty. To be sure, the wife handled things at the tea table with a confidence born of practice. But she also took an almost childlike interest in what she was doing, as if she were newly married. She seemed to be in that in-between stage, still unsure whether marriage was fun or serious business. Was being a housewife a calling, a game, or a pastime? Perhaps she had been married longer but did not usually take charge of the tea table. Or perhaps she did so only here in the country. Or perhaps she did so only that morning, which possibly had some special meaning for them. Who could tell? All attempts to calculate such things are frustrated to some extent by each personality’s originality, which keeps time from leaving marks. When the sun shines in all his summer glory, you immediately think there must be some celebration coming. Surely such sunshine cannot be meant for everyday use. Or you think this must be the first time, or at least one of the first times. For surely, you think, such sunshine cannot keep returning for very long. That is what someone would think after seeing it only once, or for the first time. And I was seeing the justice’s wife for the first time. Someone who sees the person in question every day may think differently, provided he sees the same thing. But let the judge decide that!

As I remarked, our amiable housewife was occupied. She poured boiling water into the cups, probably to warm them, emptied them again, set a cup on a platter, poured the tea and served it with sugar and cream—now all was ready; was it fun or earnest? In case a person did not relish tea at other times—he should have sat in the judge's place; for just then that drink seemed most inviting to me, only the inviting air of the lovely woman herself seemed to me more inviting.

As I mentioned, our pleasant hostess was busy. She poured boiling water into the cups, probably to warm them, then emptied them again. She set a cup on a platter, poured the tea, and served it with sugar and cream. Now everything was ready. Was it playful or serious? If someone did not usually enjoy tea, he should have been sitting in the judge's place. For at that moment, the tea seemed most inviting to me. Only the lovely woman's own welcoming manner seemed more inviting.

It appeared that she had not had time to speak until then. Now she broke the silence and said, while serving him his tea: "Quick, now, dear, and drink while it is hot, the morning air is quite cool, anyway; and surely the least I can do for you is to be a little careful of you. The least?" the judge answered laconically. "Yes, or the most, or the only thing." The judge looked at her inquiringly, and whilst he was helping himself she continued: "You interrupted me yesterday when I wished to broach the subject, but I have thought about it again; many times I have thought about it, and now particularly, you know yourself in reference to whom: it is certainly true that if you hadn't married, you would have been far more successful in your career." With his cup still on the platter the judge sipped a first mouthful with visible enjoyment, thoroughly refreshed; or was it perchance the joy over his lovely wife; I for my part believe it was the latter. She, however, seemed only to be glad that it tasted so good to him. Then he put down his cup on the table at his side, took out a cigar, and said: "May I light it at your chafing-dish"? "Certainly," she said, and handed him a live coal on a tea-spoon. He lit his cigar and put his arm about her waist whilst she leaned against his shoulder. He turned his head the other way to blow out the smoke, and then he let his eyes rest on her with a devotion such as only a glance can reveal; yet he smiled, but this glad smile had in it a dash of sad irony. Finally he said: "Do you really believe so, my girl? What do you mean?" she answered. He was silent again, his smile gained the upper hand, but his voice remained quite serious, nevertheless. "Then I pardon you your previous folly, seeing that you yourself have forgotten it so quickly; thou speakest as one of the foolish women speaketh⁵⁷—what great career should I have had?" His wife seemed embarrassed for a moment by this return, but collected her wits quickly and now explained her meaning with womanly eloquence. The judge looked down before him, without interrupting her; but as she continued he began to drum on the table with the fingers of his right hand, at the same time humming a tune. The words of the song were audible for a moment, just as the pattern of a texture now becomes visible, now disappears again; and then again they were heard no longer as he hummed the tune of the song: "The goodman he went to the forest, to cut the wands so white." After this melodramatic performance, consisting in the justice's wife explaining herself whilst he hummed his tune, the dialogue set in again. "I am thinking," he remarked, "I am thinking you are ignorant of the fact that the Danish Law permits a man to castigate his wife⁵⁸—a pity only that the law does not indicate on which occasions it is permitted." His wife smiled at his threat and continued: "Now why can I never get you to be serious when I touch on this matter? You do not understand me: believe me, I mean it sincerely, it seems to me a very beautiful thought. Of course, if you weren't my husband I would not dare to entertain it; but now I have done so, for your sake and for my sake; and now be nice and serious, for my sake, and answer me frankly." "No, you can't get me to be serious, and a serious answer you won't get; I must either laugh at you, or make you forget it, as before, or beat you; or else you must stop talking about it, or I shall have to make you keep silent about it some other way. You see, it is a joke, and that is why there are so many ways out." He arose, pressed a kiss on her brow, laid her arm in his, and then disappeared in a leafy walk which led from the arbor.

It seemed she had not had time to speak until then. Now she broke the silence as she served him his tea. "Quickly now, dear, drink it while it’s hot. The morning air is quite cool, after all. Surely the least I can do for you is take a little care of you." "The least?" the judge replied briefly. "Yes, or the most, or the only thing." The judge gave her a questioning look. As he helped himself, she continued: "You interrupted me yesterday when I wanted to bring up the subject. But I’ve thought about it again. I’ve thought about it many times, and especially now. You know whom I have in mind. It’s certainly true that if you hadn’t married, you would have been far more successful in your career." With his cup still on the saucer, the judge took his first sip with obvious pleasure, feeling thoroughly refreshed. Or perhaps his pleasure came from his lovely wife. For my part, I believe it did. She, however, seemed glad only that he enjoyed the tea so much. Then he set his cup on the table beside him and took out a cigar. "May I light it from your charcoal warmer?" he asked. "Certainly," she said, and handed him a glowing coal on a teaspoon. He lit his cigar and put his arm around her waist as she leaned against his shoulder. He turned his head away to blow out the smoke. Then he rested his eyes on her with a devotion that only a glance can reveal. Yet he smiled, and his happy smile held a touch of sad irony. At last he said: "Do you really believe that, my girl?" "What do you mean?" she answered. He fell silent again. His smile grew stronger, but his voice remained quite serious. "Then I forgive your earlier foolishness, since you’ve forgotten it so quickly yourself. You speak like one of the foolish women⁵⁷. What great career would I have had?" His reply seemed to embarrass his wife for a moment. But she quickly gathered her thoughts and explained what she meant with womanly eloquence. The judge looked down without interrupting her. But as she continued, he began tapping the table with his right fingers and humming a tune. The song’s words could be heard for a moment, like a pattern in fabric that appears and disappears. Then the words faded again as he hummed the tune: "The goodman went into the forest to cut the white rods." After this melodramatic performance, with the judge’s wife explaining herself while he hummed, their conversation resumed. "I think," he remarked, "I think you don’t know that Danish Law allows a man to beat his wife⁵⁸. It’s just a pity the law doesn’t say when he’s allowed to." His wife smiled at his threat and continued: "Now why can I never get you to be serious when I bring up this subject? You don’t understand me. Believe me, I mean it sincerely. The thought seems very beautiful to me. Of course, if you weren’t my husband, I wouldn’t dare entertain the thought. But now I have, for your sake and mine. So please be kind and serious, for my sake, and answer me honestly." "No, you can’t get me to be serious, and you won’t get a serious answer. I must either laugh at you, make you forget the subject as before, or beat you. Otherwise, you must stop talking about the subject, or I’ll have to silence you some other way. You see, it’s a joke, and that’s why there are so many ways out." He rose, kissed her forehead, and tucked her arm into his. Then he disappeared with her down a leafy path leading away from the arbor.

The arbor was empty; there was nothing else to do, so the hostile corps of occupation withdrew without making any gains. Still, the others were content with uttering some malicious remarks. The company returned but missed Victor. He had rounded the corner and, in walking along the garden, had come up to the country home. The doors of a garden-room facing the lawn were open, and likewise a window. Very probably he had seen something which attracted his attention. He leapt into the window, and leapt out again just as the party were approaching, for they had been looking for him. Triumphantly he held up some papers in his hand and exclaimed: "One of the judge's manuscripts!⁵⁹ Seeing that I edited his other works it is no more than my duty that I should edit this one too." He put it into his pocket; or, rather, he was about to do so; for as he was bending his arm and already had his hand with the manuscript half-way down in his pocket I managed to steal it from him.

The arbor was empty. There was nothing else to do, so the hostile occupying force withdrew without gaining anything. Still, the others were content to make a few malicious remarks. The group returned, but Victor was missing. He had rounded the corner and walked along the garden until he reached the country house. The doors of a room opening onto the lawn were open, as was a window. He had very probably seen something that caught his attention. He jumped in through the window and jumped out again just as the group approached, looking for him. He triumphantly held up some papers and exclaimed: "One of the judge's manuscripts!⁵⁹ Since I edited his other works, it's only my duty to edit this one too." He put the manuscript in his pocket. Or rather, he was about to. As he bent his arm, with his hand and the manuscript already halfway into his pocket, I stole it from him.

But who, then, am I? Let no one ask! If it hasn't occurred to you before to ask about it I am over the difficulty; for now the worst is behind me. For that matter, I am not worth asking about, for I am the least of all things, people would put me in utter confusion by asking about me. I am pure existence, and therefore smaller, almost, than nothing. I am "pure existence" which is present everywhere but still is never noticed; for I am ever vanishing. I am like the line above which stands the summa summarum—who cares about the line? By my own strength I can accomplish nothing, for even the idea to steal the manuscript from Victor was not my own idea; for this very idea which, as a thief would say, induced me to "borrow" the manuscript, was borrowed from him. And now, when editing this manuscript, I am, again, nothing at all; for it rightly belongs to the judge. And as editor, I am in my nothingness only a kind of nemesis on Victor, who imagined that he had the prescriptive right to do so.

But who am I, then? Let no one ask! If you haven't thought to ask before, I am past the difficulty. For now the worst is behind me. In any case, I am not worth asking about, for I am the least of all things. People would utterly confuse me by asking about me. I am pure existence, and therefore almost less than nothing. I am "pure existence," present everywhere but never noticed, for I am always vanishing. I am like the line above which the grand total appears. Who cares about the line? By my own strength I can accomplish nothing. Even the idea of stealing the manuscript from Victor was not my own. For the very idea that led me to "borrow" the manuscript, as a thief would say, was borrowed from Victor. And now, as I edit this manuscript, I am once again nothing at all, for the manuscript rightly belongs to the judge. And as editor, in my nothingness, I am only a kind of nemesis for Victor. He imagined he had earned the right, through long practice, to edit the manuscript.