happiness, too, must be overcome and grow pale. Who does not know
persons who are ever speaking of the past, the good old days that never
return? This is a particularly striking phenomenon with reference to
childhood. Some people do not seem to be capable of forgetting their
blissful childhood. There is an important hint here for parents and
educators who wish to assure their children a beautiful childhood.
One must be careful that it is not made too beautiful! Because of the
pleasureable initiation into life the later disharmonies prove too
painful and awaken a longing for childhood which can be fulfilled only
in fruitless dreams!
Recollections must not be permitted to kill the present. We must not be
permitted to be ever lured back into the past and forever to be making
comparisons. Every one of us carries the key to his past about in his
bosom and opens the secret portals in order to roam about in it during
the night in his dreams. In the morning, just before awaking, he locks
the shrine and his daily duties resume their career. But there are
people who cannot tear themselves away from their dreams and are ever
harkening back to the voices of the past.
In insanity this absorption in one’s past may easily be observed. The
invalids become children again, with all their failings, their childish
prattle, their childish pranks, and their childish games. They have
come upon the road to childhood and lost the way so that they cannot
get back again into the world of the grown-ups. They have looked
backwards so long that finally they went backwards.
This “return to childhood” may also be observed in nervous people
who have retained their critical faculty. I recall a woman of forty
who employed a maid to dress and undress her, also to wash her, and
who did not perform certain personal functions without the company
and assistance of the maid. And I must not forget to mention the
twenty-four-year-old youth who was brought to me by his mother because
he was incapable of doing any work and who was not ashamed in my
presence to take a good swallow of milk every five minutes from an
ordinary baby’s milk-bottle. This kind of “infantilism” often attains
grotesque proportions. To-day the aforementioned woman laughs at the
“incomprehensible malady,” and the grown-up suckling is an industrious
official who supports his family very comfortably. Both of them wished
to defeat nature and return to childhood. Not infrequently a bodily
change accompanies this mental state. The hair falls out, the features
become softer, and the signs of adult masculinity undergo regressive
changes. In all probability this condition is associated with certain
disturbances of the internal metabolism. But who can say positively
whether the impulse to these disturbances did not proceed from the
stubborn look backwards, the yearning for childhood, and the enraptured
glance into the depths of the past?
All the wisdom of life consists in the manner of our forgetting. What
fine overtones of the harmonies and discords of the past must accompany
the concords of the day! But every day has a right to its melody.
Each one lives its own life and is a preparation for the future. One
who fills his day with the delights and the pains of the past murders
it. Only on appropriate occasions may we, must we, direct our eyes
backwards, survey the path we have traversed, and again concentrate our
gaze on the milestones of memory.
All ye who are ever bewailing your lot and are incapable of rising
above your fate--hearken unto me and know that ye no longer live, that
ye died ere the law of destruction robbed ye of life! Let me tell ye
what ye may find writ in burning letters in the firmament of knowledge:
_it is never too late!_ Only he has lost his life who thinks he has
lost it. Forgive and forget! Drink of the lethe of work and solicitude
for others! Ye are egoists! For even the mirror of your woes on which
your eyes are riveted shows you only your own agonized image. And
measure your pains by the infinity of pain that fills the world.
ALL-SOULS.
I am not crying for the dead who have died but who are still alive
for me. I am crying for the dead who are still alive but who are dead
for me. When I look back upon the long succession of years that I
have travelled, and think of all my lovers who accompanied me part
of the way, and then left me to wander alone, I feel as if a heavy
fog were enveloping everything that otherwise appears beautiful and
delightful....
But the dead have clung to me. They live with me, feel with me, and
speak to me. When the noise of the day dies out and when the bells
within begin to ring, when shapeless forms emerge from the unconscious
with strange questions and uncanny gestures, when I turn from the
world of reality into that of mystery, then my dead friends are with
me and I hold converse with them. With every question I wish I had
asked another, and I get the conviction that this other one would have
answered my question, or, that other one would have understood me.
Ah! there is really so little that we desire: we wish to be understood,
and do not know that we are demanding the impossible, the unattainable.
For we must know ourselves ere others can comprehend us. But the urge
to share ourselves with another, the longing for a heart attuned to
ours deceives us as to our own inadequacy. What we do not possess we
would find in another. And we compress all our stupid cravings into the
one wish which appears to us as the wish for friendship.
Frightful is the thought how many friends I have lost, how many persons
whom I had once thought so valuable and unreplaceable have died as far
as I am concerned. And even more painful is the thought that this
is the experience of all of us. Every one of us finds persons who
accompany us a short distance, their hands in ours, their arms about us
lovingly, and we think this will continue for ever, and then we come
to a turn in the road and they have vanished. Or they travel along a
road that seems to run very near our own. So near one another do we
travel that we can almost touch hands even though our paths are not the
same. And gradually our paths diverge. We are still within sight of
one another. We can still converse with one another. Then this, too,
becomes impossible. If we shout we may make ourselves heard on the
other highway, but there is no reply. They are gone!
First, there were the friends of our childhood! Among these there were
some whom we termed friends but who were really only a plaything, like
the rocking-horse and the wooden sword. They were created only for the
purpose of playing a role in the rich world of our fantasies. There
was something impersonal about our friend--he did not yet cling to us.
Mother used to say to us: “To-day you have a new friend!” And we were
ready to accept him as such at once unless he was unsympathetic to us
or obstinate or inclined to lord it over us. Of course no one could be
forced on us, no matter how earnestly mother demanded it. Gradually
there developed in us that dark and puzzling concept, made up of the
fusion of numerous primary impulses, which we call “friendship.”
Then one came along who was more to us than all the others. In his
presence life was much more beautiful and richer than we had supposed;
when he was absent we longed for him. When he came all our pains were
forgotten. Ah, what great loves and hatreds we were capable of in the
blessed era of our first friendship!
It is incomprehensible to me that I have lost the friend of my early
youth. On one occasion our teachers interfered and separated us. Why
they did so I do not know. But I was a wild, unruly youngster; they
may have feared that by my example I might poison the inexperienced
soul of my friend. But of what avail were prohibitions in the presence
of our great friendship! We met secretly behind dark hedges, where no
teacher’s eyes could discover us. As evening approached we roamed out
upon the meadow beyond the city, as far as the cemetery wall upon the
gentle slope of the mountain, where we could lie down at our ease and
gaze up at the stars, while we discussed the many serious questions
which were beginning to trouble the souls of the maturing youngsters.
When night came and wrapped the white buildings and the green gardens
in a dark veil, and when the distant trumpet summoned the soldiers to
their barracks, and at the sound there sprang from many an obscure
nook frightened couples who quickly embraced again and said hurried
farewells, we grasped each other’s hands feverishly, and it seemed
as if we could never, never be separated. Once we were angry at each
other. It had been a serious dispute. Both of us were obstinate, for
months we sulked and did not speak to each other. But one day my
friend’s heart melted. He confessed that he had suffered the tortures
of jealousy, and that he made up only because he feared he might lose
me for ever.
He was quite right. Slowly I had become half a man. Instinctively I had
found among the High School pupils one who had my own inclinations,
who spent sleepless nights with me in measuring verses on our fingers,
fearing we might be too late for immortality. If it was the sensuous
that had to be disposed of formerly, it was now the supersensuous that
forced itself between the innocent pleasures of life. Now we could sit
in the moonlight for hours speculating on the mysteries of existence,
infinity, and immortality. Every time we discovered something beautiful
we were happy for days thereafter.
He was not our only friend in those days of youthful enthusiasms. Then
we had many, many friends. And when we sat in the close cafés and
with palpitating hearts sang the old student-songs, and the pitcher
filled with beer was passed around, we spoke of “eternal friendship”
and “eternal loyalty.” The “eternal” pledge was sealed by the shaking
of hands, and we really felt like brothers. Every one had his good
qualities which were admired, his weaknesses which were smiled at
indulgently, and his strength which was feared. Each one seemed
unreplaceable, and once when death snatched one of our friends from our
midst we all cried like little children who want their mother.
And when we scattered in the directions of the winds, one going to the
High School, the second into the army, the third into a vocation, our
passion flared up again, and we swore to come together again after a
certain number of years had gone by. What merry, spirited, and lusty
boys we were!...
If only I had not seen them again, these friends! If only they could
have continued to live in my memory as a precious heritage from a
period that was rich in hopes and poor in disillusionments. It is
with a shudder that I recall the evening, when, after many years of
separation, we had a reunion. Were these my living friends? No, these
had been dead many years. I sat among corpses, among alien corpses
who spoke a language that was not mine. One whom fortune had made a
millionaire sat there vain and self-conscious. Absorbed in himself
and morose sat one who clung to his grandiose fantasies in the modest
station he occupied. A third kept looking at his watch uneasily because
he had promised his wife to be home before ten o’clock. The fourth
stroked his paunch and was absorbed in the mysteries of the menu. A
fifth gazed at his highly-polished finger-nails and yawned. The sixth
and the seventh--but enough! They looked at one another strangely, and
on the lips of all was the unuttered question: “Why in--did we come
here?”
These were friendships which had been made when we were still in our
childhood. Later on the matter was not quite so simple, and it took
a long time before we found one with whom we could become as one. In
reality, we are still like children. We want to find a playmate for
our thoughts and feelings. We let each other speak and we listen, and
we call that “being understood.” That is not so easy as one would like
to believe. There are people who cannot listen and people to whom we
cannot listen. But ultimately one finds the right person, one to whom
we can entrust our secrets, one with whom we share our joys and our
woes. But for how long? How strange! The fate of these friendships is
sealed the moment a third person acquires the right to participate: a
woman. Marriage is the rock on which most friendships split. What was
formerly a question for two is now a question for three. And if the
friend too marries it becomes a question for four. But how difficult
it is to find four persons whose hearts beat harmoniously! What new
elements now enter into the previous requirements “to understand each
other!” Vanity, jealousy, envy, disfavour.
And thus we lose one friend after the other. And one day we find
ourselves in an all-souls’ mood, and place wreaths on the graves of the
dead who are dead to us. We ask ourselves anxiously whose the fault was
that we are so lonesome. And if we are not honest we blame the others.
But if we are honest we see that we were not free from guilt and from
all the hateful things that human beings say about one another, and we
realize that it is man’s destiny to be alone. The more pronounced our
individuality becomes, the more sharply our qualities are outlined, the
more difficult is it to lose oneself in a crowd. We are not capable of
keeping our friends. We demand instead of giving. And that is why we
lose them and weep at their graves.
I had one friend who was true to me through all the vicissitudes of
life. Fate drove this one friend far away, and when we got the chance
occasionally to see each other it was only for a few hours, which fled
like seconds--so much did we have to say to each other. It was our
earnest yearning once to get a chance to go away during the summer and
spend a vacation together, free and unhampered, satiate ourselves with
each other, and then have enough for a whole year. At the cost of many
sacrifices we succeeded in having our dream fulfilled. But I would not
make the attempt again. I am afraid I would lose my friend altogether.
When we found the long days before us and heard ourselves again and
wanted to open our hearts to each other, we became aware--with secret
horror--that we had become different in many respects. And occasionally
in those beautiful hours we were conscious of something like a shudder
at the thought that something fine and delicate that had been anxiously
guarded might die. We separated sooner than we had planned or had
originally wished. We were happy that we had parted, for we were
still carrying home with us a precious heritage from our youth: our
friendship--which had not yet been destroyed, but slightly bruised
by rude and heavy hands. We shuddered how near we were to including
ourselves among the dead.
Was that anything wonderful? Years had passed. Each one of us had
experienced thousands of impressions, and what had once been common
and had borne the same image had become so different that it would
have been impossible to recognize them as having had a common origin.
And thus it is that we stand on the roads that once were so near each
other but are now so wide apart and that we call to each other like
frightened children seeking flowers in the woods and longing anxiously
to hear the voices of their comrades. We call to each other to prove to
ourselves that we have not died.
* * * * *
It is all souls’ day. Numberless persons are making pilgrimages to the
graves of their dead to lay a flower there. I stay at home and close my
eyes. I am not crying for the dead who have died but live for me. I am
weeping for the dead who still live but who are dead to me....
MIRROR SLAVES.
There are persons who spend their entire lives under the tyranny of the
mirror. From early morning to late at night they are thinking, “How do
I look to-day?” The mirror follows them into their dreams and shows
them their ego horribly distorted and grotesquely transformed, or it
annihilates the imperfections which make them so unhappy. Everybody
has a tremendous interest in his personal appearance, an interest
which may assume such proportions as to amount to self-love, to being
in love with one’s bodily ego, or to hatred of one’s self, disgust
with one’s own appearance. Ultimately every one of us is egocentric.
For each one of us our ego is the hub of the world. Every slightest
happening is looked at and judged from the standpoint of our own ego.
In the mirror slaves this trait is exaggerated to the n-th degree, to
the extent of being uncanny and neurotic. They spend their lives in
front of the corporeal and spiritual mirror. For they fix their gaze
not only on their physical appearance, but even on their thoughts,
feelings, sensations, and work; they are constantly checking themselves
up, criticising themselves, and are most discontented with themselves,
or they are ridiculously conceited, and never cease to admire their
actions and transformations.
Mirror slaves waste a part of their lives in front of the mirror. They
keep a little mirror by them constantly so as to look at themselves
from time to time. They can’t pass a mirror without stopping in front
of it long enough to survey themselves from head to foot. There is a
story of a king who promised to give his daughter in marriage to the
man who would pass a certain mirror without looking into it. Vanity
foiled all but a poet, and the princess was awarded to him. (And, in
all probability, the poet did not look into the mirror because he was
absorbed in admiring his ego in the mirror of his soul!) This story
teaches us the intensity of human vanity. In the case of mirror slaves
this human failing becomes a disease; it fills their lives and, under
certain circumstances, unfits them for life.
A mirror slave devotes a great deal of attention to the matter of his
external appearance. He is dominated by an imperative which makes life
a torture. This imperative is: “What will people think of me?” He
feels all eyes are upon him, everybody is looking at him, everybody is
thinking of his appearance. He has a horrible fear of being laughed at.
For God’s sake! only not to be laughed at, not to become the subject
of other people’s mirth! He would love to be lost in the crowd and not
be noticed. If he could only possess a magic cap that would enable him
to go about invisible! On the other hand he thirsts for triumphs. He
would like to find favour, to be larger, bigger, more elegant and more
beautiful than others, would like to shine in society, and be able to
outshine others in wit, intellect, vivacity, education and culture.
Above all he is desirous of making an impression on the opposite
sex, to make conquests, to be a Lothario, free from all restraints,
uninterfered with in his inclinations, and unconcerned about the
judgment of his environment.
The mirror slave begins his day with the question, “What shall I wear
to-day?” As soon as a careful inspection has convinced him that this is
going to be a good or a bad day for him, that he is looking younger or
older, sick or well, the painful task of selection begins. What dress
will be most adapted to the taste of this day, to the weather, or to
the mood? After some deliberation a choice is made. But then, all of a
sudden, the mirror discloses a blemish! Woe! The toilet must be gone
all over again. Everything is weighed carefully in the balance, and
finally the arduous task is completed.
And now the mirror slave’s martyrdom begins. He studies the people he
meets to see whether they greet him or ignore him, are friendly or
unfriendly, pleased or indifferent, etc., whether they take note of
him, whisper behind his back, criticise him, make remarks about him, or
make merry over him. If one laughs without his participation he is on
the rack; unquestionably it was he who was being laughed at: there must
be something wrong with his clothes. Why is everybody looking at him so
curiously? In his distress he may even be induced to address strangers.
“Why did they stare at me so fixedly?” In a sudden outburst of passion
he may even call an acquaintance to account for not having greeted him
or for having done so carelessly.
He experiences extraordinary sensations when he puts on new articles
of clothing. What a difficult task it is to go out in new shoes!
All eyes must be magically directed on his shoes. He makes himself
ridiculous with his new shoes. People surely think him silly or a slave
of fashion. He lives through all this with every new garment, and
ultimately he develops a fear of changing his clothes and goes about
in old, worn, and even shabby clothing, thinking that thus he attracts
less attention.
All daily tasks become a great undertaking. To go into a store to
make a purchase, to enter a theatre when other spectators are already
seated, or to look around for a seat in a restaurant, etc., are
difficult and often impossible tasks. He loves to be the first person
in the theatre or at the concert--to come in while the hall is still
empty. The selection of a seat is a source of worry. A mirror slave
would love to sit alone in a box or in the front row if he were not
so afraid of being looked at--which is exactly what he longs for. He
therefore conceals himself in a modest inconspicuous seat, but does not
enjoy himself because he is always impelled to observe and study the
people.
He is a slave of public opinion. At no price would he do anything not
quite proper, that would cause the slightest head-shake, or would make
him the subject of public comment. He would purchase the good-will of
all, court everybody’s favour, and wants to be loved and admired by the
whole world. He spares no pains to get the approval of his environment.
He is one of the eternally amiable, modest, and helpful persons that
we encounter now and then. He gives very liberal tips in order that he
may be highly thought of. In fact, he loves to give presents and fears
nothing so much as being thought niggardly.
In time he becomes socially useless. A trivial public function, a
speech, a betrothal, any appearance in public liberates a whole host
of apprehensive ideas. If he happens to be an artist he fears to make
a public appearance, and contents himself with being a teacher. If he
overcomes his fear of appearing in public, he becomes the slave of the
critics. An unfavourable criticism brings him to the verge of despair;
a favourable criticism temporarily lifts him above all difficulties.
If we inquire into the cause of this neurosis we find it to be a
defective educational method in childhood, which has led the child to
overvalue its environment and has implanted in it a pathologic degree
of vanity. How many parents have the habit of calling the child’s
attention to the fact that people are looking at it, observing it,
or laughing at it! How often when a child is wearing a new garment
is it told that everybody is looking at it and admiring it! And how
often is a child admired and worshipped to such an extent that it
really imagines itself the hub of its little world! All the boundless
overvaluation of the world, of one’s surroundings, the striving for
public recognition, for reputation, for honour emanate from our
childhood years. We ought to make it our object to bring about just the
opposite. The child should be brought up to be modest, to learn that
happiness lies in the feeling of having done one’s duty, in the quiet
joys of life, in work, in a capacity for enjoyment. It is our duty to
limit the child’s vanity, to restrain his ambition, and to train him
to be self-reliant. One who has learned to consider contentment with
oneself--not self-satisfaction based on vanity and arrogance--as worth
more than what people say about one has found the way to health and
happiness.
Who would deny that a mirror has its uses? Who does not know that it
is necessary occasionally to observe ourselves in the mirror of the
body and the soul so that we may recognize our shortcomings, remove our
blemishes, and make ourselves better and more beautiful? All excess
becomes a vice. A mirror is a dangerous thing for the vain person who
cannot live without it. Everything is a mirror to him. The world as a
whole is a mirrored salon which reflects his image from every point.
But he fails to see that behind these mirrors there is another world to
which he has lost access. For the next step beyond this mirror-neurosis
is insanity, a disease which we now know is a losing of oneself in
oneself.
_Printed in Great Britain by The Cheltenham Press, Cheltenham, Glos._
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Archaic, unusual and inconsistent spellings have been kept in the text.
Obvious misspellings have been fixed.
Details of the changes: