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Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom Chapter 5, pages 307- 310

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on November 6, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

“That’s why it must be eliminated, just as one eliminates madmen who commit crimes without knowing it.” 

“So only the harmful consequences decide about crime?” “Yes.” 

“But suppose you blow up a factory for the sake of the idea and thereby plunge hundreds of families into misery, then you commit a crime because the consequences are criminal.” 

“No! For thereby I bring my idea closer to realization and I bring millions happiness. When Christ spread his teaching, he knew very well that thousands of his followers would be sacrificed, so he delivered them to certain ruin to bring millions salvation.” 

“You believe in God?” Olga asked absentmindedly. Czerski suddenly fell into great excitement. 

“I believe in Jesus Christ, the God-man… But don’t interrupt me. I have the right to it, nature taught it to me. What decides about the pleasantness of a feeling? Not that it is pleasant in itself. 

The habituation to opium is very painful at first, only in length becomes pleasure. So only the duration of the same decides about the final nature of the feeling. It is self-evident that the first consequences of a factory explosion are unpleasant, but…” 

“So you will shrink from no crime?” 

“No, no crime,” he interrupted her eagerly, “I will shrink from no action that guarantees my idea victory.” 

“And if your idea is false?” 

“It is not false, for it is built on the only truth we have: love.” 

“But if your means are false?” 

“They cannot be false, for their motives are love. By the way, I don’t want to resort to these means at all, even if I should hold it necessary. I have no program like the anarchists. I want to commit no act of violence so as not to be counted to a party that has violence in its program.” 

“Out of vanity?” 

“No; out of caution, only out of caution, so that the anarchists, thus a party, do not believe they have the right to regard my act as the consequence of their program.” 

“You are ambitious.” 

“No! But I am only in my act. I have only one right, and that is: to be. And my being is my act. Yes, I have an ambition if you want to call it so: to be, to be through my act. I am not as soon as I execute foreign commands.” 

“Those are old thoughts, dear Czerski.” 

“I don’t know if they are old, I got them in prison and so they are my own. I thought them out with great effort. I was not used to thinking as long as I was in the party. Now I have detached myself from everything to be alone and determine my act with my own thoughts.” 

“And if you hadn’t got the money from Falk, would you have taken it?” 

“Yes.” 

“And what do you want to do now?” 

“I want to teach people to sacrifice themselves.” 

Olga looked at him questioningly.  

“To be able to sacrifice oneself: that is the first condition of every act. I will teach the enthusiasm of sacrifice.” 

“But to sacrifice oneself, one must first believe in the purpose of sacrifice.” 

“No! The sacrifice does not spring from faith, but from enthusiasm. That is it precisely. See, all previous parties have faith but no enthusiasm. No, they have no faith, they have only dogmas. Social democracy has died in dogmatic faith. Social democracy is what every religious community is: it is faithful without enthusiasm. Is there a person who would go into the fire for his God? No! Is there a social democrat who would plunge into ruin without reservation, without hesitation, for his idea? No! They all have the calm, comfortable certainty of faith; their dogmas are iron truths for whose sake one, God knows, need not get excited. But I want to create the fiery, glowing faith, a faith that is no longer faith because it has no purpose, a faith that has dissolved in the enthusiasm of sacrifice.” 

He suddenly fell into an ecstatic state. His eyes shone and his face transfigured itself peculiarly. 

“So you speculate on the fanaticism of hate in the masses.” 

“Fanaticism of love,” he said radiantly, “fanaticism of love for the infinity of the human race, love for the eternity of life, love for the thought that I and humanity are one, inseparably one…” 

He varied the thought in the most diverse expressions. 

“I will not say: Sacrifice yourselves so that you and your children become happy, I will teach anew the happiness of sacrifice in itself. Humanity has an inexhaustible capacity to sacrifice itself, but the fat church and fat socialism destroyed that. Humanity has forgotten the happiness of sacrifice in the fat, disgusting dogmatic faith. The last time it tasted it in the great revolutions, in the Commune—purposeless, only out of love for sacrifice, to enjoy once more the infinite happiness of purposeless selflessness… And I will bring this happiness back to memory through my act…” 

He suddenly stopped and looked at Olga suspiciously. 

“You probably believe I am a mad fantasist?” 

“It is beautiful, very beautiful what you said there—I understand you,” she said thoughtfully. 

He was silent long. 

“Yes, you are right that those are old thoughts,” he said suddenly. “They touch in many ways what Falk expressed at the congress in Paris. I would have liked to kiss his hand then…” 

He suddenly became very restless. 

“But it did not become a life matter for him. His brain figured it out. His heart caught no fire… No, no—how is it possible to have such thoughts and not perish with shame that one can say all that cold and calm… See, that is the shamelessness of his brain, that it cannot shudder at it. His brain is shameless… He is a—an evil person. He is not pure enough for his ideas. One must be Christ, yes, Jesus Christ, the God of humans, the holy source of willingness to sacrifice.” 

“You have changed very much, Czerski. By the way, I didn’t know you. Kunicki slandered you. I will think much about what you said…” 

Olga stood up and looked at him shyly. 

Over his face lay a transfigured glow. She had never seen anything like it. 

“Take care of yourself, Czerski. You look very sick.” “No, I am not sick. I am happy.” 

He thought long. 

“Yes, yes,” he said suddenly, “yesterday I was still a small person. But now it is over, it is past…”

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Alraune: Chapter 5, pages 170- 175

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on November 6, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter Six
Deals with how the child Alraune grew up.
THE acquisition of the dice cup is mentioned by the Privy
Councilor in the leather bound book. From that point on it
was no longer written in the distinct and clear hand of Dr.
Petersen but in his own thin, hesitating and barely legible
script.
But there are several other short entries in the book that are of
interest to this story. The first refers to the operation taken to correct
the child’s Atresia Vaginalis performed by Dr. Petersen and the cause
of his untimely demise.
The Privy Councilor mentions that in consideration of the
savings he had made through the death of the mother and the good
help of his assistant doctor through the entire affair he granted a three
month summer trip vacation with all expenses paid and promised a
special bonus of a thousand Marks as well. Dr. Petersen was
extremely overjoyed about this trip. It was the first big vacation he
had ever taken in his life. But he insisted upon performing the simple
operation beforehand even though it could have easily been put off for
a much longer time without any special concern.
He performed the operation a couple days before his scheduled
departure with excellent results for the child. Unfortunately he,
himself, developed a severe case of blood poisoning–What was so
astonishing was that despite his almost exaggerated daily care for
cleanliness–it was scarcely forty-eight hours later that he died after
very intense suffering.
The direct cause of the blood poisoning could not be determined
with certainty. There was a small wound on his left upper arm that
was barely perceptible with the naked eye. A light scratch from his
little patient might have inflicted it.
The professor remarked how already twice in this matter he had
been spared a great sum of money but did not elaborate any further.
It was then reported how the baby was kept for the time being in
the clinic under the care of the head nurse. She was an unusually quiet
and sensitive child that cried only once and that was at the time of her
holy baptism performed in the cathedral by Chaplain Ignaz Schröder.
Indeed, she howled so fearfully that the entire little
congregation–the nurse that carried her, Princess Wolkonski and
Legal Councilor Sebastian Gontram as the godparents, the Priest, the
sexton and the Privy Councilor himself–couldn’t even begin to do
anything with her. She began crying from the moment she left the
clinic and did not stop until she was brought back home again from
the church.
In the cathedral her screams became so unbearable that his
Reverence took every opportunity to rush through the sacred
ceremony so he and those present could escape from the ghastly
music. Everyone gave a sigh of relief when it was all over and the
nurse had climbed into the carriage with the child.
It appears that nothing significant happened during the first year
in the life of this little girl whom the professor named “Alraune” out
of an understandable whim. At least nothing noteworthy was written
in the leather bound volume.
It was mentioned that the professor remained true to his word
and even before the child was born had taken measures to adopt the
girl and composed a certified will making her his sole heir to the
complete exclusion of all his other relatives.
It was also mentioned that the princess, as godmother, gave the
child an extraordinarily expensive and equally tasteless necklace
composed of gold chain and two strands of beautiful pearls set with
diamonds. At the center surrounded by more pearls was a hank of
fiery red hair that the Princess had cut from the head of the
unconscious mother at the time of her conception.
The child stayed in the clinic for over four years up until the time
the Privy Councilor gave up the Institute as well as the attached
experimental laboratories that he had been neglecting more and more.
Then he took her to his estate in Lendenich.
There the child got a playmate that was really almost four years
older than she was. It was Wölfchen Gontram, the youngest son of the
Legal Councilor. Privy Councilor ten Brinken relates very little of the
collapse of the Gontram household. In short sentences he describes
how death finally grew tired of the game he was playing in the white
house on the Rhine and in one year wiped away the mother and three
of her sons.
The fourth boy, Joseph, at the wish of his mother had been taken
by Reverend Chaplain Schröder to become a priest. Frieda, the
daughter, lived with her friend, Olga Wolkonski, who in the meantime
had married a somewhat dubious Spanish Count and moved to his
house in Rome. Following these events was the financial collapse of
the Legal Councilor despite the splendid fee he had been paid for
winning the divorce settlement for the princess.
The Privy Councilor puts down that he took the boy in as an act
of charity–but doesn’t forget to mention in the book that Wölfchen
inherited some vineyards with small farm houses from an aunt on his
mother’s side so his future was secure. He remarks as well that he
didn’t want the boy to feel he had been taken into a stranger’s house
and brought up out of charity and compassion so he used the income
from the vineyards to defray the upkeep of his young foster-child. It is
to be understood that the Privy Councilor did not come up short on
this arrangement.
Taking all of the entries that the Privy Councilor ten Brinken
made in the leather bound volume during this time one could
conclude that Wölfchen Gontram certainly earned the bread and
butter that he ate in Lendenich. He was a good playmate for his
foster-sister, was more than that, was her only toy and her nursemaid
as well.
The love he shared with his wild brothers for living and
frantically running around transferred in an instant to the delicate little
creature that ran around alone in the wide garden, in the stables, in the
green houses and all the out buildings. The great deaths in his parent’s
house, the sudden collapse of his entire world made a strong
impression on him–in spite of the Gontram indolence.
The small handsome lad with his mother’s large black dreamy
eyes became quiet and withdrawn. Thousands of boyish thoughts that
had been so suddenly extinguished now snaked out like weak tendrils
and wrapped themselves solidly like roots around the little creature,
Alraune. Whatever he carried in his young breast he gave to his new
little sister, gave it with the great unbounded generosity that he had
inherited from his sunny good-natured parents.
He went to school in the city where he always sat in the last row.
At noon when he came back home he ran straight past the kitchen
even though he was hungry. He searched around in the garden until he
found Alraune. The servants often had to drag him away by force to
give him his meals.
No one troubled themselves much over the two children but
while they always had a strange mistrust of the little girl, they took a
liking to Wölfchen. In their own way they bestowed on him the
somewhat coarse love of the servants that had once been given to
Frank Braun, the Master’s nephew, so many years before when he had
spent his school vacations there as a boy.
Just like him, the old coachman, Froitsheim, now tolerated
Wölfchen around the horses, lifted him up onto them, let him sit on a
wool saddle blanket and ride around the courtyard and through the
gardens. The gardener showed him the best fruit in the orchards; cut
him the most flexible switches and the maids kept his food warm,
making sure that he never went without.
They thought of him as an equal but the girl, little as she was,
had a way of creating a broad chasm between them. She never chatted
with any of them and when she did speak it was to express some wish
that almost sounded like a command. That was exactly what these
people from the Rhine in their deepest souls could not bear–not from
the Master–and now most certainly not from this strange child.
They never struck her. The Privy Councilor had strongly
forbidden that, but in every other way they acted as if the child was
not even there. She ran around–fine–they let her run, cared for her
food, her little bed, her underwear and her clothes–but just like they
cared for the old biting watchdog, brought it food, cleaned its
doghouse and unchained it for the night.
The Privy Councilor in no way troubled himself over the
children and let them completely go their own way. Since the time he
had closed the clinic he had also given up his professorship, keeping
occupied with various real estate and mortgage affairs and even more
with his old love, archeology.
He managed things as a clever and intelligent merchant so that
museums around the world paid high prices for his skillfully arranged
collections. The grounds all around the Brinken estate from the Rhine
to the city on one side, extending out to the Eifel promontory on the
other were filled with things that first the Romans and then all their
followers had brought with them.
The Brinkens had been collectors for a long time and for ten
miles in all directions any time a farmer struck something with his
plowshare they would carefully dig up the treasure and take it to the
old house in Lendenich that was consecrated to John of Nepomuck.
The professor took everything, entire pots of coins, rusted
weapons, yellowed bones, urns, buckles and tear vials. He paid
pennies, ten at the most. But the farmer was always certain to get a
good schnapps in the kitchen and if needed money for sowing, at a
high interest of course–but without the security demanded by the
banks.
One thing was certain. The earth never spewed forth more than
in those years when Alraune lived in the house.

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Madame Bluebeard: Chapter 9, pages 90- 94

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on November 6, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

They discussed the year’s events. Hugo extracted
Helmina’s promise to attend every festivity.
The afternoon passed. They took a short drive.
The weather had cleared, the thinning clouds hinting
at the sun. Hugo wished to prolong the day, but
evening approached, they returned to the castle,
dined, and his departure loomed.
“I feel so at ease here, madam,” Hugo sighed.
“You may return if you enjoyed it,” Helmina
smiled. Then she excused herself. The fresh air had
tired her, she had a headache, and wished to retire.
The men adjourned to Ruprecht’s study. “A cigar,
a glass of wine, eh?” Ruprecht suggested, ringing the
bell. The Malay appeared at the door.
“Tell Lorenz to fetch a bottle of 1882
Schönberger,” Ruprecht said.
“Lorenz isn’t here.”
“Oh, right—he’s on leave. Linz, or somewhere.
Get the keys and fetch it yourself. You’ll find it. It’s
at the back of the cellar, red-sealed.”
Meanwhile, Hugo surveyed the study’s
furnishings. At the café’s regular table, they had an
arts-and-crafts enthusiast skilled in style
comparisons, giving Hugo a rough sense of Gothic,
Renaissance, and Rococo to prove his cultured
credentials. Here were charming relics: a heavy
cabinet with carved columns and armored men on its
doors; a desk with dainty, curved legs and an oddly
uncomfortable top, fit only for brief love notes, not
serious work. For that, Ruprecht used a cozy
Biedermeier desk, its genial polish beside a sleek
black filing cabinet with lapis lazuli and marble-lined
drawers, supported by two gilded, snarling griffins.
“Ancestral heirlooms,” Hugo said. “The castle’s
full of them.”
“Yes… some are exquisite. Next visit, I’ll show
you a Wenzel Jamnitzer goblet. Dankwardt even
started a medal and seal collection. I know too little
about it.”
“These pieces likely came with the castle from
earlier owners?”
“Not many. The Counts of Moreno, from whom
Helmina’s first husband bought it, stripped it bare.
Later owners were collectors, gradually bringing
things back.”
“Fine pieces… truly! They hold their own. The
whole castle…”
“Yes, the castle’s worth seeing.”
“You’re a lucky man… and your wife…” Hugo
stretched in his seventeenth-century armchair. “You
have a delightful wife.”
Ruprecht glanced at him briefly, saying lightly,
“You haven’t fallen for her, have you?”
A reassuring laugh should’ve followed, but it
sounded forced. “It’d be no wonder,” Hugo said, then
continued, “Tell me, aren’t you ever jealous of your
wife’s past? You’re her fourth husband.”
“It’s not my way. I find that kind of jealousy
absurd.”
“But in this castle… everything must remind you
of your predecessors.”
“It wasn’t entirely pleasant at first. Life’s a
ceaseless flow, washing away past impressions
quickly. The past clings more to dead things. These
furnishings and rooms reflect my predecessors far
clearer. In Helmina, they’re dissolved, swept away by
life.”
“Haven’t you thought of building a new home?
One where… only you exist?”
“Helmina’s attached to these walls… oddly so.
She craves city lights, glamour, noise—she had a
wild Carnival. But this castle holds her. She always
returns. She’d never agree to live elsewhere. And… I
find this grim house intriguing. It has charm… it’s,
how to say… an adventure, a romantic danger…”
Ruprecht’s nonchalance emboldened Hugo,
tempting him to play with fire. “And the present… I
mean, Helmina’s present?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Aren’t you jealous of that?”
“Oh, I’m pleased when people pay Helmina
tribute. Besides, I’m certain of her.”
He’s insufferable, Hugo thought, fuming, and it’s
maddening that he’s right.
Jana returned with bottles, fetched glasses from
the armored-men cabinet, and poured. Ruprecht took
a cigar box from a filing cabinet drawer. Hugo
glimpsed a revolver inside.
“You’re armed,” he said. “Even here?”
“Old habit,” Ruprecht smiled. “In Alaska, I
worked months with a rifle beside me…”
As Ruprecht raised his glass to toast Hugo, he
noticed dirty smudges, like wet earth, on Jana’s white
turban.
“Bumped your head, Jana?” he asked.
“I fell, Master,” the Malay replied. “Water’s
seeped into the cellar, washing it out a bit…”
“Hope the bottles don’t float away.”
Hugo hadn’t heard, spreading the subscription
sheet before Ruprecht, who signed.
“Enough?” the castle lord asked.
“Oh, you’re an angel. Thank you. Truly, I name
you chief patron, top of all sponsors… I’ll honor you
somehow, just need to think how.” Hugo launched
into his anthology, its hopes, its prospects for
recognition from high places. His wine-fueled
imagination bloomed like a Jericho rose. This
anthology would be an event. All notable authors
would contribute. Bystritzky had connections, even
inviting Gegely, though that awkward incident…
“Ah, Gegely,” Ruprecht said, suddenly animated
after listening politely. “I’ve heard nothing of him
lately. I don’t read papers—waste of time. What’s
our famous poet up to?”
Hugo slapped the chair’s smooth arms. “You
really don’t know? Nothing about Gegely… my God,
it was a European scandal…”
“I swear, I know nothing…”
“Well, Gegely… it’s unthinkable… psychologists
are baffled. Our great Gegely, our hope, our pride,
poet of Marie Antoinette… what do you think? He…
he took a manuscript from Heidelberg’s university
library… let’s say, accidentally.”
Oh, the thrill of breaking such news first, asserting
one’s importance. It was a hearty delight, a bold
affirmation of self.
How it shook his friend. Ruprecht paled, his brow
damp. “Is it possible…” he stammered, “he stole…?”
“Well—stole? Legally: yes. Psychologically: a
momentary lapse.”
What bliss to cause such a stir. Gegely, another
carefree glutton for wealth, ignorant of the grind of
being rank-bound, salary-tied.
“How could it happen?” Ruprecht asked, still
reeling.
“No idea what possessed him. He could’ve bought
such scraps by the dozen at an antiquarian’s. It
kicked up a storm… a European scandal, as I said.
They tried to save him, of course… spun theories
about the phenomenon… and finally draped a nice
veil over it…”
“What happened to him?”
“He was put in a sanatorium… a ‘U’ became an
‘X,’ as such cases go. You’ll see… Bystritzky invited
him to contribute to the anthology before this
happened. It’s awkward now. If he sends something,
can we accept it?”
“Poor woman,” Ruprecht said thoughtfully,
swirling his wine.
“Frau Hedwig… yes, terrible for her!” A sudden,
delicious thrill hit Hugo. A memory surged. “Frau
Hedwig, the blonde… say, didn’t you once…?” He
squinted gleefully. “It hurt you deeply, didn’t it,
when Gegely took her from you? You were smitten.
Still think of her?”
“Oh, come now!” Ruprecht said softly, stiffening
in resistance. “A youthful acquaintance. It was long
ago… I pity her… having to endure that.” He stood,
pulling out his watch. “If you want to catch your
train, it’s high time to leave.”
Hugo regretted leaving his scene of triumph. He’d
have savored it longer. Ruprecht escorted him to the
courtyard. They lingered, shivering, in the renewed
rain. The carriage emerged from the stable, its dim
lights casting trembling patches at their feet. The
horses snorted, restless, loath to leave the warm
stable. The courtyard felt like a pit’s bottom,
darkness rising in steep walls around them.
“Well, thanks for everything,” Hugo said,
climbing in. “Hand-kiss to your wife. So… our
anthology? What do you think…” He poked his
pinky through his overcoat’s buttonhole. “How’d this
suit me?”
“Splendidly!” Ruprecht replied evenly. “You were
born for a medal…”
“Here’s hoping!” Hugo laughed, closing the
carriage door. The carriage arced around Ruprecht
and out the gate.

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Hermetic Mysteries: The Experimental Method and Fermentation, Part 1

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on November 6, 2025| Leave a Comment »

A Modern Inquiry into the Hermetic Mystery

Part III: Concerning the Laws and Vital Conditions of the Hermetic Experiment

Chapter 1: The Experimental Method and Fermentation, Part 1

Introduction: The Hermetic art now turns to the practical alchemy of the soul, purifying its vital essence to awaken divine wisdom. This chapter unveils the experimental method, rooted in Paracelsian principles, to transform the universal spirit within humanity.

The Alchemical Foundation

Greek philosophers viewed the soul not as an abstract concept but as a substantial essence, freed from material constraints through inner work. Alchemists, building on this, treat the soul as the “first matter” of their art, a divine spark capable of miraculous transformation. Unlike modern chemistry’s external focus, this Hermetic experiment seeks to reveal the soul’s hidden light, as seen in the mysteries’ Theurgic rites (Part II, Chapters 3–4).

The soul’s natural state is clouded by sensory illusions, its divine light obscured. Alchemists, like the Greeks, aim to purify this essence, observing its transformation through experimental practice. This process, veiled in secrecy, is the heart of the Hermetic art, promising wisdom and immortality through self-knowledge.

The Sphinx as Symbol

The Egyptians placed the Sphinx at Isis’ temple, symbolizing the soul’s dual nature—animal instincts and human reason. Its wings represent imagination’s power to elevate the soul to divine heights. In alchemy, this “phantastic spirit” is the universal essence, both material and spiritual, the raw material of transformation. As Vaughan notes, “A nature invisible, the substance of our mastery,” this essence is worked upon itself, joining “self to self” to conquer and renew its divine potential.

Modern mesmerism glimpses this essence, revealing the soul’s inner life, but lacks the art to refine it. Alchemists, unlike mesmerists, mastered this spirit, solving its riddles like Oedipus defeating the Sphinx, entering the temple of truth through disciplined inquiry.

The Method of Purification

The Hermetic experiment begins with theory, as Vaughan advises: “Add reason to experience, employ mind as well as hands.” Unlike modern science’s slow accumulation of facts, alchemists sought direct experience of spiritual causes, diving into the soul’s depths to uncover its light. Job’s imagery captures this: “There is a vein for silver, a place for gold, and stones of sapphires. Wisdom’s path, hidden from all living, is known only to God, who decrees the fear of the Lord as its beginning.”

Crollius explains, “Physic and pyrotechny are inseparable. The true medicine, bound in man like milk in a nut, must be freed from impurities through fire.” This fire, the “Antimony” of adepts, is the soul’s vital spark, purified to flow as a “pure panacea” from the divine source, healing body and mind.

Closing: This chapter introduces the Hermetic experiment, purifying the soul’s essence to reveal divine wisdom. The practical methods of this sacred art unfold further in our next post, deepening the alchemical journey.

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Gaia and OAK Meditation Course Update

Posted in Uncategorized on November 6, 2025| Leave a Comment »

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Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom Chapter 5, pages 302-306

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on November 5, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

V.

“Are you sick, Czerski?” Olga was very worried. 

Czerski stared at her. It was as if he had only now noticed that she was there. 

“No, I am not sick. But what brings you to me?” “Do you want to undertake an agitation trip?” Czerski’s face suddenly brightened. 

“I have been thinking about that for three days.” 

“I have money for you and the instruction that you should travel immediately.” He became sullen. 

“I want no instructions, I travel when I want.” 

“But the money is made available to you only on the condition that you travel immediately.” 

“Why immediately?” 

“There is a large book transport at the Russian border that you must get to Russia in two days at the latest. They have been waiting there for a month.” 

“I want to perform no services for any party. I have nothing to do with a party. I am myself a party.” 

Olga looked at him thoughtfully. 

“Have you really now become completely an anarchist?” 

“I am neither an anarchist nor a socialist, because I myself am a party.” 

“But you have views that are shared by the anarchist party.” 

“That concerns me nothing, that certain views accidentally bring me close to this or that party, but for that reason I do not want to admit that this or that party claims me as its member.” 

He was silent thoughtfully. “So you don’t want to?” 

“Are there any other conditions attached to the money?” 

“No.” 

He considered. 

“Well, I can for all I care transport the stuff over. But I repeat that I care nothing for instructions, that I will obey no commands, that I stand outside every party and recognize no program.” 

“Those are peculiar disclosures you make to me, but I am to deliver the money to you under all circumstances.” 

Czerski looked at her suspiciously. 

“Tell me, Fräulein, the money was sent by Falk?” “How do you know that?” 

“I spoke to him yesterday.” “You spoke to him?” 

“Yes.” 

He thought long. 

“Falk loves his wife very much?” “Yes.” 

“How can it happen that he has a mistress at the same time? I racked my brain about it all night.” 

Olga looked at him a little startled. Had his mind really suffered? 

“A mistress you say? That is surely not possible.” “Yes, a mistress… My former fiancée.” 

“Fräulein Kruk?” 

“Yes. He has a son with her. She has just risen from childbed.” 

Olga became very confused. She looked at him startled, then suddenly noticed her agitation, tried to hide it, her hands trembled and she felt all the blood flow to her heart. 

Czerski seemed to notice nothing. He walked up and down and brooded. 

“Well, one overcomes that,” he said finally. “That is a pain, a great pain, but one overcomes it. At first, when she stopped her visits to the prison, I suffered very much… Yes, very much suffered,” he repeated thoughtfully… “But I have overcome it. It is also good so. Now nothing more stands between me and the idea…” 

He was silent for a while. 

“When I was released three days ago, it came over me again. Yesterday a rage against Falk suddenly seized me, I wanted to insult and abuse him, but then with a jerk I got the fear that something could step between me and the idea, and I overcame it again. It is good so, very good…” 

Falk probably wants to get rid of me… He really should have no fear of me. Calm him if you meet him… 

He suddenly fixed his eyes sharply on Olga. 

“Do you believe that Falk sent the money to get rid of me?” 

“When did you speak to him?” “Yesterday.” 

“Well, then I don’t believe it at all. He was by the way only waiting for you to be released. He values you immensely.” 

“But he is a scoundrel. Yes, he is a scoundrel.” 

“No, he is not. He is it as little as you.” Olga spoke coldly and repellingly. 

Czerski looked at her attentively for a while, but answered nothing. He walked thoughtfully up and down again. 

“The forged bull from Pope Pius for agitation in the countryside was written by Falk?” he asked suddenly. 

“Yes.” 

“Very well done. Very well, but I don’t believe he is serious about it. He plays with the idea. He experiments. He probably wants aesthetic sensations?” 

Olga was silent. 

“Isn’t it? You know him very well… See, you don’t answer, you are silent… He, he… he seeks danger, I can imagine that he would go to prison with joy, not because he believed in the thing, but because he thought to find atonement for his sins in it.” 

Czerski became more and more animated. 

“I got letters from him earlier, many letters. Oh, he is sharp and clever. He has hate and much, perhaps very much love, I revered him, but I see now that it is all only despair. He wants to save himself, he seeks convulsively for salvation, but he can believe in nothing… Yes, he is very clever, I wanted to insult him yesterday, I forced myself to insult him, but he is clever and malicious. Yes, malicious…” 

Czerski suddenly broke off. “Do you want tea?” 

“Gladly.” 

He prepared the tea thoughtfully. 

“Have you spoken to Fräulein Kruk in the last days?” 

“Yes. As soon as I came out of prison, I went to her… She doesn’t know that he is married.” 

“No?” Olga started in horror. 

“No! He lied. His whole life is only a chain of lies…” 

Olga fell into great unrest. It became hard for her to stay longer with Czerski, she stood up. 

“I can’t wait for the tea after all.” 

“Oh, stay a little. I was alone for a year and a half. It is so dear to me to have a person around me.” 

He looked at her pleadingly. 

Olga collected herself and sat down again. 

“You are very sad, Fräulein… Yes, we all expected something else from him… Hm; actually it is very good that he sent the money. How much is it?” 

“Five hundred marks.” 

“That is much, very much. With that one can accomplish much…” They were silent for a while. 

“Is it true what Kunicki claims, that you together with Stefan Kruk broke open the city treasury near here?” 

“Completely true.” 

“So you approve of anarchist practice?” 

“If the idea requires it, all means are holy. That is by no means an anarchist invention. By the way, we didn’t steal the money, but took it rightfully. And that is a great difference. We acted in full consciousness of the legality of our act.” 

“So you say that one may steal as soon as the idea requires it?” 

“No steal, no; I didn’t say that. You come there to the juridical concept of crime. But as soon as I say I do right, and as soon as I have the faith and the holy conviction that I do right, understand, a faith that allows not the slightest doubt, then the theft is precisely no theft, no crime anymore.” 

“But you accuse the state of crimes. Don’t you believe that the state does everything it does with good conscience? Don’t you believe that it feels justified in delivering the working class to the exploitation of capitalism? Consequently the state is no criminal because the criterion of bad conscience is missing.” 

“Subjectively the state is no criminal, provided it is convinced of the legality of its action, which I don’t believe, but it becomes it objectively because the consequences of its actions are criminal.” 

“But if the motives are good, the state cannot be made responsible for the damage.” 

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Madame Bluebeard: Chapter 9, pages 85- 89

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on November 5, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Ninth Chapter
Court Secretary Ernst Hugo was brewing a grand
scheme. He felt it was time to step forward, to draw
the world’s gaze upon him. People should speak of
Ernst Hugo. It needed to be something colossal, like
that Abbazia festival, but on a vastly grander scale.
Something monumental—striding like Behemoth,
towering like the Colossus of Rhodes, roaring like the
Minotaur, forcing all to turn and look. Hugo
rummaged through his historical and biblical
knowledge, pulling open every drawer of his learning
for comparisons. It had to be surprising, distinctive,
unprecedented.
The Emperor’s jubilee year had arrived.
Here was a chance to shine, to catch his superiors’
eyes. He’d shown his Hofrat newspaper clippings of
the Abbazia event, earning a nod of approval. Now,
he aimed for something no mere nod could dismiss.
Ernst Hugo just didn’t know what…
That was the only hitch. He racked his brain until
his skull seemed to crack. A grand procession was
being planned, festive performances, jubilee
foundations—tributes of all kinds. He needed
something extraordinary to stand out.
At the artists’ café where he was a regular, Hugo
finally shared his woes with friends. A gaggle of
young men and two actresses shouted ideas. A
sculptor, hoping to fame with a complex lovers’
statue titled Ardor, suggested a monument. A painter
proposed a vast circular painting of the Battle of
Custoza. A young baron, included for his recent
inheritance, thought living tableaux would do.
Bystritzky, the poet, stirred his black coffee,
fishing out a half-dissolved sugar cube to pop on his
tongue. “You aristocrats,” he said, “always the
same… when asked, it’s ever: living tableaux. Fits
every occasion. Weddings: Gretchen at the spinning
wheel… christenings: Gretchen at the spinning
wheel… imperial honors: Gretchen at the spinning
wheel…”
“We could do something else,” the baron
countered. “Like: Austria blessing her children…”
“Sure, so the children start brawling. I’ve a better
idea. We compile an anthology… an anthology of
Austrian poets, got it? We all pitch in: I’ll edit, Franzl
does the book design and illustrations, Prandstetter
handles newspaper ads and writes reviews, the ladies
can recite from it at every chance. And Secretary
Hugo signs as publisher, raising the funds.”
Hugo pondered. An anthology wasn’t special, not
unique. Bystritzky dispelled his doubts: it would be
an exceptional, singular anthology, its presentation
the pinnacle of book artistry. Each copy a jewel of
unparalleled allure. The others backed Bystritzky’s
plan, except the sculptor, excluded from it.
Hugo was finally persuaded. “When the festival’s
waves have ebbed,” he declared with flourish, “and
nothing remains of the celebrations but
cinematographic reels, this book will endure… it will
permeate cultured circles, a living testament to
Austria’s spirit in this momentous year.”
“Bravo!” cried the painter. Prandstetter seized
Hugo’s hand, murmuring approval, as one does with
ministers promising much.
Hugo had the waiter bring a sheet of blank paper
and, using a new volume of Bystritzky’s poetry, drew
the fateful grid of subscription lines. The baron was
made to sign first, opening the dance.
With this dagger, Hugo prowled through Carnival.
He brandished it at every chance, against all comers.
Mid-lively chat, he’d produce it with a few words. A
paralyzing hush of enthusiasm followed. One by one,
they took the offered gold fountain pen, glancing
covertly at prior entries, and wrote the sum they
could muster.
Hugo noted most lived by proverbs. “A scoundrel
gives more than he has,” said every third. “Little, but
heartfelt,” was common too. Latinists, to the pen’s
scratch, intoned, “Bis dat, qui cito dat.” Charming
and frequent was, “Mr. Would-Be plans, but Mr.
Can’t delivers.” It was like a cornerstone laying, each
feeling obliged to say something apt with the
hammer’s strike.
This Carnival was Hugo’s busiest yet. For his
lofty goal, he couldn’t miss a social event. The sheet
filled with signatures and figures, but the insatiable
Bystritzky insisted it wasn’t enough.
At the Vienna City Ball, amid the throng of
dancers, Hugo spotted Frau Helmina. He trailed her
through the crowd, pouncing the moment her partner
moved to escort her to her seat. It was a waltz on soft
clouds. Helmina lay pliant in his arms. Hugo burned.
He felt the lit hall, swirling music, gallery carpets,
flower nooks, and bronze statues were all for him.
“I had no idea you were here,” he said, leading her
to a side room where Ruprecht von Boschan sat with
Major Zivkovic and two other officers.
Helmina laughed. “Oh—I must recover from
Krems. I danced there last Saturday.” She gave a
lively account of the ball, her laughter like the
delicate chime of champagne glasses raised in merry
toast.
Ruprecht was as exuberant as Helmina. His robust
joy was evident, his footing sure. His eyes held a
bold, calm gaze. Every word sang with zest for life. It
was an extraordinarily cheerful evening. They danced
eagerly at first. By morning, the conversation grew so
light, refined, and sparkling that the dusty, stuffy
ballroom lost its draw. The sense of floating persisted
here. They spoke refined nonsense, bacchic wit
bubbling from Helmina’s lips…
As Hugo stood in dawn’s gray light before his
door, fumbling with an aluminum key in the lock’s
innards, he realized he’d forgotten to wield his
dagger. “Oh, I won’t let you off,” he muttered. “I’ll
get you. It’s a chance… a splendid chance… Always
leave a bridge…”
The next Sunday, he traveled to Vorderschluder.
He could hardly wait to see Gars’s long ruinous
castle front. It wasn’t far then. After some effort, he
found a carriage. From the rising road, the Kamp
valley’s forests stretched below. Thaw had set in,
mist rising like smoke from the heavy black woods.
On the rolling high plain, Wolfshofen’s scattered
farmsteads shimmered through thin blue veils.
Vorderschluder’s towers rose from a ridge. The road
dipped back to the Kamp, bypassing its curve.
Hugo found Frau Helmina alone.
“I’m intruding, madam,” he said, kissing her hand.
“What must you think… I should’ve announced
myself, no?”
“Oh, I’m fond of pleasant surprises,” Helmina said
graciously. “My husband’s out, of course… You’re
just in time to keep me company.”
“I’m at your service.” Hugo was slightly flustered.
“Tell me about Vienna, then.”
“It’s still where you left it, but a bit forlorn. You
should always be there, madam. The city dims
without you. It’s mere memories now.”
“You think I could boost tourism?”
“You can do anything you wish.”
Hugo reveled in his boldness, swept away by
fervor. His tributes grew warmer. Her smiling
attention seemed more than courtesy—it was
encouragement. The demonic air Abbazia attributed
to Helmina was merely a woman’s curiosity, testing
how far a man would dare. She’d see he was no
coward. Lost in this, Hugo faltered, and when the
little Empire clock on the mantel chimed twelve
silver notes and Helmina said, “Ruprecht will be here
soon,” he fell to his knees, showering her hand with
kisses.
“Stand up, Herr Secretary,” Helmina said with
gentle firmness. “What do you think of me?”
“I think nothing—I only know I love you.”
“No, no, please… stand up, I insist.” She pushed
him back. “What are you doing? Ruprecht’s your
friend. Shouldn’t we… remain friends?”
“Of course!” Hugo looked up at her calm face,
unmarred by surprise.
“If I’m to trust you, end this scene.”
Hugo obeyed, rising.
“That’s right. See, if I ever need a friend, I’ll turn
to you. I’m sure you’d help me. Now, let’s chat.”
She’d barely begun when Ruprecht arrived. He
greeted the court secretary with warm cordiality.
Hugo froze, thinking of his recklessness. How easily
he could’ve been caught. Helmina’s demonic
gentleness had made him forget all danger.
During the meal, he regained his composure.
“You don’t even know why I came?” he asked.
“I’m glad you did,” Ruprecht replied politely.
“You might be less thrilled to hear I’m here to tap
you. You’ve been generous before—dangerous
move. Now I’m back… I need money…” Hugo
unveiled his plan, displaying his subscription list,
touting the project and the notable contributors
already secured.
Ruprecht, naturally, agreed to contribute.

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Alraune: Intermezzo, pages 167- 169

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on November 5, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Intermezzo
All sins, my dear girl, are brought here by the hot south wind
from out of the desert. Where the sun burns through endless centuries
there hovers over the sleeping sands a thin white haze that forms itself
into soft white clouds and floats around until the desert whirlwinds
roll them and form them into strange round eggs that contain the
sun’s blazing heat.
There the basilisk slinks around through the pale night. In a
strange manner the moon, the eternally infertile moon, fathered it. Yet
its mother, the desert sand, is just as infertile as the other is. It is the
secret of the desert. Many say it is an animal but that is not true. It is
a thought that has grown where there is no soil or no seed. It sprang
out of the eternally infertile and took on a chaotic form that life can
not recognize. That is why no one can describe this creature. It is
fashioned out of nothingness itself.
But what the people say is true. It is very poisonous. When it eats
the blazing eggs of the sun that the whirlwinds create in the desert
sands purple flames shoot out of its eyes and its breath becomes hot
and heavy with horrible fumes.
But the basilisk, pale child of the moon, does not eat all of the
vapory eggs. When it is sated and completely filled with hot poison it
spits green saliva over the eggs still lying there in the sand and
scratches them with sharp claws so the vile slime can penetrate
through their soft skin.
As the early morning winds arise a strange heaving like moist
violet and green colored lungfish can be seen growing under the thin
shells.
Throughout the land at noon eggs burst as the blazing sun
hatches crocodile eggs, toad eggs, snake eggs and eggs of all the
repulsive lizards and amphibians. These poisonous eggs of the desert
also burst with a soft pop. There is no seed inside, no lizard or snake,
only a strange vapory shape that contains all colors like the veil of the
dancer in the flame dance. It contains all odors like the pale sanga
flowers of Lahore, contains all sounds like the musical heart of the
angel Israfael and it contains all poisons as well like the basilisk’s
own loathsome body.
Then the south wind of mid-day blows in, creeping out of the
swamps of the hot jungles and dances over the desert sands. It takes
up the fiery creatures of the sun’s eggs and carries them far across
the blue ocean. They move with the south wind like soft vapory
clouds, like the loose filmy night garments of a priestess.
That is how all delightful, poisonous plagues fly to our fair
north–
Our quiet days are cool, sister, like the northland. Your eyes are
blue and know nothing of hot desire. The hours of your days are like
the heavy blue clusters of wisteria dropping down to form a soft
carpet. My feet stride lightly through them in the glinting sunlight of
your arbor.
But when the shadows fall, fair sister, there creeps a burning
over your youthful skin as the haze flies in from the south. Your soul
breathes it in eagerly and your lips offer all the red-hot poisons of the
desert in your bloody kisses–
Then it may not be to you that I turn, fair sister, sleeping child of
my dreamy days–When the mist lightly ripples the blue waves, when
the sweet voices of the birds sing out from the tops of my oleander,
then I may turn to the pages in the heavy leather bound volume of
Herr Jakob ten Brinken.
Like the sea, my blood flows slowly through my veins as I read
the story of Alraune through your quiet eyes in unending tranquility. I
present her like I find her, plain, simple, like one that is free of all
passions–
But then I drink the blood that flows out of your wounds in the
night and it mixes with my own red blood, your blood that has been
poisoned by the sinful poisons of the hot desert. That is when my
brain fevers from your kisses so that I ache and am tormented by your
desires–
Then it might well be that I tear myself loose from your arms,
wild sister– it might be that I sit there heavily dreaming at my window
that looks out over the ocean while the hot southerly wind throws its
fire. It might be that I again take up the leather bound volume of the
Privy Councilor, that I might once more read Alraune’s story–
through your poison hot eyes. Then the ocean screams through the
immovable rocks– just like the blood screams through my veins.
What I read then is different, entirely different, has different
meaning and I present her again like I find her, wild, hot–like
someone that is full of all passions!

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Hermetic Mysteries: The Mysteries Concluded, Part 5

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on November 5, 2025| Leave a Comment »

A Modern Inquiry into the Hermetic Mystery

Part II: A More Esoteric Consideration of the Hermetic Art and Its Mysteries

Chapter 4: The Mysteries Concluded, Part 5

Introduction: The ancient mysteries reach their zenith as the soul unites with the divine, embodying eternal wisdom through sacred rites. This section unveils the transformative power of Theurgic union, transcending earthly illusions to resonate with divine harmony.

The Theurgic Path to Divine Union

Theurgic rites, surpassing mere thought, unite the soul with the divine through sacred symbols. Iamblichus explains, “Divine union comes not from intellectual effort but from ineffable rites and symbols, moved by the gods’ will.” The Chaldaic Oracle declares, “Extend the sparkling fire into the mind’s temples, guiding it to the divine pattern.” These rites awaken the soul’s latent wisdom, aligning its faculties in harmonious order under reason’s rule, unlike the chaotic motives of natural life.

Proclus adds, “The soul, becoming an Intellectual World, meets the Creator, united through pure vision, not opinion or logic. This is the discovery of the divine—a radiant union more beautiful than Elysium’s light.” The soul, shedding all multiplicity, rests in faith, love, and hope, communing with the Ineffable Unknown, where subject and object merge in divine unity.

The Divine Fire of Wisdom

Sendivogius describes fire as the purest element, infused with divine majesty, governing the soul’s rational essence. “God created the soul as a tree of knowledge, clouded by oblivion. Only purity allows it to approach the divine fire, which no mortal can endure without dissolution.” This fire, calm and vital, moves by God’s will, stirring the soul’s faculties into harmony, as a king’s court follows his command. The alchemists’ “Salt of Wisdom” is this purified essence, uniting the soul with the divine source, as Morien tells King Calid, “This mastery is God’s secret, entrusted to prophets.”

Transcending the Sensible World

The soul’s natural life, fragmented by sensory desires, contrasts with the divine harmony of Elysium. Plotinus notes, “In the divine realm, all is diaphanous, light meeting light, each part containing the whole.” The soul, once divided, becomes unified, perceiving all through its radiant essence. Proclus urges, “Remove all variety, let the universe be still within, and commune with the divine.” This is the alchemical stone, a crystalline vessel of eternal light, harmonizing all creation in divine love.

Modern skeptics dismiss the mysteries as mere illusions, but the ancients’ accounts—rooted in experience—reveal a profound reality. The rites, pure in their origin, were guarded to protect their sanctity, ensuring only the worthy accessed divine wisdom. As Epictetus affirms, “The mysteries improve human life,” offering a transformative path to eternal truth.

Closing: Chapter 4 concludes the mysteries, uniting the soul with the divine in radiant harmony. The journey’s practical implications and alchemical secrets unfold further in our next post, revealing new depths of the Hermetic art.

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Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom Chapter 4, pages 297- 301

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on November 4, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

Oh no, where do you think, Herr Czerski. For that Certain is much too knowing. Ha, ha… 

Yes, I misunderstood you. You as philanthropist naturally ask why he wanted to do that. 

Why? He doesn’t know that. 

That would all be incredibly ridiculous if it weren’t so fatal. The small tiny gap widens with rapid speed. It is like a growth with long processes that crawl into every pore of his soul, force themselves into every opening with growing rage and spread the terrible poison into the whole organism… Ha, ha, ha… 

Why do I laugh so ugly? To thunder, man! isn’t that to laugh at?! 

But so it goes on. The fantasy is once set in motion. It suddenly becomes as lush as a jungle, sharp and poisonous as an Indian arrow, inventive as Edison, brooding and enduring in thinking like Socrates, who is known to have stood the whole night before his tent without noticing that a foot-deep snow had fallen. Don’t you think the old gentleman posed a little?… Well, Certain’s fantasy activity is also very interesting. 

He tries to imagine the two. They sat in the room. He had carefully locked it. She had slowly let down her hair, then unbuttoned her waist, he stood there meanwhile, hot, trembling and devoured her with greedy glances… 

Cute pictures, what? 

Or, let’s pass to another side… He looks at his child. It suddenly shoots through his head by what miracle it was prevented that she didn’t get a child with the other earlier. This question, and the possibility that she actually should have got it, makes him quite mad. 

Or: he reads an indifferent story of two lovers… He, he… Why was he not the first? And this question makes him quite raging with despair. 

Or: he gets to see one of her youth photographs. Was it before or after? Yes, naturally before. He looks at the photograph, he makes a painful science of it, he loves her there, loves her with a painful torment, he worships her in an agony of rage and despair. Why? Why? Why did she not keep herself so, so pure, so unknowing for him? 

From everything I cited here you will probably have gotten the sufficient impression of the psychic state of our Certain. 

He loses balance. He still tries to tear out the proliferating weed, to cut off the roots of the poisonous evil, but it is too late. He no longer gets rid of the visions. In his soul rage boils, hate takes away his reason, he cannot touch her without thinking of the other, he cannot look at her without being reminded of him. His soul gets wrinkles and gray hair. And yet he drags himself after his wife like a sick dog. He cannot do without her, he loves her a thousand times more than before in this frenzy, this boiling rage and this hate. Can you understand that? 

Falk screamed. 

Can you understand that? That is madness! That is no pain, that is… that is… 

He suddenly got fear of himself and a wild fit of rage seized him against the person who forced him to live through all this again, to tear open the old scabs. 

He walked searching around the room with clenched fists, he was completely out of his senses. 

Why do I scream? Because I have heart cramp, I have colic, stitches all around in the whole chest… Oh if I had you here, you cursed Satan with your demand for truth, your marriage proposals… Ha, ha, ha… me marry Janina! 

His strength left him. He sat at the window. He dried the sweat from his forehead, and suddenly became calm. He fell into heavy brooding. Now he will probably understand how one comes to seduce a girl. Naturally he will understand. He sat and sat, repeated incessantly in his thoughts that Czerski must now finally understand, and woke again. 

He had probably fallen asleep. 

And again he looked at the sky, at the dark, sick melancholy of the sky and then felt how the spaces widened and began to flee with the impetuosity of a wild debris. 

He listened tensely. 

It seemed to him as if the abysses of eternities coiled into still deeper depths, as if calm formed into an infinite funnel that swallowed everything and time and sound and the melancholy light of the stars—it seemed to him as if he were enveloped in dark, dull distances: everything had disappeared, only one remained: the wide, sick sky above him. 

And this sky he had begotten with his eyes, with his arms he had thrown its vault over the earthly all… 

He jumped up. 

It seemed to him as if the door had opened and someone had come in. 

No! It only seemed so to him. And again he walked up and down. 

Terrible, terrible that something like that can destroy one’s soul. Why? He became raging. Am I there to solve all riddles? Haven’t I rummaged enough in my soul? Haven’t I searched every corner of my soul with the greatest meticulousness? But can I grasp what lies under my consciousness, what plays out beyond the ridiculous brain life? Can I? Hey? Don’t you understand, you stupid man, that under certain circumstances one can come to betray one’s wife? Don’t you understand that there are moments when one can hate a woman so intensely, so unheard-of that one must soil her through intercourse with another woman out of rage, out of pain, out of frenzy, out of a sick need for revenge? Falk shook with laughter. Out of revenge because the poor woman five years earlier, yes, before she met me, didn’t sense me! 

Falk ran around. The unrest grew so that he thought his head must burst. 

And now, just now, when the torment subsided, when the wound began to scar, now Isa will be torn from him. 

She will naturally go. 

He tried to imagine it to himself. 

No, impossible! He was bound to her. She was everything to him. He could not live without her. He had grown together with her, he rooted in her… 

One thing became clear to him: He had to get rid of Czerski. But how, how? 

A feeling of desperate powerlessness seized him. He became limp and resigned. What could he do? Now everything had to break over him. 

Then suddenly a thought shot through his head. 

Olga had to arrange the whole thing. That was the only way out. He became glad. 

That he hadn’t thought of that earlier! 

With feverish haste he wrote a long letter, put paper money in, sealed the envelope, leaned back in the chair and stared thoughtlessly ahead. 

Suddenly he started. Now he hated her again. 

Yes, she was to blame that he became so torn, so miserable, that he had lost all faith, that he saw no goal and no purpose in life. 

She, she was to blame that in his brain he had only the one great, sick idea, the one rage, the one raving hate, that he was not the first… 

Isa, Isa, if that hadn’t happened!… He, he, he… Yes, naturally, Herr Czerski… Naturally? Did I say: naturally!? Nothing is natural, everything is a riddle, everything is an abyss and everything a torment and a nonsense… 

It was after all better that now everything came to an end. 

And the torment laid itself on his heart and constricted it tightly and bit into it with fine, long, pointed teeth… 

The night was so sultry and so wide and so dark. He sank into himself. 

The world is going under! The world is going under…

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