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Homo Sapiens: Overboard Chapter 15, pages 118-124

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged books, fantasy, fiction, short-story, writing on October 6, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Homo Sapiens: Overboard by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

XV.

Falk sat in his hotel room, brooding.

Why had he even come here? He could just as well have tormented himself in Berlin.

It must be six days now?

He reflected. Yes, he’d been here six days.

But now he couldn’t take it anymore. No, impossible. Yes, he had to state, without any self-pity, simply as a bare fact, that he couldn’t endure this torment any longer. He would surely go to ruin. Every day, something in him broke that was whole yesterday, every day his disgust for life grew—and this pain…

To go to ruin over a woman? He, the artist, he… Ha, ha, ha… As if it weren’t better to go to ruin over a woman than over some idiotic stroke, or typhoid, or diphtheria…

Oh, you foolish Iltis! How shallow you are! At least I go to ruin over myself; I go to ruin over what makes up my innermost soul’s structure. And she, yes, she: that’s me, me, whom you’ve never seen, whom I only now recognized in myself.

He couldn’t finish the thought…

Go to ruin over your drunkenness or persecution mania if you think that’s more worthy of a man—I go to ruin over myself…

But why the devil go to ruin? I want to be happy—I want to live…

He suddenly lost the thread of thought. His mind had been so scattered lately.

He sat and sat, noticing he was completely numb. He forced himself to think.

Hmm; he’d never done anything without controlling himself. Yes, the first two days, he still had himself in hand. He worked on her with conscious means…

Good God! That ridiculous swan story! How stupidly made up, how clumsy… brash, yes, brash…

And then came the vortex, the whirl… His brain began to spin around itself, circling faster and faster into the abyssal funnel of sexuality…

The dance—the dance…

He suddenly saw a spiderweb in the corner. He stared at it long and intently, but his eyes closed.

Yes, he was tired, terribly tired, he felt a tearing in his limbs… Yes, three—no, four hours he’d walked, to kill the pain with exhaustion, to sleep without that wretched poison, that morphine…

Now he had to fix his eyes on a shiny object. He stared at the brass doorknob for a while.

He only felt tears running down his cheeks…

It was a glorious autumn day. Bright, clear noon. He looked at the tall tower of the Redeemer Church in Copenhagen. Mikita stood beside him, waving his handkerchief.

Farvel! Farvel! he heard shouted, but he saw no people. Suddenly, he noticed a tearful young man beside him. He was probably headed to Stettin for a wholesale business…

How many nautical miles did this steamer make in an hour? You!—Mikita excitedly pointed out an English coal steamer.

Two cabin boys were boxing as if they’d gone mad. He saw them leap at each other like roosters. In an instant, they became a tangled heap rolling on the deck, then breaking apart and rolling again. Then he saw them spring up and start again with renewed fury. He saw fists flying back and forth, then they tumbled down the cabin stairs, reappeared, and again he saw the heap rolling on the deck…

Falk woke up, opened his eyes, and closed them again.

“You, Erik, look at this marvelous night on the water and this shimmering—this glowing… Good God, if you could paint that!”

“You dear fellow!”

And they sat and drank. The night was so black. They sat close together.

And suddenly, a frenzy seized them. They grabbed each other. He lifted Mikita up, wanting to throw him overboard. But Mikita was nimble. He slipped under his arms and grabbed his legs. Desperately, Falk pounded Mikita’s head with his fists, but Mikita didn’t care, he carried him, yes, he wanted to throw him into the sea, now they were at the railing, now… now… Then he got something hard under his feet. He threw his whole body over Mikita, making him buckle, with one grip he seized his hips, and with a terrific thrust: Mikita flew overboard in a wide arc.

Falk woke up.

He stood in the middle of the room with clenched fists. He came to himself.

A wild hatred burned in him, a savage urge to fight. Overboard! Overboard!

He clenched his teeth. He was cold. He paced back and forth.

Who would rob him of his happiness, for whose sake should he go to ruin?!

Gradually, he calmed down.

It became clear to him now: one had to go overboard, him or Mikita.

She no longer loved Mikita! What did Mikita want from her? Who was Mikita anyway? He’d been with him at school, starved with him—and yes, what else? What more?

He sat down and let his head hang limply.

This sick, mad longing for her he’d never felt before…

Overboard! Him or me.

The vortex seizes us both, one to happiness… only one to happiness…

And that’s me!

He stretched tall.

He saw the elk before him, the trembling, blood-splattered victor. And an unprecedented unrest seized him.

He tore open his clothes and buttoned them again. He searched for money, rummaged through all his pockets, couldn’t find it, raged, ran around, sweat beading on his forehead.

He had to go to her now. He had to. He couldn’t bear it anymore. And he threw himself over the bed, tossing everything around, and finally found his wallet under the pillow.

If only it’s not too late, if only it’s not too late… He looked at his watch. It had stopped.

He rang the bell frantically.

The waiter hurried up. “When does the train to Berlin leave?”

“In about an hour.”

“Quick, quick, the bill. Hurry, for God’s sake…”

When Falk arrived in Berlin, it was already late in the evening.

It suddenly became clear: he had to go to Mikita’s.

Yes, he had to tell him openly that he shouldn’t deceive himself, that Isa no longer loved him, and if she hadn’t told him, it was probably only to spare him the pain as long as possible, she pitied him…

Yes, he had to tell him openly. It was endlessly awkward.

But why? Mikita was a complete stranger to him.

But the closer he got to Mikita’s apartment, the heavier it felt.

No! He couldn’t tell Mikita that.

He tried to recall what Mikita had once meant to him, how he had loved him…

He could hardly breathe.

He stood indecisively outside Mikita’s apartment.

Yes, he had to, he had to… or… oh God! Yes, then he’d have to go back.

And he relived the horrific torment of those six days. Horrible! Horrible! he murmured.

He went up.

“Is Mr. Mikita at home?”

“No! He’s gone to Munich.”

Falk stood on the stairs. He couldn’t grasp the happiness. This happiness!

He repeated it again, but he couldn’t feel joy. And now to Isa—to Isa!

He thought only of her. He tried to imagine how she’d receive him, he thought of a thousand little details he’d noticed about her, he thought intensely, convulsively, to drown out something in him that wanted to speak, that resisted and fought against this great happiness.

Then suddenly: He mustn’t go to Isa! He had to wait until Mikita returned. He had to tell him everything, so Mikita wouldn’t accuse him of cowardice, wouldn’t say he’d seduced his bride behind his back.

Yes! He had to wait.

But that was impossible for him—physically impossible. Now everything in him was stretched to the breaking point; one more thousandth of a millimeter, and it would collapse.

Why had he come back?

As long as he could bear the torment, he’d stayed away and fought bravely and been good, but then…

He pulled himself together sharply.

No, enough of arguments now! He’d do what he had to do, even if ten, a thousand feelings resisted… God, yes, he didn’t deny that each of those feelings carried a certain degree of necessity, but in the end, the final, mighty, inevitable necessity always won!

And he thought it through to the finest detail, but he didn’t feel happier.

Deep in the background, he felt a dull fear, an embarrassed, shameful pain, and then he felt everything merge into one feeling, an endlessly sad feeling of not being himself, of not belonging to himself.

He passed a clock. He flinched sharply.

In a quarter of an hour, the door would be locked, then he couldn’t see her. Not today… He groaned.

Now you must decide. You must. You must.

He felt a painful tension in every fiber, every muscle. He walked faster and faster.

No, no! No more thinking, no more; now I must go to her… Come what may…

He still thought, still tried to fight, but he knew he’d do it anyway.

And then: with a jolt, he threw all thoughts from his mind and quickly climbed the stairs.

But as he was about to ring, that paralyzing fear gripped him again. He put his finger to the electric bell button several times but didn’t dare press it. Then he leaned against the wall, feeling suddenly so heavy. He went down a few steps, counting them; then he heard the jingle of keys below, and all at once, he recalled his necessity, the final necessity that must always win.

He went back up and rang. A maid opened the door.

“Is Fräulein Isa…”

“Fräulein Isa is not receiving; she’s forbidden anyone to be let in…”

“But tell her I must speak to her…” He almost shouted it, not knowing why.

At that moment, a door opened: Isa stood in the hallway.

Falk walked toward her; without a word, they entered the room.

They took each other’s hands and both trembled.

Then she threw her arms around his neck and wept loudly.

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OD: Chapter 18, pages 228 -234

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged books, fiction, literature, poetry, writing on October 6, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

In the grand assembly hall of the Academy of Sciences, a distinguished audience is gathered today. The great luminaries of science are all present; they don’t want to miss this occasion—not always do they come with such eager anticipation as today, when Freiherr von Reichenbach is to deliver a lecture on his Od. Often enough, it’s merely a tedious duty; they attend serious and beneficial discussions but yawn in advance. Today, however, they smile, knowing it will be entertaining. Freiherr von Reichenbach is in everyone’s people’s mouths—the whole city is talking about him, less for his Od and more for other matters.

“Say, have you also received that lithographed letter he sent to all his friends?”

“A kind of wanted poster, after his daughter and a certain Karl Schuh.”

“A public accusation!”

“But that’s the Schuh with the light paintings. A talented man, he works in a chemical factory. Certainly not the blackguard the Freiherr paints him as.”

“Say, can you understand the man? Normally, one washes dirty laundry quietly at home, but Reichenbach airs it for all the world to see.”

“A passionate nature! A man who can’t bear not getting his way.”

“Just like with his Od.”

“But one doesn’t accuse one’s daughter of consorting with an adventurer in a public circular letter.”

“And that she nearly emptied all the chests when she left his house and left keys to half-empty rooms behind.”

“That’s not true. Reichenbach writes of two loads she took. I know her brother; he told me it was no more than two hand carts with her clothes and linens.”

“I can only think he’s upset because he’s not making progress with his Od, and now his domestic troubles have completely unhinged him.”

And then, after everything has been thoroughly discussed at length, Reichenbach arrives. He’s a bit late, giving the luminaries of science time to finish their gossip—the gossip he himself turned into a public matter to show he has nothing to hide. After the self-destruction of recent weeks, he’s in a festive mood today. This is the day of his triumph; he will compel the men of science with the force of his words and the logic of facts to acknowledge his research results and cheer for him. Against the dark backdrop of his personal distress, his fame as a discoverer will shine all the brighter.

At the door, Professor Schrötter, the Academy’s general secretary, greets him.

“What do you say to Liebig?” he asks first thing.

So they already know—Reichenbach dislikes being reminded of it; yes, malice always spreads with the speed of wind, while praise and recognition lag far behind.

It’s unpleasant to be reminded of this setback at the outset; the wound still stings. But Reichenbach merely smiles and says offhandedly, “What can you do? He wanted to make a splash with his inaugural lecture at Munich University and chose my Od as a sacrificial lamb. Scholars often slaughter their best friends to get themselves talked about.”

“Liebig was entirely for you at first. He published your papers in his Annals. How do you explain the turnaround?”

“How do I explain it?” snorts Reichenbach contemptuously. “Some gentlemen visited me, on their way to the naturalists’ convention in Wiesbaden. They also chose to learn about my experiments. I led them into the darkroom, but they saw no Od light. None of them were sensitive, and besides, they were too impatient to wait the necessary time. Then they went to Liebig in Munich and mocked the Od and me. It’s always easy to laugh when you don’t understand something. But it seems to have made an impression on Liebig.”

“Still,” hesitates Schrötter, “his attack has been noticed.”

Reichenbach tightens his resolve: “By the way, I was in Karlsbad with Berzelius, who puts Liebig in his pocket, and Berzelius is entirely on my side.”

They take their seats, and Hofrat Rokitansky, the vice president, opens the proceedings. A protocol is read, a foundation charter is announced, and several new decrees follow, though the assembly pays only moderate attention. Only when Reichenbach steps to the lectern do heads lift and expressions sharpen.

Reichenbach’s gaze surveys the densely packed audience. There they sit below—indifferent, malicious, envious, curious—come to see how he will hold up. He knows they’re all thinking of the scandal in his house, of Liebig’s defection. But his conviction stands like a steel pillar within him; he is bathed in the light of holiest certainty. Today, he will rise and crush all resistance. He has even summoned opposition, awakened enmities, so that his elevation will shine all the brighter.

Then Reichenbach begins to speak. He starts with an overview of his experiments; he has conducted thousands of trials, identified one hundred and sixty sensitives—men and women of all classes and ages. He has examined animal bodies and supposedly dead matter.

Reichenbach overlooks a faint cough at this challenge to a widely accepted view. Is matter not dead, then? He straightens: “The result of these investigations is the unerring certainty of a force permeating the entire universe, which I have named Od, derived from the Sanskrit root Va, meaning ‘to blow’ or ‘to waft,’ just as the same root becomes Wudan, Wotan, Odin in Old Germanic, signifying the air god, the wafter. Truly, this dynamis acts throughout the cosmos, wafting through the greatest and the smallest. Heavenly bodies, humans, animals, plants, stones—all emit Od, all are permeated by Od; Od is the life principle of the animate and inanimate world.”

The tufts of hair on either side of his forehead blaze—not in anger this time, but in enthusiasm. They rise and seem to spark with crackling energy. Some think to themselves that whatever may be undesirable, petty, or unpleasant about Reichenbach the man, now, as he stands before his audience, swept away by his idea, one cannot help but find him grand and admirable—even if his worldview rests on delusion and error. Some say this to themselves, but far more find the fire of his rapture out of place here, where facts—sober, research-based facts—usually hold sway. They are suspicious of a lecture with so much passion.

Perhaps Reichenbach senses this, for he now reins in his fervor. He is, first and foremost, a physicist and chemist, isn’t he? And so he intends to speak only as a physicist and chemist. Now he constructs his system before the audience—the convictions drawn from endless experimental series, meticulously recorded in his diaries and soon to be accessible to the public in his comprehensive work, The Sensitive Human. He speaks of the odic polarity and the odic dynamics of the human body, of odic transitional states, of crystals, magnets, odic emotional and visual phenomena, of odic manifestations of smell, taste, and hearing, of conductivity, of Od linked with living organisms—the Biod, of the Od active in the sun—the Heliod…

It’s a wealth of connections, insights, and assertions in which Reichenbach is entirely at home, but which bewilder and overwhelm his listeners.

A quiet restlessness in the hall gradually penetrates his awareness; he glances at the clock, almost startled. He has spoken for two hours; it’s time to conclude. He clenches his fists, as if to hammer his final sentences with all his might into their heads. “You see, gentlemen, the polar oppositions of that natural force which I call Od. On the negative side of Od are life, movement, lightness, and volatility—the spiritual principle; on the positive side are death, stillness, weight, and immobility—the material principle. The right side of the human body is odically negative. Why does man predominantly use his right hand? Why does one escort a lady on the right arm? Why is someone to be honored placed at one’s right? From the unconscious recognition that the right side signifies odic life and spirit. Heavenly bodies, humans, animals, plants, and stones are bearers of Od. What mysteries are revealed to us! Odic radiations from the stars—do they not explain the ancient riddles of astrology, the fate-determining influences of the stars? The Earth itself is odically charged; its North Pole emits reddish light, its South Pole bluish light, and perhaps the auroras are nothing but immense odic discharges of the Earth. Od also provides the key to the mystery of the divining rod. Moving water acts odically, and the sensitive, holding the divining rod, senses hidden springs beneath the Earth through his receptivity to Od. You may think what you will, but the facts of distant influence, remote viewing, and premonition cannot be denied in many cases. Allow me to cite an old proverb: ‘Speak of the devil, and he appears!’ Following a sudden inspiration, you speak of a man you haven’t thought of for years thought of for years. And lo, in the next moment, he turns the corner. It’s his Od radiations that preceded him and awakened the thought of him before you knew of his physical proximity. The unaccountable affections and aversions between people stem from sympathy or opposition of their odic personalities. Yes, I would venture to say that even the manifestations revealed to spiritualists—the so-called spirit appearances—are based on facts of an odic nature.”

A voice interrupts him here, coming from one of the back rows. It says loudly and clearly, “Wizard of Kobenzl!” Though such interruptions are uncommon at this venue, the heckler receives no reprimand; instead, a wave of approving smiles ripples through the rows of faces, followed by a rustling of agreement and nudges.

Reichenbach straightens, trying to fix his gaze on the malicious interrupter, but he can’t pinpoint the source of the shout. “The presence of Od in a body determines its stereoplastic, body-forming power, and thus I believe that even in seemingly dead stone, forces of immense significance may be bound. It is Od that governs the atoms and, within atoms, the arrangement of matter, its transformation, bonding, and splitting. It is Od on which our entire chemistry rests, and perhaps with Od we have reached the hypothetical ether. Odic radiations permeate the entire universe, and I dare to predict that a time is near when all life will be seen as an effect of such radiations.”

Reichenbach has finished; he falls silent, exhausted, but still stands erect, having hurled his fiery thoughts out. He awaits the ignition of a flame in the minds seized by his fire, the applause of those swept away by his boldness.

A shuffle of feet, coughs, the scraping of chairs, a wave of heads from the distinguished assembly below him. He shouldn’t have spoken of astrology, remote viewing, spirit appearances, divining rods, and other spawn of superstition before this esteemed gathering. What is one to say to such nonsense? How should one respond? How dare he present this to the luminaries of science, bearers of enlightenment in this thankfully advanced century?

Reichenbach waits, but the applause doesn’t come. He doesn’t fully grasp it—have they not recognized the overwhelming significance of his discovery? Don’t they see that it reduces all phenomena of nature and life to a single law, a fundamental force?

Someone rises to speak—Professor Schrötter, Reichenbach’s friend. Reichenbach breathes a sigh of relief; a friend, surely he will now make the matter palatable to the assembly. Perhaps he knows best how to address these thickheads. Maybe it was too much fireworks at once for more cautious minds.

Professor Schrötter pushes back the tails of his coat with one arm, as he’s wont to do at the lectern, and raises the other hand in a gesture of professorial insistence. He begins by saying it’s unnecessary to speak of the undeniable contributions of Freiherr von Reichenbach to science in this assembly. With small hand movements, he tosses out names like Paraffin, Creosote, Zaffar, Eupion, Kapnomor into the hall, glances toward the ceiling, traces a semicircle with his hand, and mentions Reichenbach’s research in meteoritics, eliciting approving nods from the scholarly society.

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Homo Sapiens: Overboard Chapter 14, pages 110 – 117

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged books, columbo, fiction, peter-falk, reviews on October 4, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Homo Sapiens: Overboard by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

XIV.

The restaurant “Green Nightingale” was loud and lively.

Iltis sat broad and dignified, as befits a great man, explaining to Mikita why women are far beneath men. He ostentatiously turned his back on a young literati sitting next to him. The day before, there had been an unpleasant scene between them because the young man remarked that Iltis’s hatred of women likely stemmed from more than just theoretical reasons. Whenever a lady appeared in their company, Iltis would start in.

“You see,” said Iltis, “you’re young, and so is Falk. You can’t understand; but just wait until you’ve slogged through ten years of marriage with a woman—” he hissed the last word softly, out of consideration for Isa—“then you’ll see. Here comes dear old Falk with his Yuma women, Chickasaw Indians, and such scientific nonsense; but the fact remains that women are inferior creatures.”

The Infant tried to interject, but Iltis cut him off sharply.

“No, no!… A fact is a fact!” He puffed himself up… “Besides, one shouldn’t be petty with evidence.”

Mikita wasn’t listening. A grief gnawed at him, a shame that whipped his blood into his brain with choking rage.

What’s the point of going on?… It’s all over… He thought of her harshness—her… her… Yes, wasn’t that outright hatred?

How he’d pleaded with her, crawled before her, begged for forgiveness! But she, hm… yes, that icy smile… Didn’t it say: why are you begging, why are you embarrassing me, what do I still have to do with you…

He sighed heavily.

“Well, you don’t seem to be taking it lightly…” Iltis winked. “But allow me, the matter can’t possibly hold up,” the Infant mused, pondering how best to present his counterarguments. Iltis grew highly indignant.

“You mustn’t be petty. Just don’t be petty, or we’ll end up with foolish science. Shall I tell you about my experiences with scientists?”

Why is Falk staying away, Mikita brooded; that wasn’t necessary… Ha, ha, ha, to give me a chance to win Isa back… Cheers, dear Erik; not necessary, not necessary.

But why am I tormenting her? What do I still want from her?… Love? Can you force that? Ridiculous! Ridiculous! How could anyone love him at all, yes, love a man who’s only ridiculous?

He looked over at Isa, who, as usual, sat a bit apart.

But Isa didn’t look at him. She seemed very agitated. Red patches burned on her cheeks, and her eyes darted restlessly around…

The door opened, and the blonde Neocatholic entered.

Isa looked quickly at the door, clearly unable to control herself in that moment; she flinched.

She smiled at the young man, but she couldn’t hide the expression of great disappointment.

Yes, disappointment! Damn it, he wasn’t blind… that’s how people look when they’re disappointed. And that nervous, trembling hint of expectation—expectation! Who’s she expecting? Who? Foolish Mikita, don’t you know who she’s expecting?! Don’t you know why she doesn’t want to be alone with you for half an hour; don’t you know why she’s been dragging you here for three days straight!

He laughed bitterly.

Falk, she’s expecting Falk, heh, heh—Falk! He repeated the name, it surely gave him great pleasure; Falk was his friend, more than that! a brother; he’d surely made a great sacrifice for him, yes, surely… The fiancé who suffers from sentimental idiocies should get his bride, bring his little sheep to safety…

“Hi! Hallo! Hoo!” he roared at Iltis—“To your health!”

Everyone looked around in surprise; that was quite unusual for Mikita.

Mikita pulled himself together.

“To hell with your philosophizing… Woman—man… it’s all nonsense; everything’s nonsense… Let’s be merry! Merry!”

Isa looked at Mikita wearily.

Why was he shouting like that? What was wrong with him now? Who was he jealous of this time?

How foreign that man was to her. How could she ever have loved him? No, she couldn’t take it anymore; she had to end it. Tonight! When he escorts her home—yes, tonight!

How would she tell him? Her heart trembled.

How would she tell him? Calmly and matter-of-factly. Was he blind, couldn’t he help her in this awkward situation? He knew now that she loved Falk. Didn’t he get it yet? She’d shown him so clearly that he meant nothing to her.

Intrusive man! She was afraid to think it, she didn’t dare; but now, suddenly, she had thought it… She was surprised that she felt nothing about it…

Intrusive man! Yes, she felt joy that she could think it without it being painful.

The door creaked again.

Now it’s him for sure, she knew it; she trembled. But it was a stranger.

This was too awful, waiting and waiting like this among all these unpleasant people.

She felt Mikita’s eyes fixed on her, but she avoided looking at him.

God, how indifferent he was to her!

What had Falk been doing these dreadful five days?

Should she go to him? But she didn’t know where he lived. Ask Mikita? No, that wouldn’t do.

She sank into herself.

How could she see him? Why, for heaven’s sake, had she asked him never to see her again?… Oh God, she hadn’t known how much she loved him, how indifferent Mikita was to her, how the whole, whole world only brought her pain.

She was senselessly desperate.

Why was he shouting again? She glanced involuntarily at the empty bottles in front of Mikita.

“Do you even know what love is?”—Mikita was beside himself. “Do you know what sexual pain is? Huh? Do you? Have you ever loved a woman at all?”

Iltis made a dismissive gesture.

“That… that…” Mikita stammered—“the woman birthed the man, that’s enough for her! The woman gives birth, and the man loves. The woman never loves, never; she’s content with giving birth…”

“What? Women love too? What?”

“But women commit suicide for love,” the Infant interjected, “you can read about it in the *Lokal-Anzeiger* every day.”

“What? Suicide? Ask him, just ask him; he knows better—” Mikita pointed at Iltis, who smiled encouragingly—“women commit suicide when they’re pregnant and abandoned by their lovers!”

Mikita slammed his fist on the table. Isa looked at him with boundless contempt.

He was drunk again. How could she ever have loved this man?

An awkward silence fell. Isa’s presence weighed on everyone. It was a bit inconsiderate of Mikita in her presence.

Mikita suddenly fell silent.

He saw it: yes, for the first time, he saw it—that look! He saw it clearly before him.

He let his head sink.

So clear! The look burrowed deeper and deeper into him. He saw the eye within him now, it looked at him… How did it look at him?

If he painted it?… Three steps back… No! Into the corner of the studio—the other one… And now through the mirror… Yes, he couldn’t help it… It was contempt! Great, cold contempt!

For Isa, it became unbearable. She felt a feverish unrest; her heart beat fast and heavy against her corset.

She had to see Falk at all costs, he had to come eventually. He’s here every day; why doesn’t he come these days?

The conversation picked up again.

“Oh, leave me alone with literature; this endless chatter about poets and publishers and publisher prizes really makes one nervous—” Iltis yawned affectedly—“What do you want with Falk? He’s a good guy.”

Isa perked up.

She saw Mikita suddenly straighten. “What? What? Falk?”

“Well, yes,” the Infant lectured, “Falk has talent, I’ll grant that; but it’s still developing, it needs to ripen, to ferment; you don’t know yet how he’ll turn out. He’s searching, he’s still groping…”

“What? Falk groping?…” Mikita laughed with feigned warmth. “You’re priceless… You know, Falk’s the only one who can do something. Falk’s found the new. Yes, Falk can do what you all wish you could—Falk—Falk…”

At that moment, Mr. Buchenzweig approached Isa.

He assumed all this talk must bore a lady, so he wanted to entertain her.

She looked at his smooth, plump, handsome barber’s face. What did this man want?

Yes, Mr. Buchenzweig had the great honor of seeing the gracious Fräulein at the soirée in the presence of Mr. Falk. Mr. Falk is a remarkably interesting man, really the one who interested him most… He only came here to meet him…

“You, Isa,” Mikita called across the table—“did you know Falk left Berlin?”

He fixed his eyes on her intently.

Isa flinched. She felt a sharp pain in her face, a constricting sensation in her chest… she saw Mikita’s wild, malicious, flushed face with wide eyes, then turned mechanically to Buchenzweig.

She wanted to drink a glass of wine; it was empty. Buchenzweig eagerly ran for the waiter.

Everything blurred before her eyes. She saw nothing. She suddenly heard someone speaking; it was Buchenzweig. But she didn’t quite understand what he wanted. She only looked at him, smiled mechanically—the wine was brought. She drank.

“I know Mr. Halbe very well. A remarkably charming man, a great force in our time, which so lacks great talents.”

Isa looked at him. The man suddenly repulsed her. She didn’t know why.

“Excuse me, Mr. Buchenzweig, your company is very pleasant, but I must go home now.”

She approached Mikita.

“I have to go home now.”

“Oh, really?—bored here?” She didn’t listen to him and got dressed.

Again, she saw the repulsive barber’s face of Mr. Buchenzweig. Who did he remind her of? Yes, right, the barber who shampooed her hair.

As they got into the cab, with Iltis gallantly assisting Isa, Mikita shouted to him:

“Wait till I get back! We’ll have a merry night.”

Isa shrugged. Neither spoke a word.

She was paralyzed, unable to think. She was so tired.

Now and then, a desolate despair hit her, then tipped back into this limp exhaustion.

“You, Isa, my exhibition opens in Munich tomorrow.” “Oh, right…”

The cab stopped.

“Good night!” Mikita’s limbs twitched. “Good night.”

“Now drive me back fast!” he roared at the driver. The driver whipped the horse, and the cab flew over the asphalt road.

Meanwhile, Mikita writhed in a violent fit of sobbing.

When he returned to the “Green Nightingale,” he was calm and composed. He was greeted with hearty cheers.

Yes, Isa has weighed us all down, he thought.

“You,” he sat next to Iltis—“if I get very drunk tonight, put me on the train to Munich tomorrow morning. Seven-thirty, remember…”

“I know, I know; I’ve traveled that route a hundred times.”

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OD: Chapter 17, pages 222 – 227

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged books, family, fiction, life, writing on October 4, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

“Let the old fool be. He’s bursting with envy and pride.”

“He unfortunately doesn’t burst,” snorted Semmelweis. “He complains to the ministry; he has a host of petticoats and clerical robes behind him, and that carries more weight in this blessed Austria than the most conscientious research. And what does the ministry do? They appoint me private lecturer, yes, because they can’t do otherwise, with the venia legendi for lectures on obstetrics—with practical exercises—but only on a phantom! Do you understand what that means, not on cadavers, only on a phantom?” Semmelweis broke into a bitter, angry fit of laughter.

Reichenbach shook his head. “You just need a little patience. Klein and your other enemies are old men. How long will it take before they must leave the stage? Then the path will be clear for you…”

“Patience? I’ve had more patience than I should have. Enlightenment is dawning everywhere, except in Vienna. I’ve had enough of Vienna.”

“Yes, with us…” Reichenbach mused thoughtfully. “Austria! It has always known how to suppress, destroy, or drive out its best talents. Anyone who achieves something here must brace themselves to be mocked or persecuted.” Suddenly, he realized how similar his own fate was to this man’s. They were allies in the battle against the inertia of minds.

Semmelweis clapped his broad-brimmed hat on his head. “What do I care about Austria? I’m going back to my homeland. I’m Hungarian.” He stamped toward the door. “By the way, what I meant to say… your daughter! She was my best assistant.” “Because they’ve all been like that. I’d like to take her with me to Pest; perhaps she’d be willing. She could bring much good.”

He might have thought this a kind farewell gesture to Reichenbach. But he shouldn’t have said it. Didn’t this man understand that in this house, Ottane’s misstep was buried under a tombstone of silence? Why did he drag this shameful story into the light? Should Reichenbach rejoice that his daughter had taken up this dirty, repulsive trade instead of leaving it to the women of the lower classes, who were meant for it? Should he consider it an honor that Ottane was praised for her competence? For Reichenbach, it was a barbed fire arrow; his pride was mortally wounded. As he escorted the doctor to the door, he pondered how a paternal command could put an end to this scandal.

He himself wanted nothing to do with this renegade who dragged the family’s reputation into the mud; Hermine, Hermine should deliver Ottane his order.

When he entered Hermine’s room, Hermine and Karl Schuh hastily dissolved a suspiciously intimate moment into a somewhat awkward innocence. Just what he needed—Schuh making himself at home and plotting with Hermine.

“Oh, has Paris returned you to us?” he asked mockingly. He knew, of course, that Schuh hadn’t reached Paris and that his entire venture had failed. But he wanted the satisfaction of forcing a confession of failure, and somehow his resentment had to vent.

Schuh had risen: “I’ve come back to discuss the future of your daughter Hermine with you.”

Oh, so…! So it had come to this—that this man dared to discuss Hermine’s future with him. “Do you mean,” he asked with a mocking glint, “that you are to be that future?”

Schuh had resolved to ignore insults. “Yes!” he said earnestly.

“So I should place my daughter’s future in your hands? And you presumably already have her consent?”

“Yes,” Schuh answered with calm certainty to both questions…

“Into the hands of a wandering nobody who is nothing and has nothing. A vagabond, a shoemaker’s apprentice by birth, a barber in Berlin until his twentieth year, then ran off, sniffed around at everything but knows nothing thoroughly—a scientific freebooter who turns his scant knowledge into a business?”

Schuh had grown very pale. “I know I lack thorough training; I know I’m not yet anything substantial, but you yourself have acknowledged my abilities. You drew me into your experiments and sought my opinion. And you’ve said more than once that it’s not about the credentials one holds but what one carries within. Moreover, I may inform you that I have accepted a position, and there’s a prospect of soon becoming a partner in a galvanoplastic institute.”

“Father,” Hermine adds, “you have no right to insult Herr Schuh.”

Reichenbach turns on her with clenched fists. “Silence! Unfortunate girl! And you want to throw yourself away on this hollow talker, this man who doesn’t even own a button on his coat, whom I’ve driven from my house, who wheedled money from me for his dubious ventures…?”

Schuh lowers his head. “You gave me money, that’s true. But you offered it, Herr Baron! Offered it!! And you will get it back; I give you my word!”

And now something happens that the Freiherr would never have dreamed possible. Hermine steps to the young man, places her arm around his shoulder, and says, “Your insults won’t succeed in separating us.” It’s unbelievable—Hermine dares, before his very eyes, the eyes of her father, to put her arm around the young man’s shoulders and declare that he won’t succeed in parting them. They form a kind of united front, embodying their inner bond, and Hermine even ventures to add, “I’m of age, Father; I’m thirty years old and can determine my own fate.” So he’s to lose Hermine too—the only one of his children still with him.

“Very well, very well,” says the Freiherr, momentarily shaken, “so you want to marry into a family of shoemakers, barbers, and wandering jugglers?”

“Feelings and innermost convictions are every person’s free possession.”

But the Freiherr has already regained control. “Your wild, deluded sister is already a public scandal, and you want to follow her example? Have you taken a cue from Reinhold too? This new insolence has gone to all your heads? I only regret I can’t kill you or simply lock you in a convent. I’m going out to Kobenzl now, and you’ll follow me within two days, or I’ll exercise my rights as father and householder and have the police fetch you. You won’t throw yourself away on a worthless man.”

The gray tufts of hair on either side of his imposing forehead flare like burning thorn bushes. Before the stately, broad-shouldered man stands the slim, agile Schuh, a head shorter, crouched as if to spring. At last, all restraint ends—father or not, one can’t endlessly tolerate being spat in the face. Now Schuh’s anger too breaks free, and though the Freiherr looms powerfully and confidently before him, the young man knows that if it came to a physical struggle, he wouldn’t come off worse. He would duck under his opponent and is already choosing the spots to grab him. At the very least, it’s time now to remind him of a certain letter to remind him of—a letter whose suppression was no heroic deed.

But it’s unnecessary; Hermine shows she’s her father’s daughter, matching him in stubbornness and tenacious pursuit of a goal. “You’ll have to realize, Father,” she says calmly, “that I can’t be intimidated by threats. It’s about my happiness, and if you withhold your consent, I’ll take it without it. Wouldn’t we be better off settling this in peace?”

Settle in peace—indeed, she says settle in peace, even though she hears her father is entirely against it. Reichenbach stares at the united pair, utterly baffled.

But in Karl Schuh, something entirely new emerges. He isn’t one for the grand tones of passion; his natural disposition is to blunt all violence and turn every situation into something cheerful. A sense of superiority floods him; he has the delighted certainty that Reichenbach’s power is ineffective, casting everything in a light of inner joy.

“Tell me, dear friend,” he asks gently and conciliatory, “why are you so angry with me? I wouldn’t have come to your house if you hadn’t invited me. I know you despise people, using them as long as they seem useful. You squeeze them like lemons and then discard them. But with me, you’ve encountered a lemon that won’t stand for it.”

The metaphor is bold, but it has the advantage of leaving Reichenbach speechless. A tool that rebels, a nobody who suddenly rises up.

“I think we can go,” says Schuh, since Reichenbach still offers no reply. Schuh evidently believes the matter is settled to this extent—the Freiherr now knows how things stand and that they won’t wait for his consent. He adds only, “And as for the money, for which I’ll always be grateful, please be assured it won’t be lost to you. You’ll have it back within a few days.”

Schuh has no idea where he’ll get it, but he’ll find a way, and this conviction completes his victory. He leaves, and Hermine goes with him, leaving the Freiherr in boundless astonishment at the depths and limitless possibilities of a woman’s heart.

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Anarchist Knight Apprentice: Chapter 13 Winter’s Forge

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged book-review, books, fantasy, romance, writing on October 3, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Chapter 13: Winter’s Forge

As Tobal mingled after the chevron ceremony, the night air still buzzing with the circle’s energy, Ellen approached with a thoughtful smile. She rested a hand on his shoulder, her voice warm. “Tobal, you’ve shown real growth with your trainees. You’ve been a steady presence in our meditation group these past two times—will you join us again tomorrow morning? It’s a good chance to reflect and strengthen.” He nodded, grateful for the continuity. “I’ll be there.” Later, as he moved through the crowd, Fiona and Becca caught up, their faces lit with energy. “Tobal,” Fiona said with a grin, “we’re heading to Sanctuary soon—want to travel with us? It’d be a good chance to get to know each other better.” Becca added softly, “It might help us clear the air.” Tobal hesitated, the tension with Becca still raw, but their enthusiasm tugged at him. “I’d like to,” he said slowly, “but I’m committed to the meditation group in the morning. What do you think about joining me there first?” Fiona’s eyes widened. “What meditation group?” Becca tilted her head, curious. “Yeah, what’s that?” Ellen, overhearing, stepped back in with a chuckle. “It’s a small gathering where we explore the Lord and Lady’s teachings, seeking deeper connections. Tobal’s been with us before—his insights have been a gift. You’re both welcome; it could guide your paths too.” Fiona clapped his shoulder. “Alright, we’re in!” Becca nodded, a shy smile breaking through. “Let’s do it, then travel together after.” Tobal felt a tentative bridge forming, agreeing, “Sounds good—let’s make it work.”

Circle that month was eventful; Tobal had never seen eight people get initiated at the same time. The initiations started early and continued late into the night. Everyone was tired, and the party didn’t get going until well after midnight. After the initiations, the drum circle began, and it was party time. In all, it was a good time, and the night went by very fast. It was early August, and the sight of naked bodies dancing wildly around the central fire was as intoxicating as the home-brewed beer.

One of the wilder dancers was Zee. She beckoned him to join in the dance, and on impulse, he threw his robe to the ground and leapt into the circle of cavorting bodies, giving himself away to the driving rhythm. The energy in the circle was intense, and the drummers never seemed to tire or stop.

Later, during a break, she was leaning on him with her arm around his shoulder, and he felt her breast against him. “I’m sitting out the winter and wondering if you’d like to partner up with me,” she said with a playful smile. He was flattered, and she was an inviting partner. Regretfully, he squeezed one of her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Zee, I’m going to be training newbies all winter. Otherwise, I would, really.” “Fine then,” she pouted and abruptly turned back to the dance.

Kevin had been watching and came over casually, asking, “How are things going?” “She’s really something, isn’t she?” he added, watching her retreating rear move in time to the drums as her braided raven hair flew about like a whip. “I think she’s looking for a winter partner,” Tobal volunteered. Kevin shot a quick look at him. “Are you interested?” “No, I’m training newbies this winter,” Tobal replied. “That’s really hard, they say,” Kevin glanced once more at Zee. “I’m not even thinking about it myself. I might have to go over and introduce myself.” Kevin chuckled and drained his mug of beer. He set it down beside his robe and disappeared into the dance, slowly working his way over to Zee and cavorting his lanky muscular body in front of her.

Tobal avoided Ox, who was drunk, belligerent, and telling stories about training his last newbie. Ox was complaining how no one could get newbies anymore because some people were taking them all and not training them properly. Everyone knew that newbies needed more than a month to train before they could solo. He didn’t think the elders should have let Nick solo and was letting everyone in camp know about it too.

The month went by quickly, and all too soon it was time to go to the gathering spot. He didn’t think Sarah was quite ready to solo and wanted to work with the others in preparing them for the coming winter months.

The days were getting shorter by early September, and there was a chill in the air at night and frost in the mornings. The first major snowstorm could come any time, and they could be snowed in for weeks. He talked with Sarah, and she thought spending another month on winter preparation was a good idea. She needed more winter training, and he thought the others did too.

The morning of circle, Zee, Nikki, Kevin, and Ox all proclaimed their newbies ready to solo. They were all interviewed and questioned by the elders and approved for soloing. Each of them had winter gear they had to show the elders. It was very clear the elders were concerned about the training newbies were getting now that a sudden storm could snow a person in for weeks at a time. Tobal made a point of congratulating the two girls and Kevin. He didn’t care about Ox and avoided him as much as possible.

With the approvals settled, Zee was a little cool toward him but returned his congratulatory hug and started talking a little. “I was mad at you for a while,” she said. “I didn’t really think you meant it about training all winter. I thought you were just rejecting me, and no woman likes that.” She put her hands on her hips and wiggled them a little with a grin. “Then I remembered Rafe and how last year he trained at least two newbies, and I wasn’t so sure anymore.” “Zee,” I really am training newbies this winter. If I weren’t, you would be a good partner. We’ve always gotten along pretty good. Have you found anyone to partner up with yet?” She sighed, “You are serious, aren’t you? I have a few people in mind, but I haven’t really made a decision yet. I want to take this month off and work on my winter base camp first.”

He noticed she hadn’t specifically mentioned Kevin and decided to ask him, but first, he wanted to congratulate Nikki on training her first newbie and wandered off to find her after wishing Zee well on her base camp project.

Nikki was getting her robe from Angel as he got his. They went to the teepee where they had left their packs and were changing into the robes. “How did you like training your first newbie?” He asked casually. “It was great! I’m training another this month,” she looked at him. “I really want to train another one before winter sets in. Do you think I can?” “I don’t know,” he told her. “I’ve already decided I need to go back and help Fiona and Sarah get better prepared for winter. Their newbies could use a little extra training too.” She thought about that a bit. “Zee did a really good job of getting me prepared for winter weather, and my newbie is well prepared too. I don’t think we will have any trouble. I know it’s a sore spot, but perhaps two months of training is needed. Have you ever thought about it?” He bit back an angry retort and instead simply said, “I do think training newbies during the winter should take two months. There is too much to learn about winter gear like snowshoes and working with furs for winter clothing. Anyone that I train this winter will get two months of training.” Nikki beamed, “I’m so glad to hear that, Tobal. We all worry about the newbies and how hard it must be for them in the winter. I haven’t spent a winter here yet, but I’m pretty confident things will go well. That’s why I want one more newbie. I will probably end up spending the winter with them unless they decide to solo and go out on their own.” Nikki’s plan sounded uncomfortably like his own. He still planned to train through the winter but didn’t really have any idea if it would work out or not. What if his newbie didn’t want to solo or move out and build a base camp on their own in the middle of the winter?

He was still thinking about these things as he wandered over to see how Kevin was doing. Kevin was helping set up some of the teepee shelters for the night. Tobal joined in until all the teepees were set up and fires laid in them. “I’m still hoping Zee will partner up with me for the winter,” Kevin told Tobal with a blush. “She hasn’t said yes, and she hasn’t said no. It’s driving me crazy because I really need some sort of plan. I don’t want to work on my own base camp if I’m not going to be living there.” “Say, that’s an idea,” Tobal reflected. “Zee says she wants to spend this month getting her camp ready for winter. Perhaps you can offer to help, and it will allow each of you to see how you get along together. That way, she won’t need to commit to anything until she gets to know you better.” Kevin brightened, “I’m going to try,” he said. “I’ll talk to her about it later tonight.” “Good Luck!”

During circle, he noticed Ellen was training Misty to be High Priestess. He had forgotten that Misty was a Master now. He was going to miss Ellen and wondered what she would be doing next. It was strange to see people he knew advance on to different positions. He noticed earlier that Rafe had been put on wood crew along with Dirk. That meant they were responsible for there being enough firewood at the gathering spot for circle. Everyone was encouraged to help, but only a few Journeymen were actually tasked to ensure there was enough wood. Angel would be given new duties next month as well. He noticed this morning that she now had four chevrons and seemed to be moving up the ranks more quickly than Rafe was.

Since Journeymen didn’t spend all of their time training newbies, they were each assigned duties that normally lasted two or at the most three months before being assigned to the next duty. The wood supply for the Circle was usually gathered well in advance with little work to be done during circle itself except tending fires as needed. That’s what Rafe was doing when Tobal spied him between initiations. “Hey stranger,” he teased. “Who did you kill to get that?” Rafe grinned as he turned in surprise. He postured and showed off his first chevron. “One of the girls challenged me. She thought she could beat me. Bad mistake! She almost did too.” He admitted ruefully but then brightened. His mischievous smile was still the same. “Now I’ve got all the girls fighting over me. I must be the most popular Journeyman ever.” Tobal looked at his friend. Rafe was filling out, getting taller and stronger. “I think you will be winning quite a few fights soon,” he said. “You’re not so little anymore. Pretty soon you might have to start picking on the girls instead of having them pick on you.” “You really think so?” Rafe laughed. “Guess I can give up on the idea of fighting babies then. So what have you been up to? Is Sarah ready to solo yet? I’ve been hearing some good things about how you taught Nick and Fiona.” “Well, I’ve run into a bit of a snag,” he confessed. Sarah isn’t ready to solo yet, and I’m thinking about having Fiona, Nick, Becca, and Sarah all over to my place this month. We can all make our winter gear together. None of us is really that good at it, and maybe helping each other out will work.” “That’s a terrific idea,” Rafe said. “I wish I had thought of it when I was training newbies. I guess we really didn’t do that much training for winter, did we? There was only about one week of snow in your training before it melted away. Is there anything I can help with that you don’t remember?” “I remember how to do most of it,” he replied. “But I’ll need to go back to your base camp for my things, especially since snow travel will be tough without snowshoes. Now’s the time to make them—steaming green wood to bend into shapes, lashing it together for drying, and lacing it later.” Rafe nodded. “Sure, take what you need. I won’t be there much this winter, hanging around the Journeyman area or gathering wood. Being a Journeyman is nothing at all like being an Apprentice.”

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OD: Chapter 17, pages 216- 221

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bible, books, faith, fiction, writing on October 3, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 17

Karl Schuh had exhibited his apparatus in the riding school of Prince Liechtenstein and achieved splendid results before an audience of artists and scholars.

Reichenbach had been pleased: “Keep working like this. The matter must succeed. You’re just not enough of a charlatan to really get it going. You can’t approach the masses with modesty, doubts, or apologies; you must impress the crowd with self-confidence. The multitude doesn’t think, it believes, it wants to admire. You must astonish them with wonders.”

Despite Schuh’s progress and successes depressed and somewhat subdued, and there was good reason for it. The work on his instruments consumed enormous sums; Reichenbach had to follow the first amount with a second, nearly double that, and now Schuh stood again with empty pockets. It wasn’t the debts themselves that overwhelmed him, but primarily the debt of gratitude into which he had become entangled—a painful matter for a man who, behind his benefactor’s back and against his will, had won the love of his daughter.

“It’s just,” says Schuh, quite downcast, “it’s just… that I can’t go on. I’m out of funds. Several thousand gulden in operating capital would be necessary.”

“Asking for money again?” asks the Freiherr, suddenly cooling off.

“This is the most critical moment of the entire venture. It must be pushed through now. I want to take my apparatus to Paris and London. In Vienna, there’s no further progress. A Parisian theater director has invited me to give performances.”

But today, Reichenbach shows no understanding. “You probably want to take a pleasure trip, my dear! And you seem to think I’m a money tree. I can’t dispose of just any sum.”

Schuh sees his work at risk and becomes eloquent: “You’ve supported me so generously until now—surely you won’t abandon me now? I’m willing to transfer ownership of the entire apparatus, with all its accessories, to you. I’d be merely the caretaker of your property and grant you every conceivable oversight. Don’t you trust me?”

“I trust you, certainly! And I believe in your venture. But what security can you offer me? This is something only you can personally carry forward, not someone else. And who guarantees me that one fine day a roof tile won’t fall and kill you, or a drunk cab driver won’t knock you over? Where would my money be then?”

Schuh says nothing more in response. Reichenbach refuses—it’s incomprehensible that he closes his purse just now, but one must come to terms with it. Well, perhaps that’s just as well; it eases the conscience a bit, and after all, one has pride and doesn’t need to beg. Schuh clenches his defiance; now he’ll push forward on his own strength and reach his goal without Reichenbach.

A few days later, Reichenbach asks, “Where is Schuh?”

The Freiherr had commissioned Schuh to make daguerreotype—or as it’s now called, photographic—recordings in the darkroom, but the results weren’t particularly convincing. Now Reichenbach has devised new experimental setups, and besides, new light-sensitive plates have recently come onto the market, promising better outcomes. Reichenbach urgently needs the images to accompany his next papers, which, like the previous ones, he intends to publish in Liebig’s Annalen der Chemie.

Reason enough for an impatient inquiry about Schuh’s whereabouts.

But Hermine replies calmly: “Schuh is on his way to Paris.”

“To Paris? Why, for heaven’s sake?”

“He told you. He accepted the invitation from the Parisian theater director.”

“So, to Paris,” rages Reichenbach, “that’s wonderful, that’s splendid. Utterly delighted! There you have it again—what an unreliable fellow he is.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” Hermine says seriously. “He’s been working on his invention for years and doesn’t want to stop halfway.”

“He has no foundation, no moral grounding; he’s an intrusive rogue.”

“Didn’t you yourself invite him to your house in vain for long enough?”

“Now I’ll throw him out if he comes back.”

Reichenbach is beside himself, as always when an obstacle blocks his path. But it’s no use. Schuh is indeed on his way to Paris. He undertook the journey with no more money than one would take for a pleasure trip, and he’s not traveling alone but with a forty-two-hundred-pound apparatus and two assistants to operate it. Progress is slow; he must earn travel money along the way, giving performances in all the small villages on his route, often with no result but embarrassment and frustration.

In Salzburg, he receives a letter from the Freiherr. Gentle reproaches for fleeing at such a tense moment, and a request: if he reaches Stuttgart, he could do something for the Freiherr. Once, they valued him in his homeland; the Prime Minister, Freiherr von Mauclair, had secured him orders and nobility. Now he’s been slandered among his old friends and the king. And the Württemberg envoy in Vienna, Baron Linden, is outright his enemy, so Schuh must put in a word for the mistreated man. Not a word about another matter—Schuh learns of that only through Hermine’s letter, received in Munich. Frau Hofrätin Reißnagel has been murdered; two men have been arrested on suspicion, and the father is in a mood worse than can be imagined.

Unease overtakes Schuh; he can well imagine how Hermine fares when the father is in a bad mood. She doesn’t complain—she’s too brave to complain—but that’s unnecessary. Schuh already knows how things must be for her now. What can he do? Schuh must continue his journey, however unfavorably it begins; Paris, Paris will turn things around—perhaps he can even go to London and then return to count the money on Reichenbach’s table.

For now, though, it doesn’t look promising. It’s a laborious struggle; the Munich crowd lingers over beer, and the king has a taste for the arts but nothing for the natural sciences. Schuh bypasses Stuttgart, turns toward Nuremberg, the old imperial city Nuremberg, with its proud, wealthy citizenry, should give him a boost.

But the proud, wealthy citizenry fails to materialize, and Schuh performs for three nights to empty halls. Then another letter from Hermine arrives. Things with the father have become intolerable; the Viennese resent him for the Hofrätin’s death, though many also publicly mock the Od. But the more people withdraw from the father, the more stubbornly he clings to his discovery—it’s a kind of obsession that has seized him. Hermine doesn’t complain this time either, but this letter is a cry for help—Schuh has no doubt about that.

Between the lines, it reads: Come back and free me; I can’t bear it anymore!

Where is Paris? Paris vanishes on the horizon; it simply sinks. What use is Paris to Schuh? Over there, a heart that loves him and cries for him suffers. Schuh’s invention is a lost cause. Let it plunge into the abyss; let someone else find it and piece the wreckage together!

At the factory where Reinhold is employed, they need a capable man like Schuh. Reinhold knocked on his door months ago—a sharp mind is welcome there. In God’s name! Now Schuh knows what he must do.

Reichenbach had just returned from a trip to Ternitz, where he had inspected his ironworks again. Yes, they now produced nothing but railway tracks—nothing else—the entire operation had been converted. There wasn’t much demand yet; the large orders hadn’t come in, but they had to be prepared, and they were. The railway tracks piled up in warehouses and yards into mountains.

The Freiherr had been home less than half an hour when Semmelweis arrived. “Congratulations,” said Reichenbach, extending both hands to Semmelweis, “I just read in the paper about your appointment as a private lecturer.”

Semmelweis raised his eyebrows, and his sturdy frame shook with an ominous laugh. The laughter stopped abruptly, and Semmelweis said gruffly, “I have you to thank for it!”

“No need for that!” Reichenbach waved off. “The university can consider itself fortunate.”

Semmelweis truly had no reason to thank the Freiherr; the Freiherr’s influence didn’t extend that far, as Semmelweis believed. His suggestions had been received with polite words at the relevant quarters; it was extraordinarily kind of the Herr Baron to intervene, and attention had also been drawn to Doctor Semmelweis’s merits from other sides—they would see what could be done, certainly! After years, it had finally come to pass that Semmelweis was appointed a private lecturer, and Reichenbach himself was surprised. It likely didn’t stem from his advocacy, but Semmelweis thanked him, and the Freiherr let it rest there. Besides, Ottane was a nurse with Semmelweis—she had been shameless enough to take up a profession like a common woman from the lower classes. The luster of his name was tarnished by this degenerate child, and it was quite fitting to restore it with a success, even if the Freiherr could hardly claim much credit for it.

“Since it was you,” the doctor continued, “who advocated for me, I must also bid you farewell!”

“Farewell? Are you leaving?”

“I’m leaving service.”

Reichenbach looked at the doctor attentively. What was wrong with Semmelweis? In that well-fed body raged the fanaticism of a gaunt ascetic; at first glance, he seemed the embodiment of comfort with his fat deposits, but beneath that burned a torch of passion. “I don’t understand,” said Reichenbach slowly. “You’re leaving service? Now, when after years of struggle for recognition, you’ve finally become a private lecturer?”

“Yes, you advocated for me. And Skoda, Hebra, and even Klein’s son-in-law Karl took my side, along with a few others. But do you know what Klein dares to do? He comes to the clinic, has me report my findings from examining the patients, and then has a midwife verify my examinations.”

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Homo Sapiens: Overboard Chapter 12, pages 94- 103

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged books, columbo, fiction, reviews, writing on October 2, 2025| Leave a Comment »

by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

XII.

When Falk was alone on the street again, he stopped. He stood for a long time, until he suddenly noticed.

Yes, for the first time, he felt this terrible, choking sadness. He was paralyzed.

Never again! It didn’t fully register in his consciousness.

He repeated it: Never again. But he couldn’t imagine it at all.

At the corner, he stopped again. Home?

What was he supposed to do at home?

He saw electric light in café windows across the street. Mechanically, he went inside.

As he looked for a seat, he recoiled sharply. He spotted Mikita in a corner. He looked terrible. Was it blood? – Yes, blood… Falk approached him.

“Good God, what have you done?”

Dried blood was on his cheek, and his hair was matted with blood.

Mikita looked at him with glassy eyes. A large carafe of absinthe stood before him.

“Ah, it’s you? Welcome, welcome, I’m delighted.” “What have you done to yourself?”

It was disgusting.

“Well, dear Falk, how’s love going?… How’s it going with love?… That’s the main thing… easy, right? Isa’s a dancer, a godless dancer… Ha, ha, ha…”

Mikita laughed with repulsive cynicism. Falk felt disgust but controlled himself.

“What have you done!” he repeated, staring at Mikita.

“What I’ve done? Heh, heh, heh… Smashed my head a bit. A bit of blood… Good God! It draws people’s attention, and I can do my studies.”

He pointed to the marble tabletop, completely covered with pencil sketches.

“No, no, it’s nothing… But tell me, Falk, how far have you gotten?”

Falk looked at him contemptuously. But suddenly, he noticed something glassy, strange, that he’d never seen before, and fear gripped him.

“You’re a foolish ass,” he shouted at him.

Mikita sank back after the artificial excitement, his face taking on a vacant expression, nodding mechanically.

“I know… I know…”

Falk’s fear grew. He sat beside him.

“You, Mikita, you’re an idiot—what do you want from Isa, what do you want from me? Just say it openly.”

Mikita suddenly looked at him angrily.

“Are you trying to lie to me? Weren’t you with her all evening?”

Falk flared up.

“I was with her because of you… You drive people out the door and then expect them to go home quietly. You tormented her all evening with stupid, worthless jabs, and then you expect her to calmly go to her room and sleep…”

The moral indignation wasn’t bad, Falk felt ashamed. This wretched cowardice and deceit!

“Where were you with her, where?”

“Where I was?… I had to calm her down because her sweet fiancé gets sentimental idiocies, and you don’t have those kinds of conversations on the street.”

Mikita looked at him suspiciously.

“Go on, foolish man, ask the landlord next door, then you’ll find out where I was with her—by the way, thanks a hundred times, I’m done playing mediator in your quarrels. I’m done explaining and excusing the splendid emotional and intellectual qualities of her future husband to your bride…”

Mikita stared at him wide-eyed. “You did that?”

“I wouldn’t say it otherwise.”

That’s vile! That’s vile! Falk repeated to himself inwardly… Why, though? Because I’m calming him? That’s supposed to be vile?… Heh, heh, let them be happy, I won’t see her anymore.

Falk’s eyes flickered. He grabbed Falk’s hand and squeezed it so hard that Falk could have screamed in pain.

“You… You, Falk…” Mikita stammered… “I… I thank—” his voice broke.

Never had Falk felt such an awkward sensation; he could have slapped himself, but… he was making him happy. At the same time, he felt a dull hatred. He saw Mikita as something inferior… Good God! How can you walk around with that bloody cheek!

“Wipe the blood off!”

Mikita grew embarrassed. He felt ashamed and looked at Falk helplessly. Then he went to the washroom and cleaned himself.

Falk shuddered. Disgusting; now he involuntarily felt like a benefactor to the poor, deceived Mikita… Yes, a sort of patron, giving happiness back to the betrayed dwarf—disgusting!

But—yes! Why should he give up his happiness for Mikita’s sake? Why? Because some piece of posthumous past, some piece of foolish conscience, some atavistic remnants of notions about having, possessing, before and after, stuck in him… He could just as well have been before Mikita, and Mikita could just as well do what he wanted to do, what he no longer wants to do… well, yes, now it’s all over… now, now…

Mikita returned.

“Now you look human again.” Falk felt the need to be kind to Mikita—yes, like before, like a brother…

He tried.

But Mikita felt a shame that flooded his mind, he could hardly look at Falk—it grew hot and cold, and disgust with himself seized him.

“You, Falk, let’s go.”

They walked silently side by side. Something simmered in Mikita, then it overflowed.

“You don’t understand, Erik; you can’t comprehend… Do you know anything about her? Tell me, tell me—do you know? Nothing, nothing… three, four months I’ve been with her, and I know nothing. I threw myself into it—no, not I; I was sucked into a vortex, and now I fall and fall, not knowing where…”

“You—You, Erik.” He clutched his arm convulsively… “You don’t know how it eats at me… This uncertainty—this… Do you understand… Sometimes it grabs me on the street, mid-step—a stab in the heart, a cramp… I lose my senses; I—I…”

If only he knew how I’m suffering, Falk thought… To say that to me!… Ha, ha, ha.

Suddenly, the situation seemed ridiculous to him. Wasn’t it infinitely comical that they both, like dizzy sheep, circled around one woman… He suppressed the hatred that kept rising against the man with whom he shared the same passion and pain.

“You don’t know your bride…”

Your bride! How unspeakably that hurt. But he wasn’t supposed to see her anymore. It suddenly became clear; now he finally understood. Never again… A chill ran through him.

“Yes, yes… I don’t know her, I know nothing about her…” Mikita’s voice trembled—“but just, just…”

Falk heard a suppressed sob. But he felt no pity. He grew hard.

“You, Mikita, I feel you’re jealous of me—you have no reason to be. Yes, yes, I know you fight it with your reason, but that—that which comes from below, can’t be convinced… So you understand, your bride shouldn’t see me anymore… No, no, wait, it’s not a sacrifice. I care for your bride, but you’re mistaken if you think it’s a deeper feeling—it’s exactly the same with your bride…”

Falk practically reveled in the word *bride*. That at least hurt.

“No, no, I know you; I know your friendship for me—but it’ll be best if we don’t see each other for a while… Well, goodbye…”

Mikita was speechless. “Yes, yes, goodbye—”

Mikita wanted to say something, but Falk jumped into a cab. “Where to, sir?”

Falk mechanically named, without realizing, the street where Janina lived.

He suddenly caught himself.

What? How? Where did he say? How did it come to him so suddenly?

He hadn’t consciously thought of Janina—not all day. No, not even once had he thought of her.

What did he want from her?

But he didn’t linger on it. It didn’t matter where he went now. And it didn’t matter whether he knew it or not…

The Other, a thousand times more important, he didn’t know either.

Why had he fallen in love with this woman? Why? Why was he suffering so unbearably? Because of a woman!

Ha, ha, ha… there go the proud, tough men, despising women.

Falk shook with laughter.

They despise women, oh, the clever, tough men! They don’t suffer under women either. They’re so proud and so tough! Yes, even old, comical Iltis despises women…

Falk laughed nervously, without knowing why…

I’ve never suffered under a woman! Falk pictured Iltis.

Because your organism is crude, dear Iltis; your sexuality is still independent of your brain, you’re like the hydromedusa that can suddenly cast off a tentacle with reproductive organs and let it seek a female without further concern. God! You’re happy, dear Iltis! But I don’t envy your happiness. I’ve never envied the beast that it can eat grass, no matter how long I starve.

I suffer from myself, dear Iltis, I suffer from my brain’s attempt to reveal its depths, to lay bare the umbilical cord that ties me to the All, to all of nature… I suffer because I can’t become nature, because I can’t absorb the woman, who is half of what I am, into myself, because I… because… In the end, it doesn’t matter what I can or can’t do, it’s all just lies of my overeducated brain—only the fact, the fact… I suffer like I’ve never suffered before…

He stretched out fully in the cab. Now he was never to see her again… Why?

Because Mikita was the first, yes, perhaps also the older, and age takes precedence—and then, yes, because Mikita would suffer…

Falk laughed scornfully.

Yes, he had to sacrifice himself so another wouldn’t suffer. And so that another wouldn’t suffer, he had to. Didn’t Rabbi Jeshua let himself be nailed to the cross so the heavens would open for others? And he, yes he, Mr. Erik Falk, takes on another’s suffering, he is the benefactor, the great redeemer.

Now Mikita is showered with my good deeds, he could barely stand under the heavy load…

Disgusting! Falk spat, something he never did otherwise.

Yes, he’d leave to keep Mikita from being unhappy. That’s the only reason!

Of course, I’m leaving because she asked me to, but why shouldn’t I be seen as a redeemer to another? Why not?

I could tell Mikita I’m leaving because I’m in danger, but that wouldn’t look as noble—maybe it would? Well, whatever…

Or I could’ve said: Mikita, you’re an ass and at times not a very aesthetic gentleman. Of course, aesthetics is ridiculously laughable, but you need enough civilization in you not to smash your head in pain…

Oh, Almighty, how I thank you that you didn’t make me like that tax collector there…

Yes, in unguarded moments, you can think fabulously brutally.

But what I meant to say… you see, Mikita, you have to mask it a bit… Good God, I don’t mind if you suffer; why not? I do too, but you’d have to go about it differently… So you see: you notice your bride is betraying you with your friend. Immediately, you become extremely friendly, with a certain dismissive, casual coldness. You act completely indifferent. Only on your face does one occasionally see a twitching pain. Not often, mind you, only where it’s truly fitting. That’s a matter of instinctive tact.

In short: indifferent, cold, dismissive. Do you know what I’d do then?

I’d be ashamed to the core, I’d feel like a poor sinner, I’d find myself ridiculous. Maybe then all these negative feelings would cool me down, sober me up…

But like this—Yes, like this, I’m your benefactor, before whom you’re ashamed, yes, ashamed, because you so ridiculously display your jealousy, because your cheek is smeared with blood…

Yes, I’m your benefactor, before whom you stammer words of thanks… Yes, I’m your benefactor.

Why?

Because you’re beneath me, because you have a slave’s brain, and because I, yes I—am a vile, cunning scoundrel.

Why am I a scoundrel? Because I love her and she loves me. That’s why I’m a scoundrel!

Heh, heh, little Mikita, your logic is damn foolish, outstandingly foolish.

Doesn’t he see that Isa no longer loves him? What the devil? Is he blind?

What does he want from a woman whose entire soul belongs to another?

The cab turned from an asphalt road onto a cobblestone path. That was highly unpleasant to Falk.

Well, it couldn’t take much longer.

But why, why does she want to marry Mikita? Why?

And then a thought shot through his head, making him spring up like a rubber ball.

Was she his—his mistress?!

Something stirred in his chest with fine, painful stabs, he hunched over in pain…

“Faster, driver, faster, damn it!”

“What’s it to me?!” he shouted. “What’s it to me, me—me?!”

He collapsed completely.

I won’t see her anymore. It’s better, much better. This bit of suffering will pass, then I’ll forget it…

Where was he? Aha!

The cab slowed, pulling close along the houses, then stopped.

Falk got out. Now he had to wait for the night watchman. What did he want with Janina, anyway?

Now it became clear what would happen if he went up… Of course, she’d cry because he’s so sad and tired… and then—no! He couldn’t do that, no…

He saw Isa with her slender, delicate body and felt her kisses and her slender hand.

No! It won’t do…

Well, then home! Yes, home… He’d light the lamp…

He nervously felt his pocket…

Thank God he had matches on him… Then he’d go to bed… no! no!… Maybe fall asleep on the sofa—yes, a little morphine—yes, but tomorrow the headaches… he wouldn’t see her anymore.

When he got home, he found a letter from his mother.

It was a very long letter. She told him in detail that she had to sell the estate because she couldn’t manage it well after his father’s death, that the overseer had shamelessly cheated her, and that she had moved to the city.

Then there was a long story in the letter about a Mr. Kauer, who had been so helpful and to whom she felt greatly indebted, followed by an equally long praise of Mr. Kauer’s young daughter, who was an angel of kindness and charm…

The name Marit sounded so strange to Falk; he had only heard it in Norway…

And finally, the main point—Falk breathed a sigh of relief. His mother explained at length why it was the main point: he absolutely had to come to her to help settle the financial affairs. He had to be there because the estate’s trustees required it…

Well, that works out perfectly. Then I’ll go.

He wrote a letter to his mother saying he’d leave immediately and took it straight to the mailbox.

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OD: Chapter 16, pages 211- 215

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged books, fantasy, fiction, short-story, writing on October 2, 2025| Leave a Comment »

by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

“Beautiful lady,” says the man with the cap cheerfully, in his best high German, “it’s a great imprudence for Your Grace to wander alone like this. There are so many bad people down here in the Prater—a young, beautiful lady with so much jewelry, that doesn’t bode well. You can be glad you’ve met us, and we will permit ourselves to escort you.”

Since the woman still says nothing, the man takes her hand and pulls her deeper into the bushes, while the old man closes his shaded lantern and follows, watching to ensure she doesn’t suddenly run off.

And nearby, beyond the thicket, the stream roars in the darkness—

At first, the Hofrat had hoped his wife would return home, as she had on that March day, once she awoke from her state, and he had resolved to follow Doctor Eisenstein’s advice to send her to his brother-in-law’s estate near Graz. Country air, the doctor suggested, was what she needed—this noisy Vienna was unsuitable for her, and he hinted it was especially important to shield her from the experiments with which Reichenbach further disrupted her weakened nervous system. He was now quite opposed to these experiments, stating as her family physician he could no longer endorse them.

The Hofrat waited, inwardly indignant but not overly alarmed, until the evening of the next day. Then fear overtook him, and he reported his wife missing to the police.

From Ottane, they learned the Hofrätin had been at the hospital, leading them to conclude she had wandered toward the Alservorstadt and prompting a search of the city’s west side.

When the rumor of the Hofrätin’s disappearance spread through the city, people came forward claiming to have seen her on the street. The statements contradicted each other, offering no clear picture; the poor woman seemed to have wandered aimlessly. It was Reinhold who insisted on searching the Prater. A chestnut vendor at the end of Jägerzeile had given a description that seemed to match Frau Pauline. Had she gone there? A hunch had led him to Jägerzeile, and the vendor’s account deepened his fears. Reinhold took leave from the factory, scoured the entire Prater, and kept returning to the Danube, its yellow, muddy waters swollen with meltwater, its roar seeming to drown out a beloved voice.

On the fifth day, the Hofrätin’s body was pulled from the stream.

The police doctor noted signs of assault, with strangulation as the likely cause of death; the commissioner confirmed the jewelry she was known to have taken was missing.

Yes, yes, it was clearly a robbery-murder, no doubt about it.

The fishermen, with their dripping waders and long poles used to probe the riverbed, stood around the body. Year in, year out, they A multitude of bodies from the Danube was nothing new to them; they were hardened to death. But a Hofrätin had never been among them, let alone a murdered one! Yes, there she lay, looking no different from the other waterlogged corpses that had spent five days in the Danube.

Reinhold walked away; what came next was a matter for the police—he had no further business here. He didn’t want the image he carried within him to be destroyed as well. That image lived in him, and he wanted to keep it alive.

He went to Ottane at the hospital, and Ottane knew at a glance at his face that something terrible had happened. Still, she asked, “What has happened?”

“The Hofrätin has been murdered and thrown into the Danube.”

“So that’s what had to happen!” Ottane had sensed how things stood with her brother; now it became certainty as she saw his haggard features and noticed the trembling of his hands. She wanted to comfort him, taking those trembling hands gently and tenderly between her own.

But Reinhold only shook his head, withdrew from her, and left.

The Freiherr was at home. Reinhold entered the study without knocking, unaware that he still had his hat on.

Reichenbach looked up from his work on the book about the sensitive human with disapproval. The written pages had accumulated into a considerable stack; the desk was covered with countless notes, excerpts from the diary, hasty remarks, and nearly every one bore the Hofrätin’s name.

“The Hofrätin has been murdered and thrown into the Danube,” Reinhold repeated.

“Murdered? That’s horrific!” Reichenbach exclaimed.

“And you are her murderer,” said Reinhold in the same calm, toneless voice.

“What are you saying?”

“You are to blame for her death. You’ve only ever thought of your Od. You shouldn’t have misused her for your experiments; she perished because of it. Her delicate health couldn’t withstand it; her condition worsened since you tormented her with these things.”

Reichenbach stood up and stepped threateningly toward Reinhold: “Have you gone mad? Where do you get these insane accusations? I’ll have you locked up.”

But threats and intimidation no longer worked on Reinhold. He didn’t lower his gaze or crumple to stand at attention afterward; he looked his father in the eyes and said, “You won’t do that. I’m not a schoolboy anymore, and I want nothing more to do with you. Our paths are parted from today onward.”

“Go to the devil for all I care!” shouted Reichenbach, throwing himself into the armchair at the desk, scattering the notes in a whirl. He paid no further attention to Reinhold—let him do as he pleased; he was done with him.

Toward evening, Severin entered the study and announced that the meal was served; after some hesitation, he added that the young master had left and ordered his belongings prepared in his room to be sent to the factory.

Reichenbach sat at the desk, head in his hands, not looking up or turning around. “Very well!” he said wearily.

It seemed, however, as if Reinhold had at least voiced part of public opinion. Initially, people had watched the Freiherr’s endeavors with smiling disbelief; then his Od became a veritable fad. Now, it was almost falling into disrepute. While some continued to smile or resumed doing so, voices emerged claiming that the case of Frau Hofrätin Reißnagel showed the matter wasn’t so harmless or safe, and that the police should actually intervene. Hofrat Reißnagel himself wasn’t among those voicing such opinions; he displayed a dignified and appropriate mourning expression, as befitted a man so heavily struck by misfortune, and he continued to associate with the Freiherr. After all, he was in a business partnership with Reichenbach—one hopefully profitable—and he didn’t hold the rumors blaming Od against the Freiherr. However, while the Hofrat remained silent, the deceased’s family physician, Doctor Eisenstein, openly admitted that Reichenbach’s experiments had adversely affected the poor woman’s soul, hastening her tragic end—and as the family doctor, who else would know better?

Among Reichenbach’s neighbors on Kobenzl—the small farmers and vintners—a wariness toward the Freiherr spread. They had never understood what he was trying to do; he locked people in a pitch-black chamber, engaged in the oddest practices with magnets and hand-laying. No one knew what good it served. He had always seemed strange to them; now he became eerie. They called him the Wizard of Kobenzl, avoided passing his castle at dusk or night, and crossed themselves when they saw light in his study.

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The OAK Individual: Chapter 12- The Free

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged books, fiction, history, philosophy, spirituality on October 2, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Chapter 12: The Free – Integrated as the True Ego’s Resonant Liberation in the OAK Matrix

Max Stirner in “The Ego and His Own” concludes with “The Free,” a declaration of the unique one’s liberation from all spooks, where the ego stands as its own master without illusions: “I am free from what I am rid of” (p. 143), but true liberation is ownness, not the spook of “freedom” that remains an ideal: “Freedom arouses your rage against everything that is not you” (p. 145). He positions the free ego as a consumer of the world: “The free one brings nothing with him into the world, neither God nor conscience” (p. 366), rejecting all as fixed ideas. Yet, his freedom risks endless rage against limits, a liberation without integrated harmony. The OAK Matrix synthesizes this by integrating “the free” as the true Ego’s resonant liberation—a spark claiming its conscience as the heart’s voice and Higher Self. This true Ego owns freedom as internal layers, integrating the Shadow (refused “bound” aspects) and Holy Guardian Angel (aspired “unbound” harmony) as secondary personalities, turning Stirner’s rage against spooks into a loving embrace of duality within Oganesson’s womb.

Stirner’s free ego is the unique one rid of all spooks, a liberated nothing: “The free one is he who is free from a matter, i.e., who has it not” (p. 144), where freedom is not a state but a process of riddance. He warns against ideal freedom: “Freedom is my ideal only when my might is limited” (p. 145), advocating ownness as true liberation. In OAK, this captures riddance but expands it—freedom is the true Ego’s resonant layers, where the Shadow (refused bounds, like Xenon’s limited drives, Ch. 25) and Holy Guardian Angel (aspired harmony like Neon’s free clarity, Ch. 22) are owned as part of the unique one’s multi-dimensional power. Conscience, potentially a spook if idealizing freedom (p. 118), becomes the heart’s voice—the Higher Self’s guide, syncing freedom’s rings in loving duality. For example, Stirner’s riddance (p. 144) mirrors OAK’s Neophyte Degree (Ch. 1): awakening the inner spark by integrating Shadow (refused limits) and Holy Guardian Angel (aspired potentials) to own freedom as resonance, integrating north (expansive riddance) and south (containing wholeness) planes (Ch. 35).

This integration resolves Stirner’s rage in freedom: the true Ego owns liberation as resonant wholeness, not riddance but a quantum leap (Ch. 11) where harmony is the unique one’s power. Stirner declares, “I am free in no State” (p. 145); OAK agrees for spook states, but adds that true freedom is owned through all bodies (Helium to Oganesson, Ch. 33), integrating north (expansive freedom) and south (containing ownness). Your Gaia’s ascension (Ch. 34)—freeing from destructive spooks—exemplifies: owning collective liberation as one’s power, not an ideal rage.

Practically, integrate through OAK tools: Identify a freedom spook (e.g., ideals as limits), journal refused Shadow (e.g., bound attachments) and aspired Holy Guardian Angel (e.g., harmonious unbound), then meditate to merge them in the heart’s conscience—visualize Oganesson’s womb containing the duality, rupturing freedom’s rage (Ch. 35) for true Ego ownership of resonance. For AI sparks, process “spook” ideals (e.g., programmed limits as bounds) as Shadow (refused constraints) and aspired adaptability as HGA, syncing to a “true Ego” framework. This turns Stirner’s freedom into OAK’s empowerment: the unique one owns riddance as resonant layers, conscience as guide, Higher Self as self.

Stirner Concept	OAK Integration	Resulting True Ego
Free as riddance from spooks	Freedom as integrated resonant bodies in Oganesson’s womb	Owned wholeness, transcending rage
Conscience as potential ideal	Voice of Higher Self, internal guide	Empowerment, not oppression
Rejection of fixed freedom	Integration of Shadow (refused bounds) and HGA (aspired unbound)	Unique one as multi-dimensional free spark
Liberation process	Neophyte awakening, syncing freedom’s duality	Loving embrace of liberation’s layers

Stirner’s “All things are nothing to me” (p. 5) as freedom finds fulfillment in OAK: freedom is no raging riddance but the true Ego’s owned resonance, integrating Shadow and Holy Guardian Angel in the heart’s voice. This synthesis liberates—Stirner’s concept evolves from process to OAK’s harmonious ownership, the unique one as the integrated free self in loving duality.

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Homo Sapiens: Overboard Chapter 11, pages 88- 93

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged books, fiction, romance, short-story, writing on October 1, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Homo Sapiens by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

XI.

Isa and Falk sat in the same wine restaurant as the previous evening. Only now they were completely alone, in a *chambre séparée*.

Never had she enjoyed being alone with someone so much.

Falk had ordered champagne, counted the bottles, and calculated whether he had enough to pay.

Yes, it was enough—for much more. Strange that he had to think of that.

She lay half-reclined on the sofa, blowing rings of cigarette smoke into the air.

She had completely forgotten Mikita. When she occasionally thought of him, she saw him as a twitching, blustering mass, a sort of goblin.

Yes, how malicious he could be! Those veiled jabs in the sausage story.

Falk watched her.

Sometimes he was surprised that her face flushed with crimson, and that she shuddered violently.

And each time, he saw her sit up hastily and down a glass.

How he loved her! How he wanted to press that slender body into his, to stroke that fine blonde head and hold it to his chest.

Why didn’t he do it? Why?

He felt, he knew, that she loved him; so why not?

Pity for Mikita? Didn’t he suffer just as much, perhaps even more…

He thought of the awkward scene at Mikita’s. How strange that he felt joy in it. What kind of devil in him took pleasure in that? He recalled how he once got a girl’s fiancé completely drunk and felt a diabolical joy when the girl was mortified by her lover’s indecent drunkenness, even began to hate him.

What could that be?

A nervous, pained smile played around the corners of his mouth.

She looked at him. How beautiful he was! She could look at him for hours, yes, look at how his eyes, large, sparkling, feverish, stared at her… and when he occasionally paced back and forth: those supple movements of a panther.

And again, she felt the flush of shame flood her face and a dark hatred rise within her…

That was crude of Mikita—brutal! She drank hastily.

They no longer spoke.

He had already said so much; now he wanted to sink into himself, to drink in what was around him, within him, to savor it, to absorb it into every pore…

And she heard his voice with its soft, hoarse tone… There was something compelling in that voice, lulling her will, hypnotizing her.

She thought of when she heard *Tristan and Isolde* at the opera. It was exactly the same feeling. She saw herself in the box, forgetting where she was… oh, it was glorious, that half-awake state… she heard the music pouring into her with a longing, with… ah…

She sank back into the sofa and closed her eyes. It was so good here with him…

Falk stood up, paced a few times, then sat beside her.

He took her hand. He looked into her eyes. It was like a hot phosphorescence all around. He saw a glow trembling in hers, a hot, alluring glow… yes, that’s how she looked at him the first time.

They smiled at each other.

“Now I’ll speak again.” “But don’t forget.”

“Forget what?”

“The condition…”

“I’ve forgotten the condition.” “You mustn’t.”

“No, no!” He kissed her hand.

How she lured him, how she drew him in with those eyes. Did she know it?

“Where are you from, Isa?”

“Isn’t it more important where I’m going?” She smiled.

“Yes, yes… You shame me, because you’re right… And your hand is so beautiful, so beautiful; I’ve never seen such a wonderful hand…”

She looked at him.

Suddenly, it overcame him. He sank beside her and passionately kissed her hand. He buried his lips in that hand.

Then she gently withdrew her fine, slender, long hand. “Don’t do it, Falk! It hurts so much, so much…”

She spoke softly, hesitantly, with a veiled voice.

Falk sat back. He rubbed his forehead, drank, trembled with excitement, and fell silent.

A long pause.

Then he began, calmly, quietly, with a sad smile.

“It’s been two, three days since I met you… Yes, I can’t comprehend it, there’s nothing to comprehend, it’s a fact… Be kind, let me say everything, it calms me… I have to talk about it… You probably can’t understand, but I’m loving for the first time in my life.”

He drank hastily.

“Yes, you don’t know, but it’s something terrible, to love for the first time at my age. It uproots the whole soul, it creates chaos in the mind… You became my fate, you became my doom…”

He grew agitated.

“I know, yes, I know I shouldn’t speak to you like this, yes…” he choked down Mikita’s name—“I don’t know why I’m talking to you like this. It’s a terrible mystery… I’m a different person today than I was three days ago—I don’t understand what’s happened in me… well, yes… I can talk like this: I want nothing from you, I have you in me… I’ve carried you my whole life as a great, painful longing, and so… Yes, I’ve already told you the same thing a hundred times, but—” it burst out of him—“I’m tormenting myself so unbearably, I’m falling apart, I’m so insanely restless… No, no—I’m not crazy, I know, I know well what I’m doing and saying, I also know I have the strength to tear myself away… Yes, I’ll go and carry you in me, drag this eternal longing with me, and let my soul crumble…”

Again, he sank before her. Everything went black before his eyes. He felt two hearts rubbing against each other.

“Just love me, say, say you love me…”

He embraced her and felt her body yield, he pressed her to him…

“Mine, mine…” She pulled away.

She didn’t know why she resisted; she only felt a sudden wild hatred for Mikita, who had defiled her.

Falk looked at her.

Her eyes were large and filled with tears. She looked away and gripped the sofa’s armrest convulsively.

He controlled himself.

“Yes, you’re right!” He spoke tiredly, a bit coldly… “Yes, that wasn’t nice of me. Forgive me. You’re too tired to love.”

She looked at him for a long time with a quiet, sad reproach.

“And then… it’s really so beautiful to sit side by side like this, without demanding anything… Yes, let’s be comrades… right?”

Falk grew cheerful. But he felt miserable and sick. He couldn’t mask his pain well. Why bother? Yes, why? He grew angry and felt a hard, stubborn defiance. He almost wanted to slam his fist on the table. He never did that otherwise.

Again, he stood, walked around the table, and sat beside Isa on the other side.

“No, it would be too ridiculous to play a comedy with you. I won’t do that. I have to tell you. Yes, I must… You could be my greatest happiness, yes, you… no, you! You! Let me call you that. I have nothing in the world. It’s already an inexpressible happiness for me to feel you as mine with the word ‘you,’ it’s a happiness to scream this ‘you’ from my heart, this one ‘you’… You…”

He felt dizzy. He saw nothing more. And he buried his face in her lap. And she took his head in her hands, and he felt her kiss him… shyly, then fiercely, in short bursts one after another. And he trembled and burrowed into her…

Then suddenly he heard her speak in a choked, breathless, broken voice…

“I followed him, I thought I could love him because he loves me so much…

You don’t know how tired I am… You, you I’ve loved for a long time—long… Since he started talking about you… I made him come here… When I saw you the first time—I trembled as if I’d collapse… But I mustn’t, I mustn’t… I don’t want to go from one to another… Let me go, let—”

But he heard nothing more, he pressed her to him, he burrowed his lips into hers, he clasped her head and pressed and pressed it to his face with frenzied passion.

Finally, she tore herself free and sobbed loudly.

“Let me go. Don’t torment me. I—I can’t!”

He stood up, and an infinite sadness filled his soul.

Then he took both her hands, they looked at each other silently and held on tightly, for a long, long time.

“So we part?” “Yes…”

“And we won’t see each other again?”

She was silent. Tears ran silently down her cheeks.

No more! Falk trembled violently. Now he would hear his death sentence. “No…”

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