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Homo Sapiens: Overboard Chapter 9, pages 66- 74

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 28, 2025| Leave a Comment »

By Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

IX.

They stood at the front door. 

Falk opened it. It was so hard to find the keyhole. Finally!  

She stepped into the hallway. He followed her. They stopped again. What did he want? 

“Good night, Falk.” 

He held her hand tightly, his voice trembling. 

“It feels like we should part more warmly.” 

The door was half-open. The lantern light fell in a broad strip across her face. 

She looked at him so strangely, so strangely astonished. He felt shame. “Good night…” 

He heard the key rattle from inside. He listened. She climbed the stairs lightly and quickly. 

He walked a short distance. 

Suddenly, he screamed involuntarily with all his might. What was that? 

Did he want to release his strength in human impulsiveness? Splendid! He was a splendid ass. Unpleasant! How clumsy that “warmer farewell” was! 

No, how comical, how infinitely comical she must find him. 

He, the great, mocking scorner, suddenly in love like a little schoolboy. 

God, that was embarrassing, and then that memory, too, which suddenly became so painful. 

He was a full thirteen years old when he felt his first erotic impulse. He thought himself so grand! Those deep, witty conversations he had with the girl about Schiller and Lenau. And the yellow kid gloves he got himself… 

Then, one evening, the headmaster caught him in a tête-à-tête. 

And the next day… marvelous! The bell rang. It was the ten o’clock break. Everyone rushed out. 

“Falk, you stay here.” Yes, now it was coming. 

“Come here!” 

He went to the lectern. 

“Take the chair down!” He took it down. 

“Lie down!” He lay down. 

And then the sturdy cane swished through the air, whirring and whistling, faster and faster, more and more painful… 

That hurt! 

“Why are you laughing, dear sir! That’s a great tragedy. I’ve rarely suffered so much emotionally as I did then… It’s utterly foolish of you to laugh. Don’t you understand that this is life? The ridiculous beside the tragic, the gold in the filth, the ineffably holy in the trivial—yes, you see, you don’t understand that.” 

Hegel, the old Prussian philosopher Hegel, he was a wiser man. Do you even know Hegel? Yes, you see, his entire philosophy is just the question of why nature uses such unaesthetic means for its grandest purposes, like the sexual organ, which serves both for procreation and the excretion of metabolic waste. 

Of course, it’s infinitely comical, ridiculously comical, disgustingly comical, but that’s always how the holiest things are. 

Falk grew furious. 

So let’s make this clear: Love, oh yes, love: First a strangely confused face, then glowing faun’s eyes, then trembling hands as if telegraphing mile-long dispatches… Then: dips and rises in the voice like scanning Horatian odes, now hoarse, now squeaky… Then a host of involuntary movements: grasping and stumbling back, not quite steady on the feet, panting and puffing… isn’t that ridiculous? Isn’t that ridiculously absurd? 

And there sits Fräulein Isa across from me with her charming, knowing smile, with her strange gaze, encouraging me. 

Well, I’m excellent at playing the mime. Didn’t I mime well today? 

Exactly, because I’m a so-called “differentiated” person, everything in me flows together, intention and genuineness, conscious and unconscious, lie and truth, a thousand heavens and a thousand earths merge into one another, but still, I’m ridiculous. 

There’s nothing to be done about it, absolutely nothing. It’s an “iron” law, one of the most ironclad, that a man, before he achieves his comical purpose, must be found ridiculous a thousand times by the woman he loves… 

He stopped abruptly. 

So he felt shame… Yes, yes, just like little schoolboys. They feel embarrassed too when they fall off their horse in front of their flame. 

But this woman was a stranger to him, utterly, utterly strange. He knew nothing about her. Not a single line could he penetrate into the mystery of that veiled smile, that knowing, charming essence. 

And he had fallen in love with a strange woman, about whom he knew nothing. 

Suddenly. With a jolt. In a second. 

Hey! A thousand experimental psychologists, come here! You who know everything, you soul anatomists, you pure and dry analysts, come, make this clear to me… 

So the fact: I fell in love with a woman in a second, in love for the first time. 

“Because my sensual instinct awakened?” You’re mistaken; that was awake long ago. 

Because I wanted to tell myself something? I didn’t tell myself anything. My brain had nothing to do with it. I had no time to reflect. By the way, shame on you. You, who wrote a physiology of love, such a splendid physiology, should know that the sexual instinct doesn’t reflect. It’s a dumb, deaf animal. Narrow-minded, boorish, and comical. 

Anyway, it’s completely, completely indifferent to me. When you’re about to turn twenty-six in June, you no longer ask for causes, the why doesn’t hurt anymore. You take everything as a given fact. Yes, that’s what you do. 

He looked around. He had meanwhile reached a public square he didn’t recognize. 

Very nice. 

He sat on a bench, his head a bit heavy, probably from drinking too much, but he had no peace. 

Something had been working in him all evening. An unspeakably painful thought that he kept pushing back, but it rose more forcefully and now burst out with full strength. 

Mikita! 

Falk stood up restlessly, walked a little, and sat down again. Look, Mikita, don’t hold it against me, I absolutely can’t help it. Why did you drag me to her? I wanted to drink wine with you and talk with you. I didn’t want to go to her. You don’t drag your friends to your brides. 

That’s the most important rule in the code of love. 

Absolutely not, no matter how splendid the brides are, like your Isa. 

Now, Mikita, don’t be so damn sad. That hurts me terribly. I love you infinitely, you know. 

A great tenderness came over Falk. 

I really can’t help it. Just imagine. I step into the room. A marvelous red. And that red flows around a woman in a hot wave of surf, around a woman who was so familiar to me, yes, more than you, though I’d never seen her. 

Was it the red? You’re a painter, damn it. You must know how such a red affects your soul. 

Now comes the respectable pseudo-psychologist Mr. Du Bois-Reymond and says: Red consists of waves making five hundred trillion vibrations per second. The vibrations cause vibrations in the nerves, and so I vibrate. 

Do you understand now why I fell in love? Because I vibrate! Well, there you go! Falk stood up and wandered aimlessly forward.

The streets were desolate. Only now and then did he hear a soft, squeaky woman’s voice: 

“Hey, darling, coming with me?” 

No, he absolutely didn’t want that. What would he do with a woman? He wasn’t a Berlin romance writer who needed discreet petticoat moods to write novels. No, he hated all women, all of them, and most of all her, her who had so cunningly crept into him and now whipped him into this damned unrest. 

No, Mikita, you mustn’t hold it against me. No, no… You can’t imagine how I’m suffering. Something choking sits in my throat; all day long… I haven’t eaten anything, just drunk and drunk… 

Do you know what I dreamed? I fell from a high mountain. I sat on a glacier that hurtled forward with furious speed; could I do anything about it? Could I resist? The glacier carried me, the glacier was vast, it raced and raced relentlessly… 

Can I rearrange the molecules of my nerves? Can I shut off the current in my brain? Huh? Can I do that? Can you? 

The glacier carries me—I fall and fall until it spits me into the sea. 

That’s the iron law! Falk almost screamed it. 

Well, yes; I’m a bit drunk, and control is hard then. No, Mikita, no; you’re so infinitely dear to me. I didn’t do anything, nothing at all. Suddenly, he grew furious. 

Didn’t you provoke her, dear Falk, didn’t you stir her curiosity with a thousand tricks? 

Splendid, this sudden guilty conscience! Yes, I take my guilt-laden conscience and shake its contents before the Almighty, who didn’t create me like those four-legged beasts without reason, but as a two-legged individual, endowed with mind and reason, so that it may distinguish between good and evil and, by the *quinta essentia*, namely willpower, calculate and guide its actions. 

Yes, dear Mikita; *mea maxima culpa*! I have sinned against you! On the way, he saw a night café open. 

Oh, he was so terribly tired. 

He entered and sat on a sofa off in a corner. 

Around him, he heard shouting and screeching, cursing and haggling. He looked to see if a Berlin romance writer was taking notes. A colleague from the same faculty, no doubt. 

Disgusting! How much does five minutes of flesh cost per pound? 

He leaned back and stared into the large, white electric light lamp. 

It flickered in his eyes. Around the white, round light, he clearly saw hot mists trembling. 

And faster and faster, he saw the haze circling the lamps, more violently, hotter. 

And he felt her in his arms, her cheek pressed to his, her movements gliding up and down his nerves, and he saw the world dancing around him as a red ring of sun. 

That was the great problem. He sat up straight. 

The problem of his love. Isa was born from him, or he from her. She was the most perfect correlate to him. Her movements were so attuned to his spirit that they sent him into the highest ecstasy, the sound of her voice unleashed something in his soul, something of the mystery where his soul’s secret rested. 

Foolish brain, how do you know this so surely? He laughed scornfully. 

But suddenly, he paused. He saw himself and her in a strange image. 

They sat across from each other, completely indifferent. They looked coldly into each other’s eyes, yes, they were entirely indifferent. 

Yes, he was a demoniac, he saw her and himself transparent, and he saw something in him and something in her rise up, how the two subterranean selves drew closer and looked at each other so questioningly, so longingly. 

No! They were sitting at the table, indifferent, talking about trivial, meaningless things. But the Other in him and the Other in her were so infinitely close, they embraced, they poured into each other. 

The Other, dear Mikita, the thing I don’t know, because it’s suddenly there without reason, loved her before I even noticed. 

You see, Mikita, my foolish brain can only at best register that something is happening, at best note a completed fact. 

Yes, dear Mikita, it’s a completed fact: I love her! 

That I made myself interesting? That I lured her and drew attention to my depths? – But good God, Mikita, be reasonable! The great Agent has set the wheels to run inevitably in this direction and no other. 

That you don’t understand! 

“Why didn’t Mikita come?” 

Oh, gracious Fräulein, you know him poorly! Mikita has instincts with mile-long hands that grasp the intangible: Mikita sees a tone turn into color. He’s painted chords that would drive you mad if you heard them, but the brutal eye, of course, can take anything. Mikita sees the grass grow and the sky scream. Mikita sees all that—Mikita is a genius! 

What am I? What have I done? Nonsense, Falk! Are you really drunk? 

No, I’m a psychologist, currently busy cleanly dissecting Mikita’s soul. 

Hah, Mikita doesn’t let it show, he lets the lye sink into his deepest shafts until everything is dissolved and corroded, then comes the break. 

What’s the harm? Good God, a man overboard! He’s not the first. 

The screeching and laughter around Falk grew louder and more unbearable. 

He stood up furiously and practically roared: “Quiet!” 

Then he sat down. The damned gnats that always had to disturb him. 

Now he grew very restless. 

He had to see Mikita. He absolutely had to see what he was doing now. Yes, he’d go to him: Who’s there? I’m working. – It’s me, Erik Falk. – He opens the door. Looks at me sideways, with, of course, terribly wild eyes. 

What do you want? 

“What do I want? Well, I want to make it clear that *I* don’t love, but the Other does. I want to explain how it happened. I sat with her at a table—completely cold and indifferent, but while I spoke, the Other acted on its own, tugged at her, lured her until she gave in. No! Not her; she mocks me and finds me comical because my Other wanted a warmer farewell. You see, she’s a stranger to me, absolutely a stranger. But the Others in both of us, they know each other so well, they love each other so infinitely, so powerfully, so inseparably. 

Almighty Creator, I thank you for making me a two-legged being, endowed with reason and mind, so that I may distinguish between good and evil, so that I don’t desire Isa when Mikita had the fortune to meet her first.” 

And there—there sits the young rascal next to a hundred kilos of flesh, he has no reason, he can’t distinguish between good and evil either. 

You see, foolish rascal, what are you compared to me? You reasonless, will-less subject. 

Falk laughed heartily. 

Now he had to leave the café for improper behavior—the phrase pleased him immensely. 

That suited him just fine. 

In this pestilent, sweat-and-flesh-reeking dive, a man of the species *Homo sapiens*, gentlemen, couldn’t stand it. 

Outside, it was starting to get light. 

Above the black rooftops, he saw the deep blue in an inexpressible, quiet, holy majesty. 

The majesty of the sky over Berlin… he laughed scornfully—that’s just how nature is…

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OD: Chapter 14, pages 182- 190

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 28, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

“It’s like this,” explains Reichenbach, not the least bit offended, “that every emotion—sorrow, anger, laughter, all things of the soul—produces changes in human Od light and intensifies the glow. Can you also see what I’m doing?”

“You have something curved in your hands,” says Frau Pfeinreich, “from whose free end a luminous smoke rises.”

“It must be the horseshoe magnet,” adds Frau Kowats.

“Correct, I have the horseshoe magnet, and you see the Od streams from its poles.”

Schuh’s laughter has faded since he no longer feels protected by the darkness. How can the women have seen that he laughed, and how can they see what Reichenbach holds in this hellish blackness?

“And what do I have now?” Reichenbach continues.

“Something round, in which the Od light from your left hand converges into a red glow.”

Important—it’s the large lens that collects the Od light. “And now?”

The two women fall silent; they have no answer.

“Do you see it, Frau Hofrätin?” Reichenbach asks again.

The Hofrätin’s dull voice, which had not been heard until now, emerges slowly from the depths of the darkness. “You have dipped your right hand into the water basin; the goldfish are swimming excitedly around your fingers.”

“The odic forces are not the same in all people,” the Freiherr explains, “Frau Hofrätin is my strongest sensitive.”

It’s strange, more than strange, what’s happening here. How can Schuh explain that these women see things in the dark that remain hidden from him? If it’s not an outrageous fraud, then It seems we are evidently standing before a hitherto undiscovered mystery of nature. But can Reichenbach be trusted to confirm the statements of his sensitives if they aren’t truly as they describe? Schuh notes to himself that he feels excited.

The experiments continue. Schuh learns that human fingertips emit Od light; when two hands approach each other, the Od beams first lengthen and narrow. As they come even closer, the flames retreat from each other, widen, and are pushed back around the fingertips by mutual repulsion. When Reichenbach rubs one piece of wood against another, Od light flashes. Schuh learns what the Heliod is—it’s the Od light of the sun, conducted into the darkroom via a wire from outside, making its end in the darkness so transparently clear, as if it were made of glowing glass.

“And do you see any of this yourself?” Schuh can’t help but ask.

Reichenbach hesitates with his answer for a while. “No,” he finally says, distressed, “I’m unfortunately not the least bit sensitive.”

He wants to resume the experiments, but the Hofrätin has begun to moan and requests the session’s end; she is too overwhelmed, already suffering from stomach cramps and chest tightness.

“Very well,” says Reichenbach, “that may be enough for the first time to form a judgment.”

And then a miracle occurs, a true miracle. Suddenly, Schuh sees too—he perceives a glimmer, a fine, bluish glow above his head, a pure ray of light, calm, blissful, refreshing, fragrant. The darkness brightens; the room fills with silver dust. Schuh glimpses the outlines of the Freiherr, the three ladies, the room, the equipment present. He sees the potted plants in the corner, the aquarium with the goldfish—everything merely suggested and blurred, yet bathed in this inexplicable, magical sheen.

“What is that?” he asks, baffled. “I can see now.”

“Oh,” replies the Freiherr with a hint of mockery, “that’s not Od light you’re seeing now. I’ve opened the ventilation flap in the ceiling.”

It’s the return of daylight that has caused the miracle that has enchanted Schuh.

They leave the darkness, and Schuh stands utterly dazed in the jubilant roar of the cascading light masses, which almost painfully overwhelm him.

“Well, what do you say?” asks Reichenbach, his gaze anxiously and eagerly probing Schuh’s eyes.

Schuh examines himself carefully. He checks whether, in what he feels compelled to say, he might be speaking to please Reichenbach. Whether, perhaps because Reichenbach is offering him money, he feels obliged to be dishonest. But no, setting all that aside, complete honesty of conviction forces him to a confession.

“I don’t know if one can accept your explanations,” he says, “but there do seem to be real facts at hand.”

“Seem?” the Freiherr rears up abruptly. “No, they are facts, dear Schuh. You will have to admit that. And one more thing… do you think this… these phenomena could be daguerreotyped?”

“Let’s at least try the experiment,” Schuh agrees.

The conversion isn’t complete, but one thing is certain: Saul is on the path to becoming Paul.

And then something entirely unforeseen happens. It happens that Hermine suddenly stands before Schuh.

The Freiherr has withdrawn with his three sensitives to the study to record the protocol of today’s session in his diary.

Schuh has settled into the golden evening sunlight on the terrace in front of the garden hall, on the bench beside the cast-iron dog, trying to make sense of his impressions from the darkroom.

And now Hermine suddenly stands before him.

Something has driven her home. She has suddenly become restless and abandoned her work at the Schönbrunn Palm House. Upon arriving home, she has only thrown off her coat and hat; she hasn’t even taken the time to change her dress. She moves through the house like in a dream, stepping out onto the garden terrace—

“Good day, Hermine!” says Schuh, rising. He extends his hand and then pulls it back. Then he says something utterly foolish: “Are you back already?”

“I finished my work earlier than I expected,” Hermine claims.

“Oh… oh! Still botany. Still so diligent?”

“I, I have worked hard,” says Hermine casually, “my treatise on the thylli is nearly complete.”

Schuh keeps looking at Hermine. She seems less burdened and timid than before; it strikes Schuh that she appears stronger, as if her nature has hardened—perhaps she has endured something internally that has burned away her softness.

Schuh glances toward the house. “I’d like to suggest,” he says hesitantly, “that we take a walk. The evening is so beautiful.”

Hermine understands immediately. The father could come out of the house, and then it would be over; then they couldn’t speak freely—assuming there can be any talk of ease with the inner pressure each of them feels. Hermine grasps this very well, and she agrees without hesitation—yes, it’s necessary for them to be alone for a while now.

They walk the forest paths toward the Agnesbrünnl. The setting sun lies on the forest clearings; it looked different here not long ago—much has been logged recently. But that has its advantages; they walk in the sun, and it flows like wine into their blood.

“Your father showed me his experiments in the darkroom today,” says Schuh.

He feels the need to justify his presence, Hermine thinks. And she asks: “And what do you think of it?”

“I’m not yet sure what to think. There are certainly astonishing things. The consistency of the statements is remarkable. Perhaps they really are natural forces we’ve known nothing about until now.” Hermine shrugs. That’s all she offers for her father’s Od research—a doubtful shrug. Yes, something must have happened to Hermine; her unconditional devotion to her father’s superiority seems shaken. They fall silent for a while. Then Schuh asks, “Where is Ottane?” “Don’t you know? Ottane has left the house. There were certain… well, she disagreed with some things the father intends to do. And she has taken up a profession. She’s become a nurse. At Doctor Semmelweis’s clinic, whom you likely know. He’s making quite a name for himself.” She adds with a slight mockery, “Almost as much as the father.” “And your father?” Schuh marvels. “You can imagine: he raged.” Yes, Hermine said her father raged—she said it explicitly, and Schuh couldn’t have misheard. “He was furious; he finds Ottane has disgraced the house, that she has dishonored his name. He thinks it shameless for a girl from a good family to stoop to the level of the common folk, utterly improper to take on work suited only for lowly women. But Ottane wants to stand on her own feet; she says there’s nothing shameful, but rather honorable, in helping poor, sick women, and it would be good if all girls thought that way. She believes women have been kept like slaves or harem ladies long enough and have a right to shape their own lives, and a time will come that recognizes this right. Yes, Ottane has courage.” Admiration shines through these words, mixed with a faint sigh. They have reached a height from which a straight path leads down the slope, and at the end of this path, framed like a picture, lies the valley and a few houses of the village Weidling. They stop before this pleasant sight; Hermine gazes down into the valley and speaks, not to Schuh but beside him, into the landscape, into the evening: “Why have you been away so long?” Schuh takes his time with his reply. “How could I have come? I’ve always waited for your answer to my letter.” “Your letter?” “Didn’t I explain everything? You must have understood me.” Now Hermine slowly turns to Schuh, looking straight into his face; she is completely pale: “I never received a letter from you.” “Never received a letter? But I gave Ottane a letter for you!” “Ottane had a letter for me? Ah… yes, now I understand…” Hermine’s face hardens and stiffens; Schuh never imagined he could see such an expression of cold anger on Hermine. It always seemed as if Ottane carried a secret, as if she wanted Hermine wants to say something, and now she understands what it might have been.

Schuh also begins to suspect: “Do you think your father…?” he stammers, alarmed.

“Yes,” says Hermine firmly, “he probably took the letter from Ottane. He suppressed your letter to me.”

“Is that… is that…?” stammers Schuh, “but surely he must have realized something like this would come out eventually. And he invited me himself… a question to you would have brought it to light.”

“My father overlooks that. He considers his power so great that no one would dare confront him, and that everything must simply be accepted. Surely he also forbade Ottane to mention a word about the letter, and you see she didn’t dare defy him. He’s grown accustomed to despising and belittling people.”

“And he wrote to me that you are so entirely intellect, that your heart has become a secondary matter. That you are wholly masculine in nature, that I shouldn’t bring confusion into your life—I had to assume all this was your opinion…”

A small, sobbing sound interrupts Schuh, but it’s a sound that crashes over him like thunder. Hermine has turned her head away, and her shoulders shake. Something terrible, world-shaking is happening—something unbearable and yet immensely blissful. And Schuh can’t help himself; he puts his arm around her trembling shoulders, and his lips feel that Hermine’s face is wet, and the twilight aids all these overwhelming emotions.

“Didn’t you know it?” sobs Hermine. “Didn’t you know it?”

No, Schuh didn’t know it, but now he does; he holds Hermine in his arms and knows it as an indescribable bliss, and his longing has been so great that he can’t be satisfied immediately.

It’s almost completely dark when they near the castle again. They’ve discussed what to do next and agreed not to reveal everything at once.

The deception perpetrated against them empowers them—indeed, it almost demands caution and cunning. Schuh wants to stand on solid ground with his own affairs first; he wants to show successes, life securities—I ask, that’s how it is, and besides, we are of one mind.

But as they see the lights from the garden hall through the trees, Schuh suddenly stops. “But now I can’t accept the money from him,” he says sadly.

“He offered you money?”

“Yes… to complete my work. I’ll have to give that up. With the money, I could have expanded my device…”

Hermine notices how hard it is for him to abandon this hope; she thinks intently. “You can take it!” she says. “Take it!”

“That we don’t immediately confront him with our love after what’s happened is only natural. But my pride forbids me…”

“What does your pride have to do with our love? Should love have any pride other than fulfilling itself? And does the father give money to Karl Schuh, who loves his daughter against his will? No—he gives it to his work, from which he expects something for science.”

It’s truly strange how Hermine has transformed; she’s become quite a sharp-witted sophist, but her arguments are convincing, and one can accept them—especially when one’s own desires and needs become advocates, and God knows, Schuh doesn’t want the money for himself.

The Freiherr von Reichenbach has been working on his protocol with the ladies until now; he has just escorted them to the carriage and now intends to present his report to Schuh for signature. In the garden hall, he encounters Hermine, who is coming in from outside.

“Have you spoken with Schuh?” he asks.

“Yes, he couldn’t stay longer. He’s gone home. And he asks you to send him the money tomorrow.”

The Freiherr looks at Hermine suspiciously, but her upright, calm gaze makes him look away again, perhaps even with some embarrassment.

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Homo Sapiens: Overboard Chapter 8, pages 57-65

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 27, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Homo Sapiens by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

VIII.

They stepped out the door. 

“Shall I get a cab?” “No, no; let’s walk!” 

That was very inconsiderate of Mikita. He had promised her for sure that he would come. Why didn’t he come? What was he jealous of this time? No, it was too tedious. She suffered under it. She felt bound. She hardly dared speak to anyone. She constantly felt his watchful eyes on her. 

And that incident in Frankfurt! No, he went too far, he tormented her too much. Couldn’t he understand the joy of suddenly meeting a compatriot in a foreign city? But he went into the next room and wrote letters to hide his anger. 

They walked through the Tiergarten. 

The mild March air gradually calmed her. 

Now he’ll surely resent her for not waiting hours for him at Iltis’s. 

“Can you understand, Mr. Falk, why Mikita didn’t come?” “Oh, he’s probably having one of his moods again…” 

The next moment, Falk felt ashamed… 

“He’s probably struggling with his work, then he doesn’t want to see anyone, least of all go to a party.” 

They fell silent. 

It was eerily quiet. A faint feeling of fear crept into her soul. 

How good that he was with her! 

“May I offer you my arm?” She was almost grateful to him. 

Now they walked more slowly. 

She thought of the evening, of the dance, but she felt no shame anymore, no unease, no—on the contrary, a soft, pleasant sensation of warmth. 

“Why are you so quiet?” Her voice sounded soft, almost tender. 

“I didn’t want to be intrusive. I thought it might be unpleasant for you.” 

“No, no, you’re mistaken. The company just made me so nervous, that’s why I got so restless; I’m so glad we left.” 

She had spoken unusually warmly and heartily. 

“Yes, you see, Fräulein Isa,” Falk smiled quietly, “I really have reason enough to reflect deeply on myself…” 

He sensed her listening intently. 

“You see—this strangeness—this peculiarity… You mustn’t misunderstand me—I’m speaking about it as if it were a riddle, yes, a mystery, as if a dead man had returned…” 

Falk coughed briefly. His voice trembled slightly. 

“When I was still in school, I was very fond of an idea from Plato. He holds that life here on earth is only a reflection of a life we once lived as ideas. All our seeing is just a memory, an anamnesis of what we saw before, before we were born. 

You see—back then, I loved the idea for its poetic content, and now I think of it constantly because it has realized itself in me. 

I’m telling you this fact—purely objectively, as I spoke yesterday about the invulnerability of fakirs. Don’t misunderstand me… I’m really a complete stranger to you…” 

“No, you’re not a stranger to me…” 

“I’m not? Really not? You don’t know how much that delights me. To you, to you alone, I don’t want to be a stranger. You see, no one knows who I am; they all hate me because they don’t know how to grasp me; they’re so uncertain around me… only to you would I open my entire soul…” 

He faltered. Had he gone too far? She didn’t reply, she let him speak. 

“Yes, but what I meant to say… yes, yesterday, yesterday… strange that it was only yesterday… When I saw you yesterday, I already knew you. I must have seen you somewhere. Of course, I’ve never actually seen you, but you were so familiar… Today, I’ve known you for a hundred years, that’s why I’m telling you everything; I have to tell you everything… 

Yes, and then… I can usually control myself well, but yesterday in the cab—it overcame me; I had to kiss your hand, and I’m grateful that you didn’t pull your hand away… 

I don’t understand it… I usually see all people outside, yes, somewhere far outside; my inner self is virginal, no one has come close to me, but you I feel within me, every one of your movements I feel flowing down my muscles—and then I see the others dancing around me like a ring of fire…” 

Isa was spellbound. She shouldn’t hear this. She felt Mikita’s eyes on her. But this hot, passionate language… no one had ever spoken to her like this… 

Falk was seized by a frenzy. He no longer cared what he said. He stopped trying to control himself. He had to speak to the end. It was as if something had burst open in his soul, and now the blaze poured out uncontrollably. 

“I demand nothing from you, I know I mustn’t demand it. You love Mikita…” 

“Yes,” she said harshly. 

“Yes, yes, yes, I know; I also know that everything I’m saying to you is foolish, utterly foolish, ridiculous; but I have to say it. This is the greatest event in my life. I never loved; I didn’t know what love was, I found it ridiculous; a pathological feeling that humanity must overcome. And now, with a jolt, it was born… In a moment: when I saw you in that red light, when you said to me with that enigmatic, veiled voice: It’s you… 

And your voice was so familiar to me. I knew you had to speak like that, exactly like that, I expected it. I also knew that the woman I could love had to look like you, only like you… Everything in my soul has been unleashed, everything that was unknown to me until now, the deepest, most intimate…” 

“No, Mr. Falk, don’t speak further; I beg you, don’t do it. It pains me, it hurts me so much that you should suffer because of me. I can give you nothing, nothing…” 

“I know, Fräulein Isa, I know only too well. I demand nothing. I just want to tell you this…” 

“You know, Mr. Falk, that I love Mikita…” 

“And if you loved a thousand Mikitas, I’d have to tell you this. It’s a compulsion, a must…” 

Suddenly, he fell silent. What was he doing? He laughed. 

“Why are you laughing?” 

“No, no, Fräulein Isa, I’ve come to my senses.” He grew serious and sad. 

He took her hand and kissed it fervently. 

He felt only the hot fever of that long, slender hand. 

“Don’t hold it against me. I forgot myself. But you must understand me. I’ve never loved in my entire life. And now this new, unknown thing surges over me with such force that it completely overwhelms me. Just forget what I said to you.” 

He smiled sadly. 

“I’ll never speak to you like this again. I’ll always love you, because I must, because you are my soul, because you are the deepest and holiest thing in me, because you are what makes me me and no one else.” 

He kissed her hand again. 

“We’ll stay friends, won’t we? And you’ll have the beautiful awareness that you are my greatest, my most powerful experience, my…” 

His voice broke; he only kissed her hand. She was silent and squeezed his hand tightly. 

Falk calmed himself. 

“You don’t hold it against me?” “No.” 

“You’ll stay my friend?” “Yes.” 

They remained silent for the rest of the way. 

Across from Isa’s apartment was a restaurant that was still open.

“We are comrades now, Fräulein Isa; may I ask you to drink a glass of wine with me? Let’s seal our camaraderie.” 

Isa hesitated. 

“You’d give me great happiness by doing so. I’d love so much to talk with you as a good comrade.” 

They went inside. 

Falk ordered Burgundy. 

They were alone. The room was separated by a curtain. 

“Thank you, Fräulein Isa, I’ve never had anyone…” Isa had Mikita on the tip of her tongue, but she remained silent. It was awkward to say his name. 

The wine was brought. “Do you smoke?” 

“Yes.” 

Isa leaned back on the sofa, smoked her cigarette, and blew rings into the air. 

“To the health of our camaraderie.” He looked at her with such heartfelt warmth. 

“I’m so happy, Fräulein Isa, you’re so good to me, and then—aren’t we?—we have nothing to demand from each other; we’re so free…” He saw again that hot glow around her eyes… No! He didn’t want to see it. He hastily drank his glass, refilled it, and stared at the red surface of the wine. He thought about the meniscus; it must be convex… 

“Yes, yes, the soul is a strange riddle…” Silence. 

“Do you know Nietzsche?” He looked up. “Yes.” 

“And that one passage from Zarathustra: The night is deeper than the day ever thought…” 

She nodded. 

“Hmm, isn’t it?” He smiled at her. “The soul is also deeper than it reflects in that foolish consciousness.” 

They looked at each other. Their eyes sank into one another. Falk looked back into his glass. 

“I’m a psychologist by trade, you know. By trade. That means I’ve measured sound velocities, determined the time it takes for a sensory perception to enter consciousness, but I’ve learned nothing about love… Then suddenly… Well…” He raised his glass. “To your health!” 

He drank. 

“No, no, nothing came of all those measurements. Last night, I learned far more about my soul than in the four or five years I wasted on so-called psychology… I had a dream…” He looked up. “But aren’t you bored?” 

“No, no.” 

They smiled at each other. 

“Yes, I dreamed today that I was on a sea journey with you. 

It was dark, a heavy, thick fog lay over the ship, a fog you could feel deep inside, heavy as lead, oppressive, suffocating with fear… 

I sat with you in the salon and spoke—no, I didn’t speak. Something in my soul spoke—silently, and the voice was bodiless, but you understood me. 

And then we stood up. We knew it, we knew exactly that it was coming—the terrible thing… 

And it came. 

A horrific crash, as if a sun had plummeted, a hellish scream of fear, as if glacier masses suddenly crashed onto the earth: a steamer had rammed into ours. 

Only we two had no fear. We only felt each other, we understood each other, and held hands tightly. 

Then suddenly, you were gone. 

I found myself in a lifeboat, the sea tossing it to the heavens and then plunging it into an endless abyss. 

I didn’t care what happened to me. Only a horrific, maddening fear of what had happened to you split my skull. Then all at once: I saw the mighty steamer sinking with incredible speed, I saw only a massive mast rising, and there, there at the top, I saw you clinging… And in that same moment, I plunged into the sea, I grabbed you, you let me carry you limply, and you became so infinitely heavy. I couldn’t hold on any longer, one more moment and I’d have sunk into the sea with you. 

Then suddenly, the fog and clouds gathered into a giant figure. Across the entire sky, cruel, cold, indifferent… 

Falk smiled with a strangely embarrassed smile. 

It was the sea and the sky, it was you and me, it was everything: fate, Fräulein Isa.” 

She grew frightened. He looked at her so eerily. Suddenly, he shifted. 

“Strange dream, isn’t it?” he smiled. 

She tried to seem indifferent and didn’t answer. 

He looked at her for a while with large, feverish eyes. Then he looked back into his glass. 

“That was the first revelation of fate in my life.” His voice sounded monotonous, even, with a nuance of casual indifference. It provoked her, it had something unspeakably hypnotic. She had to listen to him. 

“I didn’t know what fate was either. But now I do. You see, Fräulein Isa, I go around, clueless; I held my mind so firmly in my hands; there was no feeling I couldn’t subdue; yes… and now suddenly you come in the way, you, the strange archetype of my soul, you, the idea I gazed upon in another existence, you, who are really the entire mystery of my art… Do you know my work?” 

“I love it above all else.” 

“Have you found yourself in it?” “Yes.” 

“Now you see, I was so firm and hard, and now you cross my path, and my entire life is enclosed in this one experience. You gain this power over me that I can think of nothing else, you become the content of my mind…” 

“No, Falk, don’t speak of it. I grow so weary at the thought that you should feel unhappy because of me…” 

“No, Fräulein Isa, you’re mistaken. I’m happy, you’ve made me a new person, you’ve given me an unheard-of richness—I demand nothing from you, I know you love Mikita…” 

Isa felt the unease surge within her again. She had completely forgotten Mikita. No! She couldn’t stay here any longer. She couldn’t hear any more. She stood up. 

“Now I must go.” 

“Stay, stay just a moment longer.” 

There was something that held her down, but she had to think of Mikita. The fear and unease grew. She gathered herself. 

“No, no, I must go now; I can’t stay any longer, I must, I must—I’m so tired…” 

Falk suppressed a nervous laugh with difficulty.

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OD: Chapter 14, pages 175- 181

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 27, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 14

Reichenbach wrote to Schuh: “Now it’s enough; you must come. You must convince yourself of the significance of my discoveries. It would be a betrayal of science if you didn’t come. Since you don’t want to meet Hermine, come today—Hermine is busy at the Schönbrunn Palm House and will be absent all day. I’m sending Severin with the carriage.”

The carriage stood at the door. Schuh’s longing allied with Reichenbach’s wish—oh, just to be in the rooms Hermine inhabited once more, to follow the traces of her quiet, eccentric, shy life, and to speak with Ottane, to hear about Hermine.

Reichenbach received Schuh with open arms like the prodigal son. “And no more foolishness!” he said. “Let’s leave the womanizing aside. Whenever science stumbles, it’s always womanizing that trips it up.”

He paused, reconsidered, and cleared his throat awkwardly. It was good that Schuh didn’t know how little right he had to preach such things.

First, Schuh had to report. Yes, he had made great progress with his light images; now he could make two images transition into each other—he first showed one, then veiled it with a mist from which the other emerged. He had achieved far more than his predecessors, but it still wasn’t the right or final result; it depended on the optics of his device, and Schuh was in negotiations with Voigtländer for new, especially sharp, light-strong, and achromatic lenses. But there he was stuck. Such lenses cost a sum Schuh couldn’t currently raise. Yes, to realize all his plans required far greater means than he had at his disposal. In the autumn, he wanted to re-emerge with his work and then leave Vienna, perhaps to bring back some money.

Reichenbach listened thoughtfully. “How much do you need?”

“Pardon?”

“It would be a pity,” said the Freiherr, “if you couldn’t perfect your device. Money shouldn’t be an obstacle. Your cause is good; I know it, I believe in it. So, how much do you need?”

Schuh still isn’t sure if he heard correctly. It seems Reichenbach has offered him money. For now, he just stares at the Freiherr, unable to fit this novelty into his mind.

“I’ve considered it,” the Freiherr continues, “I consider it my duty to enable you to continue your work. Moreover, I am indebted to you in many ways. You’ve assisted me with my galvanoplastic and optical experiments, and besides, it’s just a favor in return.”

“I will, of course, involve you in the profits,” Schuh believes he should suggest, “if you could give me… say, three thousand gulden…”

Reichenbach dismisses this magnanimously. “Dear friend, no talk of profit-sharing! Do I want to do business with you? If you insist, you can repay me with five percent interest—I think that’s fair. And now, let’s go to dinner.”

There are only three at the table: the Freiherr, Schuh, and Reinhold, who grumpily and sullenly forces down his food. Ottane is absent, and Schuh misses her greatly. Is Reinhold supposed to tell him about Hermine now? Isn’t that mainly why he came—to get news about Hermine? But he doesn’t dare inquire about her whereabouts; he has the impression that Reichenbach, who offers no explanation for Ottane’s absence, might be uncomfortably affected by such questions. And Reichenbach himself now appears to Schuh in a different light. He is a forceful man, certainly, with his quirks—fine, he opposes an unsuitable match for his daughter and has God-knows-what ambitious plans for her, but there’s nothing to be done about that; he’s a real man, that much must be granted. This offer to Schuh is generous, showing trust and truly elevated sentiment.

After dinner, as Reichenbach and Schuh sit on the terrace in front of the garden hall with coffee, Schuh sees the Freiherr’s yellow carriage with Severin on the box beside the coachman arrive. Three ladies step out.

“My three sensitives are here,” said Reichenbach, “yes, dear friend, now you must also let yourself be shown how far I’ve come. You must give your opinion.”

Frau Hofrat Reißnagel almost didn’t recognize Schuh; she looked very ill, her eyes darting restlessly, her pale lips trembling as if shaken by inner storms. Schuh learned that the tall, lanky blonde was the wife of Police Commissioner Kowats and the short, freckled one was the schoolteacher’s wife, Pfeinreich, from Gutenbrunn.

“Let’s go to the darkroom right away,” Reichenbach suggests, “otherwise it’ll get too late.”

Schuh assumes they will now climb to Reichenbach’s study on the second floor, but no—Reichenbach leads them a few steps cellarward, then down a long, gloomy corridor to the opposite wing of the castle. A door opens silently; the Freiherr pulls back a thick loden curtain, opens a second door, parts another curtain, and pushes Schuh through a third door into complete darkness.

“Hold on to me,” Reichenbach instructs Schuh, “and follow me; the ladies are familiar here and will hold onto you. We’re only in the anteroom of the darkroom; it’s not dark enough yet.”

Schuh finds the darkness quite sufficient, but he reaches behind him, grabs a woman’s hand adorned with rings—likely the Hofrätin—and is pulled along with the entire chain pulled forward. Two doors squeak on their hinges; the heavy folds of two curtains slap him in the face.

“We’re here,” announces Reichenbach, and his voice echoes louder, as in a large room. “This is the darkroom. We have a sofa here and a table in front of it. Take a seat, Schuh; the ladies know the routine. But stay seated; you might bump into various objects standing around. What I want to show you today are light phenomena—it’s the Od light. But first, the effects of daylight must be completely erased from your eyes so you can perceive the infinitely weaker influences of the Od light. You’ll need four hours of patience.”

“Four hours!” says Schuh meekly, without implying he’s being a bit rude to the ladies.

Reichenbach immediately notices: “Aren’t you delighted to be condemned to four hours of darkness with three such charming companions? Many young people would love nothing more. Yes, I was once in a cave where the great light wonders only dawned on me after the external light had faded. See you in four hours!”

Schuh hears the door close and is alone with his three fellow captives.

“See you,” he jokes, “that’s a bit exaggerated in this darkness.” There’s nothing else to do; Schuh feels obliged to entertain the ladies.

“The soul gathers itself in such darkness,” says the police commissioner’s wife, “it reflects on its own self.” No one told Schuh that Frau Kowats is a secret poetess, but he knows it now. He thinks it might be fitting to discuss literature and brings up Bauernfeld and the theater.

After a while, he hears a suppressed yawn from his other side. “It’s really a terrible waste of time,” someone says, and it can only be Schuh’s other sofa neighbor, the schoolteacher’s wife, Pfeinreich, “if only one could darn stockings.”

Oh, Schuh can also talk about household matters—the servants, aren’t there any decent ones anymore? He enjoys switching the conversation topics and thought circles abruptly, a jack-of-all-trades in that too, soaring high with beautiful souls one moment, then grounding himself with opinions on new stoves, petroleum lamps, and the favorite dishes of the Viennese.

The Hofrätin remains silent. She sits beyond the teacher’s wife in a sofa corner and says nothing.

But then the conversation falters, and Schuh’s mental energy wanes. Four hours are long—hard to believe how long four hours can be. Schuh stands up, navigates around the table, and gropes through the room: “I’ll take a look around,” he says with a final attempt at humor.

Even in the pitch-blackest night, one can see their hand before their eyes; some glimmer of light falls even in the darkest dungeon, but here every darknesses of the world and underworld combined. Schuh feels along a wall shelf; various objects lie around—something that feels like a violin but is strung with only one string. His fingertips have become eyes; they find test tubes, plants in a corner, then his hand dips into water where something moves.

That’s the aquarium with the goldfish, he’s told. A small object slips between his fingers—a short tube with a mouthpiece, perhaps an ark pipe. Schuh puts it to his mouth and blows hard; an ear-piercing, shrill howl erupts.

“That’s the siren,” says the poetess.

“Did you see it?” asks the teacher’s wife.

“Yes, do you see something?” Schuh asks, baffled.

“Not clearly enough yet,” assures the poetess, “we still have too much external light in our eyes. But it’s like a blue flame emerging from the siren… from the moving air.”

Schuh shakes his head, though no one can see him; he must at least shake it for himself.

“My fingers are starting to glow,” says the poetess.

“Mine too,” joins the teacher’s wife.

Then the Hofrätin finally speaks. She says: “You had a birthday yesterday. You took a glass of wine in hand, and it broke on its own. It’s a bad omen.”

Who is the woman suddenly speaking about? Who took a wine glass in hand?

“No, no, don’t say such things,” the teacher’s wife exclaims. “You shouldn’t always dwell on such thoughts; you’re young and in the midst of life.” And only now does Schuh realize the Hofrätin seems to have the odd habit of speaking of herself in the third person.

Schuh has a sudden idea. He’s had enough; he sees no reason to sit in the dark with these three eccentric women for hours. He feels along the wall until his fingers find the doorframe. He gropes the entire door in vain; they are locked in the darkroom—the door has no handle on the inside.

After four hours, which stretch into four days for Schuh, Reichenbach returns. He arrives just in time to save Schuh from a fit of rage. Schuh had been considering wringing the necks of the three geese, but now, with Reichenbach’s arrival, he regains his cheerful composure.

“How are you?” asks Reichenbach.

“Honestly, terribly hungry… I don’t know if that’s an odic phenomenon too?”

Reichenbach offers no reply to this jest; he rummages in the dark and says mildly, like a disciple of Buddha: “I’d like to preface this for you, dear friend, that it’s the nobler, inner organs and the nervous system of humans that generate Od, whose manifold effects include the emission of light. But all other living beings, yes, even the lifeless things—metals, stones, wood, water—become luminous under certain conditions.” He continues rummaging and asks, “Can you see me, ladies?”

“Yes, very well,” replies the police commissioner’s wife.

“What do you see?”

“Head and chest are surrounded by a halo.”

“I also see arms and legs,” adds the teacher’s wife, “though less distinctly.”

“What color?”

“Yellowish, as always, perhaps more yellow than usual.”

“You must know, Schuh,” says Reichenbach, “that the Od light of men differs from that of women. Women glow more pea-green.”

Schuh grins in the dark; he can do so without offending Reichenbach—it’s dark enough for that. The women have it easy, making claims that can’t be verified. The agreement between them and the Freiherr is secured by many prior experiments.

“Do you also see Herr Schuh? Can you tell me what he’s doing?”

“I believe,” chirps the poetess, “I believe Herr Schuh is laughing. His Od glow trembles.”

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Anarchist Knight Apprentice: Chapter 12 – Whispers of Division

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 26, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Chapter 12: Whispers of Division

Wayne and Char were still working on their base camp elsewhere and making good progress, their efforts filtering back through clan chatter. They invited Tobal to stop by if he was ever in the neighborhood and gave him directions, their warmth a welcome contrast. At least they were not mad at him. Tara was still looking for someone to partner up with for the winter and wasn’t doing so well with the construction of her own base camp out in the wilds, her frustration evident in her tales of uneven logs. It was pretty obvious she was looking for a man, her glances lingering on passing clansmen whenever she visited.

Tobal saw some of his other friends gathered by the kitchen and waved. “Hey, good to see you!” he called out. Only a couple waved back, while a few looked the other direction and moved away, their silence a cold shoulder. He shrugged it off, the sting lingering as he wandered toward the circle area.

Ellen approached him later, her expression stern. “Tobal, there’s a lot of talk about the newbie shortage. People are upset—Zee, Kevin, and others waited at Sanctuary after the storm, worried about you, while you trained the only one available. There could be hard feelings unless more newbies start coming.” He nodded, the weight of their resentment settling in.

Seeking clarity, Tobal requested a private word with Ellen later that day. They stepped aside near a quiet grove, the rustle of leaves overhead. “Ellen, can’t we reduce the newbie requirement from six to four? It’d ease the strain on everyone.” She shook her head, her voice firm. “The Federation would never allow it. Most trainees who complete the Sanctuary Program are recruited by them, especially those with a strong link to the Lord and Lady. Six is needed to anchor mastery deeply at the soul level, forging a soul-deep bond.” She paused, then added, “Will you join the small meditation group tomorrow morning? We’re focusing on a special realm.” He agreed, curiosity piqued despite the tension.

The initiation ceremony began that evening under a rare blue moon, a second full moon gracing the month—a phenomenon occurring once a year. Tobal stood in the circle, waiting for the ritual to unfold, the air thick with anticipation over Fiona’s quick prep. As the hoodwink was placed, she tensed, her hand twitching toward her knife, a reflex from her past. Rafe, newly minted as a Journeyman, stepped forward, his calm voice steadying her. “Easy now, you’re safe here.” The drums beat a deep rhythm, and Tobal felt the power grow, sensing the Lord and Lady’s presence with his inner eye. Their energy carried an angry tinge, unlike his own initiation, a discord that unsettled him. Fiona stood proudly through the jostling dancers, her tunic cut high, revealing glimpses in the firelight, and Tobal watched from the circle, his responsibility a quiet focus.

After the ceremony, as the clan mingled under the blue moon’s glow, Becca approached Tobal near the fire, her red hair catching the light. She stood silently, head bowed, tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” His nerves snapped. “Get away from me! Get away from me!” he screamed. She stumbled away, crying into the night. Tobal retreated to the shadows, fighting tears, a flashback of her claws raking his face flooding his mind, bitterness choking him.

Later, Rafe found him in the shadows, asking, “What was that? Do you know her? Have you met before?” Tobal touched his scars, choking, “She did this to me.” Rafe gasped, “Oh, God!” and left, the humiliation burning as Tobal stayed there, the party’s noise a distant hum. The night wore on with raucous laughter and drumming, the clan celebrating Fiona’s initiation.

Toward evening, Fiona found Tobal in the shadows, her eyes puffed from crying over the night’s events. She held him, and he returned the embrace, her warmth easing his pain. “Thank you, Tobal,” she whispered. “This is sanctuary, the safest place I’ve known, and you’re my closest friend.” She kissed him deeply, a fierce embrace. She then invited him to travel with her to Sanctuary for some more newbies, but he demurred, needing to stay for the meditation group meeting.

The next morning, Tobal joined the small meditation group, the air thick with incense and a charged silence. Ellen led, her voice resonant. “The Lord and Lady guide us through Yggdrasil, the great tree of realms. Midgard is our earthly home, where we toil, and Vanaheim is a realm of harmony and growth, a place of spiritual freedom. Today, we’ll reach for Vanaheim.” They closed their eyes, and Tobal’s spirit surged upward, the air crackling with intensity. In Vanaheim’s golden light, the Lord and Lady appeared, their forms radiant, stirring memories deep within him—of a warm hearth, a lullaby’s echo, a father’s steady hand, a mother’s gentle touch. Instinctively, he felt a bond, a connection he couldn’t name, their presence a silent strength that enveloped him in a wave of warmth and longing. The air pulsed with their energy, a subtle yet deeply moving force, yet he knew his body remained a prisoner in the cell of flesh, a deep knowledge that stirred his soul.

A few days later at Sanctuary, Tobal met Nick, who fumbled with a heavy pack. “Need a hand?” Tobal offered. Nick grunted, “I’ll figure it out,” his stubbornness clear, setting their challenging dynamic. August brought eight newbies, a summer first, and Tobal lucked into Nick as the eighth.

They went to Tobal’s main camp, spending the first week completing winter shelters and crafting stone axes, the reversed methods from Rafe’s teachings tripping them up. Nick, strong but clumsy, excelled at chipping flint, though hunting eluded him until repetition clicked. It was a hard month, Tobal’s patience tested, but Nick was ready to solo by the time of the gathering, his progress a steady climb.

Tobal spent the evening mingling, chatting with Wayne about his jealousy and offering to mediate, then with Char about her training hopes. He spoke with Tara about Nick’s solo prep, noting her interest, and learned from Rafe about two Apprentices quitting for New Seattle. Rafe mentioned Dirk’s recovery, easing Tobal’s guilt, while Misty’s challenge loomed, the clan’s mood warming under the moonlit gathering.

The second circle convened that night, the chevron ceremony under the full moon. Tobal earned his first chevron, the stitch a badge of pride, while Fiona and Becca were recognized for their solos. As they headed for robes, Fiona caught up. “My solo was great—I found a spot east of your lake, past the stream. Started my camp—stop by!” She marked his map, ten miles in rough terrain. “Show me the way?” he asked. She smiled, “Anytime, but I’m training a newbie before winter.” They hugged, and she once more asked if he wanted to travel with them to Sanctuary, but he said he needed to stay for the meditation group meeting.

After the second circle Rafe caught up to him, his black Journeyman outfit crisp. They exchanged stories, and Tobal said, “My camp was torched—three people did it. Then Fiona and I found a village, an old camp with a mass grave. Air sleds buzzed us, no waves. It felt… haunted.” Rafe nodded, “I’ll ask around—seen others mention non-medic air sleds lately. Might be something.” He then shared clan news: fewer at circle, romantic splits, a new gathering spot rumor. Ox had complained about the knife threat, leading to first-come, first-served at Sanctuary, but Fiona’s under-28-day training raised eyebrows—her case was the exception, a concern among some. Rafe added, “Fiona can handle herself, though!”

The next morning, Tobal attended the second meditation group, the air heavy with anticipation. Ellen guided them again, her voice steady. “We return to Vanaheim, seeking its harmony to strengthen our spirits.” They closed their eyes, and a powerful surge lifted Tobal’s spirit, the air thrumming with energy. In Vanaheim’s golden expanse, the Lord and Lady appeared, their presence vast and luminous. Tobal felt a pull, his spirit soaring alongside the group in an astral projection—ethereal forms gliding over fields of light, the realm’s peace contrasting their earthly bonds. The Lord and Lady’s silent gaze seemed to guide them, a shared strength flowing through the group. Returning, Tobal’s body trembled, the experience vivid. Afterward, Ellen asked, “What did you feel?” Tobal murmured, “A freedom like we’re more than our physical bodies,” sparking a discussion on how Vanaheim’s energy could aid their training, their voices blending awe and resolve.

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Homo Sapiens: Overboard- Chapter 7, pages 50- 56

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 26, 2025| Leave a Comment »

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

VII.

“No, no, my child, let it be said that all scholars are fools.” 

Iltis sat among a group of young people, preaching his worldly wisdom. 

Strange that he hadn’t yet brought up his forty-five years. 

Falk couldn’t forget his cynical remark from yesterday. He’d been watching all evening for a chance to put Iltis in his place a bit. 

“All of them! I don’t know a single sensible one. Look, this is typical of those professors. I was once with a geology lecturer who wanted to take measurements. But the compass needle wouldn’t settle. 

‘Aha!’ says the clever lecturer, ‘I have a magnet in my pocket.’ ‘Fine, throw it away,’ I said. The magnet flew far away. But the needle was still restless. ‘You probably have a pocketknife on you?’ Yes, indeed, the clever man had a pocketknife. The pocketknife flew far away. But the needle was bewitched. ‘You’re probably standing on an iron ore layer,’ I ventured timidly. ‘Can’t you throw the layer away?’ No, the clever man couldn’t do that. 

That’s how measurements are made, and of course, God knows what theories are built on the results.” 

“But are you sure the iron ore was the cause?” Falk asked. 

Iltis looked at him in surprise. “Of course!” 

“Well, you know, causes are a tricky business. You can hardly ever name a cause without it being wrong. Can you, to touch on your favorite topic, give causes for the inferiority of women?” 

“You just need to open a physiology textbook.” 

“Breathing? Those proofs are simply ridiculous. Children of both sexes breathe with their stomachs until the age of ten, and so do all women who don’t wear corsets, like Chinese women and Yuma women. The costal breathing type is artificially induced, as you can see with the women of the Chickasaw Indians…” 

“Those are claims by scholars, dear Falk, that say exactly the opposite.” 

“Oh no, those claims are made by unbiased people, but the second proof, that women are on a lower developmental stage because they resemble children in form and proportions, is completely invalid. On the contrary, it speaks to women’s higher standing. The childlike type particularly shows the essential traits of the human species, whereas the male type, morphologically speaking, signifies a growth into senility.” 

“That’s metaphysics, dear Erik. You’re far too much of a metaphysician.” 

“Possibly. But the fact is, you only reached your conclusions through a confusion of morphological concepts of higher and lower development.” 

Iltis looked at him blankly. “I don’t understand.” 

“That’s not necessary.” Falk searched for Isa with his eyes. Why talk at all? If he came here, it wasn’t to discuss morphology. He wanted to dance… 

“And let’s make peace, shall we?” Falk toasted Iltis amiably. 

Someone began playing a waltz. 

Falk approached Isa. She stood in the back of the large studio. She smiled at him. No! That smile couldn’t be analyzed, that absorbing smile, as if the half-darkness she stood in had smiled mysteriously. 

“Do you dance, Fräulein?” 

A streak of light flashed across her face. “Shall we dance?” Falk asked, trembling. 

His blood surged to his head with a sudden jolt as he pressed her slender body to his. 

He was caught in a whirl that pulled him down. He felt them merging, her becoming a part of him, and he spun around himself, with himself, into an endless intoxication. 

He didn’t see her, for she was within him. And he drew into himself the rhythm and line and flow of her movements, feeling it all as a surging and ebbing in his soul, softer and stronger… 

And then, suddenly: yes, a feeling of something infinitely smooth, cooling, a soft mirror surface. He felt her. She pressed her cheek to his. 

A jubilation rose in him, and he held her tightly. She was his! 

He forgot everything around him. The faces of those around blurred into a flesh-red streak, circling him like a ring of sun. He felt only himself and the woman who was his. 

He didn’t hear the music; the music was in him, the whole world resounded and rejoiced in him and shrieked with hot desire, and he carried her through all the world, and he was grand and proud because he could carry her so. 

Who was Isa, who was Mikita? 

Only he, he alone was there, and she a piece of him that he held in his hands. 

Exhausted, they collapsed onto a sofa. 

It was loud around them. Excited, incoherent voices reached his ears, which he didn’t understand, and still he saw the flesh-red ring of sun circling him. 

He recovered. The red mist faded; he saw long, narrow wisps of cigar smoke. 

She lay half on the sofa, breathing heavily, her eyes closed. He gently took her hand. They sat alone; no one could observe them. 

She returned his grip. 

And they held each other’s hands tighter and tighter. 

She was so close to him—closer—closer still; their heads almost touched. 

She didn’t resist; he felt her surrender, felt her lay herself in his heart, in the warm blood-bed of his heart. 

She suddenly pulled away. 

“Mr. Falk, allow me to introduce the first German patron of the arts—” Schermer grinned maliciously—“the patron of German race, pure and true… Mr. Buchenzweig.” 

Mr. Buchenzweig bowed deeply. 

“Mr. Schermer introduces me with a bit too much aplomb into your esteemed company, but I may say I have a great interest in art.” 

Mr. Buchenzweig sat down and paused. 

He looked odd. Beardless, his face somewhat bloated, with browless eyes. 

“Look, Mr. Falk, your book interested and delighted me to the highest degree.” 

“That pleases me.” 

“Do you know why?” 

“Mr. Buchenzweig is immensely interested in art—” Schermer tried to hide his drunkenness. 

“Is that so…” 

Mr. Buchenzweig spoke melancholically, puffing out his lower lip. “Do you know why? After many disappointments, I’ve come to seek solace in art…” The Infant approached. 

“Well, Mr. Falk, have you discovered another new genius?” 

“Well, you don’t seem to have discovered yourself yet, or have you already been discovered?” 

Isa grew restless. She listened distractedly. How did this come over her so suddenly? How could she let herself surrender to Falk like that… It was ridiculous to allow a stranger, whom she’d only met yesterday, to get so close. She felt shame and unease because she felt that this man was closer to her than she wanted to admit. 

“You know, Mr. Buchenzweig,” Schermer mocked, “are you really the man interested in art—yes, you’re always talking about German art and other nonsense—so do something for German art! Yes, do something, lend a poor German artist, like me for example, two hundred marks. Yes, do that…” 

Mr. Buchenzweig puffed out his lower lip and stuck his index fingers in his pockets. He seemed to have ignored everything and glanced at Isa. 

How unpleasant that man was to her. But why doesn’t Mikita come; it’s already late. 

“Do you even have two hundred marks?” Schermer laughed with open scorn. “How many marks does your million-mark fortune amount to…” 

That the man wasn’t offended. Isa suddenly found the company repulsive. 

Why doesn’t he come? What does he want from her again? 

She felt tired. This constant jealousy… But he had only her, no one else. Of course, he won’t come. Now he’s sitting in his studio, tormenting himself, raging, pacing… 

She perked up. Falk spoke with such an irritated tone. 

“Leave me alone with this endless literary gossip! We have better things to do than argue over who holds first rank in German literature, Hauptmann or Sudermann.” 

“Now, now,” the Infant was very indignant. “There’s a colossal difference between the two…” 

“But it doesn’t occur to me to doubt that. I’m an admirer of Hauptmann myself. I particularly value his lyrical work. Have you read the prologue he wrote for the opening of the German Theater? No? It’s the most precious pearl of our contemporary poetry. Listen: 

*And as we, the old ones, succeeded in this house, 

We will hold the flag high 

Above the market clamor of the street…* 

“The best part you forgot,” Schermer mocked. “What’s it called? That bit with the ninety-nine onion pieces and the shimmer of the wonder-flame and that thing… oh, whatever—it’s a pearl, isn’t it…” 

The Infant threw Schermer a contemptuous glance and spoke with meaningful emphasis: 

“I don’t know, Mr. Falk, if that’s your earnestness or mockery, but consider what it takes to write *The Weavers*…” 

Schermer interrupted him sharply. 

“That doesn’t impress anymore. We’re used to revolts and killings—from the *Lokal-Anzeiger*.” 

The Infant found it unpleasant to be in the company of a drunken man, whereupon he heard a slew of unflattering remarks. The group dispersed. Only Isa and Falk remained seated. 

He suddenly felt her so foreign, so far away. He was very irritated. Of course, she’s sitting on pins and needles, waiting for Mikita. He felt a sharp pain. 

“No, Mr. Falk, Mikita won’t come tonight,” she said suddenly. 

“Stay a bit longer. He could come any moment.” 

“No, no! He’s not coming. I have to go home now. I’m so tired. The company bores me. I don’t want to stay here any longer.” 

“May I escort you?” “As you wish…” 

Falk bit his lip. He saw her restless agitation. “Perhaps you don’t wish me to escort you?” 

“No, no… yes, but—I have to go home now…”

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OD: Chapter 13, pages 160- 165

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 25, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 13

All this would certainly have moved and drawn Reichenbach in more deeply if he hadn’t been entirely absorbed by his momentous discovery. What were shootings, revolution, and constitution—here it wasn’t about things of yesterday, today, or tomorrow, but about decisive questions of humanity, beside which even Semmelweis’s new knowledge shrank to a trifle.

Reichenbach went hunting for people of the kind he called sensitive.

He hosted gatherings, solely to approach his subjects, drumming up his entire extensive circle of acquaintances, cornering individuals, and bombarding them with the most surprising questions. He had them place their fingertips on the room wall, gave them water to drink from two different glasses, led them before a mirror, pulled crystals from his pocket—tourmalines, feldspar, rock crystals, directed the pointed end toward one of their hands, and asked how they perceived it—coolly pleasant or lukewarmly repulsive. His system had since been expanded and significantly refined; he brought in all of physics and chemistry to relate them to the newly discovered natural force and to test the unknown against the known.

When he first found someone whose responses confirmed the experiments with Frau Hofrätin Reißnagel, he fell into an indescribable rapture. It was the wife of Police Commissioner Kowats, who stated that the pointed end of a rock crystal felt cool, while the blunt end felt lukewarm on her left hand. Yes, a clear cool breeze blew from the crystal’s tip over her hand. Reichenbach pressed his questions further into the police commissioner’s wife, and her statements aligned entirely with his preliminary assumptions.

The Freiherr breathed a sigh of relief; a weight was lifted from him—by God, the Hofrätin was not an isolated case; it was proven that other people felt the same or at least similar sensations. Now no one could reproach him for lacking the necessary scientific caution. If something still wasn’t quite right, it wasn’t due to the matter itself but to his still imperfect understanding.

Still, the police commissioner’s wife was a tall, lanky blonde with languishing eyes, and it was said she secretly wrote poetry, which always carried a slight suspicion of clouded intellect. Perhaps a malicious person could have argued that neither the Hofrätin nor the would-be poetess were entirely reliable as test subjects. It was necessary to continue searching, to expand the circle of sensitives.

And it was as if a spell had been broken; fortune favored Reichenbach. The wife of schoolteacher Pfeinreich on Reichenbach’s estate Gutenbrunn joined on a rainy day, which Reichenbach spent at the teacher’s house. Then came the wife of the smelter official Ebermann, then Anna Müller, the wife of the innkeeper on Reichenbach’s property Krapfenwaldl near Kobenzl, and then one after another.

The gift of sensitivity was tied to no class, no education level, no social stratum; it was found in all layers, from the Hofrätin to the kitchen maid. It was a universal human trait, more pronounced in some, vaguer in others, and in some seemingly overlaid by a layer of insensitivity.

So far, however, it had been exclusively women through whom Reichenbach saw his theory confirmed; he wanted to take a step further—it must be proven that this gift was not gender-specific but also present in men.

Reichenbach conducted his first experiments with Ruf. But there was nothing to be done with Ruf. Ruf was hardly ever sober; he grinned, eager to please the Freiherr, but gave the most incorrect answers imaginable, which couldn’t have been less suited to the system. He might have been useful for managing the estate, but he was utterly useless for science. Moreover, it seemed to Reichenbach that things in the estate management were no longer running smoothly, but the Freiherr had no time to deal with it now—greater matters were at stake. At any rate, Reichenbach snapped at his steward: “It’s getting to be too much, the way you carry on, Ruf. Don’t think that you may get drunk every day just because you came from Prince Salm to me. That must come to an end.”

Ruf placed his hand on his heart and protested: “But in service, Herr Baron, in service… no one can…”

“Enough,” Reichenbach waved him off, “sleep off your drunkenness now. And the womanizing must stop too, understood!” For a moment, he thought of Friederike’s pale, sad face and her sorrow, but he had no time to deal with these minor matters—though he wanted to issue a warning to Ruf anyway.

Ruf proved useless, but soon after, as if in compensation, Reichenbach encountered a clerk from the imperial and royal war accounting office, then a factory owner from Transylvania, then the Swiss ambassador, and a carpenter working in the house, and even some professors, thus growing the convincing power of his discovery to full scientific completion. Yes, men also passed his tests, though there were certain differences between their odic behavior and that of women. The circle was closed.

Initially, people had watched the Freiherr’s oddity with an almost pitying smile, but when news of what it was about spread, many came of their own accord to be tested.

“Have you been to Baron Reichenbach yet? You must go there! It’s certainly peculiar; one can’t explain everything. There’s surely something to it.”

Reichenbach’s new natural force was on the verge of becoming popular; people wanted to have been part of it, to be able to speak about it. There was certainly some force, a dynamis! What did he call it? Od? That was easy to remember: Od! The odic flame! One was charged with odic flame, positive and negative; once made aware, one could feel the Od themselves. One only needed to stretch out a hand and felt it crawling and tingling in the fingertips.

There was eager coming and going in the house on Bäckergasse all winter, and all summer on Kobenzl, and then again the following winter in Bäckergasse. Only in the October days was there a brief interruption when the streets of Vienna fought for young freedom and the city was besieged.

Reichenbach was still on Kobenzl then. He heard the cannons and gunfire, but it didn’t disturb him further; now, with no visitors able to come, he finally had the leisure to organize the wealth of material he had amassed and begin his book on the sensitive human.

He would have loved to discuss everything with Schuh. He knew Schuh would have resisted to the utmost, but that very resistance would have spurred Reichenbach more than he could say to convince this skeptic. It would have been a success that would have satisfied Reichenbach.

Schuh remained stubborn and didn’t come. But Doctor Eisenstein came and fawned around the Freiherr and Hermine, gladly spreading himself in the field Schuh had vacated. Oh, he could also play a little piano—not as virtuosically as Herr Schuh, of course, since one had a profession—but it sufficed for household use, perhaps. It would have been an honor for him to play music with Hermine or accompany her singing. Hermine regretted not having time now; she had to set music aside for a while, not wanting to be distracted while working on her treatise on the thylli.

She was still working on her treatise on the thylli; it was a difficult task with no end in sight. The father didn’t push her or stop her from singing; he was consumed by his Od, allowing Hermine to work undisturbed and with care for once.

She persisted, and it seemed endless. When Ottane looked at her sister and thought of the thylli, it always reminded her of Penelope, her loom, and the suitors. Perhaps Hermine feared that Doctor Eisenstein, now acting so at home in the house, was very much to the father’s liking, and the thylli were something like Penelope’s garment.

Eisenstein was truly at home in Bäckergasse and on Kobenzl, making himself indispensable as best he could. He was always there, obliging, obsessive, like chives on every soup. He always brought something—a new piece of music, a bag of candies, or at least some news. Had they heard that Herr Schuh, who was no longer seen, had held several performances of his so-called light paintings at the Josefstädter Theater? A new gimmick, various images projected onto a screen, entertainment for the audience, but it hadn’t quite met Schuh’s expectations—the audience stayed away; he played to empty houses. And had they heard how people spoke of Hofrat Reißnagel’s official duties? He was in the administration of state properties, and his office was called the state domain squandering bureau—yes, forests were indeed being sold at giveaway prices to favored individuals, and it was said that if this continued, Herr Moritz Hirschel would soon have the entire Vienna Woods logged. And had they heard that Therese Dommeyer and the painter Max Heiland, who were known to be very close, had now completely fallen out, and it was said the reason was a beautiful Spaniard, the wife of Colonel Arroquia, who had let Heiland paint her in a, well, rather mythological style?

With such stories, Eisenstein thought to make himself agreeable, but Hermine and Ottane listened with impassive faces and hinted that the affairs of Schuh, the squandering of state properties, and Max Heiland’s adventures were of no concern to them. They guarded against showing when an arrow struck their hearts; Eisenstein was not the man to let suspicions arise in, least of all Eisenstein.

As for the Freiherr, odically speaking, Eisenstein was neither lukewarmly repulsive nor coolly pleasant to him.

He also fawned around the Freiherr, danced about, praised, and admired in the highest tones, found everything astonishing, agreed with everything—but Reichenbach didn’t know what to do with him. He couldn’t use such yes-men. He had completely forgotten that it was Eisenstein who had set him on the path to his discovery; Reichenbach was fully convinced that everything was due to his own mind and observational skill. When the Freiherr conducted his experiments with the Hofrätin, who remained the most sensitive of his sensitives, he simply brushed Eisenstein aside. Perhaps precisely because something whispered to him that Eisenstein did have some merit in the matter. Reichenbach didn’t want to hear about it—why did Eisenstein impose himself so much, what did Eisenstein really have to do with it?

What Reichenbach needed were people like Schuh. But just the people he needed didn’t come. Schuh didn’t come, and neither did someone else who was also needed.

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Homo Sapiens: Overboard- Chapter 6, pages 41-44

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 24, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Homo Sapiens by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

But then difficulties arose in the further comparison. Children are pure and innocent; women are malicious, deceitful, coquettish, the pure handmaidens of the devil. 

So the comparison only held formally.” Falk grew more animated. 

“But one day—it was early in the morning again, and in such cases, I usually had to escort Iltis home. 

Suddenly, Iltis stops at a bridge and loses himself completely in the sight of swans emerging in a great flock from under the bridge. 

Iltis gets into a fantastic frenzy. ‘Erik, do you see?’ 

‘Yes, I see.’ 

‘What do you see?’ ‘Swans.’ 

‘Isn’t that so?’ 

‘Yes…’ 

Iltis turns nervously. 

At that moment, the roll-seller of Jericho comes by…” Falk laughed nervously. 

“Wonderful, this roll-seller of Jericho! You don’t know the splendid Lilienkron?” 

“No.” Isa looked at Falk in surprise. 

“Well, Lilienkron wrote a poem: the Crucifixion—no: ‘Rabbi Jeshua.’ In the procession… 

‘But what about Iltis?’ 

‘Yes, right, right… So, in the procession moving toward Golgotha, there are the lawyers, the lieutenants, the pickpockets, naturally also the psychologists and the representatives of the experimental novel, and finally the roll-seller of Jericho. 

‘But there weren’t any roll-sellers back then,’ one of his friends remarked. 

Lilienkron got very agitated. The roll-seller was the best part of the poem! He wrote the whole poem just for the roll-seller!” 

She laughed. Yes, she laughed like a comrade. There was something of comradely sincerity in her laugh. He wanted to always see her like this; then they could be friends, nothing more. 

“When the roll-seller of Jericho passes by, Iltis grabs a handful of rolls from her basket and throws them onto the water. 

Now he’s happy. ‘Do you see?’ 

‘Yes, I see.’ 

‘What do you see?’ ‘Swans.’ 

‘Ridiculous. I see that too. But the other thing, what I grasp with my intuition, you don’t see: swans and children are on the same level. Children don’t eat crusts, and neither do swans.’ 

Isa laughed somewhat forcedly. 

Falk grew very nervous. That was ridiculous! How could he think he could entertain her with these childish stories? It was too absurd. 

“Was he serious?” Now he burst out. 

“No, not a jot of truth in the whole story. I invented it very badly, but when I started telling it, I thought something better would come out… Yes, it’s infinitely stupid and ridiculous… You mustn’t hold it against me if I say it outright, but I told the story only so you’d enjoy my company… I have this urge to keep you from being bored with me, I want to be very entertaining, and that’s why I tell it so clumsily and come up with idiotic stories.” 

Isa became very embarrassed. 

“You don’t hold it against me, do you?” “No.” 

It grew dark; an awkward pause followed. In Falk’s mind, things began to blur. A thousand feelings and thoughts crossed and paralyzed each other. 

“Was Mikita with you today?” He asked just to ask, but was surprised why he asked. 

“Yes, he was here.” 

“He was so strange today, what was wrong with him?” 

“He’s probably a bit nervous. The exhibition is giving him a lot of headaches.” 

“He still seems the same old Mikita. We loved each other immensely, but sometimes it got a bit heavy. In one hour, he could have a hundred different moods.” 

Isa searched for a new topic. Falk noticed it in a nervous hand gesture. 

“And I’ll be your escort at the wedding?” “Yes, of course.” She looked at him firmly. 

Why so firmly? A vague smile played around his mouth. 

Isa felt very uncomfortable. What did that smile mean? 

“Yes, in three weeks, you’ll have the honor of being my wedding escort.” 

“I’m delighted.” Falk smiled politely. Another pause followed. 

She stood up. 

“I have to show you something that will interest you.” Falk looked closely at the Japanese vase. 

“Absolutely wonderful! Remarkable artists, the Japanese! They see things like in a snapshot photograph. Don’t they? They must perceive things that don’t enter our consciousness. In a thousandth of a second, you understand?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, I mean they’re able to capture an impression that’s too brief for our consciousness, or, as the professional psychologists so elegantly put it: the physiological time is too short for such an impression to enter consciousness…” 

He held the vase in his hands and looked at Isa firmly. 

“Sometimes I manage it too, though rarely. But today, for example, when I saw you in the corridor. A look of joy passed over your face and vanished in an instant.” 

“Oh? You saw that?” she asked mockingly. 

“Yes; it was like a momentary flash of magnesium light, but I saw it. Didn’t you? You were happy when I came, and I was so infinitely happy when I saw that.” 

It sounded so honest, so heartfelt, what he said. She felt herself blush. 

“Now we should probably go,” she said. 

“No, let’s wait a bit; it’s still too early… And you know, I may be a bit too open, but I have to tell you that I feel so infinitely comfortable here. I’ve never, no—nowhere have I felt anything like this.” 

Twilight could bring people strangely close. 

“Everything is so strange. It’s strange that Mikita is my friend, that you’re his fiancée; strange is the feeling, as if I’ve known you for a thousand years…” 

Isa stood up and lit the lamp. 

Light creates distance. Yes, she wanted to create distance. “It’s a pity that Mikita can only come later.” 

“Yes, that’s a great pity.” He was irritated. Now he had to think of Mikita again. Ridiculous that Mikita should have an exclusive monopoly on a person. Well, there was nothing to be done about it. 

He looked at his watch. 

“Now it’s time. Now we have to go.”

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OD: Chapter 12, pages 155-159

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 24, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

But now she turns around, and it’s quite strange to see the change that comes over her. It’s as if a picture comes to life, as if the rigidity of a statue melts into hesitantly probing life. The woman looks around; there’s a room she doesn’t know—a simple room with a round table before a rep-covered sofa, a lithograph of the good Emperor Ferdinand on the wall, and a bed and a nightstand behind a half-drawn floral, printed cotton curtain. And there stands young Reinhold at the door, looking bewildered, with one arm in a sling and the sleeve of his coat hanging loosely over it.

“For God’s sake,” the woman groans, “what has happened to me?”

But then she suddenly understands what has happened; that, that horrible thing has happened again—the darkness has overtaken her again. The woman realizes she is delivered up to it and that it will keep returning, and she sinks onto the rep sofa with a small, quiet sob, covering her face with her hands.

Reinhold stands there, not knowing what to do. There sits the Hofrätin, evidently utterly miserable on the sofa, sobbing—and truly, tears well up between her fingers—good heavens, she’s crying, and Reinhold is completely clueless as to why. What should one do, what should one do at all? And Reinhold sinks to his knees before the sofa, touching the weeping woman’s hip with a tender, caressing hand, stammering only: “But gracious lady… but gracious lady…!” and a gentle warmth enters his lovesick, yearning heart. A kind of happiness comes over him at being able to offer comfort.

On that spring-like yet stormy March 13, something astonishing also occurred in the house of Freiherr von Reichenbach for him. Of his children, only Hermine had appeared at the midday table.

Chaos reigned in the city, and Hermine was beside herself with worry about her siblings. The Freiherr was also agitated, but his anger outweighed paternal fear—at least he showed none of it and only raged about the recklessness of these wayward children. The afternoon passed, and evening came, and as they were about to sit down for dinner, Ottane suddenly appeared. Hermine, who had been wrestling with the most dreadful imaginings and found it cruel to sit down to eat as if nothing had happened, jumped up and threw herself around Ottane’s neck with a joyful cry.

Reichenbach merely looked up from his plate and asked: “Where have you been, Ottane?”

Ottane was very pale and frightened. Where had she been? Oh, she had been at a friend’s house, making a visit, and then suddenly the uprising broke out; there was shooting, the streets full of people—it had been impossible to get through. She had tried several times, but by God, it was impossible. She had to wait. Now the citizens’ guard had marched out, and strong patrols roamed the streets, and it was said the students would be armed to restore order. And it was even said Metternich had resigned or would resign…

“Why don’t you let Severin or one of the others accompany you?” asked Reichenbach, ignoring the political events. “You know I can’t stand it when you wander the city alone. Which friend were you with?”

“At Frau von Riva’s,” said Ottane without batting an eye. She had prepared what she had to say; she had gone through her friends one by one and finally settled on Frau Josephine von Rivo, the young widow of an imperial official, a solitary woman without family ties, so no one could easily inquire further. But there was no other way; at least Frau von Rivo had to be brought in, and Max had also seen that the secret now had a confidante, leaving Ottane paralyzed by the thought of having to profane it.

To Hermine’s surprise, Reichenbach made no reproaches to Ottane; he only asked further: “And where is Reinhold?”

Where Reinhold was, Ottane couldn’t say; she knew nothing of him and guarded herself from admitting she had spotted him among the students.

“I can’t always be running after you,” said Reichenbach, standing up, “but it seems it’s necessary for someone to come into the house and take the reins in hand.”

Ottane’s heart cried out. No, she already knew what her father meant—no, not that, that mustn’t happen. She spoke about it with Hermine; they agreed on this, though Hermine assented shyly and reservedly—how could they rebel against the father’s will? The sisters lay in bed and talked about it, then grew anxious again about Reinhold. He had been among the students—where had he ended up?

They lay awake, listening to see if they could hear him come. Reinhold didn’t come; he didn’t come. Finally, it was perhaps ten o’clock, they heard the house bell, and then Severin spoke with someone downstairs in the hall. Someone climbed the stairs quickly. Ottane opened a crack in the door; the steps passed by, faded in the direction of Reichenbach’s study.

“It’s Hofrat Reißnagel,” said Ottane, disappointed, and closed the door.

Yes, the nighttime visitor was Hofrat Reißnagel, and he stood panting from the quick walk before Reichenbach, asking: “Is my wife here? Severin says she isn’t, but perhaps…?” He meant perhaps Paulme was there to conduct experiments with Reichenbach, and Severin might not know.

No, Frau Hofrätin was not there!

“She’s been out of the house since morning, and with this tumult… You know my wife sometimes has such states… but she’s never been gone this long.”

“It seems the whole world has gone mad,” said Reichenbach angrily, striking the notebook before him with his strong hand. “Ottane has only just returned. Ruf was summoned for a settlement; I waited for him all day in vain; finally, in the evening, he staggers in, drunk as a lord, spouting nonsense about freedom of the press and a constitution. One can’t get a sensible word out of him. And Reinhold isn’t home at all.”

“Yes… but… my wife… my wife!” The Hofrat shook his head; perhaps the Freiherr was right—the world had gone mad, even imperial Vienna had been outraged; it was heard that Metternich had left; as a Hofrat, one had to press along the walls of the street—it was certainly unpleasant to be recognized as a Hofrat now, all bonds were loosened.

That was the collapse, and Paulme was gone, and there was nothing to do but hide.

Reinhold didn’t come all night; he arrived only the next morning at nine, when the gates to the suburbs were reopened. He was exhausted but composed, with his right arm in a sling and the sleeve hanging empty over it.

“So the wandering lord is back?” said Reichenbach mockingly, ignoring the bandage and empty sleeve. “The freedom fighter honors the paternal home with his return? Does the politician not plan to head the Austrian government?”

Reinhold could have mentioned the Hofrätin, and in moments of discouragement, he had considered it. But now he grew entirely defiant and stubborn, offering no form of apology.

It wouldn’t have helped him anyway. The father didn’t mince words with him; he locked him in his room, and while his comrades donned the armbands of the academic legion, while the national guard was formed and finally the proclamation of the constitution was celebrated, Reinhold sat in his room with water and bread. But Ottane provided meat, dumplings, and wine; she lowered a well-filled basket from the floor above Reinhold’s prison, and when Reinhold’s healthy arm grabbed the basket and pulled it through the window, she could smile a little for the first time in days.

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Homo Sapiens: Overboard: Chapter 5, pages 36- 40

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on September 23, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Homo Sapiens by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

V.

He must not see her again. That was clear to him now. No! Never again. 

Fear, painful fear rose within him. 

What would happen? How could he stifle this compelling desire? In one hour, that woman had sunk deep roots into him. Her tendrils ensnared his soul. Tighter and tighter, the mesh of this root-network constricted. He clearly felt himself splitting into two people: one cool and clear, trying to control his will, while the other suddenly flung thoughts into his mind that destroyed the conscious self, burrowing deeper with a longing and desire that tossed him restlessly to and fro, unable to find peace. 

What had happened? 

Oh, you psychologists! Explain to me with all your psychophysical laws what has gone on in my soul? Please, explain it! 

He sat up abruptly. What was wrong with Mikita? 

Did he sense it, feel it coming? But nothing had happened… Why was he so taciturn today? 

He must love her immensely. Suffering twitched around his mouth. 

Yes, Mikita feels across distances; yes, Mikita sees the grass grow… The tone with which he asked him to escort Isa to Iltis’s today. He had so much to do, and Isa was so eager to go. 

Why didn’t he take her himself? 

Yes, he might come later… But couldn’t he postpone his business until tomorrow? 

Falk stood up. 

No! He won’t escort her. He must not see her again. Now he might still be able to forget her. She could still become a glorious experience, yes, an experience he could use literarily. Literarily! Falk laughed scornfully. 

He’ll stay home and be literarily active. Ha, ha… He felt disgust. 

This stupid, idiotic writing! Why isn’t he aristocratic enough not to prostitute his most personal, finest, most shameful feelings? Why does he throw it all before the masses? Those gentlemen who wander the heights of humanity, along with the “Ferschten.” Yes, the “Ferschten,” like those in *Fliegende Blätter*, half poodle, half ape, with rolled-up trousers… Disgusting! 

No! Now he’ll decide. Yes! It’s settled. He’ll stay home. 

The firm resolution felt good. He sat at his desk and began to read. 

He read a page and understood nothing. 

Then he looked up. He couldn’t help thinking of a servant in a Gogol novel who took pleasure in purely mechanical reading without understanding a single word. 

He pulled himself together and read on. What was it about her movements? 

It was no longer movement; it was language, the most perfect expression of his own highest artistic ideal—and her hand, her hand… 

He started. 

How could he forget that! 

He had to write to Mikita that he was prevented from escorting Isa. 

He sat down and wrote a pneumatic post card. 

How nice it would be to send someone with the card! Now he had to run to the post himself! 

He stepped onto the street. It urged him to go to her, to see her just once more, to brush against her presence—to breathe her just once more. 

But he mustn’t. Surely he could still control himself?! 

Yes, control! Control, just like one of his friends whose greatest desire was to see Rome. And he went to Rome, but a mile before Rome, he told himself that a man must be able to control himself, and turned back. When he returned home, he went mad. 

Yes, it all comes from the ridiculous idea that you can control yourself, and especially that which is strongest in you, because it’s been there from eternity. 

And he thought of Heine’s words—what was it? If I could control myself, it would be nice; if I couldn’t, it would be even nicer. Something like that. 

But the cynical undertone embarrassed him. He felt as if he had sullied Isa. 

Why? In what way should Isa be connected to this undertone? 

And he walked, brooding over the secret associations that take place somewhere in the hidden depths and then suddenly enter the mind without any apparent connection. 

Yes, seemingly unconnected. The treacherous unknown knows exactly what it links together. 

It amused him to puzzle over this strange riddle. Of course, he was only doing it to keep other thoughts from surfacing—how beautiful was the narrowness of consciousness… But the thought of Mikita broke through. 

He didn’t want to think of him. 

It was as if he had a heart cramp each time. His blood pooled in his heart for moments. It hurt unspeakably. 

Why should Mikita have rights over a person, exclusive rights, some kind of monopoly? 

He suddenly felt ashamed, but clearly felt a hot surge of—yes, truly, it was a distinct feeling of hate—no—displeasure… 

For Mikita’s sake, he mustn’t go! For Mikita’s sake?! He laughed scornfully. Erik Falk thinks himself irresistible! With some pre-established harmony, he must make every man a cuckold, every fiancée of another must fall for him with compelling force. 

That was endlessly ridiculous! 

If he could just say to himself: Don’t go, you’ll only fall in love where you can’t hope for reciprocation, since she… 

He faltered. 

He had such a ridiculously certain feeling that she was closer to him than to Mikita, he felt so clearly—yes, Mikita seemed to feel it too, that Isa… 

No, no! 

But one thing he could do with a clear conscience: be near her physically, just across the street—in the restaurant, there he’d sit and mechanically get drunk to make himself incapable of going to Isa. 

Yes, that’s what he must do, what he will do. 

He stopped in front of the house where Isa lived. 

Now it was too late! Now he couldn’t notify Mikita in time. 

What was he to do? 

Good Lord, in the end, he’d have to go up. 

His heart pounded fiercely as he climbed the stairs. He rang the bell. 

Now he was badly startled. It felt as if the ringing would throw the whole house into uproar. 

Flee! Flee! it screamed within him. 

The door opened. Isa stood in the corridor. 

He saw a hot joy light up in her eyes, spreading over her entire face. 

She squeezed his hand warmly, very warmly. Was she trying to say something with that? 

“You know that Mikita can only come later?” “Yes, he was at my place today.” 

“Then you must escort me there. It’s not unpleasant for you, is it?” 

“For you, I’d do anything!” It came out so brashly. 

They both grew embarrassed. Yes, he had to stay vigilant not to lose himself again. 

How did it happen so suddenly, without him being able to stop it?

They sat down, looked into each other’s eyes, and smiled. He sensed that she, too, was restless. 

He forced himself to be cheerful. “So, how did you enjoy yesterday?” “It was a very interesting evening.” 

“Iltis is a peculiar man, isn’t he?” She smiled. 

“No, no; I mean it in all seriousness. I take the man absolutely seriously…” 

Isa looked at him doubtfully.  “Yes, Iltis is downright a dilettantish genius. He knows everything, has investigated everything, read everything. His mind works absolutely logically, but it reaches such odd conclusions that always ruin his entire work. Recently, for instance, he tormented himself with the problem of where to place children on the developmental scale. That naturally caused a lot of headaches. First: a comparison with women. All children are larvae of women, or rather, women are developmentally stunted children. Children and women have round shapes and delicate bones. Children and women can’t think logically and are unable to master their emotions with their minds

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