Anarchistbanjo's World

Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

“Yes, you are very inquisitive, Herr Editor. You surely don’t demand that I deliver my political credo here; but we can look at the things from a bird’s-eye view. 

I understand the anarchist propaganda of the deed, for that’s what this is about here, very well; I understand it as an unheard-of indignation against social justice. 

Yes, we the sated, we who have the privilege of doing no work or at least choosing a work that is a pleasure to us, we call it justice when our brothers in Christ must rise at four or five in the morning, day-labor twelve hours uninterrupted, serve us the privileged. Well, I need hardly list for you which things we consider socially just. But you must understand that there are people who cannot reconcile themselves to it, who rebel against such justice in naive rage. Well, the rage can, if favored by certain circumstances, such as, for example, futile job searching, thus unemployment, or hunger or

illness, rise to a height that it simply tips over into madness. 

And now take a person who day in, day out sees such examples of unheard-of social cruelty, take a person who is witness to how the workers in a strike riot are shot dead like dogs, how they are starved out by mighty capitals and crippled in their justified resistance: don’t you believe that such examples of our social justice suffice to produce in a person who has a strong heart a vengeance that blindly wants to—must!—sate itself on the first best of the socially privileged? 

Our heart is dulled, sir; our heart is weak and narrow-minded, as our interests are; it has eye and ear only for our own petty conditions. But take a person who is strong and exuberant and childlike enough to feel himself a whole world—yes take for example that Henry: what drove him to his murder acts? 

A heart, a great heart, whose power we dulled, small egoists cannot comprehend! A heart that answered with terrible resonance to all the misery, all the powerlessness all around! 

He became a criminal, certainly; but he was no ordinary criminal. He was a criminal out of indignation, an outrage-criminal. That is a great difference. In effect, of course, it comes to the same; but we are surely advanced enough in our judgment that we begin to form categories not according to success, but according to motives. 

A group had formed around Falk, listening attentively. 

The editor now saw the opportunity as favorable to expose Falk before the reactionary elements. 

“So you completely excuse the anarchist murder acts…” The editor grinned maliciously… “So you would have pardoned Henry without further ado?” 

Falk surveyed the people standing around him with his eyes and said very calmly. 

“No, I wouldn’t have done that. I myself belong to the privileged, thus risk in the next moment being blown into the air by an explosion, thus find myself in a kind of self-defense that makes Henry’s death indispensable. At the same time, however, I say to myself: from my standpoint I am right, but Henry was right from his. He perished through social justice or rather social arbitrariness, which alone gives power and right. But you can surely imagine that social arbitrariness could just as well take Henry’s side, and then Henry would be praised as a great hero. Take, for example, a war: isn’t it a mighty mass murder? But to murder in war is—sweet and honorable, as that Roman sings. 

Well; that doesn’t belong to the matter. But I ask you not to misunderstand me. We see the things from a bird’s-eye view. I only say: I can understand such indignation. 

For we all have the psychic germs in us from which later the most intense forms of murder, robbery, etc. can develop. That they don’t do it is pure chance. By the way, I believe that we can all understand such indignation. How often has not each of us already given himself to this feeling! 

Falk’s sharp eyes discovered the director, who stood a little apart. 

“Look, gentlemen, for example, two days ago I went so far in my indignation that I offered slaps in the face to the so highly esteemed, so well-deserved person of the Herr Director.” 

Those around involuntarily looked at the director with a discreet smile. 

“Yes, I sincerely regret it; but in the moment of an intense emotional outburst I did it.” 

For what? “Yes, gentlemen, if one is indignant about a man’s writings, one really doesn’t go to the school and let one’s rage run free in somewhat uncivilized expressions before stupid boys. 

No, a gentleman doesn’t do that. Perhaps that’s the custom here in the country, but I am accustomed to European customs. 

Right, Herr Editor: You are right to remind me of the résumé. 

The résumé? Hm, yes, the résumé. I understand anarchism as propaganda of the deed, I can explain it to myself. I can examine, analyze, understand all the psychic components from which the idea of political murder develops, one after the other, just as I can understand, analyze, and observe the affect forms that in their heightened intensity become ordinary madness, a mania, a melancholy, etc. etc. 

No, nothing could be done with Falk; he was slippery as an eel. The editor withdrew ashamed. 

Marit had stood at Erik’s side the whole time. 

She felt so close to him; so close. She was happy and proud. He turned to her so often, almost spoke to her. 

Yes, he had the beautiful, great, splendid heart he spoke of. He had the proud heart of indignation and courage: before a whole world he confesses openly and courageously what he thinks! 

And how beautiful he was in this atmosphere of fat, stupid people. How splendid his intellectual face and the fine, discreet gestures with which he accompanied his words. 

A mighty jubilation filled her whole soul, the feeling of boundless devotion. She trembled, and her face colored purple-red. 

Falk disappeared for a moment. 

“Shall we not go?” he whispered in Marit’s ear when he returned. Marit rose. 

It was the custom in this house to leave without the usual farewell formulas. The district commissioner was nervous and loved it when people came and went without a word.

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Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Translating Alraune
“Deine Tage sind wie die schweren Trauben blauer Glyzenen,
tropfen hinab zum weichen Teppich: so schreitet mein leichter Fuss
weich dahin durch die sonnenglitzernden Laubengänge deiner sanften
Tage.”
Your days are like the heavy (grapes/bunches/clusters) blue
Glyzenen, dropping down to soft carpet: so stride my light feet softly
in them through the sun glistening arbor your gentle days.
What the hell does “Glyzenen” mean? Look it up in the
dictionary; it’s not there. Google it on the internet; it’s not there. Try
some online German-English dictionaries; it’s not there…
What did Endore write? “glycinias” Well, what does that mean?
Look it up in the dictionary; it’s not there. Google it on the internet;
ah, there it is–Archaic German word for wisteria–not used anymore–
Maybe back when he translated it some old Germans were still alive
that knew the meaning of the word.
[Editor’s note: S. Guy Endore translated a 1929 version of
Alraune for John Day Publishing Company]
What is “Wisteria”? Google it on the internet–Oh, what beautiful
thick flowers. We don’t have those here in northern Minnesota. Now
let’s get back to the translation. “Dropping down to soft carpet?” That
can’t be right. Wisteria grows outside and doesn’t fall onto the carpet!
When those thick blossoms fall they will form a carpet on the ground
though! Let’s try it like this:
Your days are like the heavy blue clusters of wisteria dropping
down to form a soft carpet. My feet stride lightly and softly through
them as I enter the glittering sunlight in the arbor of your gentle days.
Just for grins let’s see what Endore came up with.
“Your days drop out of your life even as the heavy clusters of
blue glycinias shed their blossoms one by one upon the soft carpet.
And I tread lightly through the long, sunny arbors of your mild
existence.”
What the hell! That’s not even close! Where did he come up with
that “days dropping” and “blossoms one by one” bit? None of that is
in the text at all. Obviously he was embellishing a bit. (Something
that Endore did quite a bit of.)
Such was my experience with the very first pages of Alraune.
But it was not my last. The John Day version of Alraune turned out
to be very mangled and censored to boot. There are different types of
censorship and I ran into most of them. Let’s take chapter five to give
some brief examples.
Now in the story Alraune’s father agrees to cooperate with the
experiment in exchange for a couple bottles of whiskey the night
before he is executed. Thus he is so drunk the next morning that they
have to help him walk up to where the sentence of death is read to
him. Suddenly he realizes what is about to happen, sobers up
immediately, says “something” and begins to fight back. But first he
utters a word–What is that word? It may give a clue to the entire
incident. Let’s see how it really goes:
She laughed, “No, certainly not. Well then –but reach me
another slice of lemon. Thank you. Put it right there in the cup! Well
then –he said, no –I can’t say it.”
“Highness,” said the Professor with mild reproof.
She said, “You must close your eyes first.”
The Privy Councilor thought, “Old monkey!” but he closed his
eyes. “Now?” he asked.
She still hesitated, “I –I will say it in French –”
“That’s fine, in French then!” He cried impatiently.
Then she pressed her lips together, bent forward and whispered
in his ear, “Merde!”
Of course “Merde!” means “Shit!” in French. He said “Shit!”,
sobered up and started fighting for his life! Let’s see what the John
Day version did with it.
She laughed. “Of course not. How silly. Well –just let me have a
piece of lemon. Thanks –put it right into the cup! –Well, then, as I was
saying –but no, really, I can’t tell you.”
“Your Highness!” the Professor said in a tone of genial
reproach.
Then she said: “You’ll have to shut your eyes.”
The Councilor thought to himself, “What an old ass.” But he
closed his eyes. “Well,” he asked.
But she resisted coyly. “I’ll –I’ll tell it to you in French.”
“Very well then, Let it be –French!” he cried impatiently.
She pursed her lips, bent her head to his and whispered the
offending word into his ear.
As you see, we don’t even get to know what the word was in the
John Day edition and a subtle nuance has been lost. Still, you might
think I am making mountains out of molehills. What difference does
that little bit have to do with the story? Well let’s take a more
substantial piece of censorship. Later in the same chapter almost one
entire page of text has been censored. I won’t share it here because it
will spoil the story but this entire section was omitted from the John
Day version. Curiously enough Mahlon Blaine illustrated a portion of
it which shows that he was familiar with it. It was translated but
didn’t make it into the book.
Something that is also missing in the John Day edition is much
of the emotional content and beauty of the writing itself. Consider this
paragraph at the end of chapter five:
There is one other curious thing that remains in the story of these
two people that without ever seeing each other became Alraune’s
father and mother, how they were brought together in a strange
manner even after their death. The Anatomy building janitor,
Knoblauch, threw out the remaining bones and tatters of flesh into a
common shallow grave in the gardens of the Anatomy building. It was
behind the wall where the white roses climb and grow so abundantly.
How heart wrenching and touching in its own way! Let’s see
how the Endore version handles it:
Again the bodies of these two, who, though they had never seen
each other, yet became Alraune ten Brinken’s father and mother,
were most curiously joined in still another manner after their death.
Knoblauch, the old servant who cleaned out the dissecting rooms,
threw the remaining bones and bits of flesh into a hastily prepared
shallow ditch in the rear of the anatomy garden, back there against
the wall, where the white hedge-roses grow so rankly.
When you consider that nearly every single chapter of the John
Day version has been gutted of its emotional content in one way or
another, it is not surprising that it never became as popular with the
reading public as it did it Germany. There it could be read in its
entirety as the author intended. For the first time Alraune is now
available to the English speaking world in an uncensored version that
brings the life and emotion back into the story. I am proud to have
been able to be a part in the restoration of this classic work of horror.
A final note for those that have read the John Day version:
What I read then is different, entirely different, has different
meaning and I present her again like I find her, wild, hot –like
someone that is full of all passions!
–Joe E. Bandel

Arsis
Will you deny, dear girl, that creatures can exist that are–not
human–not animal–strange creatures created out of absurd thoughts
and villainous desires?
You know good, my gentle girl, good is the Law; good are all our
rules and regulations; good is the great God that created these
regulations, these rules, these laws.
Good also is the man that values them completely and goes on
his path in humility and patience in true obedience to our good God.
But there is another King that hates good. He breaks the laws
and the regulations. He creates – note this well – against nature. He
is bad, is evil, and evil is the man that would be like him. He is a child
of Satan.
It is evil, very evil to go in and tamper with the eternal laws and
with insolent hands rip them brazenly out of place.
He is happy and able to do evil – because Satan, who is a
tremendous King, helps him. He wants to create out of his prideful
wish and will, wants to do things that shatter all the rules, that
reverse natural law and stand it on its head.
But he needs to be very careful: It is only a lie and what he
creates is always lunacy and illusion. It towers up and fills the
heavens – but collapses at the last moment and falls back to bury the
arrogant fool that thought it up –
His Excellency Jacob Ten Brinken, Dr. med., Ord. Professor and
Counselor created a strange maiden, created her – against nature. He
created her entirely alone, though the thought belonged to another.
This creature, that was baptized and named Alraune, grew up
and lived as a human child. Whatever she touched turned to gold,
where ever she went became filled with wild laughter.
But whoever felt her poisonous breath, screamed at the sins that
stirred inside them and on the ground where her feet lightly tread
grew the pale white flower of death. It struck dead anyone that was
hers except Frank Braun, who first thought of her and gave her life.
It’s not for you, golden sister, that I write this book. Your eyes
are blue and kind. They know nothing of sins. Your days are like the
heavy blue clusters of wisteria dropping down to form a soft carpet.
My feet stride lightly and softly through them as I enter the glittering
sunlight in the arbor of your gentle days. I don’t write this book for
you my golden child, gracious sister of my dream filled days –
But I write it for you, you wild sinful sister of my hot nights.
When the shadows fall, when the cruel ocean devours the beautiful
golden sun there flashes over the waves a swift poisonous green ray.
That is Sins first quick laugh over the alarmed dying day.
That’s when you extend yourself over the still water, raise
yourself high and proclaim your arrival in blighted yellows, reds and
deep violet colors. Your sins whisper through the deep night and
vomit your pestilent breath wide throughout all the land.
And you become aware of your hot touch. You widen your eyes,
lift your perky young breasts as your nostrils quiver and you spread
wide your fever moistened hands.
Then the gentle civilized day splits away and falls to give birth to
the serpent of the dark night. You extend yourself, sister, your wild
soul, all shame, full of poison, and of torment and blood, and of kisses
and desire, exultant outward in joyous abandon.
I write about you, through all the heavens and hells – sister of
my sins – I write this book for you!

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Homo Sapiens by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

VI.

How had this idea suddenly come to him? 

A woman must be at the center of the painting, alluring, seductive—and from all sides, yes, from above, from below, a thousand hands reach for her. A thousand hands scream, howl, scream for her! Lean, nervous artists’ hands; thick, fleshy stockbrokers’ hands with big rings, a thousand other hands—an orgy of yearning, lustful hands… And she with alluring, mysterious gazes… 

Mikita was feverish. 

Yes, he had to paint it immediately. Faster, faster, or it would slip away, and then come the wondrous thoughts… 

Falk is no scoundrel! Do you understand, Mikita? Falk is no scoundrel! He shouted it clearly to himself. 

But suddenly, he saw them both gazing at each other in wonder and admiration; he saw their eyes burrowing into one another and then smiling shyly. 

And tonight at Iltis’s: there will surely be dancing. He hadn’t thought of that before. 

Dance… Dance. Isa loves to dance. Isa is a born dancer. It’s her only passion. 

He saw her once, dancing. Everything in him broke. That wild, bacchanalian surge… 

That’s what should be painted—that! Dear Mr. Naturalist. That, how the soul opens and the damned foreign thing crawls out. This monstrous thing—Othello and something like it… 

Disgusting nature! Why could it never be obvious to him that she loved him, had to love him; yes—him—him! He was worth something, if only as an artist. 

Damned conditions! There’s Liebermann painting three stupid sheep in a potato field, or potatoes in a field, or a field with women gathering potatoes, and he gets money and the gold medal. 

And I’ve painted all of humanity and a bit beyond: the inhuman—and got nothing for it. 

Nothing?! Foolish Mikita! Haven’t you seen how the sweet rabble in Hamburg and Paris and, of course, Berlin rolled with laughter? Well! That’s supposed to be nothing? 

And the caricature in *Fliegende Blätter*—didn’t I inspire that? 

I should pay taxes?! Good God, no bread to eat, and pay taxes! Fine state of affairs! They want to seize my things for overdue obligations I supposedly owe the state? What is the state? Who is the state? What do I have to do with it? 

“Are those your paintings?” 

“Of course they’re mine! They’re worth forty thousand marks. Why are you laughing?” 

“Why shouldn’t I laugh? Who’ll buy those things? You won’t get a penny for them.” 

“Sadly, there’s nothing to seize from you.” 

Well then, dear Isa, am I not the great artist? He began to paint and grinned. 

But it gnawed at him, gnawed. 

Strange! What’s so special about Falk? I didn’t fall off the table like little Eyolf. My spine is intact. My brain has ideas too… 

“Have you written the essay, Mikita?” 

“Of course I wrote it, Professor.” “Did no one help you?” 

“Who would help me?” 

“But I clearly see foreign influence, exerting itself in active aggression on your essay.” 

“Well said, Professor, but I wrote the essay myself.” 

“Mikita, don’t be stubborn, admit that Falk sewed silk patches onto your felt slippers. Where is Falk?” 

But Falk was never at school on such occasions. He reported sick and wrote poems at home. 

Suddenly, Mikita grew furious. 

It’s shameful to think of Falk like that. 

Paint me, Mr. Liebermann, this second shameful soul, how it hurls a piece of filth into one’s brain! Paint that for me, and I’ll give you all my paintings, delivered free to your door! 

And Isa is dancing now—with Falk. He knows how. He felt hate. 

Falk, dear Falk, where’s the woman who can resist you? Isa dances, Isa is a dancer. 

“Have you ever believed in anything? Do you know what faith is?” Of course, she didn’t know. 

“Do you know who you are, Isa?” No, she knew nothing. 

“You’re a stranger to yourself, Isa?” She nodded. 

And he, with a faith of a thousand years in his bones! Yes, yes, hence his ridiculous desire to fully possess a woman, the faith in a love that endures centuries. 

He pulled himself together. 

No! He won’t go to Iltis’s: no! Now he’ll see if he can’t control himself… Yes: go there and stand and watch her lying in his arms, so close… 

Mikita tore open his work smock. He felt shamefully hot. To stand there and watch! Othello, with a dagger in his cloak. 

And Iltis winks and says to the Infant: “Isa’s dance is getting to him.” 

A painful restlessness tore at his brain. No, not again! He had to master this. Did he have reason to doubt Isa? 

No! No! 

So, what did he want? 

His restlessness grew. The pain was unbearable. 

Yes, he’ll go. He must show Isa that he’s above it now, that he’s given up doubting. Yes, be merry and dance! 

You can’t do that, dear Mikita! You hop like a poodle in a fairground booth. And you’re small too, smaller than Isa. 

Splendid pair! Splendid pair, those two! 

Mikita had to sit down. It felt as if all his tendons had been cut with a scythe. 

Damn, that hurts! 

“Mikita, come here for a moment.” “What do you want, Professor?” 

“Look, Mikita, it’s really outrageous of you to write such foolish nonsense as that apology. And if you’d at least written it alone, but Falk did it.” 

How was it that he didn’t slap the old man? Suddenly, he stood up. 

Have I gone mad? What do I want from Falk, what do I want from Isa? 

He grew frightened. This was already pathological. It wasn’t the first time. 

When he went from Isa to Brittany to do studies… yes, studies, how to start getting sentimental idiocies. 

Funny Mikita. 

Suddenly, he’d rushed onto the train, in a fit of madness, and raced to Paris, arriving at Isa’s half-crazed. 

“You’re here already?” She found him terribly funny. 

That he didn’t bury himself in the ground from shame! Look, Mikita—he began speaking aloud to himself—you’re an ass, a thorough ass. Love must be taken! Not doubted, not fingered and circled endlessly like a cat around hot porridge, no! Take it, seize it, proud, obvious… Yes, then it works! Conquer! Not as a gift, not as alms! No, dear Mikita, begging won’t do! 

Well, they’re dancing now… 

He began to sing, the only street tune he’d retained: 

*Venant des noces belles, Au jardin des amours 

Que les beaux jours sont courts!* 

Splendid! And the drawing for it by Steinlen in *Gil Blas*. A funny clown, so brusquely dismissed by the girl. Splendid! Splendid! 

*Venant des noces belles, J’étais bien fatigué. 

Je vis deux colombelles, Une pastoure, ô gué!* 

And there was no doubt! No, dear Mikita, how nice it would be if you didn’t have to doubt. Right, little Mikita? 

Yesterday in the cab… 

He stood up and paced hurriedly. Usually, she’d ask me: What’s wrong, Mikita? 

Usually, she’d stroke my hand. 

Usually, she’d silently lean her head on my shoulder. Yesterday, nothing! Not a word! 

“Good night, Mikita!” 

“Good-bye, Fräulein Isa, good-bye!” 

Now he bellowed into his studio with a strong and, of course, false intonation: 

*Venant des noces belles, Au jardin des amours…*

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