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View PDF Flyer. Contents About. Restricted Access. By: A. By: Andreas B. By: Antoine Faivre. Pages: 31— By: Matthias Heiduk. Pages: 47— By: Philipp Theisohn. Pages: 71— By: Wouter J. Pages: 91— By: Nicholas Goodrick-Clarke. Pages: — So I thought. Are you displeased, my Bellarmin? There is yet more that you must hear.
Hyperion to Bellarmin Can you listen, will you understand, if I tell you of my long sickness of grief? Accept me as I present myself, and consider that it is better to die because one has lived than to live because one never lived! Envy not the carefree, the wooden images who want nothing because their souls are so lacking in everything, who do not ask if the sun will shine or the rain fall, because they have nothing to cultivate.
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Yes: yes! Let them enjoy it; who goes into a passion if the wooden target does not cry when the arrow strikes it, if the empty pot gives such a hollow sound when someone throws it against the wall? Often in the morning when I stood at my window and the busy day began to pour in upon me, I could even forget myself for a moment, I could look about me as if I were going to undertake something in which my being could stillfinddelight, as once it did; but then I would rebuke myself, I would recollect myself like one who inadvertently utters a word of his mother tongue in some country where no one understands it—"Where are you going, my heart?
Man wants more than he is capable of! Oh, you have experienced it often enough! This is the heart of all that the wise teach us in forbidding and enticing mysteries. That now and again something rises up in you, and in one instant, like a dying man's mouth, your heart opens itself to you with such power and closes again—that is precisely the fatal symptom. Stop devising! Stop childishly trying to add afootto your height! You have lost all faith in anything great; you are doomed, then, doomed to perish, unless that faith returns, like a comet from unknown skies.
Hyperion to Bellarmin There is aforgettingof all existence, a hush of our being, in which wefeelas if we hadfoundeverything. There is a hush, aforgettingof all existence, in which wefeelas if we had lost everything, a night of our soul, in which no glimmer of any star nor even thefirefroma rotting log gives us light.
I had become quiet. No longer did anything drive mefrombed at midnight. No longer did I singe myself in my own flame. No longer now did far and near jostle together in my mind. Unless menforcedme I did not see them. Once this century lay before my mind's eye like the eternally empty cask of the Danaides, and my soul poured itself out with c prodigal love, tofillthe void; now I saw no more void, now the ennui of life no longer oppressed me.
Never now did I say to theflower,"You are my sister," and to the springs, "We are of one race. Like ariverpast arid banks, where no willow leaf mirrors itself in the water, the worldflowedpast me untouched by beauty. Hyperion to Bellarmin Nothing can grow, nothing so utterly wither away, like man. He often compares his woe with the darkness of the abyss, his bliss with die ether, and how little does that tell of either? But nothing is more beautiful than when, after a long death, it begins to dawn in him and sorrow goes like a brother to meet distantly dawning joy.
Oh, it was with a heavenly anticipation that I now greeted the returning spring!
Like the far music of the beloved's lyre in windless air when all is asleep, so spring's soft melodies sounded about my breast; as iffromdistant Elysium, so Ifeltits coining, when the dead twigs stirred and a soft air brushed my cheek. Lovely sky of Ionia! Never had I so looked to you; but never had my heart been so like you as dien in its playful gaiety, its playful tenderness.
I rose as from a sickbed, quietly and slowly, but my breast trembled so blissfully with secret hopes that I quite forgot to ask what this might mean.
Now once again my eye truly opened—not, to be sure, as once it did, armed and filled with strengthfromwithin me; it had become more entreating, it beggedforlife, but in my heart of hearts it was as if I could be again what once I had been, and better. I looked at men again as if I, too, was to work among them and rejoice with them. What a joke: the wild deer of theforestdriven by hunger to come running into their barnyard! I looked for my Adamas, for my Alabanda, but neither erf them appeared to me.
Finally, I even wrote to Smyrna, and, as I wrote, it was as if all the tenderness and all the strength of humanity were concentrated in that one moment; three times I wrote thus, but no answer came, I implored, threatened, evoked all our hours of love and courage, but no answer camefromhim of imperishable memory,fromhim whom I loved beyond life—"Alabanda! You kept mefromfalling, you were the last hope of my youth! Now I want nothing more, now it is sworn and sealed! But the pain, the pain that no pain equals, is the incessant feeling of utter annihilation when our life loses its meaning, when our heart bids itself "Down!
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I still sought for something, but I did not dare to raise my eyes in the presence of men. I went through hours when I feared the laughter of a child. Had I grown up with Themistocles, had I lived among the Scipios, my soul would never have come to know itself in this light. Hyperion to Bellarmin At times some energy would even yet waken in my spirit. But only for destruction! What is man? How can Nature tolerate this sour grape among her sweet clusters? To the plants he says: I, too, was once like you!
Many a time Tiave I, too, sunk into these bottomless thoughts, and cried out: Why do you lay the axe to my root, pitiless spirit? Oh, once, my brothers in darkness, it was otherwise. Then all was so fair above us, all so fair and joyous before us; our hearts, too, overflowed before the distant, blessed phantoms, our spirits, too, strove upward bold and exulting and broke the barriers—and, when they looked about, alas, there was only endless emptiness.
Have I not twice convinced myself? When I look at life, what is last of all? When I arise in spirit, what is highest of all? But be still, my heart! This is your last strength that you are wasting!
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Your last strength? To be sure, if you other men arericherthan I am, you might just help a little. If your garden is so full of flowers, why does not their breath rejoice me too? Atfeastsno one starves, not even the poorest. But only one holds his feast among you: that is Death.
Sorrow and Fear and Darkness are your lords. They separate you, they drive you together with blows.