Abandoned cat

My father and I went to the beach to abandon the female cat on a summer afternoon.

Father is riding a bicycle, and I sit in the back, holding the cat box. We walked along the Suchuan River to the beach of Xiangshuiyuan, put the box in the windbreak forest, and hurried home without looking back.

In short, my father and I put the cat on the beach in Xiangzhiyuan, said “goodbye”, and rode home. When I got out of the car, I thought it was pitiful, but there was no other way, and I opened the entrance door with a “wow”. Unexpectedly, the cat that had just been thrown away screamed “meow”, raised its tail and greeted us cordially. It turned out to be ahead of us, and it was home long ago.

I still remember the surprise on my father’s face at that time, but the surprise in his expression soon turned into admiration, and finally seemed to be relieved.

In any case, it was a precious and enigmatic life experience. I can still clearly recall the sound of the tide on the shore and the fragrance of the wind passing through the windbreak pine forest.

It is this little thing that has accumulated endlessly that made me look like I am now.

For a long time I avoided writing this chapter. Now it has to be.

When I carefully and carefully selected my hotel room number 65 a fortnight ago, on the whole I had not made a bad choice. The room, brightly and cheerfully papered, has an alcove in which the bed is, and pleased me with its unusual, original floor plan, it has beautiful light and a view of the river and vineyards. Furthermore, it is at the top of the house, so nobody lives above me, and there is hardly any possibility of interference from the street. I chose well. At that time I also asked about the neighbors and received reassuring information. On one side lived an old lady whom in fact I never heard from. On the other side, at number 64, the Dutchman lived! In the course of twelve days, in the course of twelve bitter nights, this gentleman has become extremely important to me,

Nobody I showed it to would believe me. This gentleman from Holland, who has prevented me from working for so many days, for so many nights from sleeping, is neither a rabid berserk nor an enthusiastic musician, he neither comes home drunk at unexpected times, nor does he beat his wife or scold us you, he doesn’t whistle or sing, he doesn’t even snore, at least not so loudly that it bothered me. He is a solid, well-behaved, no longer young man, lives regularly like a clock and has no noticeable vices – how is it possible that this ideal citizen made me suffer so?

It is possible, unfortunately it is a fact. The two main points, the cornerstones of my misfortune, are these: between rooms 64 and 65 is a door, a door that is locked and blocked by a table, but by no means airtight. This is the one misfortune, it cannot be remedied. The second, worse: the Dutchman has a wife. It too cannot be removed from the world by permitted means or from number 64. And then I have the unusual bad luck that my neighbors, just like myself, are among the relatively rare hotel guests who spend most of their day in their rooms.

If I had a wife with me, or if I were a singing teacher, or if I had a piano, a violin, a French horn, a cannon or a kettledrum, I could take up the fight against my Dutch neighbors with the hope of success. As it is, the situation is this: The Dutch couple doesn’t hear a sound from me during the twenty-four hours of the day, they are treated by me like kings and the seriously ill, are ceaselessly showered by me with the unimaginable benefit of perfect, absolute silence. And how do they return this benefit? By sleeping from twelve to six o’clock every night, they grant me six hours of rest every day. I have the choice whether I want to use these hours for work or for sleep, for prayer or meditation. I have no disposal over the other eighteen hours of the day, they do not belong to me, these eighteen hours every day do not take place at all with me, so to speak, but only in number 64. Eighteen hours a day in number 64 people chat, laugh, do the toilet and receive visitors. Guns are not used, nor is music made, nor fights take place, I have to acknowledge this. But there is also no thought, no reading, no meditation, no silence. The conversation is always flowing, there are often four and six people over there together, and in the evening the couple chats until eleven o’clock. Then there is the clink of glass and china, the filing of toothbrushes, the backs of some The conversation is always flowing, there are often four and six people over there together, and in the evening the couple chats until eleven o’clock. Then there is the clink of glass and china, the filing of toothbrushes, the backs of some The conversation is always flowing, there are often four and six people over there together, and in the evening the couple chats until eleven o’clock. Then there is the clink of glass and china, the filing of toothbrushes, the backs of some Chairs and the melodies of the gurgling. Then the beds crack, and then it gets quiet and stays quiet (that should be recognized again) until about six o’clock in the morning, at what hour one of the spouses, I don’t know whether he or she, gets up and shakes the floor , he goes to the bath, will return soon; In the meantime, the bathing hour has come for me too, and from the time I come back the thread of conversations, noises, laughter, chair backing and so on doesn’t break until shortly before midnight again.

If I were a sensible, normal person like others, I would easily put myself into this position. I would give in, since two are stronger than one, and would spend my day somewhere other than my room, in the reading or smoking room, in the corridors, in the Kursaal, in restaurants, like most spa guests do. And at night I would just sleep. Instead, I am obsessed with the arduous, foolish, and grueling passion of sitting alone at my desk for many hours during the day, thinking hard, writing hard, often only to destroy what I have written afterwards; and at night I have a great, ardent longing for sleep, but falling asleep is a complicated twilight process that lasts for hours, and then sleep is very quiet, very thin and brittle, a breath is enough to tear it apart. And if I’m dead tired at ten or eleven o’clock and no matter how close to falling asleep, it doesn’t help, it doesn’t last until I go to sleep as long as the Dutch are socializing next door. And while I wait, exhausted and longingly, until midnight comes, until the man from the Hague gives me permission to fall asleep, by then, by waiting, listening and thinking about tomorrow’s work, I will be so awake and excited again that the Most of the six hours of rest allotted to me pass before I can get some sleep.

Is it necessary to say that I am well aware of how unjustified my request to the Dutchman is to let me sleep more? Is it necessary to say that I know very well that it is not he who is to blame for my bad sleep and my spiritual hobbies, but I alone? However, I am not writing these notes from Baden to accuse others or to wash myself clean, but to record experiences, including the psychopath’s strangely distorted experiences. That other, more complex question about the justification of the psychopath, that terrible and shocking question as to whether under certain time and cultural circumstances it is not more worthy, nobler, more correct to become a psychopath than to adapt to these circumstances of the time by sacrificing all ideals – I leave this dire question, the question of all differentiated minds since Nietzsche, untouched on these pages; it is the subject of almost all of my writings anyway.

Due to the circumstances mentioned above, the Dutch has become a problem for me. I can’t quite explain to myself why, in thoughts and words, I only ever deal with the Dutchman, in the singular. It’s a couple, there are two. But be it that out of instinctive gallantry I show the woman more tolerance than the man, be it that the voice and the somewhat heavy step of the man are actually particularly annoying to me, in any case it is not “them”, but it is “the” Dutchman I suffer from. This instinctive transition of the woman in my feelings of enmity and the mythization of the man to the enemy and antipode is partly based on very deep, elementary instincts: the Dutch, the man with the strong health, the prosperous appearance,

He is a gentleman of about forty-three years of age, of medium height, of strong, somewhat stocky build, which gives the impression of health and normalcy. The face and figure are stout and plump, but not in such a way that it is noticeable; the big strong head with something heavy eyelids appear massive and press on the whole figure that he sits on a weakly accentuated, slightly short neck. Health and body weight, although the Dutchman moves measuredly and has excellent manners, unfortunately make his movements and steps more powerful and audible than desirable for his neighbor. His voice is deep and even, neither in pitch nor in strength changes much, the whole personality, viewed neutrally, appears serious, reliable, calming, almost sympathetic. On the other hand, it is somewhat annoying that he is prone to small colds (which, by the way, all Baden spa guests do), which make him cough and sneeze violently; in these tones a certain force and strength is expressed.

So this gentleman from The Hague has the misfortune of being my neighbor, during the day the enemy, threatening and often destroying my intellectual work, part of the night the enemy and destroying my sleep. Not every day, however, did I find its existence a punishment and a burden. There were several warm and sunny days on which I was allowed to do my work in the open air; In the hotel garden in a small, hidden wood, with my portfolio on my knees, I filled my sheets of paper, thought my thoughts, pursued my dreams or read contentedly in my Jean Paul. On all cool and rainy days however, and there were very many of them, and all day long I faced the enemy wall to wall; While I hung silently and tensely at my desk over my activities, the Dutchman paced up and down next door, filled the basin, spat the basin full, threw himself into the armchair, talked to his wife, laughed with her at jokes, received visitors. For me, the hours were often very tedious. In the meantime I had a tremendous amount of help, namely my work. I am not a work hero and I do not deserve any industry awards, but if I have ever begun to be filled and enchanted by a vision or a series of thoughts, if I have ever reluctantly enough tried to try to convert these thoughts into a To bring shape then I’m dogged by this company and don’t know anything else that is important to me. There were hours when the whole of Holland Kirmes could celebrate in number 64, it hardly affected me, because I was charmed and accepted by the lonely, fantastic and dangerous puzzle that caught me, I ran hotly with a convulsive pen after my thoughts, composed sentences , chose among influx of associations, stubbornly fished for the appropriate words. The reader may laugh a lot about it, but for us writers, writing is always a great, exciting thing, a trip in the smallest boat on the high seas, a lonely flight through it Fantastic and dangerous patience that clamped me in, I ran hotly with a convulsive pen after my thoughts, built sentences, chose among flowing associations, stubbornly fished for the appropriate words. The reader may laugh a lot about it, but for us writers, writing is always a great, exciting thing, a trip in the smallest boat on the high seas, a lonely flight through it Fantastic and dangerous patience that clamped me in, I ran hotly with a convulsive pen after my thoughts, built sentences, chose among flowing associations, stubbornly fished for the appropriate words. The reader may laugh a lot about it, but for us writers, writing is always a great, exciting thing, a trip in the smallest boat on the high seas, a lonely flight through it Alles. While looking for a single word, choosing from three available words, at the same time keeping in mind and ear the whole sentence that you are building on – while you forge the sentence, while you carry out the chosen construction and tighten the screws of the framework to have the tone and proportions of the whole chapter, the whole book somehow mysteriously always present in the feeling at the same time: that is an exciting activity. I only know a similar tension and concentration from my own experience in painting. It is exactly the same there: coordinating each individual color correctly and carefully with the neighboring color is pretty and easy, you can learn that and then practice it as often as you like. Beyond that, however, all parts of the picture consistently

So there is such a strong need to concentrate in literary work that one can easily overcome external hindrances and disturbances when the production instinct is very tense. The author, who only seems to be able to work at a comfortable table, in the best light, with his own customary writing material, on special paper, etc., is suspicious to me. One instinctively looks for all external reliefs and conveniences, but where they are not available, one can do without them. And so I often succeeded in writing a distance or insulating wall between me and number 64, which protected me for a productive hour. As soon as I began to tire, however, and the accumulated lack of sleep contributed greatly to this, the disturbances were there again.

Sleeping was much worse than work. I do not want to present my theory of insomnia, which is purely psychologically based. I am only saying that that temporary immunity against Holland, my concentration on my way away from number 64, probably always succeeded at work, with the help of inspiring powers, but that my attempts at sleep did not share this happiness.

The insomniac now, when he is exposed to his suffering for a long time, directs, as most people do in states of nervous overtiredness, feelings of rejection, hatred, even the lust for annihilation both against himself and against the immediate environment. Since the immediate vicinity consisted exclusively of Holland for me, feelings of aversion, bitterness, and hatred for Holland slowly accumulated in me during the sleepless nights, which could not be dissipated during the day, since the tension and disturbance persisted. I lay in bed through the Dutchman prevented from sleeping, feverish with exhaustion and unsatisfied need for rest, and when I heard the neighbor next door take his full, firm, solid steps, make his firm, firm movements, form his pithy tones, then I felt a rather vehement hatred for him .

Nevertheless, during this situation I was always aware to a certain extent of the stupidity of my hatred; in between I could smile at my hatred for a moment and thereby break the tip off. But it became fatal to me when this intrinsically impersonal hatred, directed only against the disturbances of my sleep, against my own nervousness, against the leaky door, was less and less neutralized and distributed over the course of the days, as it gradually became more and more foolish, more and more one-sided and became more personal. In the end it didn’t help that I held the Dutchman’s personal innocence against myself and proved it. I simply hated him, and not just in those moments when he actually bothered me, when in the middle of the night his loud striding Talking and laughing maybe was inconsiderate indeed. No, I hated him right now, with the right, naive, stupid hatred with which an unsuccessful little Christian merchant hates the Jews or a communist the capitalists, with that stupid, animal, irrational and basically cowardly or envious kind of hatred , which I always regret so much in others, who poisoned politics, business, the public and of which I would not have considered myself capable. I no longer just hated his cough, his voice, but him himself, his real person, and when he met me somewhere during the day, happy and unsuspecting, it was for me an encounter with a determined enemy and pest, and all my philosophy was enough only so far that I did not allow my feelings to be expressed. His smooth, happy face, his thick eyelids, his thick, happy lips, his stomach in the fashionable vest, his walking and behavior, all together I hated and hated, and most of all I hated all the innumerable signs of his strength, health and Resilience, his laughter, his good mood, the energy of his movements, the superior apathy of his gaze, all these signs of his biological and social superiority. Of course, in this way it was easy to be healthy and in a good mood and to play the satisfied gentleman, if one lived day and night from sleep, from the strength of others, if one was always considerate, quiet, and in control of his neighbors enjoyed and swallowed, but knew no inhibitions himself, shook the air and house with sounds and vibrations day and night at will. May this or that fetch him, this gentleman from Holland! I also vaguely remembered the flying one benefited from the strength of others when one always enjoyed and swallowed the consideration, the quiet behavior, the domination of one’s neighbors, but knew no inhibitions oneself, shaking the air and house with sounds and vibrations day and night at will. May this or that fetch him, this gentleman from Holland! I also vaguely remembered the flying one benefited from the strength of others when one always enjoyed and swallowed the consideration, the quiet behavior, the domination of one’s neighbors, but knew no inhibitions oneself, shaking the air and house with sounds and vibrations day and night at will. May this or that fetch him, this gentleman from Holland! I also vaguely remembered the flying one Holländers – wasn’t that a cursed demon and tormentor too? But I especially remembered that Dutchman whom the poet Multatuli once drew, those fat connoisseurs and money collectors whose wealth and rich bonhomie were based on the suckling of the Malays. Good multatuli!

Friends of mine, who are more closely acquainted with my way of thinking and feeling, my faith and imagination, can imagine how much I suffered from this unworthy condition, how much this compulsive hatred of an innocent, which my heart does not approve of, disturbs and torments me had to – not because of the innocence of my “enemy” and because of the injustice that I did him in my feelings, but above all because of the absurdity of my behavior, because of the deep, fundamental contradiction between my practical behavior and everything in which mine Know, my belief, my religion existed. I do not believe in anything in the world so deeply, no other idea is so sacred to me as that of unity, the idea that the whole of the world is a divine unity and that all suffering, all evil consists only in the fact that we as individuals no longer perceive ourselves as inseparable parts of the whole, that the ego takes itself too seriously. I had suffered a lot of suffering in my life, done a lot of injustice, caused me a lot of stupid and bitter things, but again and again I had succeeded to redeem myself, to forget and surrender my self, to feel the unity, to recognize the dichotomy between inside and outside, between me and world as an illusion and to enter into unity with closed eyes willingly. It had never been easy for me, no one could have less aptitude for saints than I; but nevertheless I had met again and again that miracle to which the Christian theologians gave the beautiful name of “grace”, that divine experience of reconciliation, of no longer resisting, of willing agreement, which is nothing other than the Christian surrender of the self or the self Indian knowledge of unity. Oh, and now I was once again so completely outside of the unity, an isolated, suffering, hating, hostile self. There were others too, of course, I was not alone in this, There were a multitude of people whose whole life was a struggle, a warlike self-assertion of the ego against the environment, to whom the idea of ​​unity, love, harmony was unknown and would have appeared strange, foolish and weak, yes, the whole practical one The average religion of modern man consisted in glorifying the self and its struggle. But to feel at ease in this sense of self and struggle was only possible for the naive, the strong, unbroken natural beings; the one who knows, who has become seeing in suffering, who has become differentiated in suffering the whole practical, average religion of modern man consisted in a glorification of the ego and its struggle. But to feel at ease in this sense of self and struggle was only possible for the naive, the strong, unbroken natural beings; the one who knows, who has become seeing in suffering, who has become differentiated in suffering the whole of the average practical religion of modern man consisted in a glorification of the ego and its struggle. But to feel at ease in this sense of self and struggle was only possible for the naive, the strong, unbroken natural beings; the one who knows, who has become seeing in suffering, who has become differentiated in suffering It was forbidden to find their happiness in this struggle, happiness was only conceivable for them in the surrender of the ego, in the experience of unity. Oh, probably those simple-minded people who could love themselves and hate their enemies, probably those patriots who never had to doubt themselves because they themselves were never in the least to blame for all the misery and misery of their country, but of course the French or the Russians or the Jews, no matter who, just always a different one, an “enemy”! Perhaps these people, nine-tenths of the living, were really happy in their barbaric original religion, perhaps they lived enviable happily and easily in their armor of stupidity or of extremely cunning hostility to think – although this too was highly doubtful, because where was a common standard for the happiness of those people and mine,

It was on a long, excruciatingly long night that I thought these thoughts. I lay, the victim of the Dutchman next door, who coughed, spat and ran up and down, hot and overtired in bed, my eyes overstrained from long reading (what else was I going to do?), And felt that now this state, this torment and shame absolutely had to be ended. Hardly was this clarity, this conviction or resolution flashed in me, as cold as morning light, hardly was it clear and firm in front of my soul: “This must soon be suffered to the end and brought to a solution ”, then the usual vulgar fantasies first appeared in me, as they are well known to every nervous person in moments of particular pain. Only two ways, it seemed, could lead out of this miserable situation; I had to choose one of them: either kill myself or deal with the Dutchman, take him by the throat and defeat him. (He was just coughing again with impressive energy.) Both ideas were beautiful and redeeming, if a little childish. It was nice to think of putting yourself aside in one of the usual, often considered ways, with the typical childish suicidal feeling: “It’ll serve you right if I cut my throat.” The other idea of ​​grabbing the Dutchman instead of mine was also nice ,

These naive fantasies of wiping out either myself or the enemy were soon exhausted. You could give yourself to them for a while, take refuge in ideal images, which quickly withered and lost their magic, because after a short wandering through this maze the wish was exhausted and I had to admit to myself that these wishes were merely exaltations of the moment, that I yes, neither mine nor the Dutchman’s annihilation really and seriously wish. Its removal would have been sufficient. I now tried to dress this distance in pictures, I turned on the light, took the course book out of the bedside table drawer and took the trouble of putting together a complete travel plan according to which the Dutchman should leave early tomorrow and reach his home as quickly as possible. This activity gave me a little pleasure, I saw the man get up in an eerie, cool morning, saw and heard him go to the toilet for the last time in number 64, put on his boots, slam the door, saw him go to the train station and leave, shivering, saw him scolded him with French customs officers at eight o’clock in the morning in Basel, and the further my ideal had pushed him away, the easier it became for me. But already in Paris my imagination failed

They were gimmicks. The enemy, the enemy in myself, could not be overcome in such a simple, inexpensive way. It was not a question of taking any revenge on the Dutchman, it was just a matter of gaining a valuable, positive and worthy attitude towards him. My task was very clear: I had to break down my worthless hatred, I had to love the Dutchman. Then he might spit and roar, I was superior to him, I was safe. If it’s me succeeded in loving him, then all health, all vitality no longer helped him, then he was mine, then his image no longer opposed the idea of ​​unity. Well then, the goal was worthy, it was a matter of making good use of my sleepless night!

As simple as the task was, it was difficult, and it really took me almost that night to solve it. I had to transform the Dutchman, rework him, out of the object of my hatred, out of the source of my suffering, he had to be recreated, had to be poured into the object of my love, my interest, my participation and brotherhood. If I didn’t succeed in doing this, I couldn’t muster the heat for this remelting, then I was lost, then the Dutchman got stuck in my throat, and I had to choke on him for days and nights. All I had to do was fulfill that wonderful word “love your enemies.” I had long been used to taking all these strangely compelling words of the New Testament not just morally, not as commands like “You should”, and that the whole theory of love of the New Testament, besides all its other meanings, also has the meaning of a psychic technique of the greatest thought out. In this case it was obvious that the youngest and most naive psychoanalyst could only have confirmed that between me and my salvation there was only the unfulfilled demand to love my enemy.

Well, it worked, it didn’t get stuck in my throat, it was melted down. But it wasn’t easy, it cost sweat and work, it cost two or three hours of intense tension at night. But then it was done.

I started by forcing the figure of the feared to be as sharp as possible in front of my soul, until there was no hand and no finger on the hand, until no shoe, no eyebrow, no crease in the cheek was missing, until I was completely in front of it saw me, possessed him completely inside, could make him walk, sit, laugh and sleep. I imagined him brushing his teeth in the morning and falling asleep on the pillow at night, I saw the eyelids getting tired, saw his neck relax and his head wither softly. It took me about an hour to get him this far. Much was gained with that. To love something, that means for the poet: absorb it in his imagination, warm it there and cherish it, play with it, penetrate it with your own soul, animate it with your own breath. So did I with my enemy until he was mine and entered me. Without his neck, which was a little too short, it would not have worked, but the neck came to my aid. I would like to undress or dress the Dutchman, put him in breeches or a frock coat, in a rowboat or at a lunch table, I would like to make him a soldier, a king, a beggar, a slave, an old man or a child, in any way changed shape, he had a short neck and slightly protruding eyes. This mark was his weak point, here I had to attack him. It took me a long time to succeed in making the Dutchman younger, before I could see him as a young husband, as a bridegroom, as a student and at school. When I finally succeeded to transform him back into a little boy, then the neck won my sympathy for the first time. On the gentle path of compassion he won my heart when I saw this strong and energetic boy worrying his parents with these faint signs of an asthmatic disposition. I continued on the gentle path of compassion, and it took little art to produce the years and stages to come. When I was ready to see the whole man, aged ten years, suffer his first stroke, suddenly everything about him spoke so touchingly, the plump lips, the when I saw this strong and energetic boy worrying his parents by these faint signs of an asthmatic disposition. I continued on the gentle path of compassion, and it took little art to produce the years and stages to come. When I was ready to see the whole man, aged ten years, suffer his first stroke, suddenly everything about him spoke so touchingly, the plump lips, the when I saw this strong and energetic boy worrying his parents by these faint signs of an asthmatic disposition. I continued on the gentle path of compassion, and it took little art to produce the years and stages to come. When I was ready to see the whole man, aged ten years, suffer his first stroke, suddenly everything about him spoke so touchingly, the plump lips, the The heavy eyelid, the not flexible voice, everything gained advertising power, and even before he had suffered the imaginary death in my intense imagination, his humanity, his weakness, his dying had come so close to me that I had long loved him and had no resistance had more against him. I was happy then, closed my eyes completely and closed my own, for it was morning and I was hanging, completely exhausted from my long nighttime poetry, like a ghost in the pillow.

On the following day and night I had ample opportunity to discover that I had defeated Holland. People might laugh or cough, no matter how healthy they appeared, no matter how booming they were, they might move chairs or make jokes, nothing threw me off balance. During the day I could work reasonably well, at night I could reasonably rest.

My triumph was great, but I did not enjoy it for long. On the second morning after Victory Night, the Dutchman suddenly left, which made him the victor again, and left me strangely disappointed, since I no longer had any use for my hard-won love and incontestability. His departure, which I had longed so dearly, now almost hurt me.

In his place, a little gray lady moved into number 64 with one of those rubber-shoeed sticks that I rarely saw or heard. She was an ideal neighbor, she never bothered me, never aroused anger and enmity in me. But I can only now, retrospectively, acknowledge that. For several days the new neighborhood was a constant disappointment to me, I would much rather have had my Dutchman there again, him whom I could finally have loved.