Die Leiden des alten Werther

 Werther heisse ich nicht; das geb ich zu; aber das Fûrwort alt? Das trifft, das trifft, leider, leider leider, trifft das genau.

Obwohl ich klage, klage ich, im Grunde, nicht. Die Knien tun mir dann und wann weh; Rûckenschmerzen, die mich ab und zu zwingen, den Boden anstatt den Himmel im Sichtfeld zu bewahren; die Muskeln, die mit den Jahren immer schwächer werden, usw, ja, das erwartet einer, der dem 80. Geburtstag entgegenkommt.

Ich bin, bis jetzt, trotz allem, glücklich. Das Schicksal, dem wir alle bevorstehn, lässt mich noch Bewegungsraum; die Wände kommen langsamer als durchschnitlich zusammen; einige wenige Jahrringe mehr als in dem Stumpf des Nachbars wird man in meinem Fall wohl zählen können, als die Bäume meiner Genration längst gefällt sind.

Aber die Vereinsamung, dass der Menschenbaurm fühlt, als er plötzlich bemerkt, nicht nur dass seine Rinde dicker und schwächer wird; nicht nur dass er dem Boden unabzwinglich näherkommt, sondern dass er wahrnehem muss, als die Sonne hinter Wolken verschwindet,  dass die Nachbarn, die neben ihm stehen, selbst wenn er sie im Lebenstaumel kaum bemerkt, einer nach dem anderen fallen; die Beziehungsverlust, ja das ist der schlechster und unabwendbarer Schreck des Alters--Blitztrotz können "immer" dem Himmel seine Zweige zeigen, aber dass der Blitz schon die Nachbarn getroffen hat, diese Kenntniss lässt ihn lange Zeit erstarrt, trost- und hiflflos im Restwald dastehen, ganz allein.

Mein erster deutscher Bandwurmsatz!

1.

Warum  diese düsteren Gedanken? Was ist geschehen? Ein Memento Mori? Ja. Eine Beziehungsverlust? Doch.

1965 verliess ich das Chaos im Haus, um zwei Semester an der Freibruger Uni (Junior Year Abroad, University of Madison) zu verbringen. Ich bin nicht deutscher Herkunft; das wenige Schuldeutsch, das ich damals sprach, hätte Goethe einen Ohnmachtsanfall geben müssen. (Als ich 1966 mit dem Schiff wieder nach Hause fuhr, hätte er mich nur mit einem Stirnrunzeln  erwidert, wenn ich ihn auf deutsch befragte, warum seine letzten Worte Mehr Licht waren. Ja, viele Stil- und grammatische Fehler sind in diesem Blog sicherlich vorhanden.

Wir waren eine Gruppe von ungefähr 30 jungen Amerikaner ("Auch ich war ein Jüngling mit lockigem Haar" Kennen Sie das?) Wir trafen uns als Gruppe jeden Wochentagsmorgen für Vorlesungen, und später noch bei Professoren an der Uni. Ein Mädchen namens Jean Stratman lernte ich ffast sofort kennen. Sie war süss, mittelgross, mit braunen Augen und braunem Haar. Ein bisschen schüchtern und wortkarg; manchmal, wenn sie nicht wusste, was zu sagen, brachte ihr Mund in ein ansteckbares Lächeln aus, das ich noch fast vor Augen sehen kann. Sie war mittelgross and ein bisschen untersetzt. Sehr Mittelwestlich, im amerikanischen Sinn des Wortes, war sie, wie die meisten von uns: sie nannte, zum Beispiel, ihre Katze, "Fluffy Ruffles Kitty Kat Stratman lll"--wir waren alle damals an der Scheidgrenze zwischen Kindheit und Erwachensensein.

Sie befreundete sich mit einem jungen deutschen Mediziner, M. Michael Peith; wir waren bald alle drei Freunde. Ihre Freundschaft mit ihm ging aber bedeutend tiefer; sie wurde bald schwanger. Ehe sie entbunden war, wurden sie Mann und Frau.

Michael, wir wir alle ihn nannten, war mittelgross und ein bisschen untersetzt auch. Seine Beine wirkten ein bisschen zu kurz für seien verhähltnissmässig grossen Kopf; aus diesem Grund sah er noch jünger aus, als er war. Sehr klug war er, mit Interessen ausser Medizin. Zum Beispiel, erinnere ich mich an einen Tag, währenddem er aus dem schwedischen übersetzte. Noch ein Beispiel: er schwärmte, ehe er Jean kennenlernte, mit einer jungen Studentin für der Mann ohne Eigenschaften von Musil. Ihre Familie sollte aus dem ehemaligen Adel stammen. Einmal, als sie uns (Jean und ich) vorbeiging, deutete Jean auf sie und flüsterte, höhnisch: "Da geht die Prinzessin!" 

Wir sahen uns fast täglich. Jean betete Michael an; für sie war er ein Abgott mit einem Stethoskop; er war auch sehr verliebt in sie. Als wir einst zu dritt in einem Restaurant assen, äugelten sie sich so dämlich an, dass ich es nicht mehr ausstehen konnte. "Glotzt aber nichr so romantisch," sagte ich mit Humor, aber mit Nachdruck auch. Zurück zur Wirklichkeit habe ich sie momentan gebracht, aber gedauert hat das nicht lange. Schön ist die Jugend, sie kommt nicht mehr.

Michael hat mich einer seinen Bekannten vorgestellt. Sie hiess Barbara Drinkuth. Sie wurde bald diesem schüchternen Menschen die erste Freudin, die er je geliebt hatte. Ich erinnere mich an den ersten Kuss auf einer Wanderung im Schwarzwald. Wir versteckten uns hinter einer Decke, die ich über unsere Köpfe hielt, damit die Blätter glecihsam unsere vermutlichen Schandtaten nicht sehen könnten. Ach die Schüchternheit, sie kommt immer wieder, und vergeht nicht so leicht.

Barbara hatte Fuchshaar, ein volles Gesicht, schöne, volle Lippen, die über eine Tizianfigur herrschte. Sie kam aus Bad Pyrmont in der Nähe von Hannover; später, als wir uns besser kannten, verbrachte ich eine Woche bei ihr und ihrer Familie. Ihr Vater war eine Persöhnlichkeit; sie imponierte mir. Ich erinnere mich als ich ihr sagte, "Dein Vater malt die Welt mit seinen eigenen Farben." Später kam es heraus, dass er ein Richter während der Nazizeit war. "Wie könnte er Menschen zum Tode verurteilen," weinte sie mir viel später vor. Schrecklich. Ich spüre immer noch den Schauder, der damals über mich ging, indem sie mir dieses erzählte, Schrecklich. Aber das war nicht ihre Schuld.

Antisemit war er aber vermutlich nicht. Als Barbara mich in New York besuchte, besuchten wir ihre "Tante" Lizzi und ihre zwei Töchter, eine jüdische Familie; Lizzi und ihr verstorbener Gatte flohen nach die USA als Hitler an die Macht kam.  Sie hatten eine grosse Wohnung in The Dakota Apartments, wo man Rosemary's Baby verfilmte und zu dessen Eingang John Lennon 1980 ermordert war. Alle drei Jahren, oder so ungefähr, sahen sich die deutsch-jüdische und die deutsch-goyische Familie in der Schweiz wieder. Ob Barbaras Vater ihnen halfen, zu fliehen? Ich bin nicht sicher, aber ich glaube schon.

Eine letzte Anekdote über Barbara. Eines Tages, während ihres Besuchs bei mir in New York, endeten wir unseres schönen Herumbummeln im Central Park. Wir parkten irgendwo nebenbei und gingen spazieren. Wir parkten illegal, dachte ich mir, und ich hatte Recht. Als wir zurückamen, bemerkten wir dass ein Polizist neben dem Auto auf uns wartete. Oy! Ein Strafzettel oder noch Schlimmeres steht uns bevor, dachte ich mir. (Barbara und ich sprachen untereinander deutsch, aber sie konnte gut Englisch.) Schnell flüsterte ich ihr zu, dass sie jetzt ihr Englisch vergessen soll. Der Polizist brüllte vor Zorn; wir aber gaben vor, dass wir kein Wort verstanden. So viel Unsinn redeten wir auf deutsch! Wir gaben nicht nach. Er hatte keine Ahnung, dass einer von uns ein waschechter Amerikaner war! Endlich, frustriert, zeigte er uns mit einer klaren Geste, dass wir gehen konnten. Und das haben wir getan.

2.

Die Schwangersachaft kam im Jahre 1966 oder 1967 erfolgreich zum Ende: der Baby--der jetzt, Gott! 56 Jahre alt ist--hiess Ted. Jean, noch ehe er geboren wurde, gab ihm den Kosenamem, "Piglet". Als ich 1969 Jean, Michael und Barbara besuchte, gingen wir an einem heissen Juli Tag schwimmen. (Ich weiss, dass das Jahr 1969 war, weil ich mich ganz genau erinnerte, dass ich mit einer Menge Bewunderer in einem Freibirger Schaufenster fernsah, als die Amerikaner am Mond landeten--das war den 29, Juli, 1969). Alle Kinder unter fünf liefen ruhig nackt im Schwimmbad umher, aber nicht Piglet. Mit Herablassung sagte sie mir, dass wir Amerikaner so was nicht tun.

Michael emigrierte nach Amerika, und hatte einer langen erfolgreichen Laufbahn als Gastrolog bei  Verternas Hospital in Marion, eine Kleinstadt im Bundesstat Illinois. Er hatte weitere Kinder, aber Ted als Toddler war der einzige, den ich je getroffen habe.

Wir schrieben uns oft, zuerst brieflich, und dann als Briefe wie Dinosaurier ausgestorben waren, tauschten wir e-mails. Wir besprachen Literatur, Wisssenschaft, Bonobos und dergleichen mehr. Einmal überprüfte er mein Deutsch, als ich 1996 ein Gedichtsband, "Copperhead Cane" ins Deutsch übersetazte. (Der Verlag hat mich eingeladen, die Gedichte eines amerikanischen Germanisten und Professors als Geburtstaggeschenk zu verdeutschen. Sie glaubten dass ich Deutscher war!) Auf der letzten Seite des Buches steht geschrieben: "He (d.h. ich) would like to mention Dr. Michael Petith, who read over the translations and made suggestions." 

Michael, Jahre später, hat mir eine Schrift, "Musikstudien," von seinem beliebten Onkel, Rudolf Müller Chappius, der Pianist vom Beruf war, geschickt, weil ich mich für Musik als unterdurchschnittlicher Kalvierspieler so sehr interessierte. Das er mir sein einziges Exemplar schenkte, zeigt wie eng unsere Freundschaft war.

Aber die langen Kilometer zwischen uns nach und nach kühlte die Beziehung. (Er besuchte meine Frau und mich in Baltimore um 1982; er war allein, weil er sich von Jean schon geschieden hatte).  Er war derselbe Michael, obwohl älter--und dicker.  Auf seine Gesundheit soll er, der teure Freund, besser aufpassen, sagte ich mir.

Wir waren also befreundet seit 1965--alle meine Schulkameraden sind entweder gestorben oder verschwunden. Er war der ältester Freund, den ich das Glück hatte, zu kennen. Nach einer Strecke von anderthalb Jahren, hatte ich plötzlich vor, ihm eine e-mail zu schicken. Daran habe ich lange Zeit gedacht, aber leider nicht getan. Ich wusste nicht warum er mich nicht beantworte--bis ich im Internet seinen Nachruf las.

Ruhe im Frieden, Michael. Ich werde Dich vermissen; Dir zur Ehre habe ich diese Erinnerungen auf deutsch geschrieben, die Sprache, die wir meistens unter uns benutzten. Obgleich wir uns in den letzten Jahren kaum noch schrieben, war es immer ein grosser Trost, ein gutes Gefühl, dass Du noch auf Erden warst. Jetzt bist du ein Haufen Asche. Ich kann mir das kaum vorsstellen. Aber das muss ich; ich habe keine Wahl. Nebenbei füge ich hinzu, dass Barbara schon längst tot ist. Ich werde oft an Dich denken, Michael. Jean ist von Alzheimers schwer belastet.

Ja, der schrecklichster Teil des Alters ist, wie schon geschrieben, die Beziehungsverlust, dass der Tod mit sich bringt.

Mein Zauberjahr in Deutschland ist jetzt ein Wintermärchen. Aber märchenhaft war es doch.

Two Poems by Sarah Kirsch

Wintergarten I

Ich liege unter dem Eis ausgestreckt

In einer Haut durchsichtigen Lichts.

Die Fische stoßen das Eis an, die Sonne

Stehet darüber, ich fühle

Zaunkönigs spitze Gesänge. Länger

Herrscht schwarze polternde windige Nacht.

Dröhnen und Brechen von Eis. Schwer

Lastet das Meer auf mir und dem Land.

Wintergarten II

Wir haben hier inzwischen

Alle zu trinken angefangen.

Die Bäume und Hirsche auf den

Tapeten haben Sehnsucht ins

Freie gelangen.

Fenster und Türen sind

Auf immer vernagelt und

Gänzlich verschlossen. Niemand

Kann sagen was für eine

Jahreszeit herrscht.

Und wie mein Herz jagt! Klopft es

Aus Angst oder Sehnsucht? Ich weiß

Nur daß ich auf etwas warte ent-

Weder auf dich oder den Tod.

Ach wie unglücklich wir

Alle sind und rauchen

Schweres betäubendes Zeug.

Winter Garden I

I lie stretched out under the ice

In a skin of transparent light.

Fish bump into the ice, the sun

Standeth above, I feel

The wren’s sharp songs. Longer

Black thundering windy night will prevail.

Roaring and breaking of ice. Heavily

The sea burdens me and the land.

Winter Garden II

In the meantime here we’ve

All begun to drink.

The trees and deer on the

Wallpaper yearn to

Break free.

Windows and doors are

Nailed shut forever and

Completely locked. No one

Can say what kind of

Season it is.

And how my heart races! Does it beat

From fear or yearning? I only

Know I wait for something

Either for you or for death.

Ah how unhappy we

All are and smoke

Heavy mind-numbing junk.

– Translated by Thomas Dorsett

(Both poems and translations appeared in Edition Sixteen (2021) of The Loch Raven Review.

Sarah Kirsch (1935-2013) was a very important German poet. Many writers of her generation came from East Germany; Kirsch was no exception. She was called "the most prominent woman poet of that generation." She was the recipient of many prizes and awards. She had, I would  like to add, a very sensitive ear; her best poems read exceptionally well.

The Royals Are Racist? Surprise!

I received, a few hours ago, an injection of the drug Eylia in each eye, and ‘can’t see a thing’--so why not blindly type a blog entry? It just might be of interest, however slight, to those of you who come across it.

1.

Our family, most of whom live abroad, have formed a What’s App group. We are notified of each new post by a harp arpeggio on our smart phones. We’ve been getting lots of arpeggios lately.

A frequent subject  recently has been the royal family of Britain. As you undoubtedly know by now, two prominent members of the House of Windsor, Harry and Meghan, the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, have absconded to California, where they were interviewed by Oprah Winfrey. Meghan, who is not only biracial but American as well, was, she asserts, driven to despair by the treatment she received in Buckingham Palace;  apparently, and undoubtedly, racism (surpise!) had a significant role to play in her feelings of isolation. Some of my relatives were for the abolishment of British royalty altogether, others thought the often not-so-merrie-England was better off with the tradition, symbolism and pageantry the royals provide. What’s my take on all this? (Not that you should care much what I think; I hardly do myself. But the slurs of the Sirs and the shade-conscious Ladies have been a subject of conversation around the world, so why not cast my penny's worth of opinion onto the  heap of worthless, pound-foolish, nugatory crap?)

First, I’d like to discuss my connection to British royalty, which is admittedly a thin one, and growing thinner as the years pass. My great-grandparents on my mother’s side, James and Ella Hammond, migrated to the United States in 1888. Prior to that, they were employed in a large estate somewhere around Manchester, England. She was the chief cook there; he was the chief butler. They were in charge of many employees, cooks, scullery maids, butlers, etc. (Do you remember the PBS series Upstairs/Downstairs from the 1970s? I imagine it was like that, although I’m not sure). My relatives were both of the Downstairs variety; the closest they got to royalty was serving them steak and eggs in the morning and fussing over other household needs.  The entire family, as far as I know, came no closer to those of so-called  noble birth than that. (Note the ironic 'so-called'—I am a proud member of the proletariat).

Something happened around 1888 which led to the secret elopement of Ella and James; they disappeared without a trace. I imagine he got her pregnant, a major scandal in those days—what else?

After my grandfather was born, after Ella and James were properly married, they retuned to Manchester for a visit. Their arrival caused a big to-do. The sudden disappearance of the couple—they apparently did not leave a note—startled many of the downstairs people, and undoubtedly some of the upstairs ones as well; many expected that foul play had occurred, perhaps a double suicide. It had been covered in the papers. (England had her tabloids even then).  A local body of water had been drained in a search to find them, perhaps locked in a skeletal embrace. (It made the tabloids again—wish I had a copy of one of them!)

I have no documents to support any of this, but I don’t doubt its accuracy. James, my great-grandfather, was, I imagine, at a loss in the United States. My grandfather told me that at one time he was peddling eggs in lower Manhattan. I know nothing else about him,

Grandfather, Walter Hammond, went into business making lamps. Clients would present him with vases and other such things;  he would subsequently fashion them into lamps. He had a shop on 49^th Street in Manhattan; while it lasted, which included my early years, the business did very well. He eventually had enough money to purchase a three-story house on Congress Street in Jersey City in1948. This was the house I grew up in. He rented the upper two floors to his daughter, Mabel, my mother, and to his son-in-law, for a nominal fee. My father, Robert, was a troubled man; without my grandfather’s help, I don’t know what we would have done.

Now you know how close we got to royalty. I picture my great-grandfather ordering a white-gloved lackey to go upstairs and present the Master with the mail on a silver plate. If I had been asked to do such a thing, my reply would have not been polite. (Yankee individualism? For many Americans, it’s a comfortable disease.)

 

2.

I guess I have inherited some Yankee antipathy toward royalty. Opposition to monarchy has a long tradition in the United States. Regarding our founding fathers, Hamilton at one point wanted a king, presumably Washington, but he met with still opposition from Jefferson, Madison and others. (Our current royalty are the greedy-for-green masters of untrammeled capitalism.)

One can’t fail to appreciate, however, the long list of English kings and queens, that began with King Æthelstan in the 10^th century, and is still, while not going strong, still going. This makes the study of English (and, to a lesser degree, French) history not only more consequential, but more comprehensible as well. Comparing English history, to, say, the history of Eastern Europe, is like comparing a Bach cello suite to the suite for toy piano by John Cage.  The latter might be interesting, but the former is essential. The chaos, say, of the history of the Holy Roman Empire compared to the history of England, is striking. The success of the latter is in no small part due to England being a unified country ruled by kings and queens.

The English, unique in history as far as I know, have had the genius to be able to progress from absolute rule to a functioning democracy without having to cut off heads. French and Russian royalty, along with their power, disappeared by guillotine at the Place de la Concorde for the former, and by bullets at Yakaterinburg for the latter. Only England, among the major nations of Europe, made a fairly smooth, gradual transition from royal power and tradition to royal tradition only. (I chuckled at a comment by a Britisher regarding the kerfuffle that swept America when a fundamentalist refused to bake a cake for a homosexual wedding: “Religious arguments, religious strife? We’ve been there, we’ve done that.” Where are American versions of William and Mary when you need them?

Carrying on a tradition of pomp and uncircunstance as if the royals still mattered more than, say, the Kardashians, is, it can be argued, ridiculous. But the English apparently still love it; it’s their business. We Americans who spend more on defense than the next ten powerful countries combined have no right criticizing the Brits for the pennies (relatively speaking) they spend spoiling anachronistic icons.

I imagine that those Brits who are the curtsy- and bow-craziest of them all come from the so-called (like my great-grandparents) lower class who voted for Brexit. They Brexiters can still pretend that, as they tip their hats to some lord or other, that they are still on top of the world. (They aren't).

I must admit, as the only white member of my family, that I was pleased when the biracial Meghan married into royalty. If Britain succeeds as a multiracial state--and I hope it will--it will need to have some royals that look more like my son than some Lord Higgenbottom does. Well, that pleasant daydream didn't last long, did it?

Britannia rules the waves? Not any more. The loss of power from Henry Vlll to Elizabeth ll is as unidirectional as time’s arrow. Yes, Britain is still an important power--But all good (and bad) things come to an end. What if some day Britannia’s rule of the waves is limited to undulations produced by a princess and a pauper playing footsie in a hot tub?

(At last I see clearly!)

Who cares?

Nirmala's India, Now Sudha's India, Along with a Fictive Toad

 This is an open letter to my niece, Sudha, who lives in India and is hesitant about whether to get a Covid vaccine or not. Advice from your doctor uncle: get the vaccine as quickly as you can! It just might save your life.

Memories come back to me. I remember vividly the time your grandmother and I were crossing Mount Road. I was accustomed in America to cross a street without looking too carefully. Not a good idea in India. The second poem has to do with that Mount Road incident as well. What really happened? Your grandmother and I found ourselves in the middle of the road with two busses hurtling toward us. My heart fluttered, (somewhat differently fromm the chronic atrial flutter I am experiencing now)---I thought that we were both going to be killed. I grabbed your grandma's hand and made a mad dash for the sidewalk. We made it! Just before reaching the sidewalk, we had to dodge an auto rickshaw, but that was easy compared to what we just went through.

Please view the above as a metaphor for your situation. You are in the middle of Mount Road, as it were, with two virus-packed buses threatening your life. Unlike us, you don't have to run; just walk to a nearby clinic and get the jab. The auto rickshaw, by the way, symbolizes the very minor side effects that the vaccines rarely cause.

Please get the vaccine! It is safe. You can't get Covid from it; it also won't exacerbate the medical issues you have. Don't get run over by a virus!

Both poems, which are decades old, have to do with the Mount Road near-miss. The first one also includes a vignette about your grandmother's visit to some old coot, who actually thought she was bowing down to him upon leaving his cottage! On another occasion, your grandmother told me she was visiting someone who offered her a beverage, as is the Indian custom. It apparently tasted terrible, but your grandmother didn't want to be rude. When no one was looking, she poured the yucky liquid into a potted plant--she thought it was a real plant, and expected it to nicely absorb the drink. It turned out to be a plastic plant! She was caught red-handed with an empty cup of ovaltine in her hand next to a suspicious puddle on the floor.

Jawaharlal Road in the first poem is, you guessed it, really Mount Road. (What is it called now?) I forgot--your grandmother did use her umbrella as a weapon as we ran for our lives. By the way, as in the second poem, remember when buffaloes and cows roamed the streets of Chennai? In a way, I miss them. As Cummings wrote, 'Progress is a comfortable disease.'

Both of these poems appeared in magazines long ago and in anthologies as well.

Get the vaccine ASAP! If you have any questions, I would be glad to answer them.

Affectionately signed,

Your Uncle

NIRMALA’S INDIA

 

She bends down to pick up the brolly

which I brought her from London.

He thinks she wants to touch his bare feet.

 

“No, no, Mollai, rise, please!”  She doesn’t reveal

the poor budhu’s mistake.  Delighted,

he thanks us and bids us good-bye.

 

“What an old windbag!” “Did he

really think I was bowing down, as if

Maha-walrus were Krishna?”  We laugh.

 

“What did she write in that awful book?”

“In India a woman can be killed with impunity

any time in life.”  “She must have interviewed him--

 

The real danger here is crossing streets!”

I follow.  Mother’s umbrella, now her bayonet,

charges across Jawaharlal Road.

 

THE TOAD 

 

 

Right in the middle of a Third World road

not far from the heart of a city

just to the left of my two Western eyes

a giant toad  --fat, brown and dusty.

 

For a moment, a miracle  --no traffic:

no men, women, children, cows, buffaloes,

carts, dogs, cycles, cars, lorries, to push

moo, drive, bark, ring, and honk us aside.

 

"I've escaped, just like you, from a swamp--

So tell me, dear fellow wise pot-bellied creature,

is this world worth it?"  A lorry advances;

we look at each other --then jump for our lives.

Ecstasy

1.

I remember, way back during the latter years of the Eisenhower administration, when I was first learning German, I came across the following sentence:  Ich war ausser mir vor Freude. Literally translated the sentence reads, "I was beside myself before joy." The very definition of ecstasy, to step beyond oneself, to transcend oneself, to be subsumed into joy. Sometimes literal meanings "unclichés" the cliché, that is, reveals a truth which the usual, figurative meaning of an expression takes for granted. Such is the case with the German expression and its English equivalent.

The sense of self as independent from the environment might not be a fundamental truth, it is, however, an essential lie. Without this 'trick of evolution' we would not be able to separate ourselves from the world, as it were; without it there would be no tools, no science, no culture, no gods. Without it we would be like squirrels, like leaves, like the sky. 

It is a very good thing, but it is also a very heavy burden. The sense of self, a sometimes wonderful thing, is subject to other forces of evolution as well, the search for meaning, competition, the desire to dominate, etc. These and other internal winds can sometimes be as fierce and destructive as the external winds of Neptune.

We therefore need periodic relief from the Myth in the Mirror. Nature, whose primary concern is the propagation of the species, has provided a powerful one: orgasm. The spirit provides two, love and wisdom. 

Nature might not have anything against love and wisdom, but she cannot afford to wait for love to occur on a spiritual and physical plane. Sexual attraction is quicker and much more efficient. I once was fond of telling the following joke: 'What's the difference between Mozart's Piano Concerto Number 24 and sex? Mozart lasts longer!' Nature, you see, doesn't want to divert us for too long. If orgasms lasted a good deal longer, how could we attend to the task of raising a family? And Nature, of course, has an amoral side: does she really care if rape or relationship continue the species? In addition, desire, culminating in orgasm, is subject to many perversions, as the prurient use of the internet attests.

Love and wisdom, though admittedly harder to attain, are ultimately more satisfying; sources of intense spiritual and physical love as well, they are never perverse, they are never wrong.

They provide the only satisfactory paths to get beside oneself with joy. They are the only cosmic, earthly, ultimate Mozarts that last.

2.

I would like now to say a few words about a famous poem by Wordsworth, the subject of which is ecstasy, or more precisely the lack of it:

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;--
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon;
The Sea that bares its bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us  not. Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising form the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn,

This justly famous poem is one of Wordsworth's best. The meaning is clear. What human being, whether working at a fast-food restaurant or at Goldman Sachs, has never heard the sound of water lapping on the shore of an inner lake, where he or she can experience the ecstasy of being one with nature, rather than the drudgery of being a cog lost in a mechanical world? "I will arise and go now,/ for always, night and day/ I hear lake water lapping with low sounds on the shore;/whether I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,/I hear it in the deep heart's core."

Far too many have spent too much time, say, during infrequent breaks from work, day-dreaming about being someplace else, doing what the heart's core wants.

Is it the world's fault for being too much with us? Just what exactly is this world? Kant has taught us that we will never know "das Ding an sich," the thing in itself; we can only apprehend what our senses reveal. Hindus teach various forms of 'you are the world,' that is, the world as we experience it is a construct of the human brain. This is largely true, although I view the world as a construct of 'the thing in itself,' and the mind. For instance, there is no such thing as a beautiful sunset without the mind. The colors that cause (sometimes) the heart to leap up when it beholds a rainbow in the sky, do not exist without sensual perceptions; these colors are how the brain interprets light of certain wavelengths. Cosmically speaking, there is no such thing as red. Quantum theory teaches us that we can't even be sure that the wavelengths exist independently.

Now you know the answer to the old riddle: if a tree falls with no one around, what sound does it make? The answer is no sound at all, for sound is the way brains interpret certain vibrations of air. And yes, we can't even be sure that the disturbances are there without consciousness; on this question, physicists are divided.

It is therefore not the world that is too much with us, it is our attitude, our faulty choices. Ramana Maharshi, the great Hindu sage of the last century, taught that one's true nature is bliss. We have created a world of wants, desires, hang-ups that keep us from experiencing this bliss; it is a world of boredom, depression and despair.

No need to be 'suckled in a creed outworn;' the ancient truths of love and wisdom are the great hidden secret of the good life.

So if you work for Goldman Sachs, you might need to quit, and, having amassed enough to get by, live, love, and be wise. You and those around you will be glad you did.

Buddhas teach that our feelings of inadequacy are caused by our desires. Get rid of  all desires and suffering is eliminated. While this is undoubtedly true, it is an extreme position. Not many of us desire the peace of a stone resting at the bottom of the sea. Is the choice, however, between that and running from this to that like a chicken without a head?

I know of a meditation practice of imagining yourself sitting in a field watching cars go by on a nearby road. Those cars are your thoughts. Such observation quiets the mind's discursive activity; we come to the crucial insight that we are not our thoughts. When we finally realize that there is no abiding self, the bliss of being is experienced.

Why is it that "Little we see in Nature that is ours?" Transcend the first person, singular or plural, and the ecstasy of Nature is seen with Nature's eyes. (Recall Meister Eckhardt's profound saying that the eye which I see God is the  same eye by which God sees me--We are talking about different I's, and only one of them has it!)

This is not as esoteric as it might sound. It is said that the basic difference between Ramana Maharshi and the rest of us is that he remained in the bliss of being while the rest of us come in and out of this state. Most of us have had so-called peak experiences.

The task is to increase these peak experiences, or at the very least, approach them. Wordsworth correctly points to the tragedy of being "out of tune" with the majesty of nature. We must do our best to be subsumed into the bliss within and without. How do we accomplish this?

First of all, through some time of meditation or a spiritual discipline that teaches us abstraction, that is, that we are not our thoughts.

Second, we must practice simultaneously the two roads to ecstasy, namely, that of wisdom and that of love. (I, for one believe that these attributes, the very foundations of morality, are not God-given, but are in a our very nature; others may disagree). What's important is to practice them!

Research has shown that the most important factor in life is good relationships. Not money, not fame. Relationships falter if one is not able to ecstatically be subsumed into the other, (love), or to ecstatically realize that you are not the center of the universe, (wisdom).

So if you work for Goldman Sachs, you might need to quit. Having earned enough to live simply, dedicate yourself to meditation, love, and wisdom. You and those around you will be glad you did.