Hlderlin (1770–1843), German poet and pioneer of classical Romantic poetry. He began writing poetry at the age of fourteen and fell ill with epilepsy just after thirty. His poetry uses a large number of modern techniques such as metaphors, symbols, and paradoxes to break through the rules of the classical era, expressing a strong yearning for freedom and a persistent imagination of the poetic realm of life. Hölderlin was unknown during his lifetime, and after his death his works were gradually transmitted to people, especially after entering the twentieth century, philosophers and poets increasingly praised him as a pioneer and teacher.
I have had this plan for a long time, to tell people about Hölderlin's past, his present life (or rather, the half-immortal, ghostly state of existence), and the relationship between his present condition and the sadness of the past. Among my friends who loved his poetry, many people also urged me to do it. For, through more than five years of association with this unfortunate man, I am better equipped than anyone else to observe him, to know him, to remember his wonderful course of thought, and of the original origin and cause of his insanity.
A small number of his friends at that time had no intention of stopping much when they came to visit the poet, who had been trapped in a lonely life for more than twenty years, probably because of the excessive sympathy that had caused them to be deeply shaken by this incomparably tragic vision of mental disorder; second, they may have thought that there was no rational conversation with Hölderlin at all, and that there was no point in paying more attention to his mental condition, so they only hoped to leave as soon as possible, perfunctory. As for me, I put in more effort than anyone else to endure Hölderlin's emotions, for I did not find the time with him meaningless, and during my visits to him for many years I observed him quietly, took him on a lonely stroll, went to the gardens and vineyards of the mountains to relax, and occasionally gave him a few pieces of paper to write something, read through his still preserved manuscripts, brought him books, made him recite, or often encouraged him to play the piano, sing, and so on. In this way I slowly adapted to Hölderlin's emotions, and there was no longer any fear, for it was this fear that made those who were not very familiar with him turn away from him. In the past I did have the heart to make an attempt to see if I could analyze his present mental condition, to deduce in a more rigorous scientific way the origin of his tragic inner madness from the initial causes and motives, and to the crucial point where his spirit was out of balance. Unfortunately, in my busy and intense study life at that time, for various reasons of one kind or another, this plan was gradually shelved.
Now that the beautiful and melancholy friend was so far away from me, when the sad image of the lonely man was gradually sinking under the clear southern sky, I suddenly felt a rare excitement, the kind of excitement I had experienced in my homeland, that I was determined to put this old plan into practice. I do not intend to make a philosophical analysis of Hölderlin's inner life here, but to limit my task to telling people fully and completely what I have observed and noticed in my dealings with Hölderlin. Of course, even though these observations sometimes force us to speculate, we will try to confine ourselves to pure observations, not to conduct psychological research, but to provide as concise a description of character as possible. By describing Hölderlin's life, showing how this soul is caught up in derangedness, and his relationship with his present self, with his past, and with his outer world, we hope to provide some convenience for those who are interested in Hölderlin, cherish his poetic talents, and are willing to know him in more detail. In the process, of course, we will also talk about Hölderlin's poetry. Our fellow citizens, our esteemed poet friends, Ludwig Uhland (7) and Gustav Schwab, (8) have recently collected and published the most beautiful and ripe flowers and fruits of these poems. Since I have been away from Hölderlin for a certain number of years, it is not clear to me whether he is alive or dead; on the other hand, since he has been in isolation for at least 24 years, it does not matter whether he is a "living" in the usual sense, so if we describe Hölderlin's condition to the public, I believe that it will not arouse emotional and intellectual opposition. Hölderlin's poetry and his life belong to our time, to our homeland, to our knowledge, and this gives us enough reason to get to know this unfortunate man closer. Hölderlin's life was haunted by an unknown fate, and in his writings we often find that it was the cruel, trembling violence of that fate that he complained about and fought against; it was the awe of that fate that prevented us from commenting generally on Hölderlin's spiritual phenomena in a trivial, even shameful, perfunctory way. Although this spiritual phenomenon remains a mystery to us in the end, we can do our best to analyze and describe it between its essence, causes and consequences. This is also the purpose of this article.
We first look back at Hölderlin's early outward life, and then, once we find something in it that necessarily links it to his later fate, add our comments. For what the germination of Hölderlin's misfortune, the basis and reason for it in the beginning, must be sought in the earliest years of his life, or only in his graceful and delicate spiritual faculties, which, after too many disappointments, difficult events, and tragic entanglements with the external environment, finally destroyed themselves.
Friedrich Hölderling was born in Neuertingen in the Swabian region in 1770. (1) His earliest education should have been quite good, loving, gentle, and graceful. Hölderlin always loved his birthplace deeply and loved his mother (she was alive when I left Germany). When he was a child, he already embodied in him a broad tenderness that filled the entire young soul, a noble, elegant, sentimental and overly sensitive character, and an endless fantasy, and it was this fantasy that brought him to the dream of poetry, and gradually created an independent world. In addition, the young Hölderlin also embodied a vivid understanding of the art of music and poetry. All these talents were awakened, trained, and preserved under the gentle upbringing of their parents. Hölderlin was also very flattering from the outside: deep and shining eyes, a high forehead, a humble, wise and dignified demeanor won all hearts. Kindness, natural nobility, a vibrant way of thinking and feeling, and natural dignity, among others, made him so endearing, and his understanding and outstanding talent never disappointed his teachers and those around him. With a pure mind and an unspoiled virgin heart, he gained respect and affection. Hölderlin retained these qualities in the years that followed, whether it was when he began to write poetry, when he decided to dedicate himself to poetry, or in the difficult years when he was later struck by fate. If Hölderlin had not died, he must have remained in that pure, almost feminine, tender soul: for him vulgar pleasures and the roar of the fleshly senses could only mean corruption and death. All successes are taught that way.
Young Hölderlin was gifted with the most beautiful mind, noble demeanor, and a face with a rich and pleasing expression; Both old and young people loved him so much and were deeply attracted to him. After a happy childhood, if this positive teenager continues to move forward in the right direction, in the direction that conforms to his character and desires, in line with his dreams and genius, then his soul will remain pure forever. However, this is not the case. Hölderlin's unfortunate fate led him to the seminary of the University of Tübingen, where, like many other young people, he received a rigorous theological education. In his later years, even when he was in a state of insanity, he made it clear that he was forced to devote himself to Christian theology by external circumstances. This thing is completely at odds with his personality. What he was really willing to throw himself into were classical literature, art (especially poetic art), as well as philosophy and aesthetics. And the way in which knowledge and knowledge are taught in seminaries is tantamount to an extremely difficult bondage for the more talented Hölderlin, who is even less impatient than other young people. In such educational institutions, one has to admit that every teacher has too much power in his hands. One need only look at the teachers, at how narrow their spirits are (though they are also full of scriptures), how faint and confused they are, how many detours they have to take to achieve a goal, how difficult they make a simple thing, how lack of a clear mind and judgment, how incompetent they are at teaching and arousing and guiding their students, how incomprehensive they are of their students, how little they know of man himself, and so on, and then it is not difficult to understand why the young are often misled and dangerous. And the damage that these incompetent teachers inflict on students in their youth can never be improved by the students' later self-education. Instead of trying to discover the characteristics of each student and then exerting influence on each person's specific situation, these teachers mechanically drive them to do the same thing in a unique way, as if the students were mass-produced clocks, and the teacher only had to wind their clockwork at will. The impact of this sad experience on our vulnerable and sensitive young poets is enormous. Nevertheless, he studied a variety of classical languages (especially Greek) assiduously and was one of the best-achieving students.
I also overheard an anecdote from Hölderlin's student days. The mother of one of my friends once told him that the young and handsome Hölderlin had a crush on her when she was a child who had not grown up. In the monastery, 16-year-old poets used to light a warm candle for the little girl, and then they went on a date in a beautiful back garden. This secret relationship brought Hölderlin endless vivid fantasies, and those sweet feelings grew with him and satisfied him. It is easy for us young people with many wonderful and magical fantasies to understand that the way Hölderlin feels, his mind, his whole being, has thus become more slender and gentle. But it's also more dangerous. But his poems were nourished and given life.
Nevertheless, his poetry at that time was merely imitation, and some creations without personal characteristics: Schiller and Klopstock (1) were his examples. In contrast, his academic performance in college is more distinctive. The admiration of the ancient Greek era and the study of the classic works of ancient Greece give his works a specific tone, although his later and mature works did not always maintain this tone. His whole soul is tied to Greece, and he sucks in those sources with an insatiable thirst the pure beauty, the works of the healthiest mind, the most concise way of thinking, the noblest dignity. Hölderlin's mind was also full of a thirst for honor, and he had many blueprints in his mind to make his name stand out and immortal, but his first consideration was how to break free from this narrow and suffocating environment, to get rid of this relationship that disgusted him and strained. His dealings with people of insight and with his self-motivated peers made him more and more impatient. He conceived The Void and wrote down some fragments, although they were completely unapplicated in later revisions. A considerable part of his later poems published in the journal Chronology, edited by Schiller, were taken from later manuscripts of The Void. One can see how long Hölderlin took to conceive and conceive the novel. It is worth pointing out here that Hölderlin's creation was never swift, he often painfully brewed for the birth of the work, he often repeatedly expressed his thoughts in different forms and ways, until he was convinced that this idea was expressed in the clearest and most complete way.
Hölderlin's college classmates respected him, although they also felt that he was sometimes too gentle and melancholy. Moreover, Hölderlin was not a reclusive man, although he almost never minded the rude and barbaric student councils, and was told that Hölderlin would sometimes live in isolation for several weeks, almost exclusively talking to his mandolin, singing to it he was always complaining and appearing to be very painful. As for the reason for the complaint, perhaps it was troubled by an overly delicate and sentimental love, a thirst for prestige and fame, a hatred of his surroundings, an aversion to the study of theological profession, etc., or simply because of his own childish, weak, slender and sensitive character. All of this makes him too susceptible to external influences and too vehemently opposed to vulgar and despicable things. He is increasingly intolerant of the whole condition of things in the world(which they are all still like this), and from the study of the classical era he has drawn contempt for the world today, an attitude which is of course too dangerous for him. Indeed, for some, only the classical era has a healthy and eternally fresh and cheerful mind. This worship of the ancient Greek monocrisy even made him dissatisfied with the motherland that gave birth to him, so that eventually those complaints and attacks on the motherland broke out. People can read these words in "The Void", and they once stabbed my feelings deeply.
We see that Hölderlin's increasing hostility toward the world, a relationship that was natural to his nature, was the first direct cause of his miserable condition. Although he was full of broad and beautiful hopes for the future, this misery was already lurking in his life, even in the golden years of his life. Hölderlin's relationship with the world around him has little appeal to his dreams, to his pride, to his vanity, to his dream world; But these relationships were not entirely unfortunate and intolerable, but compelled him to work towards noble goals. If Hölderlin were a man of enough humor, if he were fortunate enough to have a gift for messing with the world and with people, he would certainly be able to maintain his psychological balance without falling into a miserable situation: unfortunately he was by no means such a character, and his muse could only complain, cry, respect, praise and contempt, and could not play and ridicule in light-hearted teasing. Nevertheless, no one would have thought at that time that this wonderful young man had already suffered so much at this age. Friedrich Mathison (1) often said that he had never seen such a brilliant and endearing young man except for Hölderlin.
It's hard for me to know how far his idea of "The Void" has reached during his college years. But one thing is for sure, those thoughts, plans, and fragments belonged to this period of his life. The lyrical poems of the last part of The Void already embody that perfectly pure and beautiful soul, those unique and so profound and touching images, the love of nature and its eternally cheerful joy. But these poems are already full of reflections on fate, evoking the gloomy melancholy of the human heart in a way that is often exaggerated and overly excited. Although Hölderlin loved nature forever and prayed for it, his soul was still inevitably trapped in this gloom.
After completing his studies, Hölderlin left the Kingdom of Württemberg to work as a tutor in a well-known family in Frankfurt, Principality of Hesse. Such a young man, pursuing all good things, with a soul of tireless effort and such a lovely appearance, such a poet and musician, as one usually expects, should have a bright future. The mistress of the family, a young woman, was also, by all indications, a man of fanatical soul and burning passion, and she was deeply attracted to the young Hölderlin. It did not take long for Hölderlin to play the flute, the piano and the mandolin, his gentle songs, his sentimentality in life, his delicate heart, his beautiful eyes, his youth, his uninhibited soul and superior genius all swirling wildly around this woman until the highest limit of incomprehensibility. Hölderlin's love for her was equally intense, equally fanatical, and his whole soul was caught in flames. Letters from his mother during Hölderlin's madness, after more than twenty years of loneliness. This young fanatic poured all his energy into an endless exclamation: his days faded in this obsession of love. Plato's supreme world of ideas occupies his mind: he leaves reality, revels in a dreamlike, enjoyable present, weaving for himself a transcendent future.
This love relationship, though with the same fanaticism on both sides, is clearly unlikely to last long. When His husband finally noticed this, Hölderlin's only way to go was to leave the noble family. Hölderlin's inner pain is indescribable. This weak young man who has long been intoxicated by sweet love must now go to the outside world and enter the bitter real life. Despite the complete breakdown of the relationship between the two, the fact that they maintained correspondence, and although they had agreed to meet at some point in the future at one of Diotima's own estates, or to reunite on the stars they saw at the same time at this moment, everything was completely irreparable. Hölderlin already had a rift in his heart, an increasingly dangerous rift. From this time on, Hölderlin's mental condition had not been very normal, and when he became more and more emotionally aware of the true object of his suffering, his grief became more and more serious. Now, apart from satisfying his quest for honor, which had reached the pinnacle, nothing could save him.
His "The Void" was completed. We will not comment on this epistolary poetic novel, because it is before everyone. We just want people to realize that what dominates everything in The Void is a deep, terrible pain, a heavy night sky that suffocates in the world of Hölderlin's poetry. In almost every page one can find ideas that seem to be prophecies of Hölderlin's own tragic fate, in which each flower bows its head. In spite of the many vivid and vivid images of beauty, despite the strong love for nature, for the classical era and for ancient Greece, the novel, or rather the collection of lyrical poetry, is still a penetrating pathology, a deadly toxin drawn from "beauty"), a hopeless struggle against fate, a beautiful sentimentality, a dark melancholy, and an incurable confusion, and with this confusion the poet is deeply plunged into madness.
Hölderlin traveled to Weimar and Jena, where many prominent people lived. His heart was full of the pursuit of honor and the desire to get ahead. His most mature poems were produced during this time. A rare genius like him, and with an elegant and unworldly appearance, certainly attracted people's attention. The key now is whether his pursuit of honor can be satisfied. Hölderlin, already traumatized, with a fragile and bitter mind, could no longer withstand any blows, if there were obstacles along the way. It is said that his lover Diotima had asked several celebrities with whom she had some friendship to help Hölderlin, and the noble Schiller was also extremely fond of Hölderlin, respecting his ideals, and telling others that Hölderlin was the most talented of his Swabian compatriots. Schiller funded Hölderlin with some of his money and even tried to help Hölderlin pursue a professorship at the University of Jena. If this succeeds, Hölderlin will certainly have a considerable circle of influence, he will learn to be patient and restrained, he will recover and gradually become stronger, his tight mental strings will relax, he will have a career, he will marry a wife, and this wife will straighten out his mental tension, teach him how to live, how to work, how to help himself, if he is going to live a normal life with people. Unfortunately, by the tragic fate of T. Hölderlin, coupled with the machinations of his rivals, all the good directions were reversed. In the end, another man was ranked ahead of Hölderlin and was appointed professor at the University of Jena, and Hölderlin could only lament hopelessly. Many people say that Goethe's disgraceful behavior in this matter is the most critical reason. This is very likely to be Nie True. For there are many times whenever I tell Hölderlin about Goethe, he can't even think of such a person, and this is a sign of a deep hostility (a phenomenon that has always been evident in Hölderlin after the insanity). Conversely, he is often able to recall Schiller and many other characters.
For Hölderlin's entire existence, this defeat was a decisive blow. He saw all his good hopes vanished, felt his pride and self-confidence insulted, saw his genius and knowledge unappreciated, and heard people say that his pursuits were unattainable. The dream of a better future is once again shattered, and he is like a lonely abandoned wanderer, thrown into a cold real life. And those cold and vulgar in real life, Hölderlin simply has no ability to tolerate, he is too weak, too easy to be hurt.
He then went to Switzerland, where he became acquainted with Lavatelle (1), Zolíkofi (2) and others. He buried his head in many beautiful poems and planned to write a tragedy. But this plan can never be realized, because it is indisputable that the genius of Hölderlin's poetry is not in the dramatic aspect, but in pure lyricism. Hölderlin also studied philosophy, and Schelling's philosophy, which was on the rise at this time, seemed to have a great influence on him. During my later time with him, sometimes he would tell the philosophy of Kant and Schelling in words that I didn't understand at all. In any case, when Hölderlin is far away from the crowd, closed within himself, away from sorrow, he is able to control the desolation that permeates the depths of his heart, to overcome with diligence and effort the condition that can no longer be sustained, if he does not fall into the truly desperate behavior of the man— I mean to forget himself through sensual enjoyment, through vulgar and immoral pleasures, through dizzying indulgence.
Soon Hölderlin was working as a tutor again, but this time in France. But he couldn't afford the vulgar life there. He was born for a pure, orderly, productive life, but when he now gives up pleasure not because of thinking, as he once did, but blindly for pleasure, then his spirit and body are bound to be destroyed. Not much time passed, and while this indulgent life greatly damaged Hölderlin's body, it also made him mentally disordered, and he often fell into a rage and mania that could not help himself.
In a situation where no one can say what was going on, Hölderlin suddenly and unexpectedly returned to his homeland, penniless and miserable. Mr. Mathisson told me that he was sitting quietly in the house eating that day when the door suddenly opened and a man he did not know came in. The man was pale, skinny, with deep and rude eyes, long hair and beard, and dressed like a beggar. A startled Monsieur Mathisson stood up and stared at the terrible image, and the man stood for a moment without a word, then came to him, bent over the table in salute (at which point Mr. Mathisson saw his dirty, disgusting fingernails that had not been trimmed), and said in a muffled ghostly voice, "In lower Hölderlin..." Before Mr. Matisson could recall from this frightening visit, Hölderlin's figure had disappeared without a trace. He returned to his mother's house in Neuertingen and, in his mania, threw out his mother and all the people who lived in the room.
Hölderlin lived with his mother for some time, and most of the time, apart from the occasional cheerfulness and calmness, was in eleven extremely deep depressions. Maybe there was another chance, perhaps one last chance, to appease his unfortunate heart. But it was felt necessary to set aside for a moment what Hölderlin loved or respected, and one of his close relatives even planned to marry a woman. But this did not calm Hölderlin's mania. Hölderlin was reluctant to meet the woman at all, though she was often seen near him. Hölderlin categorically declared that he did not have the honor to meet the woman.
At this time, a well-meaning crown prince Hölderlin had met in Jena had heard of his current miserable condition and offered Hölderlin a suitable job in the hope of saving Hölderlin (if possible). Hölderlin was offered the position of librarian in a small town near Frankfurt. But Hölderlin had sunk irretrievably. More and more often he became angry and irrational, and the situation became more and more serious. At the same time, he continued to translate the tragedy of Sophocles, but the translation was full of absurd and upside-down things. Everything had shown that Hölderlin could not continue to stay in his position, and the library used the pretext of asking him to go to Tübingen to buy books, but when he arrived in Tübingen, he was sent to the university clinic in Tübingen. Nowadays, people can only hope to improve Hölderlin's mental condition through some medical means.
Hölderlin had been there for two years, but unfortunately his spirit had not been able to regain clarity, his mental strength had been damaged, and his nerves had fallen into a decisive disorder. He finally fell into the situation he is now and he was adopted by a carpenter. Stayed in a small room with nothing but a bed and a few books. To this day, Hölderlin has lived this life for more than twenty years.
If one had entered the building in which the unfortunate man lived, they certainly could not have expected to meet a poet who seemed to be strolling with Plato on the banks of the River Ilisus, but the first thing they saw was the carpenter's own room. The wealthy carpenter was highly educated (which is rare for people of his class), and he was even able to discuss philosophers and poets such as Kant, Fichte, Schelling, Novalis, and Tik. People expressed their desire to visit "Mr. Librarian"—Hölderlin was happy that people would call him that—and was taken to a small door. At this time someone in the house could be heard talking, as if there were many people meeting inside, but the honorable carpenter pointed out that Hölderlin was actually the only one in the room, and he often talked to him all day and all night, and people became hesitant and did not know whether to knock on the door; Because they feel a kind of uneasiness in their hearts. Finally, people knocked on the door a few times, and then heard a muddy and loud sentence: "Come in!"
Pushing open the door, everyone saw a long thin figure standing in the middle of the room, bending deeply and bowing, constantly bowing, as if unwilling to stop. This kind of behavior, if it did not reveal a distorted and eerie atmosphere, would have been very elegant and graceful. What astonishes is first and foremost his image: a high forehead full of thoughts, revealing a friendly and cordial, eyes that, though dimmed, have not lost their soul; People also saw indelible marks left by mental illness on his cheeks, lips, nose, eyebrows, etc. Hölderlin's forehead was covered with heavy wrinkles full of pain, and the whole face was throbbing and twitching from time to time, and this twitching movement even caused his shoulders to rise upwards, and his palms and fingers to tremble nervously. This look makes everyone feel sympathy and sadness. Hölderlin wore a plain tight tunic, and his hands were usually in his pockets on either side. The visitor tried to say a few words of greeting, but Hölderlin's reply was a series of respectful bows and a series of words that were completely unintelligible, leaving the visitor at a loss. At this point, Hölderlin felt the need to show the guests a friendly gesture of kindness (he had adapted to the scene) and to ask the guests something. He did. The guests did hear a few fairly understandable words, but the questions were so absurd that they could not be answered. Hölderlin himself did not expect anything to be answered, and if the guest asked Hölderlin what he really wanted to know, he would be completely confused and confused. We will come to this later, but now we will only describe the most common phenomenon. Hölderlin kept calling his guests "Your Majesty", "a saint", "Your Holiness the Pope"... By this time Hölderlin had become very manic, for he did not like such visits, and his mental condition had become very bad every time a stranger had come to visit him. Because of this, whenever I was asked to take him to visit Hölderlin, I was reluctant. However, it is better to have me accompanying them than to rush to Hölderlin on their own, because for the isolated Hölderlin, the presence of any stranger is a stimulus and harassment, not to mention that the visitors do not know how to get along with Hölderlin. In any case, Hölderlin was usually able to bear the anxiety of the time, thanking the guest for his visit, and bowing in greeting, which was the best time for the visitor to leave immediately.
Then again, on the other hand, few people were willing to stay any longer, and even some of his former friends felt that talking to Hölderlin was too terrible, too depressing, too boring, too meaningless. For them, only the librarian who was then was a really beautiful person. For example, an old friend of Hölderlin's, Friedrich Hawke, who was good at writing short poems, once visited him. Hölderlin called him "His Majesty the King", "Baron von Hawke", and so on. Regardless of the old friend's assurances, he was not made a nobleman, but Hölderlin kept giving Hawke countless honorary titles. In the face of complete strangers, Hölderlin is trapped in a state of absolute foolishness.
So far, we have only introduced and described some of Hölderlin's external conditions. Now we're deeply involved in some more specific things.
In the early days after Hölderlin fell into madness, he continued to write books. People casually give him a piece of paper. He'll be full of it. It was some prose letters, or poems to dear Diotima written in the pinda style free poetry, but more of an ode to Arkane. These works maintain a unique style from beginning to end, and their content is the memory of the past, the struggle against the gods, the cheering of the Greeks, and so on, and the connection between these ideas cannot be discussed now.
In the first period of Hölderlin's residence with the carpenter, he was often caught up in mania and rage, so much so that the carpenter sometimes had to raise his strong fist and beat Hölderlin hard to calm him down, and another time Hölderlin drove the carpenter's family out and closed the door. Any time Hölderlin saw someone coming out of a university clinic, (1) he would immediately get angry and convulsive. In the beginning, Hölderlin was still free to move around, and was therefore naturally teased by those who could not be angered—such people were of course everywhere, for whom even that kind of miserable and holy insanity could be the object of their malicious teasing. We deeply regret that even some university students are so pig-hearted that they deliberately provoke Hölderlin and banish him into rage. We certainly cannot relate to all those shameless acts that breed in universities, but in any case, this one is certainly the most despicable.
Often, the carpenter's wife or one of his children would take poor Hölderlin with him to their fields or vineyards for a break. As soon as Hölderlin got there he found a stone to sit down and waited quietly until they took him back again. It should be noted that Hölderlin must be taken care of almost as if he were a child, and care must be taken to avoid throwing him into a tantrum. Before taking him out, he was usually warned in advance to wash his hands, to keep them clean, etc., because Hölderlin often spent most of the day pulling weeds in the garden alone, making his hands very dirty. But when he was fully dressed, he didn't want to go out. His hat usually tilted down exaggeratedly, almost covering his entire eyes, but when he saw a two-year-old child, if he wasn't too contemplative, he would raise it slightly in greeting. To his credit, Tübingen, who knew Hölderlin, would never tease him, but let him quietly kick through alone. People always exclaim, "Alas, how clever and erudite this gentleman used to be. How stupid it is now!" However, the carpenter and his family did not let Hölderlin go too far alone, but usually let him relax within the fence around the house.
For the first time, Hölderlin occasionally visited Professor Koontz (who had recently died). The industrious and classical-loving gentleman had his own garden at the Hillshaw Gate on the outskirts of Tübingen. In the habit of Professor Koontz that had remained unchanged for decades, he spent an hour in that garden every morning. For twenty-five years, every day one would see the able-bodied Professor Contz walk to the garden door, where the janitor respectfully lit his pipe. Professor Koontz then strolled slowly around in contemplation, either in the garden, or outside the garden. When he translated Aeschylus, Hölderlin, who was fashionable and had some energy and spirit, often came to him for a while. There, Hölderlin's main task was to pick the flowers, slowly weave them into a garland, and then tear the garland into pieces and carry it into his pocket. Professor Koontz occasionally handed Hölderlin a book. According to him once told me, Hölderlin even recited several poems by Aeschylus in front of him. Then Hölderlin cried out with a sharp laugh, "I don't understand these things!" It's Kamalata!" As for what is "Kamalata", naturally no one knows, and it must be Hölderlin's own word.
However, as Hölderlin became weaker and demented, the visit was gradually terminated. Several times I had hoped to take him for a walk in Professor Konz's garden, but Hölderlin always pushed back for various reasons. Usually he would say, "Your Majesty!" —Yes, I naturally get various titles like this—"I don't ask from time to time; I'm waiting for a visit,·· Or he would say, in a particularly typical way for him, "They ordered me to stay here." However, when the weather was particularly clear and beautiful, I would still force Hölderlin to go out for a walk with me, and he agreed. I remember one spring day when Hölderlin was overjoyed to see the branches and flowers blooming everywhere. He celebrates the beauty of the garden in a purely artist's way. But more often than not, his mind became less and less sober. Professor Koontz tried to remind him of some of the past, but to no avail. Professor Konz once told him, "You will surely remember The Privy Councillor, Mr. Hawke, who recently wrote a very beautiful poem." Hölderlin—as he usually did without any hesitation in people's words—replied blankly, "What? Did he write something too?'' Professor Koontz couldn't help but laugh. When we got home, Hölderlin kissed Professor Koontz's hand in the most elegant way on the street and said goodbye to him.
Hölderlin's days are extremely simple. Every morning, especially in the summer (he was always much more restless and miserable in the summer), he would get up with the first rays of the sun, leave his room, and take a walk in the garden downstairs. His walk in this small space would last four to five hours until he was completely tired. He liked to wrap a sturdy piece of cloth in his hand, dig east and west in front of the fence, or pull grass haphazardly. He may be looking for a scrap of iron or a rag that he had discarded there the day before, and when he found it, he would carry it in his pocket. In doing these things, he always talks to himself, asks himself questions, answers himself, says "yes" one moment, "no" the next, but more often says "yes, no!" Because he always likes to deny.
Then he walked back to the room, where he paced back and forth. The carpenter or his family brought him food. He always had a good appetite, and he liked to drink red wine, and if people kept giving him red wine, he would definitely keep drinking it. But once he had finished eating, he could no longer stand the empty cutlery for a second, and he would immediately move the cutlery out and put it on the floor by the door. Hölderlin had a habit of not being able to tolerate anyone else's stuff in the room, and that he would immediately move any such thing out and put it in that position by the door. As for the rest of his day, it passed in self-talk and pacing back and forth in the room.
The only thing Hölderlin was able to devote himself to all day long was his "The Void." At least a hundred times, when I came to him, I heard him reading the passages aloud outside the door. At this time, he was full of passion and the book "The Void Man" on the table was almost always open. Hölderlin often recited the passages in front of me, and when he had read one, he would shout with a fierce gesture, "Oh! So beautiful, so beautiful! Your Majesty!'' — Then he continued the recitation, sometimes pausing abruptly and adding: ''Attention, Sir Mercy!' There's a comma here!" If I handed him some other books, he would recite them to me. But he didn't understand these things, because he was insane and couldn't grasp his own thoughts, let alone understand the strange thoughts. Still, as was his custom, he would always praise these books.
Some of the other books in his room were the Odes of Klopstock, the Gramm, (1) Kronick (2), and the works of some ancient poets. He often read klopstock's hymns and pulled them out of his side at any moment.
I have told Hölderlin many times that his Van Bo Weng has been reprinted and that Uhland and Schwab are collecting and organizing his poems. But from beginning to end, Hölderlin's reply was a deep bow, as well as the following words: "You are so merciful, Monsieur von Weiblinger!" I owe you too much, Your Majesty!" I have tried a few times to force him to give a sensible answer when he was so perfunctory, but Hölderlin still repeated the same words, but with some substitutions. Hölderlin could no longer be persecuted, for otherwise he would immediately be caught up in manic activity and terrible indistinct roars. The carpenter was amazed that I could force Hölderlin to do so many things. He would go out for a walk with me whenever I wished, and even when I wasn't there, he would do a lot of things related to me. What both Hölderlin and I love most is the little garden where I live on the east hill of Tübingen. It was also in this small garden that Verander (1) began his poetry. From here one can look out over the beautiful green river valley, the small town of Tübingen, built on castle hill, the meandering Neckar River, the laughing villages, and the rolling Swabian Mountains. I have lived in this little garden for more than four years, in the midst of green leaves, looking out into such an empty distance, as if I were alone in the midst of a thousand natures. But at that time, my heart was full of a kind of crisis, and even spending time with the friendly nature did not make my mood cheerful. I wrote a novel here, a novel that I thought had to be burned, because there were only a few parts of it that wouldn't make me ashamed. Nevertheless, when the Song of Karonasauer was published three years later, the author at least received praise and encouragement from the most respected connoisseurs and poetry friends. It was also here that Hölderlin and I would climb up once a week and rest quietly. Whenever Hölderlin came into my room, he would always be the first to bow to me for my kindness and kindness. It must be pointed out that Hölderlin always had too many polite gestures, and perhaps the real reason was that he wanted to deliberately keep a distance from anyone else with this demeanor. If there is an explanatory reason, it must be this. However, it may be superfluous to always search for deeper reasons for people's behavior, and the simplest explanation is that this is his characteristics and unique style.
Hölderlin opened the window, stood at the window and looked out, praising the moving landscape in rather sober words. I've long noticed that it's much easier to get along with him when he's in a natural environment. At this time, he rarely spoke to himself, and to me, this is the sign of his sanity. I believe that the reason for that kind of self-talk is that he can't grasp what he thinks. After Hölderlin left the window, I gave him some snuff and cigarettes because he loved the stuff. At this time, his mood was extremely cheerful. When I handed him the pipe filled with tobacco and lit a cigarette for him, he praised the tobacco and the pipe in an extremely ardent way, and was deeply satisfied with it. Then he didn't say a word, and at his most comfortable moment, I knew the best thing to do was to leave him alone and not disturb him.
Hölderlin's life belief was the "one and all" of universalism He also deliberately wrote the sentence in Greek and hung it on the wall in front of my desk. When he spoke to me, he always looked at this mysterious sentence on the wall full of meaning. At one point he said, "I am now orthodox, Your Majesty!" I am currently studying Mr. Kant's third volume of writings and am also concerned about the latest philosophical developments. I asked him if he remembered Schelling and he said, "Of course." He used to go to school with me, Mr. Baron l'''—I told Hölderlin that Schelling was now in Erlangen, and he replied, "He's been in Munich before." Hölderlin asked me if I had met Schelling, and I said yes.
Of course, Schelling and I met in a very fortuitous way. Earlier, when I was in Stuttgart, Schelling happened to be there. Mr. Hawke admired Schelling to the ground and promised to take me to see him. When I arrived at Hawke's house, I found that there was no one quiet. I was in a dilemma and had to wait in the hallway for a long time, and I was amused by this waiting. No, I suppose, I cannot lose touch with this great philosopher, because it is difficult to say whether I will ever see him in the future. Here, I look forward to something that excites life, something that excites the sky and the earth. Suddenly I heard someone coughing. I said to myself, this is Schelling! It must be him! I hesitated for a moment, but I walked over and saw a man standing quietly in front of the door, his demeanor looking like a philosopher! Schelling asked me solemnly if I was a stranger, and then he quickly expressed the hope that I would come back to visit him when he had finished his meal, because the master was now waiting for him. I looked at his face quietly, thanked him, and then said goodbye. I complained on the road: "Yes, I saw him and talked to him, but unfortunately I came at the wrong time!" I didn't even tell him my name. "I don't know what kind of psychology made me not visit Schelling again, but left Stuttgart very quickly. Nevertheless I am satisfied, for after all I have met and spoken to this great philosopher, and he may have been immersed in the occult of the work Of the World.
I went back to Hölderlin and he could recall Mathisson, Schiller, Zolikofi, Rawatelle, Heinser. And many others, but, as I have already pointed out, cannot think of Goethe. His memory seems to have some vitality and continuity. Once I was strange to find him hanging on the wall a portrait of King Paitre of Prism and asking him why. He replied, "You must have seen this portrait, Mr. Baron!" And I'm only virtuous, and I've seen this portrait many months ago. But everyone he had seen, he could remember now. He never forgot that I was a poet, and he often kept asking me what I had written, whether I had worked hard, and so on. Then he himself might add: "As for me, my husband, I am no longer the man I once was." My current name is Clalucinzino. Alas, Your Majesty, they say so, and so they are! But nothing has to do with me!"
This last sentence, I often hear him say. It seems that when he firmly believes that "nothing has anything to do with me", he can settle down and calm down because of it.
Sometimes I also give him some paper for him to write something about. So he sat down at his desk and wrote some poems, even rhyming ones. Although the verses are correct, their content is confused and meaningless, especially those he wrote later. Every time he finished writing a poem, he would bend down respectfully and hand it to me. At one point, his payment was: "Not the most humble Hölderlin.".
I once told him there was a concert in the evening. Originally, I also wondered if I would let him enjoy some music. But I didn't dare to do that. Because music has the potential to have too strong an impact on his mood, it's almost impossible to have Hölderlin sit quietly for hours like this. So, as usual, we left the garden and went out for a walk. On the way, Hölderlin was deeply immersed in his own contemplation and did not say a word. When we were almost in town, he looked at me, as if suddenly awakened, and said, "Concert, ... It was obvious that he was only now remembering what I had said to him more than half an hour earlier.
In any case, Hölderlin's life was still accompanied by music. He was still able to play the piano correctly, but in a very unconventional way. When he wanted to play the piano, he would sit at the piano all day without taking half a step. Occasionally a syllable would pop into his head, and he would turn this childish simple syllable over and play it hundreds of times, and no one could bear it. Because his fingers were swollen and his fingernails were long and dirty, he sometimes flicked his palms over the keyboard when he played the piano. Hölderlin was particularly reluctant to trim his nails, and people had to rack their brains to concoct reasons for cajoling, just like a demented or well-behaved child, in order to persuade him to cut his nails. When Hölderlin played the piano for a while, his soul gradually softened, and he closed his eyes and raised his head high, as if he wanted to go with the wind and disappear into nothingness. He began to sing. I still haven't figured out what language Hölderlin is singing in. But his singing stirred up a soaring detachment of passion in my heart. Yes, whoever sees Hölderlin like this and hears his singing will be deeply shaken by the nerves of his whole body. The soul in this song is bitterness and sadness: he makes people recognize a brilliant tenor.
He loved children, but the children were very afraid of him and fled from him. He was afraid of a lot of things, and he was also afraid of dying because of his fragile deranged nerves, and he was easily frightened. Even the slightest noise would startle him. When he was in a violent movement, in a mood of anger or badness, his whole face would shrink into a ball, and his every movement would be violent, and he would twist his fingers so hard that he shouted loudly as if there were no bones in his fingers, or argued with himself in a rapid discourse. On such occasions, it is best to hide aside and leave him alone until the storm has passed; Otherwise, Hölderlin would use violence to push the people out of the room. When Hölderlin finally vented, he would go back to bed and lie down, and wouldn't get up for days.
Sometimes he had a whim and wanted to go to Frankfurt. The way people stopped him was to hide his boots, which made Mr. Librarian so angry that he stayed in bed for five days and didn't want to get out of bed. However, in the summer, Hölderlin became so restless again that he often got up in the middle of the night and walked from upstairs to downstairs all night and from downstairs to upstairs.
I thought about bringing Hölderlin some other books. I once brought him a German translation of Homer's epic because I thought he might still be able to remember Homer and would be willing to read him. But Hölderlin was reluctant to accept the book. So I gave the book to the carpenter and asked him to tell Hölderlin that it was his own book. This method also did not work. Hölderlin rejected the book not because of pride, but of fear, because he was unwilling to touch anything strange. Only those things that he was accustomed to in his daily life could make him peaceful, such as "The Void", and the old poets who he had turned over, as for Homer's work, which he had not been exposed to for more than twenty years, was already a strange and novel thing, and which would stimulate his emotions.
I also managed to invite Hölderlin to take me for a walk in a garden where there was a tavern. The view from the garden is beautiful and all the seats are secluded. Hölderlin drank like a real man, and in addition to the red wine, the beer was also very much to his liking. He drank a lot more than people thought. But I had to be careful not to let him drink more than necessary. Finally, if he were to light another pipe, Hölderlin would simply fall into intoxication. He said nothing more, but just sat quietly.
He also wrote to his old mother, but people always had to remind him to do it beforehand. These letters are not delirious. Hölderlin wrote them with great effort, and the letters can even be said to be quite clear. But that's about it. Judging from the style of the letters, they are like the handwriting of a child who is not yet mature in thinking and writing. One letter was well written, but it ended: "I found that I had to stop." At the time of writing this, Hölderlin's consciousness was already a little unconscious, and he himself noticed this and put an end to it. For this situation of blocked thinking, one need only imagine how it feels when one is in a serious illness, or has a severe headache, or intense drowsiness, or how one wakes up in the morning after getting drunk the night before.
My little garden was so precious to Hölderlin that even years after I left Tübingen, he was still inquiring about the condition of the garden. And, when he and Mrs. Carpenter later walked to a nearby vineyard, he went to the garden door several times and declared with certainty that Monsieur von Wieblinger lived here.
Beautiful nature, quiet walks, free open skies, these always bring a good mood to Hölderlin. Fortunately for him, he could see from his room a very beautiful view: the secluded Neckar River flowed softly under the window, and a little farther away was a large meadow and rolling mountains. When the carpenter gave him some paper, he wrote down some clear poems, in which he truly recorded what he had seen by the window.
It is noteworthy that he never mentioned the good things he had experienced in his life, Frankfurt, Diotima, Greece, his own poetry... Wait, these things that were once so important to him seem to be forever lost in the river of forgetfulness. When people occasionally jokingly say to him, "You haven't been to Frankfurt in a long time, haven't you?" His answer was simply a bow and said, "Yes. Sir, they all say so. This was followed by a series of words mixed with French that no one could understand.
About the time I was about to leave Tübingen, the carpenter made a small sofa for Hölderlin and placed it in his room, which brought him great joy. When I went to visit him, he rushed over like a child, kissed my hand, and said, "Look, Mr. Mercy, now I have a couch!" Since then, every time I visit him, he's always pulled me to the couch before talking to me.
During my time at university and with Hölderlin, I traveled frequently to Italy, Switzerland and Tyrol in Austria. When I came back, he always knew exactly where I had been and was particularly willing to ask me to tell him about Switzerland. In the past, he lived in Zurich and St. Gallen, Switzerland, where he met Lavatelle and Zolikofi. On the occasion of my graduation, I made it clear that I was going to Rome and would not be coming back. When I jokingly said that I wanted him to accompany me to Rome, he laughed—it was the quiet and gentle smile of a philosopher—and said, "Gentle man, I must stay here, I can't go any further."
Sometimes Hölderlin's answer to people's questions is almost hilarious, especially with the kind of serious look that makes it difficult to see if he is really joking about something. For example, once I asked him how old he was, and he smiled and replied, "Mr. Baron, I'm seventeen." Maybe it's not a joke, but a real insanity. When people speak to Hölderlin, he is always absent-minded, because he is always trapped in his own vague and difficult thoughts, and if people suddenly come up with a question to wake him up from that chaotic thought, his reply is usually to say something vague and ignorant. Once I was walking with him into a meadow, and he was in a state of foolishness on the way, when I suddenly motioned for him to pay attention to a house next to me and said, "Look, Mr. Librarian, surely you haven't noticed this newly built building?" Hölderlin suddenly woke up, looked at me for a moment, and said slowly, with an expression declaring the oracle, "Yes, Your Majesty."
My home in Germany still preserves some of the poems he wrote during that time and some of the things he wrote with his pen. If possible, I'd love to share these things with you.
But I remember only one of the Alcán-style odes now, which begins with the following touching verses:
To Diotima
If, in the distance we are parted,
You remember my face, you remember the past,
O sharer of my pain,
I wish I could show you some surprises...
In this last line one can see that Hölderlin is no longer able to express his thoughts clearly, like a poet with a bad foot, always unable to express clearly what he wants to say. Incapable of expressing his current feelings in appropriate words.
In his epistles, its contents are related to .' God or fate" (he likes to use such expressions) of struggle and wrestling. In one of these places, Hölderlin exclaimed, "O God of heaven, the truth is that I have fought so many wars with you, but I can only win a few insignificant victories!"
Once I saw shocking, secret words in his pile of paper. After repeatedly praising the beauty of the heroes and gods of ancient Greece, there is a sentence: "When I am far away from the people and live in loneliness, I now understand what a man is!"
For Hölderlin, the intuition of nature is always completely clear. In his healthiest, most vibrant, freshest poems, there is a great idea that nature is the divine mother who brings life to all things. When Hölderlin was caught in the hopeless mess of the miserable years that followed, and could no longer express anything purely abstract, the love of dry nature was truly preserved in his soul. Hölderlin's demeanor in a natural environment. The tranquility and gentle magic that nature brings to him is a good example. When he looks out of the window at nature in the spring, the comfort brought to him by those beautiful images is incomparable. In a poem, in a vivid Homeric style, he describes how the sheep walked across the small wooden bridge. He often saw this scene in front of the window. When he saw the silver-white raindrops hitting the eaves, his heart would also arouse subtle and deep thoughts.
Of course, nevertheless. He has lacked the ability to grasp all thoughts and feelings as a whole. Whenever he tried to say something more abstract, his mind would fall into chaos, become numb, and eventually write some childish or inexplicable words.
Some of those who hurried to visit Hölderlin and then hurried away had the greatest illusion of Hölderlin's mental condition, that is, they believed that Hölderlin had a fixed idea in his mind that he was associating with the princes, nobles, popes, etc., because he gave these titles to everyone (even carpenter). But this perception is wrong. Hölderlin's mind simply could not have any fixed, constantly dominant ideas; His mental condition was not so much dementia as weakness. All of his absurd words and deeds came from mental and physical breakdowns. We'll make this clearer below.
Hölderlin was no longer able to grasp a thought, to understand it clearly, to trace the ins and outs of an idea, and still less to integrate similar ideas. Therefore, all kinds of things, whether near or far, are related and irrelevant, and they are all upside down in him. As for his daily life, as we have already seen, it is a purely intrinsic life, and this may be one of the main reasons for his state of delusion. What's more, his body was extremely weak, and his nerves were extremely fragile. If he comes up with something by chance, whether it's a memory or a thought triggered by something around him, he tries to think about it. But his mind lacked power, peace and well-being, so it was impossible to clearly straighten out those chaotic thoughts. He wants to affirm something, but this certainty certainly does not carry any authenticity (because this authenticity comes only from healthy thinking). So he immediately denied it again, because his whole spiritual world was a fog and illusion, and his whole essence became a terrible idealism at the extreme.
For example, he said to himself, "Man is happy." At the same time, his thinking is uncertain and vague, because he can't tell what people are happy about and how they are happy. Then he already felt a vague objection in his heart, so he said, "Man is unfortunate. "Again. When he said this, he could not figure out why people were unfortunate and how unfortunate they were. I have observed this desperate contradiction in Hölderlin countless times, because he is accustomed to talking to himself while thinking. On several occasions he seemed to have almost grasped a clear concept or concept, but he immediately shook his head, trapped in a more chaotic mental condition, the muscles on his forehead twitching, and he shook his head vigorously and shouted loudly: "No! Nope!" In order to get rid of this painful entanglement, he then fell into delirious eating, saying meaningless words, as if his soul were trying to break free from the dark mind, while his lips were still gushing uncontrollably. Judging by some of the things he wrote, it's also obvious. He often wrote a sentence or proposition as if it were the title or subject of an essay. The sentence itself is correct and clear, but it is merely a memory from Hölderlin's hazy haze, which appears unconsciously in the pen. Now, when Hölderlin continues to reminisce about that memory, to carry it out, to develop, to flesh it out, he does not sort out the mess like a normal person, but on the contrary spreads a clear idea in a disorderly way. Until everything was as chaotic as a worn-out dusty cobweb, he was tired, thinking of this and that for a moment, and finally writing down childish words that only a child who did not understand things could write. And, as we have mentioned before, he still has some extremely abstract metaphysical ideas in his mind, and his poetic character has not been completely lost, so he has written down some obscure and extremely absurd things, as if he could no longer control the spiritual fantasies that had reached its peak, nor could he give a new or clear expression to those dark memories. It seems that he wants to use some abnormal form and expression to deliberately disguise his confusion and incompetence, of course, and only as it seems.
Some of the things Hölderlin wrote down in this way were even included in his poetry collections. Although they also contain a lot of beautiful, fresh and clear, and even occasionally wonderful and exciting words, people can still find something superficial everywhere, as if there are some black dirt floating on the surface of the water that calmly reflects the sunlight. It can be seen here that when Hölderlin was gradually caught in the torment of despair, his spirit had become chaotic, and he was no longer able to fully control and control the material. So I think it would have been better if the editors of Hölderlin's poetry, Ulland and Schwab, when they carefully collected and selected Hölderlin's works, omitted that part, or at least added a corresponding explanation, so as not to confuse readers who did not know Hölderlin's mental condition at that time. In any case, the two thoughtful editors also took into account the surviving poets, although he had no interest in the publication of his poetry collection and ignored them.
Generally speaking, if Hölderlin had not been trapped in a state of complete dementia, he would have been entangled with himself. When he is with other people, many strange motives will come to mind, making him even more strange and incomprehensible. In the former case, his soul is usually deeply immersed in himself, completely oblivious to things that are completely outside. There is an immeasurable gulf between him and the whole of humanity. He had long since decided to detach himself from all things of man, though he was actually powerless against it. The two worlds have no connection, only fragments of memory, simple habits and an inextricable instinct to survive. Once. Hölderlin saw a small child standing in a dangerous position by the river at the window, and his fear had reached such an extent that he immediately ran downstairs and dragged the child away from the river. It seemed that in his heart, which had once been so deep and warm, there seemed to be something human. But in reality, for Hölderlin today, this is no different from an instinctive drive. Whether he was told that the Greeks had been annihilated except for a few breakouts, or that the Greeks had won a decisive victory and become an independent state, Hölderlin was completely indifferent. Yes, Hölderlin did not listen to these words at all, could not think about them at all: they were too distant and too strange for him to distract him. If people say to him, ''I'm dead.' He might be surprised, then, and replied, "Mr. Jesus, is he dead?" When he said these words, he did not feel anything or think anything at all. The words and phrases that seem to have some connection with the mention are only simple forms. It wouldn't be until a long, long time later, when he suddenly remembered the meaning of this sentence and remembered what he had just said about who had died. Besides, he would never think of anything else, because he hadn't paid attention to anyone else at all.
Because of Hölderlin's deep insanity, because of his entanglement with himself, because of his complete lack of interest in people and things outside of him, and because he has no ability to understand and grasp other individuals, all these reasons have led to the inability of anyone to have deep-level communication with him. One must not forget that in him there is still some rigid sense of honor, some pride and self-esteem. In these twenty years of loneliness, because his life is isolated from the world, he is also accustomed to treating the whole external world as dispensable. Because the world has never brought him any joy, he comforts himself and calms himself with some proud fantasies, and in the past he has won some respect from people with his efforts and works, and now, in a lonely and closed life, he can only conjure up within himself the self and the non-self, the world and man, the first and second person, and regard them as sublime or supreme things. But this self-congratulation is overshadowed by his intrinsically endearing elegance and kindness: his rich knowledge, his innate and natural integrity, his keen mind (which has unfortunately been completely destroyed by insanity and insanity), his dealings with various eminent figures and even the upper nobility, etc., have not allowed this solitary self-congratulations to be exposed. Sometimes people even think that Hölderlin is so humble that they like him more, and he has long been accustomed to this politeness and demeanor, which everyone can see at a glance. However, because he had been in a state of insanity and loneliness for a long time, his manners were bound to become so foolish that he exaggerated that he exaggerated the polite habits and court etiquette to such an extent that he was honored by everyone as "His Majesty" and "Saint", or "Baron", "Pope", and so on. In this regard, one should not forget that when Hölderlin's mental mania broke decisively, he was still a librarian in Futing, and therefore he may always have a certain sense of pride and honor in his heart; In addition, his attitude of always rejecting people thousands of miles away can also be seen as a good proof of this. But one should not really think that Hölderlin believed that he was dealing with the princes and nobles, for, as I have pointed out before, Hölderlin was not a fool, he did not have any fixed ideas, and his mental condition was rather a mental weakness, but only because his nervous system had been damaged that this weakness developed into an incurable disease.
Not only does he avoid anything that irritates him, anything that confuses his thinking more, but he recalls less of the important things in his past life, especially those that directly led to his insanity. Once he came into occasional contact with such things, he would become extremely restless, he would growl and shout, he would run back and forth all night, he would become more frantic than usual, until his weak body exceeded the limits of what he could bear, and he gradually calmed down. If he fell into a rage, such as once when he was suddenly trying to go to Frankfurt and was stopped, he would be furious in his cabin. Although this small room had separated him from the whole world, he had to retreat into a smaller space, as if it were so that he would feel safer, less vulnerable to harm, or better able to endure pain. At this point, he would lie down on the bed.
The absurd things he says about himself and himself are merely self-amusement in some way. He was so lonely that when he was bored, he had to say something. He may utter some sensible words, but they cannot be continued, because he thinks of something else, and one idea is quickly squeezed out and destroyed by another. By the time he finally fell into terrible chaos, he couldn't control himself. He was talking gibberish and didn't know what to do, but his mental activity gradually stopped. When he was with other people, he also felt that there was a need for normal representation out of courtesy, so he asked people questions, but he paid no attention to others and everything they did and said. Gradually, his soul became entangled in himself, and he only cared to talk to himself, as if the people around him no longer existed. If people ask him questions and he can't answer them, his thinking will stop and he won't understand what people are saying. Through this confusion, he avoided continuing to associate with people.
One can understand that in his countless upheavals and insane behaviors, the vast majority of them were caused by a lonely and closed life. Usually called "rational people" if they live in isolation for many years and especially if they have nothing to do in this life. Well, once they get back into contact with normal things, they will look like a fool. Not to mention such an unfortunate person, his youth was originally full of hope and joy, full of beauty and self-confidence, but he encountered many misfortunes in the subsequent real life; Such a sensitive and too easily hurt mind, always too tight a nerve, living in isolation for decades, has nothing to kill time, then his thinking is of course no different from a damaged clock.
After we have quietly observed the shocking fate of this once illustrious soul, if someone asks him if he will still be able to recover, if he will be able to wake up and regain his spiritual strength fully, then we must be honest with deep pain, although we hope that his mental condition will improve, but this is actually unlikely. Hölderlin's physical condition had been damaged to such an extent that he had to be given additional stimulation to free his spirit from his trappings. Our only hope is (and somewhat possible from experience) that he will be able to have a little more momentary calm and sobriety, to be temporarily freed from the terrible entanglement of body and soul. Of course, this may only be a moment, maybe a final moment. By the time I left Germany, Hölderlin had clearly lost a lot of weight, he was more exhausted and calmer than he had been in the past. Six years ago, his eyes were still full of fire and power, and his face was still full of life and warmth. But by then, he had dimmed as if he had reached the end of his life. It's been a long time since I had any more news from him. He must be fifty-seven years old by now, and only the first thirty years of that can be called true survival. When his body has consumed all the action and power of his soul and curbed its bravest flight, all we can hope for is that this soul torn apart by the curse of fate will be separated from the body. We hope that the only, final moment of the noble, deceased friend will come; We wish that before he is reincarnated into another life, he will be able to clearly recall the mystery of the grief of his past life and see new hope for the next life!
Whether it is too late or too early, it will not stop you from becoming the person you want to be, the process has no time limit, as long as you want, you can start at any time - "Rejuvenation"
Text/Wilhelm · Weiblinger
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Facing the sea, look for light with black eyes. Founded on November 16, 2015, the Poetry Club takes "giving voice to grassroots poets" as its mission and carries forward the "spirit of poetry" as its purpose, that is, the pursuit of the truth, goodness and beauty of poetry, the artistic innovation of poetry, and the spiritual pleasure of poetry. He has published a collection of poems co-authored by poets, "Spring Warm Blossoms of Reading Sleeping Poems" and "Grass Long Warblers Flying in Reading Sleeping Poems".