Authors: H. G. Adler
Freedom can dispense grace indiscriminately, it being just as available to the guilty, and is perhaps expended only on the guilty, since before grace there is no one who is not guilty. So there is no need for grace to be kept from anyone who adds a new sin to established sins, though it can withhold itself, as grace is the freedom that exists which no one can do anything about, and therefore cannot possess. Often a person assures that grace will not occur, although he has nothing against it, for he infers demands that have nothing to do with it. This gives rise to the paradox that grace can
cause harm, but when it does it is no longer grace, for though grace is indeed salvation, when defined by humans it is no longer grace. But if grace is to give rise to freedom, then grace must remain free, as it can work only in freedom. Thus that which is unfree is part of the sinful, and the realization of the nature of that which is unfree places the world as well as the individual person in a state of sin or guilt, which are two words for the same thing.
The entire world is a world that is guilty before grace. Guilt and oppression counter salvation and freedom, though guilt cannot be reversed by any redemptive act, for guilt contradicts it. If one doesn’t wish to believe this, he has only blinded himself and isolates himself within his guilt, even if he tries to remain free of personal sin. The burden of his own lack of freedom is already the punishment, which is also felt in the blindness and deafness brought on by his audacity. Thus collective guilt is the same as one’s own guilt, even if one refuses to accept it, or if one doesn’t want to acknowledge it and foolishly chooses to ignore his part in the guilt of the society in which he lives. But it is also guilt when one believes that he is graced and has nothing to do with collective guilt. For even if one can indeed believe that collective guilt cannot be shared, one still cannot separate oneself from the world, or lower the amount of guilt, but instead only point to it, while perhaps gaining a small reward through this action alone, though there is nonetheless no redemption and no forgiveness of the sins against the slaughtered Lamb of God. On the contrary, all beings must accept collective guilt, as well as their own guilt, and do what is possible so that guilt is dissipated and new guilt is avoided, whereby freedom will stand in opposition to human guilt, so that the grace of the undivided community can occur as a collective grace. In the preparation for such an occurrence in the world, Josef sees the possible start of a way to an undivided salvation.
It’s good that Josef sleeps, it’s good that he’s alone, for now he wants to talk to someone else, but he should keep quiet, he should wait and know that his clever words are only the helpless attempts of one who has been abandoned and wishes to overcome his loneliness, as he doesn’t always want to remain an onlooker, though he should indeed realize that he will always be only a viewer. He sits before the glass panes of the panorama, he being allowed to decide as he gazes deeply into the viewing booth whether what he sees will be just a view of the streets and houses of Launceston below or
of the walls across the way where George Fox sat imprisoned, or a view of the entire ruins, or of the solitary visitors who come and go, or a view across the countryside that is bathed in soft light, or of the Church of the Penitent, the gates of the town, The Red Bull, or of the corrugated huts that have been abandoned since the prisoners of war and their bundles were sent back to Germany, or perhaps a view of nothing immediately here, but a view inward to see if it appears to be turning outward, views of the countries that Josef once saw, a view of his own family and of Bubi and also of Wenzel sitting in the garden, the view from the meadow above Umlowitz down onto Praxel’s hut, or of Herr Neumann’s property, or of the home of the dental technician Bilina, or of Thomasberg, or a view of the classrooms of The Box, or of the courtyard where The Bull screams and Inspector Faber stands in charge, or through the peepholes in the toilets, in the auditorium, where “Now for the Last Time” will be sung, or up at Professor Felger’s garden, where the broken pump lies, or of the train station in Adamsfreiheit, in the catacombs of the cloister, or up at Landstein Castle, or of the ranger’s house in torchlight, through the woods and on the ground, where cool berries and moist mushrooms grow, or the view of the night streets of the city, the rushing people and the police, or in the tower room of Johannes, or of the eternal light and the gong, or a view of the Frau Director’s villa, or of Lutz’s butterfly book, or out into the garden, or the view into the ticket booth and old Frau Lawetzer, into the main office and Professor Rumpler with his bust of Goethe, or the view of the railroad site, of the wooden barracks, of Sláma’s work site, then of the tower on Pfefferberg, and across at the poplars and into the lush density of the woods, and many views of the camp of the lost ones, of the electrified wire, of the yard where the lost ones collapse in exhaustion, or the view of horrible red smoke as Mordechai speaks of the blessing of the prayer shawl, or the view of the singing rails and the underground halls everywhere where the Conqueror continues to forge his weapons.
All of them are temporal views, all of them limited, none of it enough for Josef anymore, for he’s had enough of them and doesn’t know where he should look, though he still sees them all, it not mattering if he closes his eyes, for he sees, and he can leave them open and he still sees, he hears the little bell, the view changes, it all repeats again, the order in which they do
having been lost, no one watching any longer to make sure that the show runs smoothly, the views all mixing together, no, they are not views, for Josef is at peace, he controls the order and selection of views neither through his will nor through his fantasy, as they breed their own confusion, a continual interchange, everything mixing with everything else and shaken together in kaleidoscopic fashion. Josef is happy to be lying down, for if he were standing he would not be able to keep his feet still, as everything is dissolving together, he no longer knows which way is which, the times also spliced together, though it all gives rise to a feeling of happiness, the experiences of the past years appear to be compressed, Josef now able to preserve what he once experienced. Now he can look on and realize the tables have turned, he is the embodiment of all that has happened to him.
Most likely a person exists only by virtue of the world that is mirrored within him. Josef is an object of the world, so any hope of engaging with it is an idle thought. Yet this engagement happens nonetheless, for it is a chain of unconscious phenomena that are nonetheless expressed in people’s actions. This does not amount to simple acceptance, or inaction, but is instead a chosen acquiesence so that the world can be, and no one resist that. Instead, one should simply fulfill it and be prepared to respond to any impetus in a vigorous manner. For it is also not an involuntary process, nor is it a soulless mechanism, nor fatalism, though indeed it does involve the destruction of the illusion of an independent and arbitrary agency. It involves immersion in the general run of things that appears to be brought about by the actions of all people in the world. The idea of a world soul that contains the individual soul makes sense. Thus conquering empty isolation is possible, the challenges faced by the individual demanding that he discover the link between all events and grace, and through that manifest his own approach to life. Through this Josef’s childhood dreams should have been fulfilled, for he had always thought that all individuals shared some path together on which salvation could be found in their lives, but it had always been apparent how much selfish and rampant resistance stood against it, the existence of the common questioned by the individual or even denied, which then leads to the destruction of all order. As a result, those who have a vision and those who do not both suffer, nor is the recognition of a common path shared enough by individuals, since that does not cohere with the
ways of the world. Also, when individuals wish to unite and become the many, it does not happen as long as the formulation of such a common path does not lead to a recognizable commonality. Such a formulation is hardly ever sought, so it can’t help but fail. And thus those with no vision become the masters of the world, the conquerors arising from within their ranks as well as—often just as dangerous—the nattering fools who preach penance and meditation. Those without a vision lend the Conqueror and the fools an ear and a following, and soon evil grows, again and again resulting in destruction. So Josef thought, though now these thoughts dissolve inside him.
If one finds his Launceston amid his sleep, then he is free not to act, but instead to rest, to germinate, to multiply himself, he containing a world of seeds of consciousness that quietly and yet excitedly interact with one another, this being no wild, tattered delirium of fears and dangers in which force rules most any day. Josef reckons that he will no longer be threatened by this shadow, and he hopes for an end to the frightful and the abysmal, but already he has realized how idle it is to formulate his own future. He wants to get up and once again have a look at the withered wreath and the Quaker’s prison, after which he would like to visit a bookstore in order to learn more about George Fox. No, he won’t do that, for there is nothing to learn here, and Josef feels it is forbidden him, and he needs to conquer the past for good, to bury it, nor should there be any monuments set up to it, no memorials, instead a garden, a lawn, no painted plaques, but instead allow the site of suffering to sink into soothing, blessed forgetfulness, leaving only something felt in the heart, but no thoughts of any places through which one can just naïvely stroll. That is not an irreverent wish, it is the desire for life, as only then will forgetfulness be freed of the burdens that the after-world presses upon it without indeed trying to maintain any kind of genuine reverence, for though everything meets its end, forgetfulness is new as it emerges, the voices of its unconscious experience remaining loud, as a new show begins, the public needing images to look at to set it at ease.
Josef takes stock, sensing a comfortable certainty, but he also worries, for he knows that the moment he gets up frightening faces will reveal themselves, faces full of tense expectation, empty faces, perhaps, that don’t want to reveal anything, but Josef looks into them more deeply and sees through their fleetingness, their endlessly anxious apprehension. Then he sees that
nothing has changed, the former prisoners of war are not satisfied, their victors are not satisfied, Josef is not allowed to speak to either, he having to tread carefully between each, it being the least of his worries that they should only laugh at him, but instead they will threaten him and be hostile should he tell of his memories and thoughts, and thus he will remain silent. But if he can no longer remain silent, what will become of him?
Josef looks at the sea before him, the fog beginning to rise over the coastline, the wind still, the fog climbing ever closer, encasing everything in white, Launceston already blanketed, all sounds muffled as well, every noise silenced, everything recognizable now hidden, no way to distinguish what’s far and near. The fog is comforting and pleasant to the observer who can fathom what stands before his eyes. Josef sees the sea, a quiet sea, a still and softly swaying sea in which pain and pleasure are brothers, where forgetting is united with remembrance, a sea that celebrates remote memories. Josef floats upon the sea, wanting to be borne and cradled by it, the fallen castle tower of Launceston the last island in the endless sea, only a single sound rising within the sea, a swaying gong that sounds continuously, its constant call more lonesome than any silence, Josef himself the gong that sounds in the distant sea, the fish swimming about Josef in surprise at his submersion, he perhaps having sunk into the pool of the world, perhaps everything is finished and gone. Any attempts to find him will fail should anyone seek to, for vainly his name and number are called out at sea, because he floats, and no one is ready to climb the tower, people are too tired to do so, they tarry in the depths, water sprites, fish people, and fountain mermaids slowly crawling along the ocean floor, all of them magical and therefore unable to sense that they live in water and are sunk below, and since they can breathe without gills they are at home in this element, shedding their fate as easily as their clothes in order to feel at home, bringing with them what they need for the everyday—dented tin tools, mallets and funnels, round-bellied pipes with ties and scissors and coffee cups from the windowsill, beaten-up washbowls and cracked plates, diaries and books of poetry. The fish easily ready themselves for a
bal paré in
the castle pool, not noticing the electrified fence, the current circulating throughout, through the macrocosm and the microcosm, the fish looking through microscopes and telescopes, though they don’t see that the Conqueror is already standing in the fish trap and hurrying
all the fish to the transports, the next train now leaving for Pitchipoi, though the fish don’t realize it and count their yearly earnings as they flounder in the cinema sea at the gala lecture about the great minds and get their VIP seats without a ticket, the Red Cross gratis to the red fish, lost bathers scraping off the scales of the fish, blood trickling out from under the fins, then it’s off to the baths, breathing not allowed here, though the fish don’t know that they will be killed, as they turn into people again, reining in their sorrows, earning their money, tidying their rooms, preparing their meals and their tidbits, Josef thinking about people and for once feeling indebted to them, he owing them everything, for it is they who make the world turn that he is able to observe, and that is without end.
Thus Josef is conscious that nothing has ended for him, no decisive change has come about, nor is there even a pause. It’s a passage, because even during the quiet and abidance he is carried forward unawares, he at times seeing what he confronts, then as he dives in he finds that any of the questions he faces again return him to an ongoing confusion, as he is still somewhat asleep, a dreamy expression in his eyes, but quickly the first wind of the day blows it away, Josef able to talk reasonably, his demeanor no different from that of others, his nature taking hold of him and admonishing him that he is acting cocky, he’s not so special, only little more than nothing has anything to do with you, even though most individuals are inclined to overestimate their own importance, though rightfully his surroundings rein in the scope of his influence. Each is granted his lot, which in turn makes demands upon him, the only exception allowed being his right to look after his little pastimes, should they be granted him, after which he again must fulfill his duty, while whoever smiles at this or even tries to ignore it is foolish and upsets the balance of the world. But is any of this satisfactory? Can one finally say that something has been attained? The panorama offers Josef no answer to this. Much can be demonstrated, but not everything. The wish dissolves when no longer repressed, but nonetheless it persists. At one time it’s a thorn that is pressed into the world around us, at another time it bores into its own realm. Man is a creature who wishes, who desires matter, but who wants to transform matter into essence, but regardless of how hard man tries to do so he never succeeds. Matter is indeed pliable, but nonetheless it remains unconquerable, refusing to give up its hold until the sweet
end. Matter is the victor over essence, which in turn likes to be immortalized as the unvanquished.