The Path of the Gods

by Walter F. Otto. Translated from the original German by Farasha Euker

Introduction: A Conversation from the Records of Princess Margot of Saxe-Meiningen

In the spring of the year 1947, I encountered Walter F. Otto for the first time. I had approached him on account of his books on certain matters, and I visited him in Tübingen, where, following an extensive period of wandering, he had found refuge after losing both his chair at Königsberg and all his belongings. Regular personal encounters soon followed this initial visit, giving rise to a friendship that endured until his passing. The intervals between visits were bridged by letters. Much like the occasion of our encounter, our friendship was rooted in our shared appreciation of the truth of myth. The question of the reality and manifestation of the Gods never ceased to form the basis of our conversations.

I dwelled not far from Tübingen, in a secluded house perched upon the cliffs of the upper Danube valley above Hausen im Tal—in that enchanting landscape on the southern slope of the Swabian Alps that inspired Otto’s conversation “The Path of the Gods.” In a letter dated March 13, 1956, he writes: “Just now, after so many duties have claimed my attention, I have resumed work on the manuscript that I hinted to you I was working on: ‘The Path of the Gods.’ It is intended to suggest how the path of the Gods reaches us and all creatures. Its idea is, in a strange way, connected with Hausen. The conversation begins there, and when I follow the thought, the mysterious forest always stands before my eyes.” In a letter, Otto described this landscape in the following words: “Here in Elmau, where it is almost paradisiacally beautiful, where the cheerful, the colorful, the dark, and the grandiose form the most wondrous unity and harmony—here in Elmau, my thoughts wander to Hausen, to the primordial world where the Gods are truly close. I have not set foot on any other ground of which I could say the same, except in a completely different way in Greece—here is Apollo.”

At the time, I had established a small farm to support my family, with a cow I cared for myself that grazed in the forest meadows. For this shepherd’s work, I made seats out of the bizarre limestone blocks of the region, cushioned with moss, at the most beautiful spots along the forest edges. There I would sit motionless for long stretches of time, mending clothes for the children or contemplating the infinite play of the sky, the earth, and their spirits around me. On such excursions, to my initial surprise, Otto always refused to sit on the inviting resting spots on the ground. I still can’t forget how he would often stand there in silence for a long time, upright and tall, yet entirely self-forgetful. The key to this behavior was given to me one day by Hölderlin’s words from “Bread and Wine”: “To stand worthy in the presence of the celestial beings…” Otto could only encounter the figures of the primeval world up here with the most dignified human posture, upright-standing, which he himself referred to as the first myth. Only on my shepherd’s seats would he sit comfortably, as if on a primordial throne, for an extended conversation.

The conversation entitled “The Path of the Gods”—which, according to his own note on the manuscript, was begun on June 21, 1953, a day before his 78th birthday—didn’t unfold exactly as he describes it, and yet it did transpire just as he portrays it. It is not a work of fabrication. He recounted to me the statements of those scholarly friends at the beginning of the conversation just as he reproduces them, and I could provide their names. His words on very diverse occasions, including those of our shared wanderings and conversations over the course of years, coalesced in him to form a type of conversation in which his partner was almost like his alter ego. In his presentation, he occasionally attributed to it words I had heard from him directly, just as he sometimes expressed something in the manuscript that I had said before. The most striking aspect, however, is, in comparison to his other works, the form of direct discourse that he chose.

This depiction of Otto’s behavior with respect to the primeval world is not trivial. Rather, it makes it clear how much he himself corresponded, in his nature and actions, to what he said about the integrity of its form. This pure and entirely natural correspondence, this fidelity, as Hölderlin terms it in his Pindar fragment “Of the Dolphin,” is actually the reason behind the unusual form of direct discourse chosen by Otto in his manuscript “The Path of the Gods.” He wrote to me on September 9, 1954: “Meanwhile, I sit before a new sheet of paper and in the truest sense invoke the Gods to appear…” He invokes them in the truest sense. How else could this happen if not through direct discourse? And how else could he respond to such an invoked presence? It wasn’t poetic whimsy, but, as always in his work, an objective necessity that prompted this unconventional form. It’s the same necessity he refers to at the beginning of the conversation, namely that temples were constructed in ancient Greece in the presence of Gods at sacred sites for the purpose of standing worthily before the celestial beings, which means testifying to the truth of their presence through one’s own actions.

The fact that this testimony had to occur in a wholly personal form and yet was not regarded by Otto as private discourse, but was intended by him for publication, is evident in his letter dated August 10, 1956, in which he writes: “I have begun a work that should continue and elevate Theophania. It has been in my mind for some time, but it could not find a proper form until now. Something decisive occurred to me this summer. The question of how the Gods came to humans, or of the reality of the Gods, no longer leaves me at peace. What would need to be discussed in the work that I envision seems to concern us more than anything else…” Shortly thereafter, I had the opportunity to ask him if these words was referring to his work “The Path of the Gods,” a work which he had written between September 1954 and March 1956. He confirmed it. When a philologist—a scholar who has traversed all levels of intellectual training and examination and an academic teacher—chooses the form of dialogue for one of his final works and utters surprising words, it should demand special attention. We should approach him with the same “partiality” he acknowledges in the conversation “The Path of the Gods” that he has toward Goethe.

The manuscript of the dialogue “The Path of the Gods” clearly shows that the author wrote parts of it at different times. The beginning is set down on June 21, 1953. The last entries are from the summer of 1957, as indicated by our correspondence. In a letter dated May 5, 1957, I quoted Hölderlin’s words from “Of the Dolphin” to him. He replied on June 2, 1957: “I must thank you for your letter. Among other things, it brought something that I received as a treasure, and precisely at the right time when I needed it: Your reference to Hölderlin’s thoughts on the Pindaric Dolphin and what you said about it were pivotal. It was as if at the point of my new work, exactly where I stood, I heard a whisper from above about what I should consider…” Hölderlin’s words on the Pindaric Dolphin are mentioned shortly before Otto breaks off the dialogue. Thus, from June 21, 1953, to June 1957, the conversation about the path and the reality of the Gods was written. This shows that the author did not hastily transcribe this personal confession in a moment of fervor, but rather continued to refine it through repeated examination. He consistently retained the form of direct discourse, and there is no indication that the difficulty he faced in shaping this work concerned the form of dialogue.

Walter F. Otto fell ill in the summer of 1957 during a recuperative stay in Elmau and did not recover from this illness. By autumn 1957, his eyesight had deteriorated so severely that he could only read and write with the utmost effort. By spring 1958, he was nearly blind. This affliction weighed on him more heavily than any physical pain, which he had always overcome, as long as he could read and write. As he never dictated his works but always wrote them himself, blindness was the worst fate that could befall him. Shortly before his death, he spoke to me about how, to his greatest agony, even during the weeks of severe illness, he had incessantly received meaningful insights and illuminations regarding the necessity of future works that he wanted to be put down in writing, and he had no means to give them shape. Thus, the conversation about the path of the Gods had to remain incomplete. We, who should have been more concerned about what was to be said therein than anything else, are left with a fragment, with references in his letters and posthumous writings, and with memories of personal conversations. How he would have completed the dialogue himself, we will never know.

When I saw the manuscript of “The Path of the Gods” for the first time, Otto was already deceased. Even though I knew it was meant to be published eventually, I was against the idea of it being published just as it stood, unfinished. His words in the aforementioned letter dated August 10, 1956, saying that this work in progress should continue and elevate Theophania, prompted me to alert the editor of Theophania, to whom Otto had entrusted his work on Epicurus for publication shortly before his death. Since this manuscript on Epicurus was not extensive enough for a standalone publication, Professor Grassi sought supplementary material from the estate’s manuscripts and had already been pointed by Otto’s daughter to the manuscript “The Path of the Gods.” I shared several sentences related to this manuscript from Otto’s letters with Professor Grassi, and he asked to peruse the letters. This led to his decision to publish the letters. I complied with his request, as Otto had asked me shortly before his death to preserve and make available our correspondence, which was of significance to his estate. I also agreed to transcribe three conversations from memory that I had had with him at various times. As our conversations were not dialogues in the Socratic sense but rather exchanges of ideas between friends who largely concurred, the distant observer might find explanations lacking. I can only refer the reader to Otto’s relevant publications, many of which were released during the period in which the recorded conversations took place. These include especially “The Form and the Essence,” “The Muses,” and Theophania.

It is evident that it was not Otto’s intention to engage in philosophical argumentation in the dialogue “The Path of the Gods,” even though he chose a scholarly friend as his dialogue partner. Once, when we were talking about Descartes and I mentioned Kant’s remark that with Descartes, philosophy gained ground, Otto replied, “And man lost the earth beneath his feet!” He continued, alluding to Descartes’ proof of God’s existence, that anyone who wished to philosophically prove the existence of a God would merely demonstrate that they knew nothing of God. A God whose existence is philosophically proven would be the emptiest of all concepts. As he wrote on September 9, 1954, his intention was to allow the Gods to appear in the truest sense, which, for him, meant encountering them as living figures. Only the one affected by their appearance may and should speak, and his speaking is the testimony to his being affected. Here, for humans, only confession remains, which, even as it hopes for understanding among people, must nonetheless be willing to forgo it, as it always goes beyond mere statement. A confession of the reality of the Gods, however, must be testified to with the same fervor as that which alone in our times is testified to, namely the unattainable distance of the Gods.

The Path of the Gods (A Fragment)

(Commenced on June 21, 1953)

We journeyed, my erudite companion and I, throughout the entirety of the day, traversing the woodlands high above the expanse of the Danube valley, where human encounters are a rarity and one becomes imbued with the impression that this is a realm that no human footprints have ever graced. For within a wide circumference, villages and farmsteads are absent from these highlands. The terrain is arid, water is scarce. Farmers no longer attempt to settle there, after many failed attempts. This is a terrain unsuited for human habitation. When a footprint is discernible amongst the trees, which seem to be regressing into primeval wildness, it traces the path of the untamed, which is invisible during the hours of daylight.

Our discourse, in response, became increasingly animated. My comrade, a scholar of archaeology, had returned recently from Greece, a land he had ventured into repeatedly. However, on this occasion, he had a novel and astonishing encounter, one he felt a deep-seated need to recount with profound excitement. His attentions on this journey had been particularly directed towards the highland sanctuaries, which provoke a sense of astonishment within the visitor as he surmounts the often arduous and prolonged ascent, and is suddenly confronted with the imposing ruins of a temple, perched upon the summit of a mountain, surveying both valleys and the azure sea. My friend the archaeologist had devoted extended years to the study of the architectural history of these temples and the rituals they served. As a proponent of modern rationality, he had often countered with a certain acrimony the sentimentality of aesthetes who believed that the ancients, when selecting locations for their sacred constructions, chose picturesque environs and grand vistas, thereby assuming that the same emotions that stir the modern eye were kindled within them as they gazed upon these sites. Yet, he remained incapable of responding to the question of why these temples had been erected precisely at the locales they occupy. He had been resigned to the notion that perhaps the rationale was different each time, but in all instances, sentimentality was not a factor; practicality reigned supreme.

And now, once again, he found himself before the temple of Aphaia atop the heights of the island Aigina, and before the temple of Apollo at Bassae, as well as other sanctuaries, harboring within himself an emotion that defied explanation, an emotion that dogged him even in his dreams. In Delphi, finally, before the colossal rocks of Mount Parnassus that tower above the ruins of the sanctuary, an epiphany seized him: here reside the Gods! The temple had been raised upon this very spot for no other reason than this, a reason truly pragmatic, yet fundamentally dissimilar from the pragmatism sought by scientific inquiry. For the reason was that this was a sacred space, the abode of unseen divine splendor; hence, the radiant colonnades were erected here and the temple structure itself, intended to be infused with the celestial presence of the God. What the ancient hymns recounted regarding the God having materialized in this very place, bestowing instructions for the temple’s construction, was no longer relegated to mere legend in that instant; it was veracious truth, affirmed by the heavens and the earth. This experience moved my friend so deeply that, upon his homeward journey, he found himself involuntarily singing a hymn, vocalizing it as he descended on foot towards the Gulf of Itea.

Delphi

Oh azure sea, you mountains, and you glistening land,
Enveloped by the primeval forest,
Which, like a verdant wave, surges and embraces the foot of the crags,
Where the temple of the luminous deity once gleamed in antiquity!

Does the resonance of his lyre’s melody yet grace your shores?
And the cadence of his steps,
Which, in a wondrously sanctified age,
Trod the path now so hushed?

The woods quivered with rapture,
And the silver spring leapt joyfully,
Cascading over the rocks, hastening to greet him,
Enveloped by the laurel and the wondrous mountains,
As he, brushing the strings with divine fingertips, entered
Through the mountain’s gate,
Into the burgeoning vale,
Ascending to the summit,
Where, toward noontide, the brother crags
Awaited him with incandescent countenances.

There—so it seems—
Stood high Apollo’s hall,
And resounded vehemently with his orations,
Before which distant sovereigns bowed.

Now he has long since departed,
He, in whose brilliance
A grand existence was once consummated.
The pillars of his abode lie in fragments,
The festive chant silenced,
And with the altar’s fires,
Nature’s beatific smile extinguished.

In vain does the sun seek,
As it ascends at dawn,
The trace of the Beloved.
The spring blossoms yet dream of him.
And the mountains, forsaken by the God,
Gaze down with primitive, wild eyes,
Speechless upon us, the solitary.

He spoke with eyes cast skyward. Upon concluding, he gradually lowered his gaze and met mine with a smile that seemed to that seemed an appeal for pardon. Subsequently, we resumed our journey in silence. His reflection had grown so profound that I hesitated to intrude upon it. Suddenly, however, he threw his head back, halted once more, and declared, “Meaningful experiences seldom arrive unaccompanied. It is as if life’s animating spirits beckon and summon one another. And so it was for me this time as well. Even upon my return journey, I chanced upon a friend who had journeyed far beyond my own travels, all the way to South America. Despite the considerable lapse of time that had transpired, he was ensnared by an extraordinary fervor. I swiftly discerned the basis for this, as he could scarcely converse about any other topic. As soon as he greeted me, an act performed with a certain detachment of mind, despite our prolonged separation and the curious coincidental nature of our meeting, he explained excitedly that he must share something exceedingly remarkable with me.”

My friend the archaeologist knew his friend as a sagacious thinker who had imbibed substantial inspiration from Giambattista Vico. However, he had also spent a considerable period in South America, during which he had had the opportunity to sojourn for several days in the Cordilleras. What transpired for that solitary wanderer among all the grandeur of those mountains defies adequate description. The magnitude of primeval antiquity overwhelmed him, concurrently instilling fear and unnameable reverence. Scholarly pursuits and philosophical musings were utterly obliterated. The archaic myth abruptly assumed the form of tangible reality. The only echo of the contemporary world that reached his consciousness was a phrase he had often heard from the lips of Leo Frobenius, stating that at a certain elevation above the southern seas, the myth of heaven, earth, and light simply manifest as truth. Profoundly moved, like one who had once glimpsed behind the curtain of civilization’s malignant façade, he returned to Europe.

The enchantment of those remote mountains, recounted in his narrative, overtook me as well, with such intensity that I found myself incapable of uttering a word. My friend, after his brief and impassioned account, had once again lapsed into contemplation, seemingly harboring no anticipation of any response. And so, wordlessly, we proceeded through the wilderness of trees and undergrowth, where each step necessitated searching for a path or carving one by sheer force. Silence prevailed. Only the snapping of branches underfoot, the rustling of withered leaves, and the occasional cry of a bird pierced the air. A ghostly stillness enveloped us, compelling even us to remain in silence.

Yet suddenly, as if hit forcefully by an unseen presence, we both came to a halt and gazed into each other’s eyes. Our unspoken gaze conveyed all that moved us, affirming concurrently that the presence we felt was one and the same, so that we both had to smile. The presence spoke thus: are we not, in this very place—just as in the mountain solitude of the Cordilleras—immersed within a sacred quietude, a vast primal essence?

It was a moment of bliss. And the joy of sharing it, of witnessing the same knowledge in my friend’s eyes, loosened our tongues.

“My friend,” my companion said earnestly, “it is all true—what the ancients perceived and pondered! The sacred silence speaks. I feel as if I were hearing the flute of Pan. It is, indeed, the voice of silence. And there is no longer a distinction between whether our outer auditory senses perceive a sound or not. A nymph could flutter by laughing here, and it would not astonish me. Yes, I see her tangibly—though my eyes might remain unaware. And there was a moment of silence, as if quivering within, there was an uncanny presence in the air of, yes, something perilous! We could be seized by terror, drawn into a circle of spirits, and lose all sanity. What would that be like? The educated might scoff; they acknowledge only the divine as they’ve concocted it with their minds. But here, where we stand, things are understood differently.”

His words reverberated within my soul, precisely expressing what the silence communicated wordlessly to me.

“I feel everything just as you do,” I replied. “It’s all true! Yes, I can affirm that I’ve felt and known it this way since time immemorial, without allowing myself to be swayed by natural science or philosophy. However,…” I continued hesitantly after a pause, “…I must confess something I’ve never expressed before, especially here in this wondrous place. An ironic contradiction perpetually confronts me—a contradiction I can’t grapple with. It’s as if it mocks me each time. ‘What’s with your Gods,’ it jeers, ‘and their benevolence or their ominous threats? We need merely clear the forest and level this entire hill—who is stopping us? And everything disappears. What kind of Gods can be so easily driven away?’ Now, dear friend, what do you say to this? Isn’t it indeed the case that we could shatter even your beloved mountaintop without difficulty, thereby thoroughly disproving the sense of divine presence? This is precisely what Christian missionaries did, summarily felling ancient trees or columns that imbued heathen hearts with divine tremors, to demonstrate that nothing worthy of reverence resided here.”

My friend gazed at me in silence for a long while. Then, he abruptly turned his head, shaking it, and wandered among the trees. I must admit that I was in a feverish state of anticipation regarding his impending words. Finally, he turned to me and said, “Indeed, these are facts that cannot be contested. Yet when faced with such an enigma, we must find a solution. Might it be that this very contradiction, if we do not evade it anxiously but wholeheartedly acknowledge it, could guide us toward greater clarity? Often enough, after ruminating fruitlessly over a problem for an extended period, I’ve come to realize that the difficulty, even the ostensible insolubility, doesn’t inherently reside within the subject itself, but rather in certain biases with which we approach it. Did you not imply earlier that we can banish spirits and Gods by destroying the site where they dwell, and that the inevitable inference seems to be that they are not realities in truth, but merely images of our own feelings? Otherwise, wouldn’t they demonstrate their power to us and prevent the work of destruction? But are we truly banishing them? Are they not already present, before the sacred mountain forest is even touched, both present and absent at once? What I mean is that many people, if not indoctrinated with the belief in them through religious tradition, would pass through unmoved. Even Moses, despite the burning bush, would have remained oblivious had the voice of the Lord not called to him, ‘Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground!’ There must therefore be a distinct nature to this divine presence. It is not immediately accessible to all. And if the site is wholly destroyed or vanishes, this presence is also absent even for the most attuned. Hence, our bewilderment regarding the divine beings’ seeming lack of defense against violent, destructive assaults on their dwelling places is underpinned, it seems, by a fundamental misunderstanding. In every religion, there are pious stories of retribution against impious transgressions that remained unpunished, indeed where the sanctified allowed the sacrilege to occur without resistance. However, these legends have all been infused with the same prejudice currently plaguing us—the prejudice that gives rise to our predicament. We believe that a God must prove its divinity primarily through power. Yes, we accept that divine attributes have been ascribed by humans in myriad ways; we consider that open to debate. But devoid of power, indeed omnipotence, a God could not possibly be divine. Naturally, I, too, once thought this way, instinctively and unconsciously. Yet, for some time now, I’ve harbored doubts, even suspicions that this very belief, among all prejudices impeding the understanding of a God, is the most pernicious and obstinate. The study of Greek philosophy has led me to these suspicions. As Aristotle has famously asserted, the primordial and sole mover of the entire world, the supreme deity, remains in perfect stillness and unmovedness, hence governing the world not through exhibitions of strength or power, not even through active love, but through its mere existence, towards which all beings strive and are drawn, just as the lover yearns for the beloved. Is this not the first instance of a thinker expressing, purely and explicitly, what a God is as God, while dogmatic religions only attribute to a God human-superhuman qualities, wherein power stands foremost, and curiously enough, those very qualities that most vigorously condemn the so-called ‘anthropomorphism’ of pagan religions? I find it ever clearer how great the merit of Epicurus is in pointing out this suspicion. His teachings, which are typically condemned and derided by believers and those who consider themselves connoisseurs of the religious, are endorsed by the most illustrious minds, from Virgil to Nietzsche.

“Regardless of one’s opinion of the radical materialism of Epicurus, he provided the means to cast aside the entire conundrum of what the Gods are and how they act in our world, thereby averting the peril of atheism that this enigma gives rise to. He directed his gaze directly at the existence of the Gods instead of at ostensive displays of their power. You know as well as I that he was convinced that humanity possesses an immediate knowledge of the existence and nature of the Gods, and the only problem lies in the fact that the majority cannot preserve this precious knowledge in its pure, untainted by arbitrary additives of superstition. And this knowledge asserts that there exist higher beings of such perfection, luminous forms of such purity, that no darkness, suffering, toil, or transience can disturb them, as they serenely enjoy their divine existence, untethered from the earthly—much as Hölderlin expressed it in ‘Hyperion’s Song of Destiny’: ‘Above, you wander in the light, on soft ground, blessed geniuses…’

Isn’t it marvelous that Epicurus refers to this primal, primary, and universally revealed knowledge of the Gods, and laments only that humans have never been able to bear it as it was bestowed upon them, instead adulterating and corrupting it with their presumed wisdom, so as to believe in Gods unfortunate enough to entangle themselves in terrestrial matters—enraged, indignant, threatening, punishing, and rewarding? It might be thought that Epicurus devised this image as a philosopher who did not want to be wholly unbelieving. But his discourse is far too earnest and permeated by a sense of the sacred for that. And he imparts something he experienced in elevated moments—a knowledge that these Gods, even though they live in perfect tranquility and indifference, signify that which is most precious for humanity, not by virtue of their deeds, but by virtue of their existence. For the more humanity can ascend to such calm, exalted freedom and serenity, which the Gods essentially exemplify, the closer they come to them, so that in the end, one might even speak of a friendship between the Gods and humankind, of belonging to the sacred circle of the eternal.

“Moreover, Epicurus did not whimsically invent this radiant realm of the Gods; Homer also perceived it in the same way, as has been known, just as Hölderlin did in ‘Hyperion’s Song of Destiny.’ In Homer’s work, however, this vision of eternally serene and carefree Olympians is enigmatically and profoundly intertwined with its apparent antithesis—the conviction or, rather, experience of the same Gods’ pervasive influence in nature and the human world, which Epicurus rejects.”

“All of this is very beautiful,” I replied after a moment of contemplation. “I acknowledge the uplifting and blissful aspects of Epicurus’ theology of the Gods, and I understand well that noble spirits believed they owed their freedom and happiness to him, as he himself, even in the face of death and the most agonizing suffering, proclaims himself blessed. And yet, I would rather align myself with Homer. I grant Epicurus that the knowledge of the unblemished felicity of the Gods is, in a sense, inherently bestowed upon us. But is that all there is? Whether we comprehend how it works or not, we must unreservedly agree with Homer when he tells us that the same Gods who are transported beyond our reach are simultaneously immediately present and reveal their divinity in all that transpires. For does not everything here speak this language—the earth, the trees, the air, and the light?”

“Yes,” he interjected almost vehemently, “there is certainly nothing to dispute about this wondrous experience. But does it not, in itself, caution us to be circumspect about its mystery, not to attempt to resolve it lightly? This is what Aristotle admonishes us about, and even more unequivocally, Epicurus! It is indeed unthinkable that that which so profoundly moves us and elevates us beyond the ordinary could be grasped by the most immediate concepts. It will likely never fit into any concept at all. Rather, we can do no more, as Epicurus says, than keep it pure (Φυλάττειν) as it presents itself and guard it against any distortion. And so, I now ask, and ask in the face of the wonders we are experiencing here: is there anything in our experience that demonstrates that these higher beings are the masters of this place or the creators of all these things? Then, of course, it would be incomprehensible to us why they do not defend themselves when their abode is threatened with destruction, and why they do not annihilate or at least punish the transgressor as soon as they attempt to intervene. But if we dispel such notions of dominion and omnipotence, which our living experience knows nothing of, then the matter takes on an entirely different aspect. The Creator who has power over creation, the Lord who has chosen a domain as His dwelling place, would be angered if He was not met with proper respect. But how, then, if it is entirely different with the higher being we call God? Namely, that it is not in His nature to appropriate anything and to unleash His superior power; that our concept of power is alien to His nature, and we must rather say that His presence is a special favor and grace, bestowed upon certain creatures or places. I do not know how or why, as long as the Gods remain what they are. Then we would no longer need to think that they must tenaciously hold on to their possession and exact revenge on the despisers. If one were to speak of punishment or atonement, then the transgressors would be sufficiently punished by the loss of the presence of the Perfect One, whether they are aware of it or not.”

“You are right,” I said. “It becomes increasingly clear to us that the main impediment to a genuine understanding of the Divine is the prejudice that it must, above all else, be a power and must demonstrate itself as such. Even though all religions are filled with such notions—they timidly impose this belief upon humanity and shackle their minds with constant fear and hope, making it impossible for them to look up to the heights where the Divine reveals itself. No one has recognized the severity of this ill as clearly as Epicurus. I feel it in myself. For although I still do not understand the nature of a higher and supreme being that cannot be thought of as powerful and active, a wondrous sense of joy, an unparalleled delight, envelops me as soon as I manage to completely silence the demands of my human reason. I feel that I am suddenly closer to the hidden splendor of the Divine, ever near, and that it will bestow new understanding upon me once the mist of rational prejudices completely dissipates.”

“Indeed,” my friend exclaimed enthusiastically. “That is how it is with us. It is beautiful that we are so united. This proves that private opinion has come to an end, and the ‘common truth,’ as Heraclitus says, begins to speak to us. Therefore, let us not be led astray if the spirits close to us cannot be encompassed by any concept at all, if it is impossible for us to piece together the impressions we receive. It is they themselves who shall guide us themselves, and not our logic. Each sign they give us is precious, so incomparably precious that we are unwilling to relinquish even the smallest of these signs in exchange for a clear, unambiguous mental image that satisfies our intellect. Let us leave that to the scholars whose vocation lies in presenting the remarkable in such a way that it ceases to be remarkable. Is not everything here unfathomable? The ancients encountered nymphs in such places, and it would not take much for us to experience the same today. But what are they, these divine maidens? They are trees and springs. But then again, they are not merely the trees and springs, but rather something indescribably light, free, charming, and dancing, something that can pose a danger to the human who encounters them. And thus, Pan is the essence of this solitude of woodland and field, with everything that lives and moves within it. But at the same time, he is not all of these things; rather, he is the free divine spirit that cannot be confined.

Therefore, a God must be connected to concrete things in a way that cannot be as easily formulated as our intellect desires and as ancient legends depict when it is recounted how it defended its sacred precinct. It cannot be its nature to assert dominion over things and places where it appears as a rightful owner or lord. It is present when one offers it a place where it can reside, and it disappears the moment this is no longer the case.”

Here, my friend suddenly paused and seemed lost in thought. What he had said resonated with me, for it perfectly aligned with my semi-unconscious sense of the nature of the Divine. However much I might think with my reason or on the basis of venerable traditions, only the perfection that is too exalted and beautiful to manifest itself as a ruler or lord has ever shone before my soul. How could it judge and punish? Its retribution is that it vanishes, that the radiance of the heavens fades for us. And that is truly the most dreadful for one who has even merely glimpsed it. “And yet,” I continued after a brief pause, “something seems amiss to me, and it unsettles me, as certain as I am about my position. I will speak it outright; you will not call it superstition, for you yourself have alluded to it during our conversation. Are all the stories that have been circulating for millennia, and that are still being told today, nothing more than empty delusion? The stories of people who, in the eerie stillness of these solitudes, have encountered a corporeal marvel that greatly blessed them or, in the worst case, brought them to ruin? Even if many of these legends are fantastic fabrications, they cannot be entirely unfounded. Even if it can be proven that they did not transpire as described, they all presuppose a belief that would never have arisen and taken root if such occurrences did not occasionally happen, and if the mystery of solitude did not indeed speak this language.”

“You’re right,” he responded. “That very thought suddenly halted my speech earlier. And it keeps obstructing me every time I attempt to think of the Divine in its purity. But how wonderful a conversation this is! One can grapple with a thought for weeks without arriving at any useful result. And hardly has one touched upon the same thought in conversation with a friend when a spark ignites. Sometimes, it is as if a star were suddenly rising. So it seems to me now. I have always regarded it as one of the most pernicious anthropomorphisms of the Divine when one attributes to it the will for power and dominion. And yet, I could not shake off the notion, just as you very correctly mentioned, that a power must emanate from it and indeed has emanated each time. This contradiction tormented me because it seemed insoluble. And all of a sudden, as you spoke, the matter presented itself to me in a different light, and I could not fathom how one could find a contradiction in it anymore. The will in general, and especially the will for power, is indeed the most vacuous of all concepts, and nothing more positive can be said about it than that it is a mirror of human vanity. Where there is living power, there is no will, but rather being. And this being exercises its force not through will, but solely by virtue of its existence. But upon whom does it exert this force? If it were a force of will, it would subdue everything that resists it. The most beautiful melodies pass unnoticed by those who do not carry music within themselves. Such people remain untouched as if nothing had occurred in situations where the musically inclined are moved to tears by the celestial power of the tones. Should it not be just the same with the Divine? Could it not be that its presence is only felt by those who bear something divine within themselves, while it remains completely unfelt by others?”

“But,” I interjected, “is there not still a tremendous difference here? The accounts of encounters with woodland spirits or even with a Goddess like Artemis do not merely suggest that those who experienced this divine presence truly saw it and were deeply moved. They narrate an influence that came upon them, altering their entire existence, and in the worst case, depriving them of reason, and even life. If this is true, one cannot easily comprehend that only a specific type of individual is affected by such power. Even if the divine beings act solely through their presence, without taking action, if this effect can be so forceful, it must also affect the indifferent and the scornful. In fact, it may affect them most keenly, as is recounted in many devout legends.”

My friend shook his head. “No! This conclusion does not seem necessary to me at all. Haven’t you yourself conceded that one can only become aware of a divine presence if one carries something akin to the divine within? Should it then be absurd that individuals who are so devoid of the divine within, to the extent that they do not even notice its proximity, also do not experience any of the effects emanating from it, while for others, these effects can not only enchanting, but also, to the highest degree, dangerous and even deadly for some? The Greeks say that whoever beholds a God in the flesh either goes blind or must perish. The cold rationalist in whom no trace of the divine resides is like one walking blindfolded. Therefore, it can never happen to him that he actually sees a God or Goddess, and their appearance cannot bring him either happiness or misfortune. Let us express this more modestly: if the eyes of his soul are closed to the presence of the Divine, then all the power emanating from it, both the blissful and the destructive, will be lost on him.”

“You may be right,” I said. “But now listen further. I am, at heart, in complete agreement with you, or rather, the nature of things speaks to me just as it does to you. However, for my own peace of mind, I must play the devil’s advocate.

“How, then, do we explain the immense difference between then and now? Several millennia ago—perhaps even just centuries ago—every person would have walked through this forest with a mysterious shudder, with a shiver before the undeniable presence of higher beings, and might even have, to his horror or delight, perceived them in some way. In contrast, if we, had we not been in a certain mood due to certain experiences we spoke of earlier, and if we had passed through this forest on a hike while discussing our work and plans, we might not have felt much more than an appreciation for the stillness and an unconscious reverence for the mystery of primal nature. Other people would remain completely unmoved, and if someone were to tell them stories along the way, like the one of the Erlking, they would merely laugh at the childish superstitions of times past, as they would perceive only trees and shrubs, which have nothing mysterious or eerie about them. At night, they might feel a slight unease, but they would be ashamed of their anxious feelings because they were conjuring up ghosts where everything is natural and harmless. Do these people perhaps have a point? What can we respond when they say that we who claim to have experienced something different are still under the sway of an ancient myth, or rather, an outdated illusion that allows us to see and hear things that do not actually exist?”

“You are correct,” he responded calmly, “but your objection, though not earnestly intended, does not daunt me. Indeed, we have a predisposition, yet not only in these matters, but in all that we engage with seriously. But does that necessitate that we must not trust the experiences we have because of our biases? Naturally, I admit that we might not be inclined to sense the presence of superhuman forms in this forest solitude if the thousand-year-old myths about them did not belong to our intellectual heritage. Even the immense height of the Delphi rocks would not have stirred me as I recounted, had I not known of Apollo and his sanctuary. Without doubt, there exist far grander impressions of nature in the world than the Delphic plateau, which might mean little to a Chinese person unfamiliar with Apollo and the Greek pantheon. Let us go even further! No shaman would undertake the renowned soul journey were he not predisposed by the ancestral teachings of divine matters up above. And we ourselves, with what predisposition do we read the scripture we have come to term the Bible and uncover pearls therein that a Buddhist or Confucian would scarcely discover so promptly? Indeed, I confess to you readily that I do not pick up a volume of Goethe without significant predisposition and am ready to see even trivial-seeming sentences as illuminated by a backdrop of gold that shines through them.

“All in all: what our eyes perceive, what our other senses grasp, what we feel and think—all of this may be as original and unique as can be, yet it is to some extent already endowed upon us, for it stands and moves within the intellectual realm that our poets, messengers of Gods, artists, and thinkers have constructed for four millennia. We ourselves, whether consciously or not, exist wholly within this intellectual realm, which encompasses both belief and the utmost skepticism; as is commonly known, there is no thought without language, and even the language we learn as infants and thereby learn to think with is pre-formed. Hence, so much becomes immediately clear to us and serves as the self-evident starting point for our thought processes, something other kinds of beings, with their entirely distinct predispositions, cannot grasp. Have we, then, succumbed to vain illusions? But we cannot even pose such a question, for the thinking with which we ask is already ensnared in the so-called illusion. Our language, in which we think, is, as the learned know, profoundly mythical, so far as it has not descended into a mere sign system for economic communication. It is this language that teaches us to perceive and recognize in the loftier sense. The predisposition I am referring to opens our eyes. And when other kinds of beings, distinguished from us by bodily structure, color, and physiognomy, see and recognize differently, the authenticity of our seeing and recognizing is not questioned, but the boundless wealth and depth and inexhaustible variety of the world’s reality only becomes evident. Therefore, if it is proven—and indeed, living experience bears witness to this—that myth, with its gripping figures, teaches us to see, that it stimulates us to creative action and fertile thoughts—then we may recall the words of the venerable Goethe: ‘Only what is fertile is true, and we may hold onto it without hesitation.’

“Now, the most peculiar thing,” he continued thoughtfully after a brief pause, “is this: we are only brushed by the genuine myth as if by the flutter of a wing. The monotheistic religion in which we were brought up and what is called progress are the reasons why the myth is generally only permitted to us in this manner. And the few who have been called by it in spite of everything had to fall into madness because its forms could not truly reach them. Hölderlin, perhaps more intimate with it than any other, hoped and believed that he would return to humanity in all his vivacity. But the light that met him has scorched him with its rays and cast him into the night. All that remains for us is to content ourselves and, in an eternal sunset, venerate the departed glory of the sun God. That is no small thing, it is sufficient. Yet we also know that those who not only received a faint afterglow of mythical forms but lived with them, also stood in a destiny different from that which we can understand. As long as a person, much like us, is only touched by a gentle chill, in which he senses something like a divine presence, he can experience a moment of delight, reverence, or perhaps even anxiety. But it is different for the person who lives in the myth and is prepared though it for seeing, hearing, and feeling. For such a person, the incomprehensible, unbelievable, impossible, and yet at the decisive moment self-evident approaches as a tangible reality—as a miracle, and yet, like everything real, not a miracle but self-evident reality. The forms that he encounters exert a power through their mere existence, a power from which he cannot escape. It does not stop at mere fright or perhaps blissful awe. These forms must become a blessing or a curse in the truest sense of the words, even including the possibility of death. No matter how many of the legends that have been told for millennia may be mere fabrications, they all originate from something that is not fabricated; and I have no reservations about confessing that, for me, they are altogether simply true. The apostles of Christianity, who aimed to show the heathens that their faith was an empty delusion, have in reality proven nothing. When Boniface summarily felled the sacred oak, which they could only approach with reverence, he could do so without hesitation, because an entirely different myth had opened his eyes to something entirely different and thereby closed him off from what moved the heathens. He could do so without danger, not because the ancient Gods, as he believed, had to capitulate before the name of Christ, but because their existence had no connection to him. This also applies to the most primitive, who have established themselves in an entirely non-mythical or religion-free world. Such a person walks through this forest utterly undisturbed, enjoying at most the fresh air and the tranquility, while the entire enchantment that captivates us is as nonexistent to him as the most beautiful melody is to the deaf. Thus, there is no need to fear that anything exciting could happen to him and become dangerous.”

“Yes,” I said, somewhat wistfully, “it is no different. The Gods are here, and yet they are also not. If one is not prepared for them, if one does not in some way already carry them within, they seem not to be here at all. That is, as the well-known Goethe verse says: “Within us dwells God’s own power, as divine presence, which delights us—”

“And if, as can happen at any moment, a consecrated place like this one is felled and uprooted, and cars and motorcycles with their vile scent of gasoline and mind-numbing noise pass over it, then the Gods are no longer here at all, as if they do not exist at all. I confess that this, despite all that has been said, still troubles me.”

“I understand that,” he replied. “But isn’t it the same if we break a violin that has moved us to the core with its tones? Where is its song from a higher world then, the reality in which we firmly believed as long as we were able to hear it?”

“No! No!” I exclaimed impatiently and almost irritably. “We shall not make it so easy. Forgive me, but your comparison limps and reminds me of the comparisons with which theologians attempt to make their paradoxical dogmas clear to skeptics. The song of the violin is brought forth by the hands of a human player, who moreover typically performs not his own melody but one written down by another.” I had become almost angry, as if at a concerning lapse from a man who was otherwise a role model for me.

He laughed and said: “Naturally, the comparison limps. I know that as well as you. It occurred to me years ago, and although I saw immediately how much it limped, it resurfaced from time to time, as if it were asking me to seriously examine it. And when it came back up just now, it seemed to fit here quite well. Of course, it limps, but perhaps not as much as we think. Let us try this: in describing what happens on the violin, you emphasize the human aspect: melody and chords are the invention of a gifted composer, and the hands of a virtuoso bring them to life. We call the composer a creator, the player an artist. However, only a few centuries ago, to speak of a creator would have been laughable, and antiquity would have considered it not only foolish, but also a dangerous hubris. Homer and the great singers after him invoke a God, the Muse, to sing. They were aware that they were not inventors or creators, but mere earthly conduits of divine song. These significant testimonies tend to pass us by without effect. Philologists and historians include them in their collections of materials, only to present them to their readers occasionally from the perspective of their preconceived concepts. We must accept that those lacking in poetic imagination [die Ungenialen], those who can produce nothing but reason, may, in the name of scientific objectivity, determine the general judgment on the genius [das Geniale]. They are, after all, the ones from whom we must learn what religious experiences over the millennia consist of; the self-testimonies of religions have no say—the historian and, above all, the psychologist, depth psychologist, and perhaps even the psychiatrist already know it on their own. The ancient Greeks, whom, to use modern terms, we must call the most creative of all human races, can surely tell us more about what actually happens in great creations than theorists from their desks can. They were, at their birth, the affected parties themselves. And if there are creations of such magnitude as those of the Greek, without which all future creativity cannot be imagined, then we can truly do nothing better than listen to their statements and learn from them. So let science, with its alleged objectivity, smile at me as an idealist and a dreamer; it, too, proceeds from preconceived and unexamined ideas, unbeknownst to itself. Thus, I say, to return to our limping comparison without hesitation: when the violin brings forth a great melody, as it should, here too, Gods are no less present than in the silence of this forest solitude. The violin can be played in various ways, from the flattest, most soulless tone production to the liquid gold of song, in which the whole world, as a world turned divine, seems to sing along. Upon what does this difference depend? Is it solely the mental and spiritual state of the particular player? Most certainly not. First and foremost, there is the inventor and builder of the wonderful instrument, whose inner ear has heard such heavenly tones that he found the wood, its preparation, and its form that could make them sound alive. All of this has been shaped with the most meticulous consideration of the naturally occurring materials, their properties and laws, which the musical spirit has explored and brought to light. Of course, this violin does not sing by itself. It requires a player to awaken the slumbering tones within it. But even here, everything is based on nature and its laws. How to place the fingers to bring forth the living tone through their strength and vibration, how to guide the bow with the right posture and motion over the strings—this and much else is rooted in the essence of nature and its regulations, as if nature itself wanted humanity to recognize and realize the wonderful possibilities of its essence. Yet, this intention of nature is directed toward something beyond itself, and with that, the wondrous mysteries begin that the thinking person closes himself off from, that he perhaps acknowledges silently but lets be, since they can be proven neither through experiment nor through logical necessity, but only illuminated for those born with an organ to perceive them.

All of nature strives to ascend to a height where it encounters the divine. This intention is inseparable from its essence. From the very beginning, a germ of the divine is implanted in it. Therein lies the natural foundation of pantheism, to which Goethe, as a naturalist, explicitly confessed, just as the words often attributed to Thales, ‘All is full of Gods.’ Now, in order to better understand the violin perhaps, let us examine the marvelous instrument that, unlike it, sings by itself: the human throat. In the Theory of Colours, Goethe says that light has created an organ out of indifferent skin that is so related to it that inner light can encounter outer light. Thus, I dare to say: the Muse, that is, the deity as song, has created for itself out of the muscles and membranes of the throat, which in all mammals only produce harsh, noisy sounds, a structure through which the innate song can meet and become one with the divine. I explicitly say: the innate song. For rhythm is inherent in everything that lives; indeed, what we call organic and alive is, as Hölderlin said, all rhythm. However we may think about stones and everything we call inorganic—perhaps it would be best to stay modestly silent—there is no soulless matter in the realm of the living. Everything, up to the heights of the spirit and down to the depths of the soul, is prefigured in the material, in the organs of the physical body, and waits, so to speak, to be allowed to appear and rise up, higher and ever higher—just as feet and legs impatiently long to stand, run, and jump, and hands to grasp, indeed to form, to shape, and to perform the artistic dance that makes the strings resonate. ‘The animals,’ says Goethe, ‘are instructed by their organs; so is man.’ Even the small child, before it can stand, is taught by its legs to perform movements that it later carries out in walking, and by its tongue and palate to try out finely graded sounds long before they develop into language, and with language, into thinking. ‘But in contrast to animals,’ Goethe continues, ‘man is not only instructed by his organs, he also instructs his organs in turn.’ In the realm of technical practicality, this is entirely comprehensible. But in the higher sphere we are discussing, how can he do this? What is happening here?

“The organs that, as Goethe says, he instructs, are human organs; that is, they are already in themselves endowed with possibilities that are not given to any animal, even the most human-like. Thus, the possibilities of articulated speech and singing, which go far beyond even the art of nightingales, are latent in the structure of the human throat and mouth. Yes, as mentioned earlier, these possibilities are playfully tested long before actual instruction begins. But how does true instruction come about? Where does the instructor get the ideas or themes for his instruction? For he does not instruct his organ to play with virtuosity with its inherent powers. Virtuosity only acquires meaning through a higher revelation that it must serve. It would not be there at all if the mysterious power of an idea had not summoned it forth to make it manifest. Thus, the instructor instructs his organ so that it may learn to give a higher entity the essence-appropriate expression with its inherent capacities. And whence does this higher entity or idea originate? Were the rhythms, melodies, and harmonies of singing and storytelling invented, devised, or contrived by us? Hasn’t every genius, across millennia, honored the truth that they do not originate in themselves but have been endowed with them in an incomprehensible way? And the listener also feels the same, when he can hear with the inner ear, with the ear of the soul. He hears the language of a world that is our world, yet in a height of its being where it is divine. The ancient Greeks, who were called more to hear than to see, more than any other race, would say that the language of the Muse is this. They knew that she was truly present in the resonating of the great song. And because they were blessed with clearer and deeper insight than others, they did not need a mystical vision of a transcendental truth, in a so-called entirely different realm in the light of whose mystery the whole world of the senses paled. Everything divine was present, here and now, even in the elemental, perceptible, and material, which was only separated from the spiritual and psychic by the adventurous fantasies of philosophers. So, if we follow the genuine and unclouded perspective of ancient Greek thought, we can arrive at the insight that this sublime Goddess, the Muse, was present and is present in the very physical construction of human beings, and that she shaped and still shapes their organs with the spirit of her music so ingeniously that they were capable of being truly instructed by her, of encountering her themselves, or drawing her down into immediate presence. Does this not exactly mirror what Goethe said about light and the eye?

“But the person who has been seized by the Muse cannot be satisfied with his own organs alone. He expands them, so to speak, into the entire elemental nature. He takes the reed or fashions a flute for himself to bring forth sounds from it as if it were his own vocal organ, using his breath. He progressively learns the inherent music of wood, even of metal, and how worthwhile it is to skillfully work with these materials until he becomes capable of resonating together with his own organs, the hands and the mouth, to start the song that truly belongs to the Goddess and guarantees her presence. I wish I were knowledgeable enough to trace in detail the wondrous illuminations that led the first builders of the violin to create the structure from the finest wood and all the precious ingredients taken from the living world that were necessary—a structure that is, as it were, a repetition of the human organism but expanded into the life of nature, into the wood of trees and the resin that oozes from them, the intestines of animals, the metals, and, on the bow, the hair of the noblest of all animals. All of this together creates the soulful structure with which the person, as if it were his very own organ, sings the lofty song that is truly the Muse’s song and bears witness to her divine presence.

“So my comparison with the violin may not limp as much as it initially seems to. The “enlightened” may say what he wants: in the perfect tones of the violin, we feel the presence of a higher, even divine being, which the divinely gifted Greeks were allowed to see as a living divine form, as the Muse. She is present from the inception of the violin and no longer present from the moment when the instrument is destroyed.

“Isn’t the Divine also present when a person raises himself to it, not only when he sings and speaks lofty words? And when his body falls apart, where is it then?”

I nodded a few times. I had been silently listening to my friend’s long discourse, and even now, I didn’t feel capable of responding. Much had immediately made sense to me, even evoking an enthusiastic echo within me, so that I looked forward with joyful anticipation to what would come next. Then doubts arose in me that I couldn’t formulate into words right away. That’s why I didn’t interrupt him but decided to reflect on all of this in silence and wait for the conversation to reach a point where my thoughts would naturally compel me to speak. Because I knew that we were far from the end. An indistinct feeling told me that with all that had been said recently, our actual concern hadn’t even been touched upon yet. And that confused me and closed my mouth.

Until this point, we had been walking slowly through the woods, sometimes side by side, sometimes one after the other, and had often stopped when the conversation became more intense and passionate. Then my friend would lean against a tree, looking up into the crown as if thoughts were streaming down from there. Although he would pick up on my questions or doubts, his speech was a monologue, or more like a dialogue with the trees, and only at the end would he look at me, almost surprised that I was there. Then his eyes held an alien brilliance, as if he were returning from communion with nature spirits to our world.

Since I didn’t respond immediately, we continued on in silence, occasionally stopping and listening when the cry of a bird could be heard or when leaves rustled on the ground somewhere, as if by the step of a wild animal.

And so, we eventually reached a large clearing. Before us lay a meadow in the brilliance of the sun, adorned with many flowers. Grasshoppers chirped, bees hummed, butterflies swayed in the gleaming air, and above us stretched the wide, cloudless sky. It was as if we had left a nocturnal world behind, with dreamlike allurements and shivers, and were now reentering the clear, familiar realm of daytime.

“This is a good spot,” my friend said. “Let us rest here for a while.” I had the same thought. And so, we took a seat on a slope, gazing up into the infinite blue of the sky and down at the meadow beneath us, shimmering in the warm air.

“What is this?” my friend suddenly exclaimed. “Aren’t the Gods also present here, in this summery, luminous stillness? And aren’t they the same as in the darkness and twilight of the forest through which we’ve walked? But here, they’re more open, more intimate—almost, I might say, more human. A wondrous blessing seems to emanate from them. I believe that if we were suddenly to see Pan over there in the sun’s blaze and hear his flute, it wouldn’t startle us. Yet inside the forest, everything divine is distant, and I wonder why we didn’t hesitate to speak aloud.”

“How I wish I could hear Pan’s flute once, or catch a fleeting melody from the nymphs’ song. For they must be heard, only our ears are closed. Why? Probably because there’s no longer such a quiet sound within us. The ancients weren’t poetic dreamers when they spoke of Pan’s flute and the singing of the nymphs. They knew more and deeper than we do. Everything resounds, as Hölderlin said, everything is rhythm. All being is a sounding and is there for both hearing and seeing. Indeed, fundamentally, the two are one. When Pan plays his flute, when the nymphs sing, then the secret music of all things resonates through them even for the external ear.”

“Strange,” my friend said thoughtfully. “How did you suddenly arrive at these thoughts?”

“I’ll tell you,” I replied. “It’s what I experienced earlier in the forest, and why a secret aversion stirred within me for all that you said about music and making music, even though I had to agree with it. When I used to walk through meadows and woods, it was rare that I wasn’t humming a melody to myself, a song by Schubert, an opera aria, or even something from a string quartet. The grasses, the flowers, the trees, the blue of the sky, all prompted me. Yes, I had the feeling that these sounds belonged to the blooming and radiance of nature around me, that they were somehow related, wafting to me from its being. In those moments, I was convinced that there was nothing beautiful and great in the world that wouldn’t become more ethereal and powerful through the simultaneous resonance of a quartet by Mozart or Beethoven. And now, as long as we were walking through the primeval forest and spoke of Gods, I realized only just now that I hadn’t thought of the beloved music for a moment. Yes, I feel it distinctly: if I had thought of it, it would have been with an internal rejection. Despite all its beauty, it could have disturbed the secret activity of the spirits. Because the music that I believe I hear when Gods are present is entirely different—a much quieter and yet more powerful one. Whoever truly heard it would fall into a sacred madness. Now, what is the actual difference between them?

“Music takes its name from the Muses, divine beings. The Greeks, who were the sole ones to know of these Gods, were convinced that it is truly the Muse who sings when a genuine song is struck up. No human, even if he was the greatest singer like Homer, can do more than echo their divine voice. Their genius does not lie, as we often say today, in creativity, of which the geniuses of antiquity, as is known, were ignorant; rather, it lies solely in being called to perceive the divine voice of the Muse. Of course, we have distanced ourselves considerably from this nowadays. We can’t really even talk about music anymore; instead, we have to say ‘tonal art,’ a term that is characteristic of the modern age. Here, indeed, the bond between human practice and divine revelation, between the musician and the Muses, has been torn asunder. But let’s set that aside. The Greeks knew of the Muses and believed that the highest God had created them after completing the construction of the world so that they might proclaim and praise the splendor of creation. The very existence of the world demands a voice to exclaim it with delight. And so, all poetry, singing, and music-making arises. The Muse holds up her divine mirror to all entities and destinies. And she takes possession of the human and, through her presence, transforms his otherwise self-centered soul into this divine mirror, so that it forgets itself and its earthly needs and worries and becomes only a language for all living things that exist: the language of the Muse. This has become so natural to us that we hardly think about it anymore, although we couldn’t live without it.—And now, friend, imagine that suddenly it is not the Muse that resounds, but the things and realities of the world themselves! What kind of sound would that be?! The voice of the Muse enchants us to tears; indeed, we might even believe (as Schumann once wrote) that we catch a glimpse of a God’s face for a moment.

“But the things and realities of the world themselves! What are we to say about them? Here, we must make a significant distinction. We modern Europeans—we who have the audacity to subject the so-called primitive peoples to the Christian mission—must learn again from them what we have lost for so long. The ancients were more advanced than we are in this regard.

“An old Indian, a member of a North American tribe, said to a European: ‘When I was still a child, my parents and the elders taught me to treat all things with reverence, even the cliffs, the stones, and the small creatures, for they are all holy.’ But more than that! These people have a concept of purity that recalls Hölderlin’s notion, especially when he speaks of ‘purely springing.’ It even expresses itself in the formations of their language, unmistakably and consistently. The Lenape idea of purity, says Werner Müller, ‘separates humans and their things from those creatures and objects that are still as they slipped from the Creator’s hand. Even language makes distinctions here. The Algonquin adds an ‘m’ or ‘om’ or ‘im’ in the possessive case to all designations of beings that owe their existence to the Creator, while omitting this feature for beings of humans (e.g., pets)—a unique example of sacred grammar.’

“Isn’t it exactly the feeling or knowledge expressed here that overcame us in the stillness of the untrodden forest? Didn’t the voice of the wilderness speak of the original purity of things that don’t belong to any human, haven’t emerged from any human’s utilitarian breeding, and therefore should retain the name form in the old Indian language that would mark them as direct creations of God?

“These are the things and beings we must think of when we ask about the sound of primal music. Hölderlin, whom one must mention here again, understood something of this; he had an ear for it, as his splendid words about the dolphin (in the Pindar fragments) show.

“When these things and beings resound—and they are always resounding, because in the depths of the primal, everything is melody and rhythm, and Pan’s flute is the echo of this resounding—then the voice of the purely springing God-born being speaks; and whoever has an ear to hear it knows something of the proximity of the Gods. What could tell us more about a God and make us feel its presence more than that which emerged from its hand and is as it was born from it? Goethe speaks of matter and spirit, body and soul, etc., the dualistic entities of the universe, both of which can claim equal rights and therefore can both be regarded as representatives of the Gods.”

My friend had listened to the long discourse without interrupting me or showing any sign of approval or disapproval. He was leaning back, gazing intently at the blue sky. When he realized I had finished, he remained in the same position for a while longer. Then suddenly, he looked at me with great seriousness and said in a seemingly sober tone: “Now you’ve lapsed into hymns, just as I did at the beginning of our conversation with my Delphic poem. But I’m not mocking. Quite the opposite! I followed you closely. And I must admit, you’ve taken a step beyond me. What you’ve said is all true, and deep down, I already knew it myself. But what now?”

(End of the original manuscript)

Epilogue: A Conversation in the Woods with Princess Margot

We were sitting in the warm light of a September afternoon at the edge of the forest. In front of us, on the gently sloping meadow, a cow was grazing. The forest stood tall and silent behind us. It encircled the meadow in a wide arc, and its crowns played with the light clouds. Among its trunks, however, lay the darkness of the wilderness.

“Where this forest stands now,” I said, “was cultivated land just fifty years ago. The wilderness has taken back its own so completely that no one, unless they know, would even sense a trace of it. Yet to me, it appears doubly mysterious now, for how rarely does humanity return cultivated land, wrested with labor from the forest, back to nature. But up here, I feel as if it has truly occurred. Every field, every patch of meadow, seems to me a gift bestowed by the wilderness with a touch of fleeting kindness, which it might reclaim at any moment. I have not experienced this anywhere else. Everywhere else I have lived, the plow claimed more and more land, and we feared for every inch of wildness.”

“Yes,” he replied, “it’s the same everywhere, and we can hardly imagine what it must have been like when humanity was still entirely surrounded by the wilderness of untamed nature. We’ve become so accustomed to our human-controlled world that it has become natural to us, or at most, we think it’s not controlled enough, and we try to organize it even more. Who remembers what it once meant to befriend animals, to make them household companions, not just slaves, so they would willingly take their food from our hands, mate in our presence, and give birth to their young? No matter how much human cunning and force were at play, there was something higher that calmed the trembling captives and made them at home with their conquerors, something that made them willing to serve and bear the hand of humans, and even obey them. If I see how willingly this cow stays near us, how it seeks this proximity, and how shy the deer, close relatives of our goats, hide from us, I feel a touch of that sacred occurrence when for the first time, a human laid his hand tenderly and familiarly on an animal’s fur, and what happened was what our language expresses with the word ‘peace.’ Even the enclosed garden speaks of this and shows us that it’s not enough to use force to control or tame the unruly; rather, something higher must be connected to it—understanding, loving care, embracing the essence of what was overcome, lifting it up, and integrating it into a new order of life that grants it a new freedom of development and growth. Without this understanding embrace of its essence and its inclusion in a new order, true peace will never emerge. And I have no doubt for a moment that behind the word ‘peace’ stands a God, indeed, that peace is a God and was once in the flesh, to bring peace between humans and animals, just as between humans themselves. It’s inevitable that this God must have taken on human form for that purpose, and it’s the most plausible possibility we can imagine.

“And hasn’t evidence persisted to our time that a friendship with wild animals, their taming, and their contentment are a distinct sign of divine closeness? Think of the evangelists of the New Testament. In all medieval depictions, they are accompanied by animals, and specific animals sacred to the Gods are still holy to them, just as they once were to the Gods. And if we recall the depictions of the saints, who are often shown in peaceful companionship with wild animals, it has always been considered a special sign of their holiness—a holiness stemming from the peace that filled their hearts, a divine peace stronger than any natural fear or anxiety, a peace referred to as ‘God’s peace.’ I always think of the figure of Saint Francis, who preached to the animals, meaning he spoke to them of God(s). I cannot fathom why all these testimonies mean so little or nothing at all to contemporary zoologists. The animal is consistently seen as a mere mechanism, its actions governed by functions of instincts, thus mechanically unfolding. Some even seem to view humans in a similar manner. However, even today, it is a joyful experience for each of us, an experience we consider worthy of being documented in books, when a wild animal overcomes its shyness, approaches us, and stays near without any exertion of force, eating from our hands. Anyone who has personally experienced such a thing will dismiss with a smile or indignation the assertion that their joy is mere self-deception and that the animal was merely a feeding mechanism driven by hunger. Such an explanation contradicts the oft-confirmed experience that an animal can forsake even its foremost instinct, the preservation of its own life, for the sake of a human. We all know the stories, undeniably true, of dogs starving on their owner’s grave, refusing offered sustenance. To me, most of the mechanical explanations provided by science only reveal the limitations, inadequacies, and even the primitiveness of mechanistic human thinking. It’s not the animal that stands impoverished in this case, but the human.” The cow had come closer to us again, lifting its heavy head with those large eyes.

“What a magnificent, powerful being! What majesty and gentleness in one form,” he continued. “One can easily believe that this creature once received divine honors.”

“She listens to us,” I said, “for she loves our voices. Once, when she first arrived here, she ran away from us with wild, fearful eyes, avoiding every hand. Yet, with the sound of my voice alone, I managed to calm her down and eventually persuaded her to follow me. Only later did she finally allow herself to be touched again and led to the stable. It felt almost like magic to me. And when I enter her stall, she hums softly in greeting, and she keeps humming until I talk to her. Only then is she content and obedient, allowing herself to be fed and milked. Indeed, I know no stablemaid who doesn’t converse with her animals. When I visit a farmer, I’m aware that going to the stable with him is a special privilege, a favor he grants me. I understand that a visit to the stable is something different from inspecting his often far more valuable machines.

“And how deeply have we recently learned, during the years of the terrible war, how indispensable the help of animals is to us, and how much more perfect they are compared to our vile machines. The soldier who, because of a minor issue, had to abandon his now useless vehicle as a sign of futility in the vast Russian land knows of this, and also knows what he owes to the little horse that never failed him, even when it was tired and hungry itself. It sought its meager food on its own, provided him with warmth during frosty nights, and even offered its flesh as sustenance in times of dire need. Even in these woods, remnants of vehicles left behind during the war still remain, serving no purpose for any creature, not even providing sustenance for the humblest lichen. These are chilling signs of human delusion. However, anyone who has ever ridden a horse knows that even the most elegant car cannot compare to the experience. I feel a pang of nostalgia when I think about the days when the proudly riding young guardsmen were mocked with words that actually contained a profound truth: They felt like demigods.”

“It’s good that you mention that,” he agreed enthusiastically. “Language often conveys more than we ourselves realize or intend at the moment. We often only understand later what we’ve truly said. Even in jest, the common people call the radiant young rider by the right name of demigod, and the shame doesn’t lie in the fact that these young fools thought of themselves as Gods, but rather that they were so far from it. This is what truly angered the people. They were playing with an image that was, in fact, venerable. From here, we could easily deduce the true causes of revolutions against kings. But let’s return to what you said about the soothing power of the human voice over animals. This experience is so universally known that one can only wonder at how little science seems to have reflected on what this might mean for our understanding of animals. Every lion tamer knows the power of his voice, as does, as you correctly pointed out, every ordinary person who interacts with animals. I’m certain that we must suspect the proximity of the same God who fashioned our voice and language, a Muse. In fact, the god Hypnos was worshipped alongside the Muses and was particularly beloved to them. We must also consider the phenomenon inherent in the Indian snake charmers’ flutes. Here, the dangerous, uncanny, and simultaneously revered reptile is hypnotized by sound, as we fittingly say. We, however, must question what it means when animals, even so-called lower animals like reptiles down to grasshoppers, perceive the voice of the Muse, and often respond more strongly to it than many humans do. Can we not assume that they too possess a ‘musical’ quality, albeit in a very different manner than us? Also, the fact that they recognize us humans, and are capable of distinguishing between us, that they sing to themselves and are moved by our singing and speaking, that they can be tamed and willingly obey us with immense patience, and that we owe a significant part of our human culture to their assistance, indicates to me that the ancients rightly revered them and directly associated them with the Gods, even delighting in the idea of Gods appearing in the forms of animals. As I grow older, I become increasingly aware of how close and interconnected we humans are with animals.”

“Think of Aesop’s fable of the cicadas,” I exclaimed joyfully. “For my part, I am willing to adopt the singers of this meadow as relatives. Just listen.”

“Yes,” he smiled, “you as well.”

“So you believe that divine beings in human form were the ones who once taught humans how to tame animals?”

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t believe that, considering the consistent accounts from myths across all cultures,” he replied. “I am personally convinced that these events truly happened as they are reported, and I believe that even today, although from a distant perspective, we can still be affected by them and are indeed affected. For example, up here and now. When I see the mysterious silence and darkness of the forest, the meadow here, and the fields beyond the woods basking in the sunlight, it feels as if I am reliving the magnificent event that endowed humanity with the art of agriculture. And it makes no difference whether I call the person who invented the plow divine or a God—what does it matter?”

“But could it not be that the simple observation of nature, the realization that the same plants grow from the seeds of another plant, prompted the ancient humans to cultivate plants from seeds?”

“Yes, that’s what modern science suggests, and it fails to realize that it assumes something which should not be assumed. We can twist and turn it any way we want. At the beginning of humanity, there is an event that not only elevated us above our environment but also transcended us, setting us free to make observations. It’s an event that opened our eyes to the existence of things—the encounter with the essence of things themselves. How this occurred will forever remain a mystery to later generations, but the fact that it happened and that our humanity is rooted in it is beyond doubt for anyone who perceives it. And why should we not call this event a divine encounter? After all, we cannot find another, let alone a better, term for it.

“And the fact that this encounter lifted us in form and essence above our environment and the animals, the animals that serve us still unconsciously, acknowledge this, even though they allow themselves to be guided, even misused and tormented, by our hands.

“And no matter how much we strive today to interpret or explain the myth of the gift of the harvest, we will merely dance around something that defies explanation. There isn’t a single agricultural society on Earth that doesn’t recount essentially the same story from its past: that its forebears were taught the use of the plow, agriculture, and sowing, etc., by Gods. The remarkable consistency in both the practices and the accounts of cultural development leaves us no choice but to agree with Frobenius’ grand idea that behind all these processes that constitute the essence of human cultural development stands a unified, spiritually formative force transcending humanity, which he termed ‘paideuma.’ Do we truly need to see nothing but blind chance and the iron compulsion of necessity behind the events that gave rise to human culture? Are our modern inventions mere coincidences or necessities? Even if we accept that premise, we’re left with the question of what constitutes ‘coincidence’ and ‘inspiration,’ and where these come from. No scientist can deny that his inventions and inspirations build upon those of his predecessors, and if we trace this back consistently, we always arrive at the same point, a point where we must say that here begins the mystery, a mystery that no science can accurately describe. Therefore, I openly admit that in the beginning of humanity, there stands the encounter with existence as a divine form. This encounter, with its overwhelming reality and magnitude, truly brought forth humanity with all its possibilities and dangers. It’s the event that all the religions of the Earth proclaim, and it shines forth to us once more in Michelangelo’s depiction of the creation of Adam, gazing at us with the blessed purposelessness of divine tranquility.”

“Yes,” I said, “it is indeed this blissful stillness of trust that endears this image to us. Despite all enlightenment and theories of evolution, we believe in Michelangelo and cannot forget his painting once we have encountered it. When I try to imagine how it must have been according to Darwin’s teachings, when the struggle for existence lifted us out of the animal realm and elevated us to humans, a shudder overtakes me, and my heart tightens. How could this moment be depicted? Perhaps as an ape-like creature standing upright in the face of a threatening natural event? It would flee on all fours, faster and more efficiently than on two legs! Or how else? And what could such a depiction, which our artists should actually strive to create, truly convey to us? Is it truly compulsion and necessity that bring forth the new? I believe it less and less as I grow older. Both appear to me best suited to keep us in motion and overcome our laziness and inertia, but not much more. For example, during the years of the war, moments of inspiration and assistance did not come to me in times of immediate danger and distress. Among the wailing sirens and the booming bombs, one acts like an animal, driven by an incomprehensible instinct. It’s only in the stillness of ruins, in the hours when hunger is silent, in the silence of the nights when I sat with some unfamiliar child on my lap in the darkness of a speeding train, heading into the unknown, that reflection and insight for acts of salvation came to me. I don’t mean to downplay the significance of adversity; I know well how much I owe to it. However, just as it’s not the rod that truly educates but rather the role model—so it seems to be the case here as well, and thus, from my own experience, I openly align myself with Michelangelo’s depiction.

“Yes, if modern humans had more courage and trust in themselves, and if they would grant their own living experiences even half as much credibility as they grant the theories of science, the world would look different. I often wonder what people will still be willing to sacrifice for their belief in progress. The seemingly enormous gain in self-confidence that emanates from a mode of thought that regards everything that came before as less significant than itself increasingly reveals itself to me as a daunting uncertainty and dependence, as the lack of trust that characterizes this era. Thinking that one cannot find valid guidance and genuine help from the ancestors must also engender a sense of vertiginous loneliness and abandonment, leaving one at the mercy of a future accompanied by the feeling of inevitable transience. I wish for nothing more than for people to rediscover trust in the greatness of their ancestors, and thereby, in their own human greatness. Even today, the animals and the world around us are ready to speak to us of this greatness, if only we can listen and see.”

The sun had reached the treetops in the west, casting long shadows over the meadow. On our way back, the cow trotted ahead of us, eagerly heading toward its familiar stable, and in front of the house, we encountered the forester’s team, his little son directing the two powerful animals with calls. Silently, we watched as he removed the harness from the large heads of the two cows, which willingly and trustingly complied with him, letting his young hands work, and in silence, we entered the dimly lit, dark house, this sacred evening, in the presence of the Gods.

Fin