Chapter 2 Publisher's Preface

The content of this book is the autobiography left by a man we call "Steppenwolf".He got this nickname because he called himself "Steppenwolf" many times.Whether his manuscript needs to be prefaced or not, we can leave it alone; however, I think it is necessary to add a few words before Steppenwolf's self-report, and record my memories of him.I knew very little about him; I knew nothing of his past or parentage.His character, however, made a strong impression on me, and I felt very sympathetic to him, after all. Steppenwolf was approaching fifty.He came to my aunt's house one day a few years ago and offered to rent a furnished room.At that time, he rented the small attic above and the small bedroom next to the attic.A few days later, he brought two suitcases and a large wooden box of books to my aunt's house and lived with us for about ten months.He is alone, very quiet.We only knew each other because our bedrooms were next to each other, and we sometimes met on the stairs and in the hallway.This man is unsociable and very out of character. I have never seen anyone else out of society like him.He was, as he himself sometimes said, a wilderness, a strange, savage, and very timid creature from another world.Because of his temperament and destiny, how lonely his life was, and how he consciously regarded this loneliness as his destiny, of course, I only found out later when I read his autobiography.However, I had a little contact with him before, and had a brief conversation with him, so I already knew a thing or two about him.I found that the impressions I had gained from his autobiography and from my previous personal encounters - much shallower and less complete, of course - were basically the same.

I happened to be there when Steppenwolf first walked into our house to rent from my aunt.He came at noon, and the dishes on the table had not been cleared away, half an hour before I went to work in the office.I have never forgotten that strange impression of inconsistency in his character which he made upon me on our first meeting.He rang the bell and went through the glass door, and my aunt in the darkened passage asked him what he was doing.And he—Steppenwolf—raised his short-cropped head, raised his nose, and sniffed nervously, without explaining why he came or giving his name, just saying, "Well, it smells good here. "He said, smiling slightly, and my kind aunt also smiled at him.But I thought it was ridiculous to greet him with such words, so I hated him a little.

"Oh, by the way," he went on, "you want to rent a room, let me see." The three of us went upstairs together, and it was only in the attic that I had to take a closer look at him.He is not very tall, but he looks like a big man when he raises his hands and moves his feet.He was dressed in a smart, comfortable winter coat, well dressed but not trimmed, clean-shaven, and graying hair, cropped short.At first I didn't like the way he walked at all; his gait was faltering, hesitant, and it didn't suit the angular shape of his face or the tone and style of his voice.It was only later that I noticed, and heard, that he was ill and had difficulty walking.He wondered how he smiled as he inspected the stairs, the walls, the windows, and the old, tall cabinets in the stairwell.At that time, seeing him laughing so strangely made me feel very uncomfortable.It seemed that he liked all this very much, and at the same time felt that these things seemed ridiculous.In short, the man gave the impression that he came from another strange world, from some foreign country, and everything here seemed to him beautiful and at the same time a little ridiculous.All I can say is that he was very polite and friendly.Without saying a word, he immediately agreed to rent our room and agreed to the rent and breakfast fee we proposed; however, around him, I always felt that there was a strange, awkward or hostile atmosphere.He rented the small attic and the bedroom, and asked my aunt to explain to him the conditions of heating, water, service, and the notices for tenants. Part of the rent was paid in advance; but on the other hand, he seemed to be absent-minded, seemed to find his behavior so ridiculous that he didn't take it seriously, as if renting a house and speaking German with others were very important to him. Something strange, very new, and deep down he seemed to be thinking of something else that had nothing to do with it at all.These were my impressions of him at the time.I wouldn't have a good impression of him if he didn't have other attributes to complement and correct.As soon as I met him, I liked his face very much; although there was an unfamiliar expression on his face, I still liked it. His face may be strange and sad, but it is also spiritual, full of thoughts, vitality and wisdom.Although he seemed to have taken some effort to be so polite and friendly, there was absolutely no hint of arrogance in him.On the contrary, his manner was almost imploring, almost touching, for which I was only able to explain later, but at the time I had an immediate liking for him.

I haven't finished viewing the two houses, and the negotiations in other aspects have not yet ended. My lunch break is over, and it's time for me to go to work.I took my leave and let my aunt continue to receive him.In the evening when I came home from get off work, my aunt told me that a stranger rented a room and moved in in the past two days. He only asked us not to go to the police station to declare his household registration. He said that he was a sick person. Forms, standing and waiting, and the like were unbearable.I remember very well now that I was taken aback by his request and warned my aunt not to agree to the condition.It seemed to me that his fear of the police coincided with something mysterious and alien about him, and he didn't want to arouse suspicion.I advised my aunt not to agree to such strange requests from strangers, because fulfilling such requests would sometimes cause trouble.It was only at this point that I realized that my aunt had agreed to grant his wish, and.Completely captivated by strangers, she was always courteous and friendly to her lodgers, always treating them like a aunt, even a mother.This has also been exploited by some tenants in the past.In the first few weeks, our attitude towards the new tenant was still very different: I picked on him a few things, but my aunt was always eager to protect him.

I always feel wrong about not declaring the household registration. I want to at least find out what my aunt knows about this stranger, his life experience and why he came here.Sure enough, she already knew something, and after I left at noon that day, he didn't stay for long.He told her that he planned to live in our city for a few months, visit the library here, and visit the historical sites here.He only rented for such a short few months, which was not to my aunt's liking; however, his special behavior won my aunt's heart.In short, the house was rented out, and my objection became an afterthought.

I asked my aunt, "Why did he say, it tastes good here?" My aunt was quite good at guessing people's minds sometimes.She replied: "I know that very well. Our place is neat and tidy, and our life is kind and orderly. He likes this smell very much. Look at him, as if he has not been used to this kind of life for a long time, and at the same time needs this kind of life." kind of life." I thought to myself, well, let him do what he wants. "But," I said to my aunt, "what if he's not used to this neat and orderly life? What if he messes around, soils everything, and comes home drunk at night? what to do?"

She laughed and said, "Let's see and talk." So I didn't say anything more. In fact, my worries were totally unfounded.Although the tenant was capricious and had an irregular life, he was not annoying or in our way, and we still miss him to this day.Inwardly, though, he often made us both—aunt and I—uneasy, and, frankly, I can never think of him until now.I sometimes dream of him at night when I go to bed; he becomes lovable to me, but even so I feel uneasy just thinking of him, of having had such a man. The stranger's name was Harry Harrell.Two days later, a coachman brought him something.Among them was a very beautiful suitcase, which impressed me deeply; there was also a large suitcase, which was divided into many compartments. It seems that this suitcase has traveled all over the five continents, because the suitcase is covered with stickers from many countries, including those from remote countries. The labels of different hotels and shipping companies in many countries across the ocean have faded and turned yellow.

Then he came himself, and I gradually became acquainted with this strange man.At first, I didn't take the initiative to approach him.I was intrigued by Harrell from the moment we met, but for the first few weeks, I didn't take any steps to reach out and talk to him.I have to admit, though, that from the beginning I kept an eye on him, and sometimes went into his room when he was away, and did some spying out of sheer curiosity. I have already written some descriptions about the appearance of wilderness food.At first glance he gives the impression that he is an important, unusual, and talented man, with a light of wisdom shining between his brows, and his unusually soft and touching expression reflects that his inner life is very interesting. , extremely touching, reflecting his weak nature, sentimental.Whenever people talked to him, and he talked about things that were out of the ordinary, he returned to his strange and strange nature, and said strange things naturally, and we people had to bow down.He thinks more than others, and when he talks about spiritual matters, he is very calm and understanding, showing a deliberate and omniscient look.Really, it's only in people who are really brilliant and who don't try to be vain, or show off, or teach, or think they're right.

I still clearly remember a sentence he said in the last period of his stay with us. This motto was not spoken with his mouth, but revealed from his eyes.At that time, a well-known historical philosopher and cultural critic gave a report in the auditorium. Steppenwolf had no intention of listening to it, but I managed to persuade him to listen to the report together.We sat side by side in the auditorium.The speaker ascended to the podium and began his speech, a man of coquettish airs, to the dismay of the audience who thought he was some kind of seer.He first said a few words to please the audience and thanked so many people for attending the lecture.At this moment, Steppenwolf glanced at me. This short glance was a criticism of the flattery and the personality of the reporter. Oh, it was an unforgettable and terrible glance. The meaning of this glance is simply Could write a book!The glance not only criticized the speaker, but killed the celebrity with its benign but deadly irony.Still, this is the most insignificant point in the glimpse.His glance was not so much mocking as sad, and terribly sad; and the glance betrayed his inexpressible disappointment.In a way he was convinced that this disappointment was entirely justified, that it had become a habit, an expression of his inner world.The light of disappointment contained in this glance not only illuminates the personality of the vain speaker, but also satirizes the situation, the audience, their disappointment, and the rather haughty tone of the speech. No, it's much more than that, this glimpse of Steppenwolf sees through our entire era, through the whole busy life, through the spiritual world of those who are chasing after the competition, vain and ignorant, self-respecting and superficial It's a superficial activity—ah, unfortunately, it's much more than that, it's a far-reaching vision that not only points out the imperfection and hopelessness of our times, ideas, and cultures, but also strikes at the whole of humanity. The crux of the matter, a glimpse that speaks eloquently in a brief second of a thinker, perhaps a seer, of doubts about dignity, about the meaning of human life.This look seems to say: "Look, we are such fools! Look, people are like this. In a moment, what fame, reputation, intelligence, spiritual achievements, what pursuit of dignity, the greatness and eternity of human nature, etc., etc. , everything collapsed and turned into a trick!

At this point, I have narrated the following things in advance, and contrary to my original plan and intention, I have generally told readers the characteristics of Harrell; originally I planned to slowly describe the process of our acquaintance, So as to show his whole picture in front of the readers. Now that I have described his essential features, I shall proceed now with the account of Harrell's mysterious "abnormal character," and report in detail how I felt and understood the cause and meaning of this abnormal character and this infinite and terrible loneliness. , is purely redundant.When reporting, I myself try to stay in the background as much as possible.I don't want to expound my beliefs, or tell a story, or do a psychoanalysis, just to tell you what I've seen, and to contribute to the recognition of the face of the eccentric man who left us the Steppenwolf manuscript.

As soon as he came through the glass door of my aunt's house, stuck his head out like a bird, and complimented the house on the smell, I noticed something special about him, and my instinctive reaction was disgust.I felt (although my aunt, unlike me, was not an intellectual, felt the same with me) that this man was sick, that he was suffering from some kind of mental illness, a problem of thought or character, and I was a healthy person, Instinctively want to guard against.As time went by, my defense against him was gradually replaced by sympathy, and I felt a deep feeling for him when I saw the infinite loneliness of this suffering man, his soul dying. pity.During this time I became more and more aware that the affliction of the sufferer was not caused by any defect in his nature, but, on the contrary, that his great faculties and powers were not in a harmonious balance.I realized that Harrell was a suffering genius who, according to some Nietzsche, honed the capacity for suffering genius, capable of endlessly enduring horrific suffering.I also realize that the basis of his pessimism is not to despise the world, but to express himself, because when he ruthlessly criticizes various institutions and people, he never excludes himself, and his arrows always target the world first. Allow himself, the first person he hates and denies is himself... At this point, I would like to add a few words from a psychological point of view.I don't know much about Steppenwolf's experiences, but I have good reason to speculate that he was educated by loving but strictly pious parents and teachers, who believed that the basis of education was "destroying the will of the pupil".But the student was tenacious, proud and talented, and they failed to destroy his character and will.This education taught him only one thing: to hate himself.All his life he had turned all his imaginative genius, all his faculties of thought against himself, against this innocent and noble object.At any rate, he first vented his bitter irony, his sharp criticism, all his hatred and malice upon himself; and in that he was a perfect Christian, a perfect martyr.For those around him, he always bravely and seriously thinks of ways to love them, treat them justly, and not hurt them, because for him, "love" and self-hate are both deeply rooted in his heart .His life tells us that if you can't love yourself, you can't love others. If you hate yourself, you will hate others. In the end, it will make people extremely lonely and pessimistic like abhorrent selfishness. Now, however, is not the time to state my thoughts, but the actual situation.Through "espionage" and the introduction of my aunt, I know some preliminary information about Harrell, which is related to his lifestyle.It was soon apparent that he loved thinking and reading, and that he had no real work.He stayed up late in the morning and often didn't get up until noon, and then walked from the bedroom to the living room in his pajamas.The drawing-room was large and comfortable, with two windows; it had not been a few days since he had moved in, and was quite different from what it had been when the other lodgers lived there.The house is full and growing.Around the walls were many pictures and pasted up sketches; some were cut out from magazines, and they were often replaced.In the living room hung a few pictures of a small town in Germany, with a southern atmosphere, which was obviously Harrell's hometown; between the pictures hung some watercolor paintings, which we learned later that he painted by himself.There is also a photograph of a beautiful young woman or girl.For a while, there was a Thai Bodhisattva on the wall, which was replaced by a replica of Michelangelo's, and later by a portrait of Mahatma Gandhi.Books were everywhere in the room, not only the large bookcase was full, but also on the table, the very delicate old-fashioned desk, on the couch, on the chairs and on the floor. Many books had bookmarks, and the bookmarks were often changed.The books kept multiplying, because not only did he bring back packages of books from the library, but he also often received books in the post from the post office.A man who lives in such a house can only be a scholar.He smoked heavily, as is typical of a scholar, and the room was always smoky, with cigarette butts and ashtrays everywhere.However, a large part of the books are not academic works, but literary works of various times and countries.For a while, on the couch where he used to lie and rest all day long, there was a set of works from the end of the 18th century, the title of which was "Sophie's Highmel - Saxony Travel Notes", which was thick in six volumes. The "Complete Works of Goethe" and "The Complete Works of Jean Paul" seem to be his frequent reading; and the works of Novalis, Lessing, Jacobi and Lichtenberg.Several volumes of Dostoevsky's works are filled with written cards.On the larger table, there are many books and pamphlets in a mess, and there is often a bouquet of flowers in the middle, beside which there are dusty paintbrushes, paint boxes, ashtrays, and of course various bottles with drinks. bottle.There was a bottle with a straw casing, and he used to use this bottle to drink Italian red wine in a small shop nearby.From time to time, I could also see Berchardie, Malaga, and a pot-belly bottle containing cherry wine. In a few days, I saw that the bottle was almost used up, and if there was any left, he would Put the wine bottle in the corner and never drink again, the wine bottle is covered with a thick layer of dust.I do not wish to justify my espionage, and openly admit that, at first, I was disgusted and suspicious by all the signs of this bookish, dissolute man.Not only am I a middle-class person, but I am also a well-behaved, well-regulated person, accustomed to the details of the day, and likes to organize my time well.I don't drink or smoke, so the bottles in Harrell's room annoy me more than the messy pictures. This stranger not only sleeps and works irregularly, but also eats and drinks as he pleases, which is very abnormal.Sometimes, he would go days without leaving the house, eating nothing but a little coffee in the morning.My aunt discovered that he had an occasional banana for a meal.But after a few days, he went to eat and drink in high-end restaurants or suburban bistros.His health seemed to be in poor condition, and he seemed to suffer from other symptoms besides the difficulty of walking and climbing up and down the stairs. He once mentioned in passing that for many years he had not been able to eat or sleep well.I think it's mostly alcoholism.Later, I sometimes accompanied him to restaurants and saw him pouring alcohol into his stomach without restraint.However, neither I nor anyone else saw him really drunk. I will never forget the circumstances of my first contact with him.At first our relationship was as indifferent as neighbors in an apartment.Coming home from the shop one evening, I was surprised to see Mr. Harrell sitting at the turn of the stairs from the second floor to the third.He was sitting on the top step, and when he saw me going upstairs, he moved aside to let me pass.I asked him if he was unwell and offered to go up with him. Harrell looked at me, and I realized that I had awakened him from some sort of dream.He smiled slowly, that beautiful, sad smile that often makes me very sad; then he asked me to sit down beside him.I thanked him and told him that I was not in the habit of sitting on the stairs in front of other people's houses. He laughed harder, and said, "Oh, yes, yes, you are right. But wait a minute, I want to show you why I stopped here a little bit." He pointed to the hallway in front of a widow's house on the second floor.The space between the stairs, the windows, and the glass doors had a wooden floor, and against the wall stood a tall mahogany chest, gilded with tin, and on two low stands in front of the chest stood two large flowerpots, one Rhododendrons are planted, and araucaria are planted in a pot.The two pots of bonsai were very beautiful, always kept clean and impeccable, which I have noted with pleasure before. "Look," Harrell continued, "this small space is lined with araucaria, which is very fragrant. When I come here, I often have to stop for a while and don't want to leave. Your aunt's house also has a scent, and it is also very clean and tidy. But it’s still not as good as here, it’s so spotless, scrubbed so clean, it looks like it’s shining, making people reluctant to touch it with their hands. I can’t help but take a deep breath of the fragrance here. You also smell Is it? The scent of the floor, the aftertaste of turpentine, the scent of mahogany and the smell of washed leaves are mixed together, exuding a scent, which is the cleanliness, thoughtfulness, precision, sense of responsibility and loyalty in small things of a well-to-do family. I don't know who lives there, but behind that glass door must be a well-to-do paradise, clean, well-organized, conscientious, enthusiastic about the usual and the obligatory." Seeing that I hadn't interjected, he went on: "Don't think I'm being sarcastic! My dear sir, I don't want to laugh at the well-off people's well-to-do and orderly habits at all. Of course, I live in another world, and in this I might not be able to stand a day in a house lined with araucaria. Although I am a somewhat rough steppenwolf, I have a mother after all, and my mother is also an ordinary woman. The curtains are neat and tidy, and our home and our life are arranged in an orderly manner. The smell of turpentine and araucaria reminds me of my mother. I sit here and there for a while, looking at this quiet, neat little garden, It’s a pleasure to see something like this still exists.” He wanted to stand up, but it was very difficult. I went to help him, but he didn't refuse.I still did not speak, but, as my aunt had experienced before, I could not resist a certain fascination sometimes possessed by this strange being.We walked slowly side by side up the stairs to his door.He took out the key, gave me a friendly look, and said: "You're coming back from the shop? Yes, I don't know anything about business, you know, I'm a man of the world, and I don't know much about the world. But I believe , you also like reading or something. Your aunt once told me that you are a high school graduate and your Greek is very good. I read a sentence by Novalis this morning. May I show you? It will definitely make You are happy." He pulled me into his room, which had a choking smell of tobacco.He pulled out a book from the pile and rummaged through it. He found a sentence and said to me: "Well, this sentence is also very good, you listen: 'One should be proud of suffering-any suffering is the memory of our dignitaries.' How beautiful it is! Earlier than Nietzsche Eighty years! But that's not the maxim I'm about to say, wait a minute, here, listen: ten people don't want to swim until they learn to swim.' Does that sound a little funny? Of course they don’t want to swim. They live on land, not aquatic animals. Of course they don’t want to think either. God created man to live, not to think! Because whoever thinks, thinks thinking is the most important thing, He can certainly achieve something in thinking, but he has reversed the relationship between land and water, so he will be drowned one day." His words fascinated and interested me, and I stayed with him for a while.From then on, when we met on the stairs or on the street, we often exchanged a few words.At first, like that time in front of the Araucaria, I always felt that he was mocking me.actually not.He respected me as he respected the araucaria tree, and he was aware that he was terribly alone, convinced that he was swimming and struggling in water, that he was a tree without roots and water without a source, so that sometimes it is very common to see someone in the world. For example, I always go to the office on time, or if the servant or the tram driver says something, he will really get excited for a while, without the slightest sense of mockery.At first, I thought this combination of a gentleman and a prodigal son, this cynical disposition was too ridiculous and too much.But then it became more and more clear to me that from his empty space, from his Steppenwolf-like solitude, he really admired and loved our little bourgeois world, which he saw as a kind of A stable life is regarded as an ideal that he cannot achieve, as a hometown and peace, all of which are elusive to him.Our maid was an honest woman, and he always took off his hat sincerely whenever he saw her; and whenever my aunt had a few words with him, or told him that his coat was in need of mending, or that a coat button was off, he Listening with unusual earnestness, as if making a vast and hopeless effort to slip through a crack into a little peaceful world and settle there, if only for an hour. I was a little surprised and a little uncomfortable when he called himself Steppenwolf during our first conversation in front of Araucaria.What are these words? !But after I got used to it, not only did I feel that the word was okay, even I gradually called him Steppenwolf in my mind, and I never called him any other name except Steppenwolf. Is there any other name that better suits the character of this person.A Steppenwolf who lost his way and came to our city, among the herds—this is the most appropriate image to describe his characteristics. He was timid and lonely, wild and bold, restless, homesick, and helpless. Home is home, and he has exposed all of this. Once I had an opportunity to observe him for a whole evening.It was at a symphony concert and it didn't occur to me that he was sitting next to me and I could see him but he couldn't see me.Handel's piece was played first, the music was very elegant and beautiful, but Steppenwolf was immersed in his own thoughts, neither listening to the music nor paying attention to the people around him.He sat there coldly, lonely and reserved, with a calm and worried face drooping on his chest.Another piece of music followed, a short symphony by Friedwin Bach.At this moment I saw with great astonishment.Just after playing a few beats, there was a smile on his face, completely intoxicated by the music, his appearance was very peaceful and happy, as if immersed in a beautiful dream, this lasted for about ten minutes, making me just look at him , Forgot to listen to music.He woke up after the piece was played, sat up straight, and made a gesture of getting up, as if wanting to leave the table; but he remained sitting without moving until the end.The last piece is Reger's Variations, which many people find a bit long and dull.Steppenwolf listened attentively and happily at the beginning, but later he stopped listening and put his hands in his trouser pockets, meditating, but this time he didn't have the happy and dreamy expression just now, but looked very sad, even Still angry.He was gray, absent-minded, unenthusiastic, old and sickly-looking, and full of dissatisfaction. The concert was over, and I saw him again in the street, and I followed him; he was sullen, exhausted, huddled in his overcoat, and walked towards where we lived.In front of an old-fashioned small restaurant, he stopped, looked at his watch hesitantly, and walked in.Impulsively, I followed in.He was sitting at a more elegant table. The proprietress and the lady hall welcomed him as a regular customer. I greeted him and sat beside him.We sat there for an hour.I drank two glasses of mineral water, and he first ordered half a liter of red wine, and then a quarter liter.I said, I also went to the concert, but he didn't pick up on it.He looked at the trademark of the mineral water bottle _ Gan, and asked me if I wanted to drink, and he treated me.When I told him that I never drank alcohol, he had a helpless expression on his face and said, "Oh, yes, you did the right thing. I also lived very simply for many years, and lived frugally for a long time. , but now Aquarius is shining, I can't leave my mouth, Aquarius is a dark sign." I picked up on him and joked about the metaphor, implying that he, too, believed in astrology, which I found incredible.He listened to me, and said again in that overly polite tone that has so often pierced my heart: "Exactly true, but unfortunately I can't trust even this science." I got up to say goodbye, but he didn't come home until late at night.He walked as usual, and did not immediately go to bed (I lived next door, and could hear him clearly), but stayed in the drawing-room for another hour or so, lighting the lamp. There was one more night I haven't forgotten either.My aunt was out that day, and I was alone at home, when the bell on the front door rang, and I opened it, and there stood a very pretty young woman, who was looking for Mr. Harrell.When I looked, it turned out to be the one in the photo in his room.I pointed her to his door and went back, and she stayed there for a while, and then I heard them come down the stairs together, talking and laughing, and going out very happily.I was amazed that this reclusive bachelor should have a lover, so young, so handsome, and so fashionable.I had all kinds of speculations about him and about his life, and now I feel that these speculations are not very sure.However, within an hour, he came back alone again.With a sad face, he plodded up the stairs, like a wolf in a cage, and paced softly up and down the drawing-room for hours, with the light in his room on all night. I don't know anything about their relationship, I just want to add: I saw him with that woman again later on the street.They walked arm in arm, he looked so happy, and again I was amazed at how lovely and innocent his lonely face could be sometimes!I understood the woman, and I understood why my aunt had such sympathy for him.But that night, when he came home, he was just as sad and miserable.I met him at the door with a bottle of Italian wine under his arm.He ended up drinking half the night in the desolate room upstairs, as had happened several times before.I am sorry for him, what a life he leads, without consolation, without hope, without defense! Well, enough gossip.The above introduction is enough to show that Steppenwolf lived a life of suicide, and no more words need to be spent on this.But I don't believe that he really killed himself when he left us.One day at that time, after paying the bill, he suddenly left without saying goodbye and left our city.Since then, there has been no news of him, and the few letters he received after he left have been kept by us.He left nothing but a manuscript.This manuscript was not written when he was living with us. He left a few words, saying that the manuscript will be given to me and I will handle it entirely. I have not been able to investigate whether the experiences described in Harrell's manuscript are real.I don't doubt that most of these things are fictitious. The so-called fiction here does not mean random fabrication, but a kind of exploration, an attempt to use visible and tangible events as a cloak to describe the deepest experience in my heart. past inner activities.These semi-dreamlike inner workings of Harrell's work presumably took place during the last period of his stay with us.I believe that the inner activities he described were also based on a period of life that he actually lived.During that time, our tenant's appearance and behavior were different from those of the past. He often went out and sometimes stayed away all night. He didn't even touch those books for a long time.At that time, I didn't meet him many times. There were a few times when he looked very lively, as if he had become younger, and there were a few times when I could say that he was very happy.可是打那不久，他的情绪又一落千丈，整天整天地躺在床上，不思饮食；这当儿，他的情人又来看过他，他们俩发疯似地大吵了一顿，闹得四邻也很不安。第二天，哈勒尔为此还向我姑母表示了歉意。 我坚信，他没有自杀。他还活着，住在什么地方，在哪幢楼里，拖着疲惫的脚步上下楼梯；在什么地方，两眼无神地凝视着擦得体亮的地板和被人精心料理的南洋杉；白天他坐在图书馆里，晚上他在酒馆消磨时光，或者躺在租来的沙发上，在窗户后面倾听着世界和他人怎样生活；他知道自己孓然一身，不属于这个世界，但是他不会自杀，因为他残留的一点信仰告诉他，他必须把这种苦难，心中邪恶的苦难，忍受到生命终结，他只能受苦而死。我常常想念他，他没有使我的生活变得更轻松一些，他没有那种才能促进我发挥我性格中坚强快乐的一面，恰恰相反！但我不是他，我有我自己的生活方式，我过的是平平常常、规规矩矩，然而又是有保障的、充满义务的生活。所以，我们——我和姑母——可以怀着一种平静友好的心情怀念他，我姑母知道他的事情比我多，但是她把它深深地埋在地善良的心里，没有向我透露。 关于哈勒尔的自传，我在这里要说几句。他描写的东西是些非常奇异的幻想，有的是病态的，有的是优美的和具有丰富的思想内容。如果这些文稿偶然落入我的手中，我也不认识作者。那么我肯定会怒气冲冲地把它扔掉。但是我认识哈勒尔，因此他写的东西我能看懂一些，可以说能表示赞同。如果我把他的自述只看作是某个可怜的孤立的精神病患者的病态幻觉，要么我就要考虑是否有必要公之于众。然而，我看到了更多的东西，这是一个时代的记录，我今天才明白，哈勒尔心灵上的疾病并不是个别人的怪病，而是时代本身的弊病，是哈勒尔孤整整一代人的精神病，染上这种毛病的远非只是那些软弱的、微不足道的人，而是那些坚强的、最聪明最有天赋的人，他们反而首当其冲。 不管哈勒尔的自传以多少实际经历为依据，它总是一种尝试，一种企图不用回避和美化的方法去克服时代病疾，而是把这种疾病作为描写对象的尝试。记载自传真可说是一次地狱之行，作者时而惧怕、时而勇敢地穿越混乱阴暗的心灵世界，他立志要力排混乱，横越地狱，奉陪邪恶到底。 哈勒尔的一段话给我启发，使我懂得了这一点。有一次我们谈了所谓中世纪的种种残暴现象之后，他对我说：“这些残暴行为实际上并不残酷。我们今天的生活方式，中世纪的人会非常厌恶，会感到比残酷、可怕、野蛮还更难忍受！每个时代，每种文化，每个习俗，每项传统都有自己的风格，都各有温柔与严峻，甜美与残暴两个方面，各自都认为某些苦难是理所当然的事，各自都容忍某些恶习。只有在两个时代交替，两种文化、两种宗教交错的时期，生活才真正成了苦难，成了地狱。如果一个古希腊罗马人不得不在中世纪生活，那他就会痛苦地憋死；同样，一个野蛮人生活在文明时代，也肯定会窒息而死。历史上有这样的时期，整整一代人陷入截然不同的两个时代、两种生活方式之中，对他们来说，任何天然之理，任何道德，任何安全清白感都丧失殆尽。当然不是每个人都会这样强烈地感受到这一点。尼采这样的天才早在三十年前就不得不忍受今天的痛苦——他当时孤零零一个人忍受着苦痛而不被人理解，今天已有成千上万人在忍受这种苦痛。” 我在阅读哈勒尔的自传时，时常想起这一段话。哈勒尔就是那种正处于两种时代交替时期的人，他们失去了安全感，不再感到清白无辜，他们的命运就是怀疑人生，把人生是否还有意义这个问题作为个人的痛苦和劫数加以体验。 在我看来，这就是他的自传可能具有的对我们大家的启发。所以我决定将它公之于世。顺便提一句，我对这份自述既不袒护也不指摘，任凭读者根据自己的良心褒贬。