Chapter 3 harry harrell autobiography

for madmen The days are like running water, and one day passes by.I passed the day in turmoil, peacefully, with the simplicity and timid art of living that is characteristic of me.I worked for a few hours, flipped through a few old books, was in pain for two hours like many elderly people do, and I took my pills, fooled the pain, and was happy.I took a hot bath and lay very comfortable in the hot water; I got three mails, went through the superfluous letters and prints, and then did a luck exercise, but today I want to be comfortable and avoid the mental exercise, Then I walked for an hour, and found that the clouds like tulle were colorful, softly drawn on the sky like precious paintings.This is really beautiful, like reading an ancient book, like lying in hot water and taking a bath.But on the whole, it was not a charming day, not a bright one, not a joyful day, but for me it was an ordinary, long-accustomed day: an old man who is not interested in life Satisfied people lead a moderate, lukewarm, tolerable and passable life, with no special ailments, no special worries, no real distress, no despair. In these days I am neither excited nor disturbed. Not to be afraid, but to consider with peace of mind the following question: Is it time to follow the example of Adabert Steft and end one's life by shaving?

Who has tasted another day full of peril, the pain of gout, the violent headache behind the eyeballs, which turns every movement of the eyes and ears from pleasure to pain ; quasi-lived through the days of the death of the soul, the perilous days of inner emptiness and despair.These days, on the earth that has been destroyed and sucked dry by joint-stock companies, the human world and the so-called culture, in the brilliance of hypocrisy, meanness, noise, and intertwine changes, grin at you like a clown and follow you every step of the way. You, staring at you, making us unbearable in the sick "I"-whoever has tasted this kind of hell, then he will not be happy with today's ordinary, mixed days. would be quite satisfied, would be very grateful to sit by the warming fire, read the morning paper, and be very grateful to conclude that there was no war today, no new dictatorship was established, no major scandal was revealed in the political and economic circles, He'd pick up his dusty lyre and strum a thank-God hymn, a melodious, slightly joyous tune, which he'd use to make his quiet, anaesthetized, ok, noncommittal The God of God is bored, and in this satisfying yet boring air, in this very wholesome state of disease-free, the two of them—the empty, nodding, noncommittal God and the grizzled, Philistines who sing low hymns—like twins.

It is a beautiful thing to be satisfied, to have no pain, to live an ordinary life; in this ordinary day, pain and joy dare not cry out, everyone whispers and walks on tiptoe .It's a pity that I'm different, and it's this kind of satisfaction that I can't bear, and it doesn't take long for me to hate it, loathe it, and I become so desperate that my feelings have to flee elsewhere, as far as possible. The path of flight to joy, but also the path of pain if necessary.When I passed a moment without joy or pain, breathing in the lukewarm, unremarkable atmosphere of that so-called good day, my childish heart was so distressed and distressed that I A rusty, monotonous thank-you lyre was thrown at the satisfied face of the sleepy Satisfied God. I didn't like the lukewarm room temperature, and would rather let the day's great pain burn my heart.After a while, a desire for strong emotions and excitement was aroused in my heart, and I was full of anger at this mediocre, rigid, stable, and lifeless life. Following the church, even slapped himself with a swollen nose and a blue nose.I'd love to mess around, take off a wig from a cult idol, give train tickets to Hamburg to a few disobedient schoolboys, something they've longed for, seduce a little girl, Or to disrupt the normal social order.For it is precisely these things that I hate most, and above all detest: civic satisfaction, health, comfort, carefully cultivated optimism, carefully cultivated, mediocre public life activities.

In the evening, with this kind of mood, I ended this inactive and extremely ordinary first year.However, instead of snuggling into the bed with a hot water bottle in it like a sick person, I was so dissatisfied and disgusted with the little things I did during the day that I put on sullenly. shoes, wrapped in a coat, and walked towards the city in the dark night fog, thinking of drinking a glass of what the gluttonous drinkers usually call "wine" according to old habits at the Helmet Restaurant. I lived in a very decent apartment with three families living in it.My residence is on the top floor.The stairs are very ordinary, but clean and elegant.When I walked down from the top floor, I felt that the stairs in this foreign land were difficult to climb.I don't know how it happened, but anyway, I, a homeless Steppenwolf, a lone hater of the petty bourgeoisie, has always lived in a bourgeois house worthy of the name: this is my sentimentality old saying.I live neither in a magnificent palace nor in a slum. I have always lived in the comfort zone of the petty bourgeoisie. Their comfort zone is very respectable but extremely boring. Soapy.I like the way people startle when someone slams the door shut or enters the house with dirty shoes on, no doubt a habit from childhood.I can't resist the old nostalgia I have hidden in my heart, such as my hometown, which has led me down this stupid old road again and again.I am a lonely, grim, busy, unkempt man, I live in a family, in petty bourgeois surroundings; yes, I like that, I like to breathe that quiet, orderly, clean breath on the stairs, I like the polite and docile atmosphere among people. Although I hate the petty bourgeois, their temperament has something to move me. I like them, I like them to cross the threshold of my room and enter my house, because The situation here is very different from the situation on the stairs. Books and wine bottles are messy, cigarette butts are scattered all over the floor, and the room is messy and dirty. Books, manuscripts, thoughts, everything is soaked in the pain of a lonely person and the ups and downs of life, full of life. The desire to give life a new meaning has been lost; life has become meaningless.

Then I walked past the araucaria.On the second floor of the house, the stairs led through a narrow passage in front of a dwelling which was undoubtedly cleaner, more orderly, and more impeccable than the others.In this small passage we see the uncommon cleanliness of the family, a small place of radiance in the small place of Order.On the floor that was too clean to step on, there were two exquisite small stools. On each stool was a large flowerpot. One pot was planted with rhododendrons, and the other was planted with araucaria. The araucaria was quite lush. It was a very perfect, healthy, tall young tree, with every needle and leaf very fresh and green.Sometimes, when I know that no one is paying attention to me, I use this place as a sacred hall.Sit down on a step above the araucaria, rest for a while, clasp your hands, and look reverently at this small paradise of order.It is moving, lonely and funny, and it touched my heart deeply.One surmises that the dwelling behind this door—in the holy shade of Nanyang Village—must be filled with gleaming mahogany furniture, and owned by a stout, healthy, honest and well-behaved occupant who rises early every day, is faithful to duty, and celebrates temperately. , go to church on Sunday and go to bed early at night.

I pretended to be happy, and walked quickly through the streets and alleys. The asphalt pavement of the street was damp, and the dim street lamps shone like blurred tears in the cold night. Absorb the faint reflections on it.I think again of my forgotten youth, how I loved the dark nights of late autumn and winter!At that time, when I was wrapped in an overcoat, half night and half night in the face of wind and rain, I was so lonely and sad, I breathed the breath of nature greedily and intoxicated. Air, although I feel lonely, but with loneliness comes enjoyment and poetry, so I went back to the room, sat by the bed, and wrote these verses by candlelight.Now all this is gone for ever, the wine is gone, and no one toasts me anymore.Don't you regret it?I am not sorry.There is no need to regret the past.The pity is now and today, all these uncountable days and nights that I have lost, and these days have brought me neither gift nor shock, but pain.But, praise God, there are exceptions, there have been occasional other times that have shocked me, brought gifts, knocked down walls, and brought me, a lost prodigal, back into the living world.Sadly, yet inwardly excited, I try to recall the last such experience.It was a concert, playing a beautiful and old piece of music.A piece of piano music was played by the woodwind. When it was between two beats, I suddenly felt that the door to heaven opened. I flew through space and saw the upper belt working. I felt a blissful pain. I no longer resist or fear anything, I affirm everything in life, and I love everything.This feeling lasted only for a moment, maybe a quarter of an hour, but I dreamed it again that night, and it has been in my dismal life ever since, and I sometimes see it clearly like a golden strip. A yellow, holy track through my life for minutes, almost always covered in grime and dust, while sparkling with golden sparks, seemingly never to be lost, and then quickly gone trace.One night, lying awake in bed, I suddenly recited a poem, which was so beautiful and wonderful, that I never thought of writing it down at the time, but I couldn't remember it the next morning, but the poem was like Like a hard kernel wrapped in a broken old shell, it has been buried in my heart for a long time.I had this feeling another time when I was reading a poet's verse, when I was thinking about a thought of Descartes, Pascal.Another time, when I was with my lover, the feeling flashed in front of me again, and flew into the sky, leaving a golden trail.Oh, how in our lives, in this contented, bourgeois, spiritually empty age, to find traces of the divine in such architectural forms, such business practices, such politics, such men Difficult!I can't agree with the purpose of this world, I don't have any happiness in this world, how can I not be a Steppenwolf, a down-and-out hermit in this world!I didn't stay long, neither in the theater nor in the cinema, and I could barely read a newspaper, and I rarely read modern books.I can't understand what pleasure people are looking for in crowded trains and hotels, in cafes full of customers and loud music, in taverns and theaters in bustling cities; , in a festive parade, in a lecture for those who are eager for education, what pleasure is sought in the big stadium.Millions of people are trying to get these pleasures, and I could have them too, but I couldn't understand it, I couldn't share them.On the contrary, the few things that can give me joy, I think are the happiest things in the world, extraordinary things, ecstatic things, most people in the world can only be found in literary works. Seen, searched for, loved, in real life they think these are all absurd things.In fact, if the world's opinion is right, if this music in the coffee houses, these mass entertainments, these quests to satisfy the American-style of people doing little things, then I'm wrong, find Just a lunatic, a madman, and I am indeed a Steppenwolf as I claim to be, strayed among the beasts in a strange world that it cannot understand, and it can no longer find its own home, its own air and food.

As I pondered these questions that had been on my mind for a long time, I continued on the wet streets through one of the quietest and oldest parts of the city.Opposite, on the other side of the street, rose in the darkness an ancient gray stone wall which I had always loved to look at.The stone wall between a chapel and an old hospital, always so old and carefree.During the day, my eyes often stay on the rough wall. In the inner city, there are not many such quiet, beautiful, and unknown walls. Here, there are shops, law firms, inventors, doctors, and barbers everywhere. , corn doctor's sign is shouting at you, there is no half a square meter of space.Now I see the ancient wall again standing peacefully before me, but something has changed in the wall, I see a beautiful little door in the middle of the stone wall, with a pointed arch, I get confused and can't remember It is clear that this door was originally there and was only opened later.The door looked very old, very old, there was no doubt about it; perhaps the closed little door (the wooden door was blackened) had been the population of a deserted monastery hundreds of years ago, Although the monastery no longer exists, this gate is still the population of the barren ancient country.I may have seen this door before. [Again, just didn't look closely, maybe because it was freshly painted, it caught my attention.Anyway, I stopped, and looked very attentively, but I didn't go through, the street in the middle was very wet, and the road was very muddy.I stood on the sidewalk and looked out, and everything was covered in night, and the pillars seemed to be woven into a wreath, or decorated with some other colorful things.I opened my eyes and looked carefully, and saw a bright sign hanging on the door. I felt that there was something written on the sign.I couldn't see clearly even though I tried hard, so I walked over regardless of the mud and dirty water.I saw a part of the old grey-green wall above the lintel glimmering, where colorful letters flickered, flickering and disappearing.I think they even use this old intact wall for neon signs now.I saw a few fleeting words, which were so difficult to decipher that I had to guess them.The intervals between the appearance of each letter vary in length, are weak, and then go out again in a moment.The man who does business with such advertisements is not a shrewd man, he is a Steppenwolf, poor man; why play with letters on the walls of the darkest street in the old town, and choose the dead of night, the cold wind and the rain? , The moment when no one passes by?Why are the letters so rushed, fleeting, moody, and illegible?Well, now I finally spelled out a few words:

magic theater - Ordinary people are not allowed to enter I went to open the door and turned the heavy old handle without turning it.Suddenly the alphabet game was over, stopped very sadly, as if realizing the futility of such games.I took a few steps back, and my feet were covered in mud. The letters disappeared and went out. I stood in the mud for a long time, waiting for the letters to shine again, but it did not. I give up my heart and stop waiting.I stepped onto the sidewalk when suddenly a few colored letters of light appeared on the wet asphalt ahead of me. I read: Specially designed for crazy people!

My feet were wet and cold, but I stood there waiting for a while.The illuminated letters are no longer taken seriously.Standing in Xingli, I thought to myself, how beautiful are these soft, colorful alphabet lights that flicker like ghosts on the wet walls and dark asphalt roads.At this time, a previous idea-the metaphor of the golden shining trace-suddenly fell into my mind, and the trace suddenly became so distant and nowhere to be found. I felt cold and walked on, thinking of the trajectory and longing for the gates of the magic theater for madmen.As I walked, I arrived at the market. Here, there are all kinds of night snacks and entertainment activities. There is a poster for three steps, and a sign for five steps, competing to attract customers. It says: girl band, entertainment, movie theater, dance party.But this is not where I go, this is the entertainment of "normal people", the entertainment of normal people, and everywhere I go I see people flocking through the doors of various entertainment venues.Even so, my sorrow is still undiminished, because those few shining colored letters just now, that greeting from another world, still touch me, they reflect into my soul, and disturb my buried heart. The musical note made the glimmer of a trace of gold in the heart faintly flash again.

I go to patronize the quaint bistro.I first came to the city about twenty-five years ago, and the bistro hasn't changed a bit since then.The proprietress is still the same proprietress at that time, and some customers now often come here for a drink and a break twenty-five years ago, and today they still sit in the same seats and use the same cups as before.I went into this modest tavern, which was my refuge from the world.Of course, this kind of escapism is not much different from sitting quietly on the stairs next to the araucaria, and I can't find my hometown and confidant here. A strange show performed by people.However, this quiet place also has its precious things: there is no crowd, no noise, no music, just a few peaceful citizens sitting at the undecorated wooden table (the table has no marble top, no inlay). enamel, no velvet tablecloth, no brass decorations!), and a glass of good wine in front of each of them for supper.These regulars I know well, and they may be veritable philistines, at home, in their vulgar dwellings, with clumsy domestic altars, behind which are vulgar idols of ridiculous contentment; They were probably like me, lonely and unhinged, disillusioned, drunken drunks, steppen wolves, paupers; what they were all about, I don't know.Nostalgia, disappointment, and the need to seek spiritual compensation drive each of them here. Married people come here to find the atmosphere of celibacy, and elderly officials come here to find their school days. They are all quite silent and like When drinking, like me, I would rather slowly drink half a liter of Alsace wine by myself than sit in front of the girl band and watch them perform.I can sit here for an hour or two.I had just drank Alsace all day when it occurred to me that I hadn't eaten anything today except bread in the morning.

How strange that people can swallow anything!I read a newspaper about ten minutes ago, and the thoughts of an irresponsible person came into my mind through my eyes, and I poured other people's words into my mouth, chewed them, and spit them out again.I just ate like this, and ended up "eating" a whole column of the newspaper.Next I ate a large piece of beef liver which was taken from a dead calf.really weird!The best drink is Alsace wine.I don't like hard liquor, at least not on a normal day, and it's very fragrant and has a special taste, and it's famous for it.My favorites are pure mild, cheap no-name local wines, which are not intoxicating and have a good taste, with a smell of earth, bluegrass and woods.A glass of Alsace wine and a piece of bread is a good meal.But now that I had a piece of beef liver down, an unusual treat for someone who rarely eats meat, I filled my second glass of wine.Odd to say, some strong, honest man in some green valley grows grapes, makes wine, and lets some disappointed, silently drinking townspeople and helpless Steppenwolves all over the world far from them take a little courage out of their cups , gain a little temporary joy. Whether he is weird or not.Anyway, drinking is really good, and it helps to stabilize the mood.Regarding the nonsense article in the newspaper, I laughed relaxedly for a while afterwards, and suddenly, the melody of the piano music played on woodwind, which I had forgotten after listening to just now, rang in my ears.The melody is like a small reflective soap bubble, shining brightly, reflecting the world in all its colors, and then popping softly.If this wonderful little melody can secretly take root in my soul, and later make that colorful flower bloom in my heart, how can I be completely broken?Even though I'm a lost animal and don't understand the world around me, I can hear the melody, so my stupid life still has meaning, and there's something in me that answers questions and receives calls from heaven, and I Thousands of pictures are stored in the brain: This is a group of angels painted by Giotto on the blue vault of the small church in Padua. Walking beside the angels are Hamlet and Ophelia wearing a garland, a beautiful metaphor for all sorrows and misunderstandings in the seven worlds. One depicts Chianoso standing in a flaming balloon blowing a horn, and over there, Atia Schmerzler holds his new hat as Borobudur blows his pile of sculptures into the air.Although these many beautiful images live in the hearts of millions of other people, there are tens of thousands of other unknown pictures and sounds imprinted in my mind. Their hometowns, their eyes and ears live only in me. heart.The walls of the old hospital are grey-green. Due to long-term wind and rain erosion, the walls are spotted and look very dilapidated. There seem to be thousands of murals in the cracks and stains-who cares about it, who puts it on the wall? It ingests its own soul?Who loves it, can feel the charm of its slowly fading color?The old tomes of the clergymen with exquisite illustrations, the works of forgotten German authors a hundred or two years ago, all those worn and musty books, the books and manuscripts of old musicians, the imaginary and hard The yellow music score, the voices in these books, whether they are witty, absurd, or nostalgic, who is listening to these voices today?Who is filled with the spirit and magic of these books to come to another world completely different from the spirit of these books?Who will remember the stubborn young cypress on the hill in Gubbio?The cypress tree was smashed in two by a large rock that rolled down the hill, but it survived and a new, small crown grew.Who could look straight at the hardworking housewife living on the second floor and her araucaria?Who will read the letters of the white clouds on the Rhine through the floating fog at night?Only Steppenwolf.Who is looking for meaning in fragments in the ruins of his life, enduring what seems absurd, living what seems like a madman, secretly hoping to get close to God and receive his revelation in the final confusion of confusion? The proprietress still wanted to pour wine for me, so I clutched my glass tightly and stood up.I don't want to spill it.The trace of gold shines again, reminding me of immortality, of Mozart, of the stars.I can breathe for another hour, I can live for another hour, and I can live again without suffering, without fear, without shame. I walked out of the tavern and came to the quiet street; the street was cold and windy, and the rain was blown by the wind to the street lamps, making a crisp sound and emitting a twinkle of light.Where are you going now?If I know any magic at this moment, I will let it conjure me a beautiful Louis Seize-style living room, and some master musicians will play two or three pieces by Handel and Mozart for me.I will enjoy the music with great interest, and sing the light and elegant music like God drinks wine.Oh, if I now had a friend who lived in a garret with a violin and candles, and he sat at a table thinking, thinking!If there was such a friend, I would sneak into his house in the silence of the night, walk up the winding stairs quietly, catch him by surprise, and we would talk happily, listen to music, and spend this time. A few unearthly hours in the dead of night.In the past, in the years that have passed, I have enjoyed this happiness many times, but as the years have passed, this feeling has faded and left me, between the here and the then. There are bleak years between. After hesitating for a while, I boarded my way home.I turned up the collar of my coat high, and the cane made a slight sound when it hit the wet road.No matter how slow I go, it won't be long before I get home, and soon I'll be sitting in my little attic again—my little so-called home, I don't like it, but I can't live without it, Because I can no longer wander in the wild like I used to, and spend that cold rainy night in winter.Those days are over.Well, well, I don't want wind and rain, araucaria, and rheumatism to spoil my nights, and although I can't find a chamber music band, or a lonely friend playing the violin, the noble and pure music is still there. Echoing in my heart, with rhythmic breathing, I hum softly, performing for myself.I walked forward while thinking.No, without chamber music, without friends, it would be ridiculous to seek warmth helplessly.Loneliness is asking for nothing from others. I long for solitude. After a long time, I finally got it.Loneliness is cold, oh, yes, it is so peaceful, so vast, like the cold and quiet universe where the stars revolve. I walked past a dance hall, and I was greeted by the sound of strong jazz music, which was hot and unpleasant like the smell of steaming raw meat.I stopped for a moment; I hated this kind of music very much, but it always attracted me quietly.Though jazz is not my thing, I love jazz ten times more than all the pedantic music of the day, because it deeply stimulates my senses with its rough and joyful rhythms, and stirs in me a simple and frank emotion. lust. I stood there smelling it for a while, sniffing at the bloody blaring music, sniffing the hall with exasperated greed.The lyrical half is melancholic and melodious, very sad; the other half is very rough, erratic and intense; yet the two parts are innocent and harmoniously integrated.This is the music of the downfall, something like it must have been in the last few emperors of Rome.Compared with Bach, Mozart, and real music, this music is nonsense; but when compared, all this is our art, our thinking, our so-called culture.This music has an advantage: it's very frank, unadorned, honest, innocent, cheerful.There is blackness, Americanness in this music, and to us Europeans, blackness is as strong as Americans, it seems very lively and innocent. . , Europe will become like this?Is it already changing?Are we who know and admire the old Europe, the real music of the past, the real literature of the past, just a few stupid, complicated neuroses who will be forgotten and laughed at tomorrow?Do we call it "culture".That which is called spirit, soul, graceful, divine is nothing but a long-dead ghost, and only us fools think it's real, alive?Has there never been a real, living culture?Is it only a phantom that we fools dream of? The old town melted me into its embrace, with the silhouette of the chapel looming in the gray night.Suddenly, I remembered what I had experienced this evening, the mysterious pointed arch, the mysterious lighted billboard above it, and the letters that flickered mockingly.What are the words spelled by those letters? Ordinary people are not allowed to enter. "There is another sentence: "Designed for madmen." "I looked towards the ancient stone wall, looked at it carefully, and secretly hoped that the magic would appear again, that the light would spell out an invitation to me, a madman, and that the small door would let me in. Maybe there was something I was after. Something? Maybe there's my favorite music playing? It was dark all around, and the black stone wall seemed to be immersed in a dream, looking at me coldly.Orphan Stonewall had no doors, no pointed arches, not even a hole.I smiled and walked on, nodding friendly towards the wall. "Sleep, wall, I won't wake you up. Over time, they will tear you down, or greedy corporations will put all kinds of advertisements on you, but now you are still standing here, now you are so beautiful , Yajing, cute." When I came to a dark alley, a person walked out of it unexpectedly, which startled me.He is a lone night comer with heavy steps.He wears a hat and a blue shirt, carries a pole on his shoulder, on which hangs an advertisement like a merchant in a market, and hangs a small open box on his belly belt.He was very tired, and walked limply in front of me, without looking back at me, or I would have greeted him and offered him a cigarette.When he walked under the next street lamp, I wanted to see what was written on the red paper hanging on the top of the pole, but unfortunately the paper was dangling so I couldn't read it clearly.So I yelled at him and asked him to show me the ad.He stopped and straightened the pole, and only then did I see that the words formed by the jumping and shaking letters were: Anarchist evening entertainment! Magic Theater! Ordinary people can't... I cheered. "That's what I was looking for. What's your evening entertainment? Where and when?" He moved his feet and started walking again. "Ordinary people are not allowed to enter," he replied coldly and listlessly, and ran away.He is bored, he wants to go home. I ran after him and called out to him, "Stop! What's in your little box? I want to buy some." The man refused to stop, and mechanically took out a small book from a small box and handed it to me as he walked.I hurriedly took the book and put it in my pocket.When I was there to unbutton my coat and pay for it, he had already entered a door next to him, closed the door and disappeared.I heard his heavy footsteps across the stone pavement in the yard, up a wooden ladder, and then heard nothing.Suddenly, I too felt very tired, and felt vaguely that it was late at night and it was time to go home.I quickened my pace and quickly walked through the sleepy suburban alleys lined with high walls to the area where I lived.Officials and low-income retirees live in this area. There is a small lawn in front of the clean and small apartments, and ivy is climbing the walls.I walked past ivy and grass, past a small plank tree, to the door of the building, I found the keyhole, pressed the light button, walked softly through the glass door, past the polished cabinets and potted plants. Tree, open the door of my room—my little so-called hometown.In my room, armchairs, stoves, inkwells, painting boxes, Novalis, Dostoevsky await my return, just as mothers or wives, children, maids and dogs and cats await others Yes, normal people go home. When I took off my wet coat, I couldn't help touching the little book again.I take out the book.It was a thin little book, poorly printed and poorly printed, like those cheap pamphlets on the market like People Born in the First Month or How to Rejuvenate Youth. I sat down on the armchair, put on my glasses, and read the title on the cover of this marketing brochure, feeling amazed and suddenly feeling sympathetic.The book is called "Steppenwolf - Not for Everyman" I finished reading this article in one breath, and the more I read it, the more interesting it became. Now I am transcribing the article below: On Steppenwolf ——for madmen