Now he paced the room. He served himself more cognac and waved his right hand as if haranguing the masses. None of his words (and this was, for me, surprising) had a bellicose sense; yes, that sense was in his tone, his voice, the brusque yet martial movements of his body, the body racing around the room, finding or creating empty spaces, and without appearing likely to sober up. "Breathing along the country path", he said, "awakens a sense that loves the freedom and that, in its proper place, can still pull the sorrow towards an ultimate tranquility. In the air of the country path wisdom matures. Along its way are found the winter storm and the harvest day, there coincides the lively and exciting about spring with what remains and dies from autumn, they go head to head, the game of youth and the wisdom of old age". He jumped on the armchair and -- as if he were in a theater seat, in a splendid proscenium, in a secret intimate dawn -- said: "Listen, Dieter. These are the words of the Master. His wisdom grew in the provinces and he'll say that. Are you listening to me?" I agreed. Then, with a voice not rough but terse and careful, he said: "Wise serenity is an opening to the eternal. Its door opens on hinges forged in days gone by with the enigmas of life by an expert smith." He released a sudden brutal laugh. "He opened the door, Dieter", he bellowed, "He, our Master, made the hinges forged in days gone by with the enigmas of life turn so that the Jewish hetaera could enter that infamous hut. For that young Hannah had walked, offending it, the country path, towards sin, to fornicate, to mislead the Master and sink him in carnal sin, in the shame of adultery. It was a nightmare to see him there, where I'd never thought or imagined, and even less wanted to see him. The sun shone gloriously on his grandiose, unique brow. But he sunk himself in the ignoble, in the turbidity of flesh, chauvinist and joyful, obscene. He embraced the Jewish hetaera; he kissed her and pulled her into that hut with the eagerness of a primitive, brutal being. Heidegger is older than thirty-five, Dieter, two kids and his wife, Elfriede, who is a first rate comrade and with her repulsion for Jews, as it should be, has no limits. Can you imagine the perverse pride of the bitch of Israel in humiliating a National Socialist mother, a woman of our people, of our soil?"

Labels: The Shadow of Heidegger

¶ 6:58 AM