July 6
Paul refers to his affliction as his weakness—some disease, perhaps a family trait, not clear what it is, but not voluntary, in any case. So the matter of affliction has no relation to the choice of poverty, unless one thinks Christianity consists in willing God’s will, which cannot be escaped no matter what one chooses.
Matt 19:27–30. The one who abandons all of life’s goods for the sake of Jesus’ name will win “eternal life.” “The first will be last and the last will be first.” But what if the abandoning is not done by me, not chosen by me, but done to me? Do abandoned people make good disciples, or are they merely weak, worthless people trying to make something of themselves, trying to get over on other people by means of paradoxes and perverse principles? To abandon one’s children—is this what God wants? Always the dilemma of Abraham and Isaac. Who is this man Jesus, really, and why has he gotten so much attention? What makes him different from any other eccentric martyred for his lack of common sense, his lack of instinct for self-preservation? We are all sons and daughters of God.
Faust has found the little woman of his dreams by seeing her image in a mirror and sniffing around her virginal chamber. He has fallen in love with his idea of female purity so that he may become something other, better, than who he is. “Poor Faust, I no longer know you,” he says to himself while succumbing to the enchanting atmosphere of Margarete’s spotless, empty room.44
July 7
A warm and brilliant day. The dog is eager for a walk. Mrs. H. and I have gotten the rest of the carpets out to sun and air. There is so little traffic in the house, they hardly need beating, but there is the dust, some ash, and the dog hair, so we do that too while the weather is good. The light invades my senses, my mind—I can almost hear it, a buzz of liberated energy. I dreamt last night of flying, first with ease and then with some difficulty. As always there are people around and it is unclear whether they notice but I worry about their judgment. Are they ignoring me out of politeness, taking their time deciding how to respond, or waiting for me to fall? I love to follow the contours of the ground and treetops—there are never buildings to fly around, but sometimes I fly inside large rooms with high ceilings, always staying close to the ceiling when indoors. It would be nice if I could carry powers from one set of dreams over into another. Even a little capacity for flight would be so helpful in my dreams of impossible staircases. But what determines the plot of a dream is the self-imposed horizon of possibility in that dream. These horizons do not overcome one another—they are fixed. The gardener mows, steering clear of our carpets.
Matt 20:1–16. “Have I not power to do what I want with those who are mine?” Last first, first last. The application of the parable ends with “For many are called but few are chosen,” and yet in the parable itself the householder hires everyone he meets throughout the day, and even more improbably, at the exact same wage. It is the liberality, not the selectivity, of his hiring practices that offends his workers. I am grateful that no one in Master Kierkegaard’s vineyard is offended by what I receive despite my late arrival; I believe we all have his affection in addition to a livelihood and a home. The dog waits patiently. He appears to be asleep, but as soon as I move he will jump up. A great deal of light still left and the air mild.
July 9
Living in this, his house, like Margarete with her necklace, an illicit gift from Faust. “If only the earrings were mine!”45
Matt 20:17–19. No mention of the disciples’ reaction to Jesus’ third announcement of his Passion, unless the next passage is taken as continuous with this, in which case the response is not to deny or become sad (as with the first and second announcements), but to ask to share in his destiny. But is this possible? “Can you drink the cup I drink?”46 Jesus asks. Margarete sings a tragic drinking song in which a king takes his last drink from a golden goblet given him by his lover. He then throws the goblet into the sea and we are made to watch it sink—or drown. The giving and receiving of gifts, the acceptance of cups. The rather obvious grail imagery turned on its head. Margarete’s room befouled. Breathing in the stale, heavy air left behind by Mephistopheles and Faust, she breathes out this drinking song, an uncanny blend of innocence and experience. She longs for her mother.
July 10
Mephisto reports to Faust that Margarete’s pastor has appropriated her necklace with the following justification:
The Church has a strong stomach,
Has devoured whole countries
And never yet overeaten.
The Church alone, my dear Ladies,
Can digest ill-gotten gains.47
Faust is indifferent to the corrupting powers of church, state, commerce, and the devil, but is worried about Margarete, now his Gretchen, for along with her necklace she has lost her peace: she “knows neither what she wants nor should.” Mephistopheles is the first to use the nickname—the acknowledgment of her innocence comes as a farewell. She is no longer Margarete, intact, but a diminished version of herself.
Matt 20:29–34. Jesus and the two blind men at Jericho: “O Lord, Son of David, have mercy on us!” “What do you want that I should do for you?”48 They tell him they want their eyes opened, and at this request Jesus commiserates with them. They want to see what he sees and he alone knows what this will cost them. As soon as their eyes are opened they follow him, for what other way is open to them? Jericho—the place where the old structures fall away—Jesus the new Joshua. If the blind men had, like Faust and Gretchen, not known what they wanted, they would not have been able to ask for it, the prerequisite for receiving it. Faust thinks he knows; Gretchen knows she does not. Goethe has captured here something of the inescapable in male-female relations, though age is clearly a factor too in one’s self-confidence. Men lose it in middle age; women gain it. This is why Faust had to be made young again by the old woman in a process the ageless Mephistopheles could not facilitate. It takes time, the one thing Mephistopheles does not have.
July 11
Blue sky. One lonely cloud suspended, hardly moving, set like a misty gem in its brilliant background. Where was the sun? Behind me, I suppose. Warm and quiet.
Matt 21:1–10. Jesus enters Jerusalem. The praise of the people is in reality a cry for help, of which they are unaware. Hosanna! Save us! Is it the function of tradition, any tradition, religious or otherwise, to conceal our fragility from us, so that our most urgent, heartfelt pleas resound as honorific nonsense, so that we are no longer able to trace the origin of our most grievous disappointments? The highs and lows of honor. A hungry crowd. A tasty prophet.
I am ignorant of politics and yet not deaf to gossip, of which considerable chatter is given to movements of liberation, rebellion, revolution in the heart of Europe—what to call it depends on who is doing the talking, and who is listening. I feel safer here than in Berlin, where I imagine there is much intrigue. I myself am so dependent on the powers that be that I could hardly wish for radical change, despite my understanding that such dependency is the root of oppression. I like to think I am independent of mind and spirit, as Jesus called his disciples to be, but then there is also an economic aspect to the calling—even the poor and oppressed are bidden to sell what they have and give away the proceeds. One does not have to be a rich young man to balk at this. He was saddened by the good