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Narcissus and Goldmund

Book by Hermann Hesse · 16 quotes · Goldmund, Narziss, Philosophy

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Narcissus and Goldmund Quotes

“O how incomprehensible everything was, and actually sad, although it was also beautiful. One knew nothing. One lived and ran about the earth and rode through forests, and certain things looked so challenging and promising and nostalgic: a star in the evening, a blue harebell, a reed-green pond, the eye of a person or a cow. And sometimes it seemed that something never seen yet long desired was about to happen, that a veil would drop from it all, but then it passed, nothing happened, the riddle remained unsolved, the secret spell unbroken, and in the end one grew old and looked cunning . . . or wise . . . and still one knew nothing perhaps, was still waiting and listening.”

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“They had been talking about astrology, a forbidden science that was not pursued in the cloister. Narcissus had said that astrology was an attempt to arrange and order the many different types of human beings according to their natures and destinies. At this point Goldmund had objected: "You're forever talking of differences - I've finally recognised a pet theory of yours. When you speak of the great difference that is supposed to exist between you and me, for instance, it seems to me that this difference is nothing but your strange determination to establish differences." Narcissus: "Yes. You've hit the nail on the head. That's it: to you, differences are quite unimportant; to me, they are what matters most. I am a scholar by nature; science is my vocation. And science is, to quote your words, nothing but the 'determination to establish differences.' Its essence couldn't be defined more accurately. For us, the men of science, nothing is as important as the establishment of differences; science is the art of differentiation. Discovering in every man that which distinguishes him from others is to know him.”

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“დაუჯერებელთ, ამინდებსა და წელიწადის დროებზე დამოკიდებულთ, მშიერ–მწყურვალთ უმიზნოდ და მარტოდ–მარტო უწევთ ხეტიალი. ბავშვურად მიამიტ, მაგრამ მამაც მოგზაურებს ხიფათით აღსავსე, გაჭირვებული და ძნელი გზა ელით. ისინი ადამის ძენი არიან სამოთხიდან გამოდევნილნი და უცოდველ ნადირთა ძმები. მუდამ ციდან ელოდებიან ყველაფერს: მზეს,წვიმას, ნისლს, თოვლს, სითბოსა თუ სიცივეს, ჭირსა თუ ლხინს. მათთვის დრო არ არსებობს, არც ისტორია, არც რას მიესწრაფვიან, განვითარებასა და წინსვლას კერპად არ შერაცხენ, ქონების პატრონიან ადამიანებისგან განსხვავებით. მოხეტიალე კაცი, როგორიც არ უნდა იყოს: დახვეწილი, თუ უბრალო ხელოვანი, ჭკუასუსტი, გაბედული თუ მხდალი, გულით მაინც ბავშვია, თითქოს იგი სამყაროს შექმნის პირველ დღეს დაესწრო, მსოფლიო ისტორიის დაწყების კვირაძალს, მოხეტიალე კაცის ცხოვრება თავისი გაჭირვებითა და მარტივი სურვილებით შემოისაზღვრება. ან ჭკვიანია, ან სულელი. ვინც საკუთარ თავს კარგად იცნობს, არ გაუჭირდება იმის მიხვედრა, რა მყიფეა, რა წარმავალია ყველანაირი ცხოვრება, რა ვაივაგლახით და შიშის ფასად ინარჩუნებს ყველა სულდგმული ამ ცივ სამყაროში თბილ სისხლს, სხვა გზა არ აქვს, კუჭის მოთხოვნასაც უნდა ათხოვოს ყური მთელი ბავშვურობითა და სიხარბით – იგი მუდამ უპირისპირდება მდიდარსა და ადგილობრივ მკვიდრს. დაუნდობლად მტრობს, სძულს და ეშინია იმ ადამიანების, რადგან არ უნდა ცხოვრების წარმავლობის, ცხოვრების მუდმივი ჭკნობის, დედამიწაზე გამეფებულ დაუნდობელსა და ცივ სიკვდილზე ფიქრი.”

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“And he had to say farewell to his hands, his eyes, to hunger and thirst, to love, to playing the lute, to sleeping and waking, to everything. Tomorrow a bird would fly through the air and Goldmund would no longer see it, a girl would sing in a window and he would not hear her song, the river would run and the dark fish would swim silently, the wind would blow and sweep the yellow leaves on the ground, the sun would shine and stars would blink in the sky, young men would go dancing, the first snow would lie on the distant mountains—everything would go on, trees would cast their shadows, people would look gay or sad out of their living eyes, dogs would bark, cows would low in the barns of villages, and all of it without Goldmund.”

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“Men of dreams, the lovers and the poets, are better in most things than the men of my sort; the men of intellect. You take your being from your mothers. You live to the full: it is given you to love with your whole strength, to know and taste the whole of life. We thinkers, though often we seem to rule you, cannot live with half your joy and full reality. Ours is a thin and arid life, but the fullness of being is yours; yours the sap of the fruit, the garden of lovers, the joyous pleasaunces of beauty. Your home is the earth, ours the idea of it. Your danger is to be drowned in the world of sense, ours to gasp for breath in airless space. You are a poet, I a thinker. You sleep on your mother's breast, I watch in the wilderness. On me there shines the sun; on you the moon with all the stars. Your dreams are all of girls, mine of boys—”

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“Obedient to no man, dependent only on weather and season, without a goal before them or a roof above them, owning nothing, open to every whim of fate, the homeless wanderers lead their childlike, brave, shabby existence. They are the sons of Adam, who was driven out of Paradise; the brothers of the animals, of innocence. Out of heaven's hand they accept what is given them from moment to moment: sun, rain, fog, snow, warmth, cold, comfort, and hardship; time does not exist for them and neither does history, or ambition, or that bizarre idol called progress and evolution, in which houseowners believe so desperately. A wayfarer may be delicate or crude, artful or awkward, brave or cowardly—he is always a child at heart, living in the first day of creation, before the beginning of the history of the world, his life always guided by a few simple instincts and needs. He may be intelligent or stupid; he may be deeply aware of the fleeting fragility of all living things, of how pettily and fearfully each living creature carries its bit of warm blood through the glaciers of cosmic space, or he may merely follow the commands of his poor stomach with childlike greed—he is always the opponent, the deadly enemy of the established proprietor, who hates him, despises him, or fears him, because he does not wish to be reminded that all existence is transitory, that life is constantly wilting, that merciless icy death fills the cosmos all around.”

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“Toltosi il berretto, la salutò profondamente come una principessa e se n'andò col cuore oppresso; doveva lasciarla perire. Rimase a lungo turbato, non aveva voglia di parlare con nessuno. Per quanto poco si assomigliassero, quella fiera e povera israelita gli ricordava in certo modo Lidia, la figlia del cavaliere. Amare donne come quelle era fonte di dolore. Ma per qualche tempo gli parve di non aver mai amato altre che queste due, la povera, inquieta Lidia e l'ombrosa, amara israelita.”

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