Good Evening Herr Goethe.

In watching a German film about setting up a Christmas Market I realized how much goes into the preparation of a profitable, festive environment. One unpredictable obstacle I had never considered before – other than relating it to my own discomfort – is the rain. A seller pointed it out: “Holding on to a child with one hand and carrying an umbrella in the other leaves no room for a glass of Glühwein.

          Herr Goethe, did you think of such ordinary things as commerce and missed sales as you bent over the pages in front of you? I have yet to see your desk in Weimar, but I found a picture of the one you used as young man in Frankfurt. It looks too orderly to give away secrets.

Goethe's desk in Frankfurt

          My desk, on the other hand, is a mix of all the little parts that make up me. It holds toys, electronic equipment, pill containers, lotions, books, cables, scrap paper, bills, pens, pencils, telephone, speakers, binders, address book, yarn, knitting needles, photographs, journals, and as of late, a yellowing, disintegrating Reclam edition of Faust, der Tragödie erster Teil. I have begun to mark lines to add to this account of my involvement with your writing.

Wagner says: “Ach Gott! Die Kunst ist lang;

           Und kurz ist unser Leben.”

(lines 558 and 559)

(Oh God! How long is art; Our life how short.)

Faust says: Erquickung hast du nicht gewonnen

Wenn sie dir nicht aus eigner Seele quillt.

(lines 568 and 569)

(Oh, if it gush not from thine inmost soul, Thou has not won the life-restoring draught.)

           These words touched me after a conversation I had with a young woman this morning. Ours is a relationship based on mutual admiration from afar. We conduct our exchanges by writing to each other, but know little of each other’s daily lives. I met her in an online book discussion group and took an instant liking to her. She is artistic, very intelligent, impatient, eager to be noticed. She came to visit me once, a big smile on her face, but rather cautious words on her tongue; I suppose this was due to her friend’s presence. Yes, Herr Goethe, we still defer to our men at times. He seems to be a charming companion, but I can’t judge their relationship. Her art is unfiltered and spontaneous.

          This young woman admires my concentration. I have told her that my age requires adherence to a particular project, since there is not an abundance of time left to accomplish goals. Yes, indeed! “Art is long and life is short.”

          She showed a desire to “visit” me in Weimar. I told her that involving herself in my studies would be unfulfilling since it is not coming from deep inside her own soul. So you see, the point I had pondered for some time – your relevance – is quite clear. More than 200 years ago you said what I feel now. And you say it with such elegance.

Soon to be in Weimar,

Gisela

Photo of Goethe's Desk in Frankfurt from www.altfrankfurt.com

Good Evening Herr Goethe.

As you have seen by now, I ignore borders and explanations forced upon us by language, culture, and time. I write to you as I would write to friends; as a matter of fact I will open this account of my impressions to family and friends once I arrive in Weimar. Addressing you is a matter of personal preference and it goes along with the importance of your words in my life, right now. Writing in English profits my friends; the lack of translation into German (maybe later I will change that) shows my laziness. But just this once I would like to go into a bit of detail about the modes of transportation and communication of the 21^st century and I would like to give you a quick overview of the niceties that surround me, conveniences that let me write away an afternoon of rain and global unrest.  

Imagine, for a moment, if you can, that I sit at my desk. In front of me is a little machine with lots of powers, my computer. I write and arrange my thoughts on it, send letters, gather information, play games. When I look up I watch, through a large window, rain flood gutters and wind take the last leaves off a tree across the street. On my other machine, the television, I can see the world at large. The discussion among experts is about terrorism and the state of affairs in US politics. My television has a screen that is 19 inches (around 45 centimeters) in diameter, just a little larger than my computer screen. It allows me to select and view the imaginative compositions and findings of those with more experience, or, depending on my mood, the often rather trivial outbursts of ordinary characters. Herr Goethe, if you were alive today, you would probably sit in an official “studio,” where you would recite one of your plays or a poem, or simply say, “Frohe Weihnachten,” and millions of us would see and hear you on the television or computer, and many more would follow you on various other gadgets, such as iphones, ipads, netbooks, blackberries, nooks, kindles, etc. Every word you’d utter publicly would race around the world in minutes. Hard to imagine, isn’t it?

Goethehaus Frankfurt  circa 1930

These programs travel over the air into living rooms across the globe. The other day I saw a segment on Weimar. Increasingly, over the last two years, I have wanted to travel to Weimar; this short profile settled it; I bought my plane ticket.

“A plane ticket?” you ask.

A plane is just another one of our machines; this one flies like a bird and carries hundreds of us in its belly. The one I will be traveling on will land in the city of your birth: Frankfurt. The Frankfurt of 2010 is quite different from the Frankfurt of 1749, the year you were born. The house of your birth at Grosser Hirschgraben was almost totally destroyed during World War II, but has been rebuilt true to the original design. You are, Herr Goethe, Frankfurt’s most famous son.

Which makes me wonder, do you keep track of your legacy? I suppose this is part of the big question, “is there life after death?” If your spirit is reborn, or if you roam the universe, how much do you know about my century? How much is important to know? Are you part of the collective unconscious? Did your genius reappear in a baby born in India or Africa? As Faust would say,

Ihr schwebt, ihr Geister, neben mir;

Antworted mir, wenn ihr mich hört!

(Spirits! I feel you hov’ring near;

Make answer, if my voice ye year!)

There are other parts of my life that I want to tell you about. For instance, I am part of the masses, Pöbel, as you call them, and yet I have the financial means and time to travel occasionally. I live in America. I have been to China, Egypt, Morocco, Jamaica, Canada, Italy, France, Greece, Turkey, England, Croatia, and, of course, Germany, the country of my birth.

Machines aid in almost all the chores of my daily life. I wash and dry laundry without getting my hands wet. My meals take very little preparation; often I cook them in a batch and keep them frozen in a refrigerator. I own an oven, a microwave oven, and a toaster oven. I clean my carpets with a vacuum cleaner. I dispose of vegetable and fruit waste products through a garbage disposal. Light and water come to my house via cables and pipes. My outings, shopping and visiting with friends, are made quick and easy by way of an automobile.

Herr Goethe, these are just a few things that come to mind as I sit here and compare our lifestyles. It is difficult to remember all the material advantages of my time, but we do have things in common. Important things. We both love to walk, and though you often had no choice and I have many other ways to get from one place to another, we both do it with joy in our hearts. And – I hesitate to say it, because you are clearly the master -  we both love to write. I can think of no better way to spend an afternoon, than to write. Well, maybe photography tops it at times. Photography, too, was invented after your death, but you might have heard of Louis-Jacques-Mandé .Daguerre, who tinkered with it during your lifetime. You would have liked it. You will see lots of my photographs once I arrive in Weimar. What I can’t say with words I say with pictures.

Until later,

Ihre Gisela

(photograph of Goethe's house of birth from www.altfrankfurt.com)

Good Evening Herr Goethe.

You never experienced flight, phone calls, email, facebook, or even a ride to the airport in a limousine. Your Vocabulary didn’t include words like google or android or television, and yet you were the communicator extraordinaire. You used the words you had with incomparable sensitivity and great awareness. You rocked it, Herr Goethe. And I am sorry that I didn’t pay closer attention earlier.

You did play a large part in my childhood. I recited your “Erlkönig,” read your “Faust,” bought your “Sorrows of Young Werther” and “Elective Affinities,” and discussed, at length, the period known as Weimar Classicism and its precursor, Sturm und Drang, with teachers and friends at the Hoelderlin Realgymnasium.

All the attention given to your writings should have made me a Goethe lover. But it didn’t. That is my stepfather’s fault. In our living room, ominous, always wagging a threatening finger at me, one of your sentences was displayed. Here, above an oversized couch I would read the printed words “Die Tat ist alles, nichts der Ruhm.” Below it, in small letters, your name: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

“The deed is everything; glory means nothing.”

Why should this noble statement spit its claim at me for the next 60 years?

Well! This statement embodies everything that was wrong in my life. Every lie. Every demand. Every threat. Every lonely game of solitaire I played, stubbornly revisiting the resentment caused by one incident of moral depravity. The deed was plastered all over the walls of my childhood.

It took me a lifetime to make peace with you, Herr Goethe, but in December I will travel to Weimar to let you know that I have forgiven you.

My stepfather called himself a “proud Prussian.” Today I look at his arrogance the way I look at a pedophile priest’s declaration that he is “a humble servant of God.” But how does a child weigh rhetoric and action against each other? If a man who should be the child’s protector becomes her abuser, how does she judge moral relevance? And, how does this relate to the serious proclamation of one so important as you, Herr von Goethe?

In my childish ways I interpreted your words with major emphasis on deed, knowing instinctively that my stepfather would not indulge in seeking glory. The deed itself was his glory. I was unable to separate the words on the wall from his conduct. You, Herr Goethe, condoned his behaviour, therefore your magnificent words were lies to this thirteen-year old girl. And for all these years, even though I had long forgiven my stepfather, I was unable to enjoy  your great poetry. Maybe we tend to absolve mere mortals from their sins, but show less leniency toward the shortcomings of those who might be our immortal heroes. 

My childhood was difficult, my young adulthood crazy, my marriages complicated by early impressions of male female relationships, and, I assume that my mothering, too, is compromised by past experiences. When I retired I began to write, cautiously at first, then more boldly. I stepped back in time. I discovered the very young me who braided daisy chains, sang the praise of gnomes, collected pebbles, shouted the “Sorcerer’s Apprentice” from a mountaintop.

I reread the “Sorcerer’s Apprentice” last year. In googling English translations to German poetry I learned that a young man in Germany had made a name for himself by rapping Goethe and Schiller in schools, and so promoting a new concept of reciting and learning the classics. Doppel-U, the rapper, brought me back to you. His unconventional, playful treatment of your poetry removed Herr Goethe, the man, from Herr Goethe, the writer.

Doppel U’s rap of the  ‘Sorcerer’s Apprentice “ will accompany me on my trip to Weimar. In my daydreams I imagine myself walking through the cemetery on Christmas Eve, candles from a nearby tall spruce lighting the way, snowflakes falling from the sky, settling on my shoulders, the faint echo of caroling children’s voices hanging in the air. When I lay a single white rose on your grave I will recite “In die Ecke, Besen! Besen!” banning the ghosts forever into a corner of my conscious mind. Then I will drink a hot chocolate at the Resi and write in my travel journal about our meeting. The Resi, I am told, once bordered onto your first residence in Weimar. Today, what was once your living room has become a room for guests, known as Goethe Zimmer.

          Herr Goethe, you can’t imagine how much I am looking forward to this journey. And though you will be unfamiliar with many of my expressions and the innovations of two centuries beyond your lifetime, you will understand what this trip is all about.

See you soon,

Gisela.

P.S. I am traveling with a teddy bear; her name is Tyana J LittleString. The above photograph shows her on top of my packed suitcase.

Vor der Reise

Good Evening Herr Goethe!

Ich habe mich entschlossen Sie, Ihr edles Haus, Ihre schöne Gegend, Ihr geschätztes Weimar zu besuchen. Ich will mich wieder familiär machen mit Ihren Worten. Seit meiner Schulzeit habe ich mich im allgemeinen mehr modernen Autoren gewidmet. Auch war a die Frage von Ethik im Zusammenhang mit meinem Stiefvater und Ihrem Spruch an der Wand in unserem Wohnzimmer. Mehr davon später. Nun, im Alter, zieht es mich wieder zur Heimat hin, zu den Wurzeln, zu den Worten die mich einst gemahnt und geleitet haben.

Auf Seite 6 meiner Werther Ausgabe sagen Sie: “Ich kehre in mich selbst zurück, und finde eine Welt.” Ja, wie schön ist doch diese innere Welt, nicht wahr? Ich kenne sie sehr gut, da ich alleine wohne und viel Zeit zum Nachdenken und Träumen habe. Meine innere Welt ist gut und gütig, die Menschen sind besonnen und herzig, und die Umgebung ist sauber und gerecht.

Aber manchmal tut es gut auch die äussere Welt zu besuchen und es ist in diesem Sinn dass ich bald nach Weimar kommen werde. Ich hoffe dass Sie mich freundlich empfangen. Wir sind heute nicht mehr so in Klassen geteilt wie damals bei Ihnen. Ich habe keine Angst Sie anzusprechen und erhoffe mir von Ihnen ein kleines Lächeln.

Ihre Gisela