mood I say not another word until the good-bye with which I take my leave. Then I am alone on the street and really can’t see what purpose this evening served. I go
home and regret that I didn’t marry. Naturally this mood passes away again, whether because I have thought it through to the end, whether because the thoughts have
dispersed. But on occasion it comes back again.”
8 September. Sunday morning. Yesterday a letter to Dr. Schiller.
Afternoon. The way my mother, together with a crowd of women, with a very loud voice, is playing with some small children near by and drives me out of the house.
Don’t cry! Don’t cry! etc. That’s his! That’s his! etc. Two big people! etc. He doesn’t want to! . . . But! But! . . . How did you like Vienna, Dolphi? Was it nice
there? . . . I ask you, just look at his hands!
11 September. The evening of the day before yesterday with Utitz.
A dream: I found myself on a jetty of square-cut stones built far out into the sea. Someone, or even several people, were with me, but my awareness of myself was so
strong that I hardly knew more about them than that I was speaking to them. I can remember only the raised knees of someone sitting near me. At first I did not really
know where I was, only when once I accidentally stood up did I see on my left and behind me on my right the distant, clearly outlined sea with many battleships lined up
in rows and at anchor. On the right New York could be seen, we were in New York Harbor. The sky was gray, but of a constant brightness. I moved back and forth
in my seat, freely exposed to the air on all sides, in order to be able to see everything. In the direction of New York my glance slanted downwards a little, in the
direction of the sea it slanted upwards. I now noticed the water rise up near us in high waves on which was borne a great cosmopolitan traffic. I can remember only
that instead of the rafts we have, there were long timbers lashed together into gigantic bundles the cut ends of which kept popping out of the water during the voyage,
higher or lower, according to the height of the waves, and at the same time kept turning end over end in the water. I sat down, drew up my feet, quivered with pleasure,
virtually dug myself into the ground in delight, and said: Really, this is even more interesting than the traffic on a Paris boulevard.
12 September. This evening Dr L. at our house. Another emigrant to Palestine. Is taking his bar examination a year before the end of his clerkship and is leaving (in
two weeks) for Palestine with 1,200 K. Will try to get a position with the Palestine Office. All these emigrants to Palestine (Dr. B., Dr. K.) have downcast eyes, feel
blinded by their listeners, fumble around on the table with the tips of their extended fingers, their voices quiver, they smile weakly and prop up these smiles with a little
irony. Dr. K. told us that his students are chauvinists, have the Maccabees forever in their mouths and want to take after them.
I became aware that I wrote so eagerly and well to Dr. Schiller only because Miss B. stopped in Breslau, and I have been thinking about sending flowers to her through
Dr. Schiller, and although all this was two weeks ago, a trace of it is still in the air.
15 September. Engagement of my sister Valli.
Aus dem Grunde From the pit
der Ermattung of exhaustion
steigen wir we ascend
mit neuen Kräften, with renewed strength—
Dunkle Herren, Dark lords,
welche warten who wait
bis die Kinder until the children
sich entkräften. exhaust themselves.
Love between brother and sister—the repeating of the love between mother and father.
The hollow which the work of genius has burned into our surroundings is a good place into which to put one’s little light. Therefore the inspiration that emanates from
genius, the universal inspiration that doesn’t only drive one to imitation.