The power to fly is a great human quality that everyone possesses, yet most people would rather give up flying | 5Y View
Wishing you children.
Today's excerpt comes from Hermann Hesse's Demian: The Story of Emil Sinclair's Youth. One of Hesse's most celebrated works, it traces the arduous journey of young Sinclair as he searches for the path to himself. Born and raised in the "world of light," Sinclair stumbles upon a radically different "other world" — its chaos and darkness fill him with anxiety and confusion. Then a boy named Demian appears, pulling him from the mire and setting him on the solitary road toward self-discovery.
We've selected several passages in hopes they might offer you something. With Children's Day approaching, we wish you the courage to take flight — no matter where you find yourself.
The Bird Struggles to Break Free from the Egg
(Excerpt)
By Hermann Hesse Translated by Ding Junjun and Xie Yingying Shanghai People's Publishing House
Even as a child, I loved to contemplate the unusual shapes in nature — not simply to observe them, but to be deeply drawn in by their magic, their chaotic yet profound language. Twisted tree roots, colored patterns in rock, oil slicks on water, cracks in glass — sometimes these things would utterly captivate me. Water and fire, smoke and clouds, dust. Above all, I loved the swirling colors I saw after closing my eyes. I was reminded of these inclinations after my first visit with Pistorius. Since then, I seemed to have become more lively and joyful, my feelings more intense, and I realized I had the experience of gazing long into the fire to thank. Strange, how watching flames could feel so satisfying and fulfilling.
So far, I have described a few of my scattered experiences in exploring the meaning of life, and here I must add another: gazing at these images, becoming intoxicated by nature's miraculous creations, caused my inner self to merge with the will that gave rise to them — soon we cannot help but take them as our own emotions, using them for our own creation — we find that the boundary between self and nature sways and blurs, and we sink into an inexplicable mood, unsure whether these images are projections from the outside world onto our retinas, or phantoms born from within. No experience is like watching fire in how simply and effortlessly it makes us aware that we ourselves are creators, that our own minds are part of the world's eternal act of creation. This is precisely the inseparable divinity that moves through our minds and through nature: when the outer world sinks into ruin, someone among us will emerge to rebuild it, for all mountains and waters, all plants, all of nature's creations already exist within us, arising from our minds, possessing an eternal essence. Though we do not understand this essence, we may occasionally glimpse something of it through the power of love and creativity.
Only years later did I read about this way of seeing in a book. It turned out Leonardo da Vinci had said that looking at a wall spat upon by countless people was an extraordinarily profound and stimulating experience. Facing a wall covered in saliva, he felt what Pistorius and I felt as we watched the fire.
At our next meeting, the organist offered some explanation. "We define our individuality far too narrowly. We only regard what is personal, what differs from others, as individuality. But each of us is constituted from the entirety of the world. Each of us, just as our bodies encompass the full spectrum of development, stretching back to fish and beyond, so our souls encompass the lives of all human souls. All gods and demons that ever existed — whether Greek, Chinese, or Zulu — dwell within us as possibilities, as wishes, as ways out. If all humanity perished, leaving only one ordinary child, that child would eventually rediscover the way of all things, and recreate everything."
"If that's so," I objected, "where does individual value lie? Since everything ripens within us, why must we still struggle?"
"Nonsense!" Pistorius cried angrily. "The world exists within the heart, but whether one is conscious of it is another matter entirely. A madman might say something akin to Plato, yet be utterly unconscious of it. As long as he remains unconscious, he is merely a tree, a stone, at best an animal. Yet when this consciousness first flickers, he becomes human. In your eyes, perhaps not all two-legged creatures walking the streets deserve to be called human, though they too walk upright and bear children. You know well that most remain fish, sheep, insects — how many live like mole crickets. Of course, everyone harbors countless possibilities of becoming human, but only when he becomes aware of these possibilities, even consciously recognizes them, does he truly possess them."
Our conversations went something like this. They rarely conveyed knowledge that was entirely new or shocking to me, yet all of them, even the most tedious parts, fell upon the same corner of my heart like a persistent, gentle hammering. All these dialogues helped me in my practice, peeling away my shell, shattering the egg. With each blow my mind rose higher, grew freer, until finally my sparrow hawk broke through the world's crumbling shell with its vigorous head.
We often confided our dreams to each other. Pistorius understood how to interpret them. I remember one especially marvelous example. I dreamed I could fly, yet it was less flying than being hurled into the air by some enormous external force. The sensation of flight was exquisite, but I rose higher and higher against my will, and gradually grew afraid. Then, to my immense relief, I discovered I could control my altitude through the intensity of my breathing.
Pistorius's interpretation: "The force that makes you fly is the great humanity shared by all. It is a feeling connected to the root of all power, yet people feel afraid because it is so dangerous — therefore most would rather abandon flight and remain respectable. But you are not such a person. You are a brave boy, flying farther and farther. See, then you made a marvelous discovery: that you could master everything, that beyond this omnipresent force propelling you, there exists another small power belonging to yourself alone, a function, a rudder! Magnificent. Without this power, one would be helplessly flung into outer space — this is how madmen behave. But you have attained a deeper understanding, surpassing those who, lacking key and rudder, can only plunge headlong into the abyss. Yet Sinclair, you can do it! How? Don't you see? You employed a new function, a method of breath regulation. Now you should realize that the depths of your mind contain very little that is truly 'individual.' Your mind did not invent this method of regulation. It is no new invention, but an adaptation — one that appeared thousands of years ago. It is the balancing organ of fish, the swim bladder. Indeed, even today one can still find a very few peculiar, archaic fish whose swim bladders also serve as lungs, capable of breathing air when necessary. The flying bladder you used in your dream is identical to such a lung."
He even brought an zoology book and showed me the names and pictures of these ancient fish. With a strange sense of dread, I secretly felt some primordial function awakening within me.
(From Demian: The Story of Emil Sinclair's Youth by Hermann Hesse)
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