So what are the techniques — if we do not accept that the human race should destroy itself?
Practising.
The seminars we have been engaged in this last term have been to do with how one might, as an individual, get in touch with some operational level of this so-called 'reality'. There are Eastern techniques for this; but these are apt to encourage a mystical turning away from the world rather than a dealing with it. There are Christian techniques; but with these one puts oneself into the hands of a religious authority, and why should such hands be any more to do with reality than one's own? Jung and his coven of witches here advocate what they call 'active imagination' — you let consciousness go, and then messages come in from an unconscious that is said to be universal. But why should such a game between consciousness and unconsciousness be to do with reality? It seems to me that anything called 'reality' would have to be a to and fro between oneself and the outside world — at least between oneself and that which has the appearance of an outside world. I mean, if you let the barriers that form the defence of your personality go, then the messages that pop up will be in the form of actual events, juxtapositions, recognitions.
I am trying to write my thesis about this. When I am not sitting at the end of this jetty and trying to imagine what you are doing, I am by the window in my room which has a view over the jetty where I have been sitting. You have said — It is necessary to have a way of looking down on oneself. I can say from here — Why, there I was at the end of the jetty! How interesting that I am lonely and sometimes frightened!
Do you think this is possible?
Seeing a pattern is on a different level from what is frightened or frightening? Testing.
I am wondering if I can bring into my thesis something about our experiences in Spain: I was here; you were there: what can one say about connections? An appreciation of these would be aesthetic. The state of mind required, looking back, was not to plan, not to try to sort out: but to listen, and carry on, and discover.
Should I go myself into Germany now? There is not much time if there is to be war.
I have tried to get in touch with Franz. I have tried to get in touch with Walburga. Walburga, as you know, is a friend of Franz. They
are both away. I have not thought it proper to try to get in touch directly with my father.
We know there are patterns because there is our experience of what is aesthetic. But knowing this involves us in more than knowing that the patterns are there. What do we do, as part of a pattern?
What should I do now? In the humdrum world, what is moral?
The one thing that I have not done which I have thought I should do (looking down on myself) is to try to get in touch with Stefan or even Rudi (you remember Stefan and Rudi? the people with whom I went across the Sahara). Stefan is a Swiss: I know his home is somewhere near Zurich. Rudi came from southern Germany. I have not wanted to get in touch with them because after the dramas in North Africa I did not think that they would want to see me; nor did I want to see them. Also I thought that there might still be some trouble for us all with the authorities. Up to now I have felt myself protected by my new passport.
But — morally, should I not get in touch with Stefan or Rudi? To find out how they are? Also I have something of their property.
But what would this have to do with any pattern we have imagined?
Testing. Testing.
With anything aesthetic or moral, however, one knows not what will emerge: only the means; not even the connections.
So I will go out now and see what might be done.
See you behind the gasworks, forty minutes?
Bodensee August 30th 1939 My Angel,
I went to the polytechnic, but they had no news of Stefan or Rudi: they had an address, however, for Stefan on the shores of the Bodensee. So I have come here. I have found where Stefan lives, and have left a message for him to meet me. I don't know why I am doing this. It is true that I owe something to him and Rudi.
I am in a cafe and am sitting looking out across this lake on the other side of which is Germany. Is this why I have come here? To put myself close to what you physicists call 'potentialities'?
I feel as if I have put myself into one of those experiments of which you physicists are fond: will this or that potentiality become
actual. But as we know — does this not depend on the conditions chosen by the experimenter?
Talking to you. Talking to myself. Experimenting.
Later.
I was sitting in the cafe writing this to you in my notebook when Stefan turned up. He looked awful; he had pale gold hair; one eye seemed to be bigger than the other. He said 'I hear you were looking for me.' I said 'Oh Stefan, how nice to see you!' He said 'We thought you were dead.' I said 4 I wanted to find out what happened to you!' He said 'Well, here I am.' He sat down at my table. He seemed aggrieved: perhaps he was frightened of what I would want. It seemed that he had succeeded in turning his face into a mask. I thought — Well, this was always one of his potentialities. I said 'But what happened to you? I mean, in Morocco?' He said 'I came on later in the bus.' I said 'Did you find Rudi?' He said 'Of course I found Rudi!' I said 'He was in hospital?' He said 'I picked up both Rudi and the truck.' I said 'Oh Stefan, you are clever!' Then — 'Rudi was all right?'
I thought — One of my potentialities perhaps must be to wear a mask.
He said 'Yes, Rudi's all right.' Then — 'But what about you?'
I tried to tell Stefan the story about how I had got to Spain. But this came out wrong; I could not make it sound anything but chaotic. And Stefan was not interested; both he and I seemed to be waiting for something quite different.
He told me more about himself and Rudi in Morocco. He had come across in the bus the scene of what he called the 'accident'; he had learned where Rudi was in hospital; they had been told that I had been taken off by soldiers. In hospital Rudi had recovered from concussion; he and Stefan had retrieved the truck and what was left of the contents and then, because of the war in Spain, they had got to the French port of Oran and had taken a boat to France. I found that I was not much interested in this story either: I was thinking — Oh, but what makes anyone interested in this sort of stuff?
Stefan was saying 'We got hardly anything for the contents of the truck: it scarcely covered our expenses.' I said 'Oh what a shame!' I thought — He is giving reasons, I suppose, why none of the proceeds should come to me: then — But this is still not what is concerning him. Then he said 'Rudi wants to see you.' I said 'Is Rudi here?' He said 'He's not here now, but he's coming tomorrow.' I said 'I
suppose I know why he wants to see me.' Stefan said 'You know why he wants to see you?' I was feeling ill. I thought — Oh but I can see why this might not be boring.
You remember the diamonds that Rudi had been carrying when he ran the truck into a tree; that I had found when he was unconscious; that I had been carrying around with me in their small leather pouch ever since. Of course, it was likely that I had been reluctant to see Rudi or Stefan simply because I had not wanted to tell them (or to lie to them?) about these diamonds: but this was also why I had felt I had to see them now. But now I had begun to feel ill. It seemed that I was being waylaid by a business that had nothing to do with what I was properly involved in; that I must get it over with quickly. I thought — But at least I have kept the diamonds safely. Then — But it is diamonds that are boring: they are part of a pattern of self-destruction. Then Stefan said 'Rudi has been keeping a letter that was sent to you.'
I said 'A letter?'
He said 'It came to the polytechnic some time ago. They gave it to me, and I gave it to Rudi. We didn't know what had happened to you.'