Saturday, August 19:
Good morning, my soul! — Weather grey — rainy! cold! — So one must keep oneself bright and warm within. —
Rhinegold has also arrived. Now I’m going to repack it and send it to the King at Hohenschwangau for his birthday. The letter post is terrible: my letter of 10th was received by the King on 14th; his of 14th I received on 18th. He will be pleased to see me at Hohenschw. on 25th; but — I shall not go. It really is too strenuous for me. Such is.my condition that only with the greatest care and quiet shall I elude the illness that’s threatening. I shall write to him today and send the score. You’ve taken care, have you, to see that the cushion‘! goes off in time? Hope so.
What useless chatter all that is; as if you could answer!
My life plan, it seems, is to incline towards the Versailles arrangement, i.e., refined peace, pleasant withdrawal, unlimited work. At least I gather from Parzival’s letters that he considers possible all that I desire. — Strange! How shall I feel when I again sit, whole and solitary, at this miraculous loom. It is the only thing that befits me. The world I cannot shape, I must merely forget: this is the only relationship I can stand in towards it. Wholly artificially, like a tropical plant in the winter garden, I must shut myself off against the atmosphere of reality, there is no other way. All else is abuse, extirpation — a squandering of my life forces. —
Now, soul, create sun and warmth for me! You shall be my climate, my atmosphere!
One thing is bad! — A certain aversion to existence is engendered from the fact that one’s conception is at length filled with the essential image of the world, and no longer can much about it be changed or much new added either. I can think what I will, always in the end I turn away with a certain disgust, because I feel I have thought it all once already. In everything I light upon ideas which I’ve had already: the incentive of discovery has wholly disappeared. Thus nothing arresting any longer remains other than the execution of form, the pure artistic joy of perfecting performance. In this I hope again to find great satisfaction. Certainly that constant, unconscious sidelong look for the desired reality of performance from the common run of performers will have a disturbing effect. Even now — after my ‘tasting blood’ with Tristan and suddenly seeing everything melted into common water — the death of Schnorr represents a still immeasurably significant epoch in my life. What that was meant to mean — that is something before which I stand dulled and astounded, incapable of thought, indeed, even of feeling. I cannot yet grasp, let alone explain it. A big, big change will and must come over me: thus far my steps were headed towards a possibility: — now this has petered out — and no possibility makes sense for me any more. —
I can only cocoon myself, weave for you and Parzival: otherwise all has no longer any sense! Can you think of anything else? — Impossible! —
This attempt too then has, it seems, to be abandoned. Retreat from wooded summit decided upon. Weather intolerable; air chill, damp and impeding my recovery. Feel ill constantly. There is no forcing anything. Men ordered for six on Monday: down! —
Worked with difficulty! — No inclination for anything! Mist and cold in my very vitals. God, how hard for me it is all becoming! Always only to be battling with life’s cruellest elements —
News today of another death: my dear brother-in-law, Fr. Brockhaus, has died! Everyone’s dying! Getting time to include oneself! —
No news of you for two days. — What a sad existence! Oh, to be united in a better climate! By the Ganges! — Good night, dear Soul! Good night! —