Monday, November 13:
Good morning, beloved!
Yesterday evening I read Parzival the beginning of the biography: in preparation for further reading, I have just been reading the whole through again, and feel infinitely cheerful in my mind. My love, we are producing there something quite unique: believe me, such a thing has not yet been chronicled. Parzival listened with extraordinary seriousness, and again and again could not help a splendid laugh. Indeed, only now have I become conscious of the whole sublimity and beauty of his love: I admit that my imagination had been too blunted by the repulsive rasp of my life experiences to be quite suitably sharp and alert to such a revelation. He exceeds everything imaginable. He is Me, in a new, handsome, youthful rebirth: wholly Me, and only so much He as to be handsome and powerful. But there is not a wrinkle: a love that is only love. My final glorious task in life is now, in achievement, to rise completely to this wonderful trust. Oh, my Cosima! We shall be happier than mortals have ever been, for we three are immortal. Death cannot loosen our bond, and yet I hope I shall, through great age, make up for what might differentiate us in life span. O Cosima! Now there are just the works to be created. We can never again be happier. It is not possible. The spring of triple-life is in full blossom: the summer can only ripen the fruit! —
Believe me, I cannot write much more in the Brown Book for you. I lose consciousness of what has been experienced, and the content of it is neither to be spoken or written about. Just to talk intimately, to joke, — as about my earlier life: Just to create, to work, to be genuine, fine, true and good. There’s no longer anything else to be done. Believe me, we are in heaven!
Oh, peace! Peace! — How happy we are, and how wonderfully blissful we shall now always be! It is no longer possible any other way! —
See, I can’t get anything else out. — We can only gaze at each other, be busy and thorough, love each other and — silence! We are not of this world, — You, He and I. We can only marvel at finding ourselves so, because it is the world we find ourselves in. But now there’s no sense even in marvelling any more: now we know, soar, and make each other mutually happy. —