Wednesday, January 14:
The thaw is even more intense, but it is possible to go to the house. I discussed with the gardener all kinds of things to be planted, then went through all the decorations again with Maurer, the painter. I find R. still working on his corrections.
He tells me he has been thinking of doing the Idyll for a large orchestra, but it would not do so well; I tell him I should be appalled to see this work handed over to the general public. Much joy in Fidi, who is high-spirited, healthy, amusing, and affectionate toward us. With R. to the house, we talk of men and women and love. I tell him he is the only man who deserves the love of a woman, because he is faithful and tender, he believes in love. R. replies: “Most men lack composure. That makes them cynical.”
In the evening I read the Upanishads; I feel that no one who has not worked through the philosophy of Schopenhauer would be able to understand their secrets, and I see why our brother-in-law Brockhaus spoke of “some insane Brahman who wrote this thing.” Salvation and pleasure as opposites, that strikes one like lightning. The heart's composure as prerequisite for the attainment of the spirit. The death of death attained by him who here sees a difference. Death created consciousness because of its desire to be infused with spirit. The creation of the first divine being divides into two, unfolds above the king, and through it the weak dominate the stronger. The imperishable nature of nourishment, wonderful chapter, the son as propitiator. I cannot note down here everything which grips me, particularly as interpreted to me by R. We talk about the divine wisdom of these people who, in order to express something which cannot really be expressed in words, like, for example, that reason stands above the heart, yet without a turbulent heart genuine reason is not attained, though a turbulent heart by itself is evil, invented all these gradations, Atma, Purusha, the endless subdivisions. Through this wisdom they really have succeeded in building a religion on abstract conceptions which an ordinary person can never hope to understand. We cannot read much of it at a time.
And after a short pause, led there by the winter of our discontent, we pick up Richard III and cannot get away from it, not even in our conversation! Among other things that interjection, “Margaret.” “Richard!” “Ha!” is one of those lightning flashes which sharply emphasize the truthfulness of a scene, while making the poet himself even more invisibly elusive. What was he like, this incredible man before whose might all must vanish? What other poet of any place or time would ever have permitted his hero constantly to supply the program of his actions without making us lose our belief in him? But here one believes it all: thus it was, thus were they. We once again feel completely overwhelmed.