The power of Dionysus testifies to the fact that he alone survives. He is the master of festivities in palaces and among the masses, he is at home with princes and beggars. His light enchants the mayfly, which burns itself on him.
Aside from being the place where Stellmann used to drill us so hard, the Liegnitz Culture Park was still as unpleasant as could be. Its very name was paradoxical. On weekdays, it served as a training ground when the area in front of the barracks was occupied; and on Sundays, it was used for parades. The lawn was worn down, flowers were out of the question. At the center of the park stood a gigantic shell, a dud, commemorating, as the inscription on the pedestal explained, the conquest ofthe city. An avenue lined with trees and statues led to this monument. The statues were the artworks, some in plaster, some in concrete. Naturally, they were not meant for eternity. As Zhigalev demands in his program, the elites were liquidated from time to time. The heads of statues, as I witnessed twice, would then be replaced. Likewise, names were deleted and dates changed on street signs and in reference books — in short, there was no more history, just stories.
How could it be that this wasteland was so marvelously transformed for a night? It was a Friday, the First of May. This is a day of festivities and mysteries throughout Europe. In Wurzburg, the devil drove through the city in a splendid carriage. The witches danced on Mount Brocken; Brunhilde was seen in the Valley of the Bode. The poor souls haunted the rivers, infernal bells tolled. In my native Silesia, the people said: If you see a falling star on that midnight, you should dig in your garden; you will find a treasure.
Now the pageants had become obligatory, but the day had remained, for every regime lives on mythology, albeit in a diluted form. The crowd must have been inspired by a memory which, after the flags were rolled up, drove them out into the countryside, toward the true master of festivities. He must have, if not appeared, then at least entered; the metamorphosis was extraordinary. I too was overcome, despite my sadness when arriving.
A fog had risen, as often around this time. Stars were probably shining above it, but people and things could be seen only through a dense veil, almost unsubstantially. Music was being played in the taverns of the city, but the only sound that penetrated the Culture Park was the dithyramb of a drum, like the strokes of a faraway gong.
I walked along the great avenue. The statues too had changed; they were neither artworks nor their mockeries. The Party chairman had become Hercules, the hangman had become the ultimate benefactor, the Indian god. Even the concrete revealed its secret: its atoms were also those of marble — indeed, those of our hearts, our brains. An utter hush prevailed: the throngs had scattered throughout the park. They were performing a grand consummation of marriage.
Now I ought to speak about the encounter I had; but words fall me for the ineffable. Merely breaking the silence would be betrayal. Nothing similar has ever been granted to me again. I do not even know if we touched. However, my nihilism is based on facts.
Let us get back to my job. As I have said, I was a climber. There was a surprise — not merely because business was thriving; it was as if a base were being raised to a higher power: a jackpot.
When checking through my papers, Uncle Fridolin had paid special attention to my degree in statistics and media. Indeed, both subjects are important: our dealings rest on statistical foundations, and our needs are aroused by media. The Romans were different: they dealt in hard facts, allowing everyone to form his own opinion. For example, t made no difference to them whether the Jews believed in the Twelve Gods; the Romans nailed no theses on the portals of the Temple of Zion; they merely erected a statue of Caesar in front of it. In our culture, opinions precede facts — that is why media, coupled with statistics, is such an important subject.
Needs are both real and metaphysical; they are geared to life in this world and in another world. The two cannot be sharply separated: they overlap in dreams, in intoxication, in ecstasy, in the great promises.
The art of arousing new needs covers a wide range from the apostle Paul to Edison's inventions. A need can be recognized suddenly or it can spread gradually. Take tobacco: it has come a long way from the first cigar of the Conquistadors to the international power of the cigarette industries.
Why was it that within a few years, Uncle Fridolin's modest firm enjoyed that incredible, virtually uncontrollable boom?
It began, as so often, with car trouble. Together with Kornfeld, the sculptor, and Edwin, the chauffeur, I was driving to Verdun, the Capitale de la Paix, where we had some business. Edwin was a good driver, but unreliable — an "airhead." I am quoting my uncle who had threatened him several times, saying that "the fifteenth is going to be the first." He also said: "Edwin is the sort who calls in sick on a Monday." That was true, but Edwin made up for it during the week.
And today was Monday; we had spent the night at Kleber's in Saulgau and tasted the wines that thrive along the Neckar. Edwin had neglected to fill the tank; we ran out of gas on one of the hills outside the Black Forest. It was a lonesome place; no car passed, so Edwin had to take two canisters and go on the road. Actually, we did not mind our sojourn; it was a beautiful morning — we were in the mood for a stroll, a pipe, and a good conversation. A chapel stood on the hill; it reminded me of the chapel on Mount Wurmling near Tubingen — Uhland wrote a beautiful poem about it. A gray wall enclosed the chapel grounds; we entered through the gate and found ourselves in a deserted cemetery. Kornfeld said: "Lo and behold — the lure of the relevant."
Kornfeld was a renowned sculptor, but he no longer practiced. He said: "We sculptors are like the butterfly collectors who hang up their nets because the butterflies are dying out. For us, it is heads that are growing rare. We would have to go to the Africans, and even they…"
He added: "For me, a tyranny would be advantageous, though naturally, I can't say that out loud."
"But Herr Kornfeld — our experiences would tend to confirm the opposite."
"My dear Baroh, you are confusing tyrants and demagogues — that is a common error in our time. The demagogue stirs one and the same dough; he is a pastry chef, at best a plasterer and painter. The tyrant supplies individual shapes. Down to his bodyguards. Think of the Renaissance tyrants ruled everywhere, from every small town up to the Vatican. That was the great era for sculptors, for art in general."
That gave me food for thought. In any case, Old Gunpowder-Head would agree. "Caesar Borgia as pope."
Kornfeld had worked chiefly in marble; he had also studied the ancient kinds, touring the Greek islands in quest of forgotten quarries. One ofhis favorite books was President de Brosses's Confidential Letters, which so often talks about marble. Critics and academics are reluctant to mention Kornfeld's name; nevertheless, it pops up precisely when it is ignored. The museums contain some good heads ofhis. But ever since he put down his chisel, he had been doing architectural consultation and designing parks, gardens, and cemeteries. Our trip was linked to such a commission.
No one had been buried on this hill for a long time, and, as Kornfeld said, the place was about to be plowed under. Soon the countryside would consist purely of roads and gas stations. We peered at the headstones, deciphering the inscriptions. One of the deceased had been a hundred years old. We had to lift the ivy off a humble monument and saw that it commemorated the single military casualty that the village had suffered in one of the campaigns of the previous century; the Iron Cross surmounted his name.