He, the philosopher Hertzog, believes that he can decisively affirm this and he would take the liberty of maintaining (and demonstrating!) that faith—yes?—the attachment of human existence to a transcendental object, is an inexplicable factor in this vital harmony, which must constantly be striven for—ladies and gentlemen, just listen to language, that treasure trove of human wisdom: “Savior”—this word comes from “save,” Latin salus, health, as in “salvation” (a new humoristic swerve, surprising here): As a psychiatrist, I construed “Heil Hitler” as a challenge to heal rather than to hail him, unfortunately I was not offered a chance to put this into practice, hahahahaha! This jest finally catches on, and how! After a tour through the hell of psychiatry and the apocalyptic visions of a world tenanted more and more densely by psychopaths, the joke has a wonderfully liberating impact, and Nagel’s arm stump evinces a reflexive attempt to bang his missing hand on the missing knee of the man next to him). Joking aside: if we wish to get to the bottom of the causes (and we must), we won’t get any further, as I said initially, with psychoanalysis and so forth, Freud is simply too nineteenth century, this has got around even in professional circles, he is stained with the individualism of the era, but even those colleagues who are now finally starting to deal with the relationship of the individual to society, to the collective, and, beyond that, to collective life itself, shrink back from the final simple step: admitting that the soul of humanity cannot be separated from the connection with the notion of the Godly—

an instant of effective silence, voice lowered as we reach the conclusion: “Western Civilization, my friends, is experiencing itself as a moribund culture. Observers can actually pinpoint symptoms of a serious ailment. The question arises whether a transformed, renewed religious experience might lead to a cure even in such a vast general framework—”

(lively once again): “But then that brings us to the actual topic of the evening! . . .”

But woe to them that are with child, and to them that give suck in those days! And pray ye that your flight be not in the winter.

—Mark 13:17–18

Christa meanwhile lay in bed in the villa and pouted. I must unfortunately say: with good reason.

I did creep regularly to her bed to give her the most precise reports on all our adventures (including the intellectual ones) and to seek solace with her when Nagel surrendered all too ardently to Hertzog’s ideology and now generally betrayed the tender poetry of buddyship in many ways. Nor did I hold back with all kinds of tenderness, affectionate teasing, and so forth: after all, I loved her very much, if I remember correctly, very physically; it may be that I am now confusing that with the memory of other and similarly ephemeral happiness brought by erotic possession, but in any case it is one of the good deeds of life that have settled as soothing matter in my consciousness, however dearly they may have cost me—