Indeed, Lindner turned everything he came into contact with into a moral imperative; and whether he was in clothes or not, every hour of the day until he entered dreamless sleep was filled with some important content for which that hour had been permanently reserved. He slept seven hours; his teaching obligations, which the ministry had limited in consideration of his well-regarded literary activity, claimed three to five hours a day, which already included the lecture on pedagogy he held twice a week at the university; five consecutive hours—that amounts to almost twenty thousand in a decade!—were devoted to reading; two and a half hours served for the penning of his own works, which flowed like a clear spring from the rocky terrain of his inner being; mealtimes claimed an hour of each day; one hour was dedicated to a walk and simultaneously to edifying reflection on professional matters and important questions of life, while another was dedicated to a work-related change of location and simultaneously to what Lindner called “little cogitations,” focusing the mind on the contents of the activity that had just transpired and the one that was about to begin; other units of time were designated, some permanently, others alternating in the framework of the week, for dressing and undressing, gymnastics, letters, household matters, official business, and useful socializing. And it is only natural that this life plan was not only carried out in conformity with its large and rigorous overall design but also entailed all sorts of unique particulars, such as Sunday with its unworkaday obligations, the longer cross-country walk that took place every fourteen days, or the full bath, and additionally entailed daily double-tasking activities that we have not yet had the opportunity to mention, including, for example, Lindner’s association with his son during the four meals, or the character training involved in patiently overcoming unforeseen difficulties while getting dressed quickly.

Such exercises for building character are not only possible but also exceedingly useful, and Lindner was instinctively drawn to them. “In the small things I do right I see an image of all the great things that are done right in the world” was something Goethe had already said, and in this sense a mealtime can serve as well as any task set by fate to cultivate self-control and gain victory over desire; indeed, in the resistance of a collar button, inaccessible to all reflection, a more deeply probing mind may even learn how to deal with children. Lindner did not by any means regard Goethe as a model in everything; but what exquisite humility had he not gained just by attempting to drive a nail into a wall with a hammer, undertaking to mend a torn glove himself, or repairing a doorbell that was out of order: if in doing so he banged his fingers or pricked himself, the resultant pain was vanquished, if not right away then after a few horrible seconds, by joy at humanity’s industrious spirit, evident even in such trifling skills and their acquisition, which the educated person of our time, much to his general disadvantage, considers beneath him! Then he had felt the Goethean spirit resurrected within himself, a pleasure that was further enhanced when, thanks to the methods of a more advanced age, he felt himself raised above the classic poet’s practical dilettantism and occasional delight in prudently exercised manual dexterity. Lindner was in fact free of idolatry toward the old writer, who lived in a world that was only halfway enlightened and therefore overestimated the Enlightenment, and he took Goethe as a model more in charming small things than in his grandeur and gravity, to say nothing of the seductive state minister’s notorious sensuality.