As for Nietzsche himself, though Mackay granted him a certain respect, he felt it rather wrong that Nietzsche’s success had swept the rediscovery of Stirner along with it. How anyone could compare this “muddled spirit, who is repeatedly self-contradictory, almost helplessly tumbling from truth to error, with the deep clear, calm, and superior genius of Stirner,” argued Mackay, “is an absurdity not worth serious refutation.”⁵⁵² With his adjectives loaded with good and dull-witted intentions, Mackay built up a portrait of the Great Unknown Man. The more empty and insignificant his research into Stirner the person, the more enthusiastically he outlined a picture devoid of any reference to any provable reality—he had already piled up ex-votos around the miraculous image of the first completely ungodly human in history. In keeping with his character, and to make sure that “these exterior traces of his great life would not be wiped out,” Mackay soon concerned himself with memorials.⁵⁵³ In May 1892, with the support of Hans von Bülow, the only person who had known both Stirner and Nietzsche, he had a plaque put on the front of the house in Philippstrasse where Stirner had died. Inscribed on a slab of granite bought cheaply because it had an almost imperceptible crack, were the words: “In / this house / during his last days lived / Max Stirner / (Dr. Caspar Schmidt 1806–1856) / creator of the immortal work: / The Ego and Its Own / 1845.” During his research, Mackay discovered that Stirner had never obtained the title of doctor of philosophy—nor indeed that of high school teacher. On his tomb, all that was inscribed were the words Max Stirner. The subscription for the plaque and the tombstone raised 438 marks, though they had cost 469.

Ida Overbeck: “Once, when my husband was out, Nietzsche stayed talking with me for a while and told me of two strange fellows he was interested in at that moment, with whom he felt he had an affinity.⁵⁵⁴ Whenever he recognized certain inner connections, he was always lively and happy. Sometime later he found a book by Klinger in our house. My husband had not found Stirner in the library. ‘Oh,’ said Nietzsche, ‘I was wrong about Klinger. He was a Philistine, I feel no affinity at all with him; but Stirner, with him yes.’ Meanwhile an air of solemnity passed across his face. And as I, all tense, watched his expression, it changed again, he made a gesture with his hand as if to dispel, to drive something away, and he sighed: ‘Now I’ve said it, and I didn’t mean to. Forget everything. They’ll talk of plagiarism. But you won’t, I know.’ ”

Why does thought need hypostases? Because it knows it has powers that leap over it. Hypostasis is an act of homage that thought offers to the realm of the imagination. Those allegorical figures, with their somber empty stare, statues that mark out the boundary of the intellect, are the last heirs of the angels and great creatures of the zodiac, which at one time plundered thought relentlessly. They still stand in a circle among wild grass, and everyone will soon forget they had a purpose: why, indeed, should thought remain closed inside a boundary? The unstoppable linear movement draws it in a straight line toward an unknown that is supposedly of the same nature as the known. The statues are forgotten, become covered in moss, before some nameless vandal knocks their heads off. Water lilies float silently in the pond at the center of the park. Hidden beneath the trickle of water is an obscure life that will soon bring death to the master of the garden.