Nicholas Mosley - Hopeful Monsters

curly things that went down to a bowl like a stove with a lid on. The other boys at their long narrow table would all be yelling and banging their beer mugs up and down and becoming red in the face and sweating: Franz, balanced, seemed to be keeping his head just above water — or perhaps above fire, his pipe going down like some sort of lifeline. The other boys seemed to be in awe of Franz and yet to pay little attention to him. I thought — It is as if he were some sort of god, yes: and they are so hot and sweating because it is as if they are some sort of offering in cooking pots to him.

I wanted to get to know Franz. I did not feel about him in the way I had felt about Trixie or even Bruno, but I thought — He is on his own: there is that sort of glow about him as there was about — who? Rosa Luxemburg? That fair-haired waiter?

Then — Or perhaps he is like my father?

There was a girl student I was quite fond of at the time called Minna. Minna was a nature-worshipper: she would sit in the sun whenever she could and take off her clothes. Minna was a bit in love with Franz. She and I and a few other girls would go into beer-cellars in the evenings and sit and watch the boys sizzling and bubbling as if in their cauldrons. Franz remained impervious, like a salamander. Towards the end of the evening many boys had to be carried out vomiting or unconscious.

I thought — Well of course women don't want to be like this: we do not want now even to carry off their bodies to Valhalla.

I said to Minna 'Perhaps they need help.'

Minna said 'They don't need help, they need to be sacrificed.'

I said 'Sacrificed to what?'

Minna said 'To Akhenaton the son of the great sun.'

Minna had huge blue eyes that were like the empty spaces between stars.

I thought — Oh but in the end I want someone with whom I do not have to struggle to feel at home with!

I took to following Franz when I came across him in the street. I found out where his lodgings were, and to what lectures he was going. He seemed to be studying both philosophy and physics. I thought — I can bump into him and say 'I am interested in your opinion on the connections between philosophy and physics' -

Then — In this I would be treating him like my father!

The philosophy in fashion at that time was that of Husserl, who was Professor of Philosophy at Freiburg. Husserl taught that there could be no certain knowledge of a so-called 'objective' world: what

were called 'objects' were always structured by the operation of ideas. What there could be certain knowledge about was the mechanisms of these ideas; the mind could be turned scientifically to investigate itself; there were operations of ideas that were common to all humanity.

I did not find it difficult to feel that I understood this: was it not to do with that vision of which my father and I had seen the possibilities as well as the limitations — the image of people looking at just the backs of their own heads? As my father used to say 'But once you see this, what worlds open up together with people who see the same!'

But could I come across Franz as if unexpectedly on some corner and say 'We might have a lot in common, you and I, looking down from such a lofty height on what we know are the ideas in our own heads!'

I had once said to my father 'But there would still be no certainty.' He had said 'Oh no, but what a thing to want, certainty!'

After lectures Franz would sometimes walk up into the hills at the back of the town. He would carry a satchel which I imagined contained books. I did not think it would be difficult to follow him: there were just one or two paths that went zig-zagging up the hill. If he stopped, I could myself stop and smile; or I could carry on past him.

I thought — There is some image in my mind here of a rock, a fork in the pathway, a gate: a road along which a traveller might go for ever.

There was a day when I followed Franz into the hills. He went on a path which, in fact, I had been on before: it did come, yes, to an outcrop of rock where the path doubled back on one of its zigzags. But there had also been, when I had been here before, a faint track through the trees across pine-needles. I had followed this track and had come to a cave: I had thought — It might be Aladdin's cave: there were the signs of a fire in front of it, as if someone had recently camped there. But further inside the cave there had seemed to be bats, so I had not gone in.

Franz was on a level of the zig-zag path above me; I caught glimpses of him as he moved between trees. I thought — If he stops, why in fact should I not come up to him and say 'I am interested in the connections between philosophy and physics?' I had an image of Franz as Moses going up into the mountain to talk to God: in his satchel he might carry his tablets or whatever. Or was he, as Minna

had suggested, a devotee of some nature god; would he lay himself on an altar and offer himself to the sun? I was daydreaming like this — following haphazardly a path in my mind — when I saw that I had come to the outcrop of rock at which I had left the path before. Franz was going straight on across the pine-needles; he had his satchel over his shoulder; he was going towards the cave. Then I saw that in his hand he carried a pistol. At least it looked like a pistol: I thought — He is going to shoot deer? Hares? Rabbits? But you do not shoot such game with a pistol! Then — He is going to shoot himself? This was an idea quite likely to occur to someone at this time: there had been an alarming increase in suicides amongst students recently. There was the fashionable prototype of Werther who had killed himself because what else was there to do about love; there was the story of Kleist — often in my mind since the days when Trixie and Bruno and I used to visit his grave — who had shot himself because what else was there to do if one saw that one was trapped within one's own mind; and there were the suicidal characters in Dostoevsky, whom I also much loved and who was in vogue amongst students at this time. I thought — Well, yes, indeed, there are these patterns in people's minds.

I had stopped by the outcrop of rock where the path doubled back on one of its zig-zags. I thought — I can go on; I can turn back; what does it mean that the way in front might go on for ever?

I left the path and went off across the pine-needles following Franz who was now out of sight. I wondered — One has an impression of choice? Or one chooses to imagine one has a choice? I was trying not to make any sound as I moved over the pine-needles: it was as if I were slightly above myself, watching myself. I wondered if Franz was going to the cave that was full of bats: would he shoot at the bats; would he perform some ceremony there, to get rid of devils? When next I saw him he had stopped and was undoing the flap of his satchel and was pulling out a length of rope. I thought — So what is he going to do, hang himself as well as shoot himself? Go rock-climbing in the cave like a bat? Then — This is ridiculous. Franz went on towards the entrance of the cave. I had stopped at some distance away. I thought — To go any further might be like breaking into the back of someone else's head. I seemed to be listening — for the sound of the pistol? For noises unheard like those of bats? After a time I went on. I still trod carefully. I got to where I could see into the cave. Franz was sitting on the ground just inside: he had taken his clothes off; he seemed to be tying the rope

round his feet. I thought — Oh but I have no patterns in my mind that I can connect to something like this! He will hang himself upside down? He will be a sacrifice to something — what? — that which demands sacrifices of gods? Then again — This is ridiculous. I could not see the pistol. It might be under his bundle of clothes. Franz stood up and put one end of the rope through or over some aperture or projection in the roof of the cave; he pulled the end down; then he lay on his back and went on pulling so that his feet at the other end of the rope were heaved up towards the ceiling. He was then in the position of a piece of meat in a butcher's shop; or, yes, like a bat. I thought — But was not St Peter crucified like this? And there are all his poor insides, his cock and balls, hanging out! You mean, men might need to do something like this to give themselves a proper airing? When Franz was almost suspended, with his head just touching the ground, he slowly, through some inner momentum, swung so that his face was towards me: he seemed to see me: though it was difficult to imagine just what he saw, being upside down. I wondered — But doesn't the brain normally see things upside down? Might he not be doing some experiment to see things the right way up? There were, in fact, I knew, strange rituals being performed by nature-worshippers at this time. I thought that if I just stayed still, he might see me as some nymph of the forest. Then Franz let go of the end of the rope so that he collapsed, slowly, in a somersault. I thought I should bend down and pretend to have been doing something to my shoe. I picked up one or two pine-needles on the floor of the forest: the pine-needles seemed to be a representation of the fork in the road. I thought — Oh yes, there are connections between inside and outside worlds: you could say this is some turning I have taken. When I looked up again Franz was sitting with his feet underneath him and his bundle of clothes in his lap and he was holding the pistol which he was pointing sideways. There was no sign of the rope. I thought — He has not had time to untie the rope so that is why he is sitting with his feet underneath him. It did not seem that I could go either away or towards him. I thought — So I will stay here, on this my tightrope, just beyond the fork in the roadway.