Nicholas Mosley - Hopeful Monsters

Heidegger was due to give his inaugural lecture at Freiburg in July 1929. (The events I have been describing took place slightly earlier in this year.) There was excitement amongst students at the prospect of this lecture: it was felt — as it had been about Einstein ten years previously — that there was something liberating about

Heidegger's vision of what was beyond the bounds of conventional thought. I said to Franz, who had tried to read Being and Time, 'But how will Heidegger lecture if he does not trust in words! Will he come on and be silent? Will he make noises no one understands?'

Franz said 'People seem to feel they understand. Perhaps this also says something about the nature of words.'

Bruno wrote to say that he was coming from Berlin to hear the lecture: Heidegger's fame had spread. I thought — Bruno and Franz will meet! What I feel about this cannot easily be put into words.

The auditorium of the lecture-hall was a semicircle of wooden stalls rising steeply in tiers. I thought — This is like that cafe-theatre in Berlin: will Heidegger's message be conveyed by coloured lights and splashing music? When he did appear he was a short, sedate-looking man with a huge head. He peered amongst the audience as if there might be someone there he might recognise — not someone he already knew, but someone (it seemed) who might understand if not his words then still what he would be saying. When he spoke his voice was lilting, almost caressing: as he looked amongst the audience he seemed to be asking — Is it you? Is it you?

What Heidegger said in his inaugural lecture (or what I imagined him to have said: I have kept my notes) was roughly this -

Science takes us to the limit of what we can know about objects: beyond science there is nothing. But this nothing is postulated by science, for how can science be aware of itself except from a standpoint of what is beyond it? Facing this nothing we experience dread: but we also experience rapture, because it is what gives us a sense of our own freedom from the tyranny of things. It also gives us the possibility of being in a knowing relation to things. Without this nothing, we would ourselves be just things.

Heidegger spoke this stuff in his quiet, melodious voice: he peered amongst his audience. It was as if the riddles that he posed were not of the kind that required answers, but of the kind that go round and round and by which things are sifted, either remaining or falling through.

After the lecture I looked for Bruno, who had come straight to the lecture-hall from the train. I wondered — Will Bruno be someone I still recognise? who has not fallen (or has fallen?) through.

When I found Bruno he seemed more guarded and watchful. He lifted me with his arms round my waist and whirled me round. I thought — He is giving himself time to see whether I have changed.

He said, quoting from the lecture ' — Nothing is that which makes possible the revelation of what is!'

I said 'Do you think it matters if one doesn't exactly know what it means?'

He said 'But of course you know what it means!'

I said 'What?'

He said 'It means nothing, that's what it means!'

One of the reasons why Bruno had come to Freiburg was because Franz and Minna and I had planned to go on a walking trip through the Black Forest and on to a castle on the shores of a lake where there was to be held a Student Congress. I had suggested to Bruno when he had telephoned me from Berlin 'Why don't you come too?' He had said 'What about your boyfriend?' I had said 'What about my boyfriend?' He had said 'I am very well, thank you.'

I had, of course, by this time slept with Franz; and Franz had slept with Minna, and once or twice I had slept with Minna. All this was in accordance with the customs of the place and time — at least amongst those students who had broken away from fraternities. But Franz was now sleeping with Minna. And I was finding it quite liberating, the uncertainty.

So I had asked Bruno to come and make up a four on this trip: but when I saw him I felt that this might have been a mistake. I thought — He will feel that I am committed to him: and have I not learned that humans are happiest when they are, as it were, nothing; on their own?

Bruno said 'What is it?'

I said 'Nothing.' I laughed.

Bruno said 'I expect you feel trapped.'

I thought I might say — Bruno, you are a genius.

Bruno said 'Don't worry. I can't wait to meet the beautiful Minna!'

I said 'Bruno, I love you! I don't feel trapped!'

Bruno said 'And Franz. The beautiful blue-eyed Franz!'

When Franz and Bruno did meet they acted charmingly, courteously, like people who might be accustomed to fighting duels. (I had heard, in fact, that Bruno had become a notable fighter of duels in Berlin.) Bruno flashed his eyes at Franz: Franz, when he held out his hand, glittered. Bruno said 'Ah you do give satisfaction to Jews!' Franz laughed and said 'Oh I am too modest!' I thought — Of course, why should they not be homosexual? Then — What will now happen if I am free?

We were in the town square by the cathedral. We were waiting for Minna. There were the stalls for the market; the spire of the huge building above. I thought — It is as if we are on a stage: perhaps I am waiting for someone to come on from outside.

When I introduced Minna to Bruno, he bowed over her hand and dabbed at it as if he were a bird. When he straightened he kept hold of Minna's hand and turned it over and looked at the palm.

Minna said 'What do you see?'

Bruno put a hand on his heart and said 'Don't ask me!'

Minna said 'Death?'

Bruno said 'My own!' He dropped Minna's hand as if it had burned him.

We set off the day after the lecture on our trip over the mountains. We each carried a rucksack, a blanket, our share of cooking equipment and food. Franz led the way with the maps: I came next; then Minna, with Bruno behind. I thought — I no longer have to imagine that I am in control: Bruno has always been something of a magician.

We went past the rock where the path went off towards the cave. I thought — But let us not go round and round: let me go on to something new.

Among the Wandervogel of those days there was the feeling that one could go into the mountains and become free: could look down like gods, perhaps, on people in their cooking-pots on the plains. There was a sense, certainly, of rapture: occasionally of dread. It was as if one had the chance of coming across some lost civilisation in a hidden valley; or of creating such a civilisation oneself — in which people might feel neither superior nor inferior, but in harmony with themselves. I thought — But would they not then be different from gods — who like fighting amongst themselves; who take it out on people on the plains? Then — Do humans have to be morally superior to gods?

Franz wore leather shorts, I wore a skirt, Minna wore thin cotton shorts, Bruno wore trousers. Bruno from time to time muttered under his breath as he walked behind Minna. Minna said 'What are you saying?' Bruno said 'I am making calculations about the gyrations of the heavenly spheres.'

When we got to the high ground there were narrow winding paths going up and down between trees. Routes were marked at forks or crossroads by colours dabbed on rocks or trees. I thought — We are being guided here: there are threads through the maze.

Sometimes there was a gap in the trees through which could be seen a green and fertile valley laid out as if in a painting. Red-roofed houses clustered around a church: stacks of hay were set up in fields like some primitive form of message. I thought — This is the sort of landscape that humans have put into paintings.

We found a camping-place for the night and Franz collected sticks and Bruno made the fire and Minna and I prepared food. Bruno held out his hands to the flames and talked to them in an unintelligible language. Minna said 'What do you say to the fire?'