Cypressen for Charlotte Stieglitz

Out from your schneckenhause, you German Gallert, people mentioned! Out from your ambiguities, you leather-membranous Eunuch! What want you with moral, with which pride on your healthy, smiling reason? How far do you come with your shoulder-twitch, your Pruederie and your moral inertia, which stretches itself gladly on the large questions of world history and itself bruestet to be the smallest whistle of the large organ? Your principles became rotten, since you sent them into the soil of history with burning points did not eingepfaehlt. Must you feel trembling that you with the eternal itself-hang-evenly, equivalent whether to the order of the things, how it is, or how it is to be changed, quite small, together-shrank, insignificantly and nothing as a number of other thousands became! You're frightened that there are still humans, the internal process of the soul goes on; with bloody sweat too it operates structuring in the secrets of the spirit a building and rather under its rubble bury themselves, than that they the world in such a way would accept, how it on the road, in which school, in which church, in which Konversation you ordered! Since the death of the young Jerusalem and the murder of sand is in Germany nothing seizing occur, as the personal death of the wife of the poet Heinrich Stieglitz. Who would possess the genius of Goethe and it could bear it that one would speak of imitation, could give a unsterbliches side piece here to "value ago". Because there is completely modern culture statuses, which through-cross here, and nevertheless is the grave hill, which protrudes from them, again so much original that the fantasy of the poet cannot be more alive stimulated.

Charlotte Stieglitz committed suicide in 1834. She stabbed herself in the heart. Her intentions were to rouse her husband into such emotional distress that he might become a great poet -- the latter-day rival of Goethe and Shakespeare.

The tragedy does not lie in her bizarre sacrifice. It rests in Heinrich Stieglitz, who remained at best a mediocre poet all his life.

Romance, romanticism, failure, morbidity; each contains the kernels of the others. Out from your schneckenhause, you German Gallert, people mentioned! Requiescat in pace, Charlotte!

Joseph | 3 Nov 2003

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