Скачать книгу

weather)? The story of Jonah, so short, so ridiculous, so deadly serious. I wonder if Jesus is not making fun of religious credulity itself, which cannot see what is in front of its nose while asking after the supernatural. This tendency to misread signs or to look in the wrong places for the truth is just as much a fault of the educated as the ignorant. I certainly misread the signs when I was a governess, and the being that was delivered into my belly did not come out alive. How awful to remember—impossible to forget. I am destined to make many more mistakes in this life, but that will not be one of them.

      June 16

      Matt 16:5–12. The yeast of the Pharisees is false nourishment. When Jesus breaks bread with his followers, it is the same bread and yet different. The Pharisees do not bother to feed the multitudes (this is part of the problem—they are all talk and no action), but even if they did, it would be all wrong. So if books are like bread (Jesus says bread is a metaphor for teaching), the real issue is not so much the substance of the book (it must be a good book but even a good book can be offered in the wrong way), or how the followers are inclined to use it (this is usually mistaken as well), but how it is offered that matters. Jesus offers us bread, teaching, a crutch freely, and as soon as we realize the freeness—the grace—of that offering, the fact that we are using it as a crutch no longer matters. The crutch falls away at that moment of realization, and we find we can walk without it, though we keep it in a safe place (our hearts) so we can offer it to others when the time is right.

      The need to write is a gift in two ways. It forces me to give my world back to myself and give to the world what I have found. It becomes an offering. My world is so small—a few people—a few books. But does this really matter? “Beware of the yeast of the Pharisees.” Leaven makes bread appear to be bigger than it really is. The size of one’s world is not determined by the number of one’s friends or the desirability of one’s attributes, but by the freeness of the offering.

      June 18

      I sound like a frustrated preacher. How pathetic! My master—how is it with all his education and wealth and the privileges and opportunities afforded him as a man, he is so at odds with everyone and everything? I have heard it said that younger sons have more trouble than older ones. What is (or was) it like to be the youngest of seven (four girls and three boys)? I would hardly know, an only female child and no mother to speak of. Mrs. H. has children of her own but does not draw comparisons. “Bless God, they live” is all she will say.

      June 19

      Headache. Clouds, then sun, then wind, then rain, over and over. The dog pacing the kitchen, underfoot all day. Faust gives me life. A different Word.

      June 20

      Matt 16:21–28. Peter as Satan, the adversary. “What good is it to a person if he wins the whole world and his soul is harmed?”

      June 22

      Summer takes me back to my childhood in Berlin, though the weather here is wetter and colder. Like Faust I am no longer young but with an untapped reserve of passion—for what exactly I do not know. My admiration for my master is childlike, unpossessive. I have just enough learning to realize how far above mine is his. And yet he too is a child, a precocious playmate. He knows full well all that of which he has been deprived, while powerless to provide for himself. He mocks the worldly and laughs himself to exhaustion—no tears to wipe away.

      Matt 17:1–13. Peter an eager young puppy. It occurs to me these disciples are all young men. Jesus tries to teach them something about steadfastness in the face of disappointment, but they are either full of silly ambitions, explaining away the inevitable, or belly down in the dirt with fear. They would rather believe anything than that their brilliant teacher’s career is about to come to a disgraceful close. Young people are made for beginnings, old for endings. The middle-aged “look before and after,” like Hamlet, who was older than his years. My master is younger and yet ancient. He seems almost primitive to me at times in his disregard for social niceties. But really I think he believes he is the ghost of Socrates, the supreme ironist, come back to haunt modern Western civilization, akin to Mephistopheles, though with the genuine piety of an ancient Athenian that a modern German almost certainly lacks. I know nothing about the Danes, though from reputation they enjoy having the upper hand. But then who does not? Is

Скачать книгу