Paul Scheerbart

  feeling of boisterous freedom, “as if man were rising up on tiptoe and

  simply had to dance out of inner pleasure” — Paul Scheerbart was truly a

  man after Nietzsche’s own heart! Nietzsche, who saw such reincarnations

  of Dionysus returning again and again — “We set our gaudy puppets amid

  the clouds and then cal them Gods and supermen . . . ”

  This last Dionysus died and left us, left Europe, four years ago now:

  crucified, torn apart once again — this time by the war of the earth. (Here

  it must not be cal ed a World War.) He was hit by no bullet, by no grenade

  nor bomb from the airships he so feared — and yet the titanic destructive

  power of this war had already sapped and undermined him far earlier than

  was visible to others. Indeed, Scheerbart had a last dream for humanity, a

  dream of the future like Victor Hugo’s: the expanses of the heavens added

  to those of the earth — the abolition of al borders — one people of the

  world — the earthly paradise, whose seed would be rescued by the first

  “dirigible!” But the new “heavier-than-air” principle bril iantly triumphed

  before Scheerbart’s very eyes, though he saw the terrible interregnum of

  chaos, the horrifying age of destruction and the unbearable deserts that lay

  beyond and between with more prescience and foreboding than any of his

  contemporaries. Like the mythical rain of sulfur and fire on Sodom and

  Gomorrah, now dynamite rained unsparingly down from the heavens: the

  triumphal arches of centuries turned to dust at lightning speed, pyramids

  and temples pulverized, the Raphaels and Michelangelos unshielded amid

  the rubble. Already ten years before the great war, this made the “good”

  Paul Scheerbart, who actual y did not love culture but who rather — like

  only Friedrich Nietzsche before him in Europe — was himself a part of it,

  extraordinarily “nervous.” It did not make him shake in his boots or tremble

  with sympathy like some sentimental apostle of peace — the “frightful y

  vulgar” affects do not touch one whose nature is true: rather it would res-

  onate in every fiber and breath, he would feel it in his blood when al of

  existence threatened to turn radical y into its opposite. He always felt his

  268

  ON THE BIRTH, DEATH, A N D REBIRTH OF DION YSIS

  culture-nature as a star among stars — illuminating, whirling, cosmic — not

  as terrestrial and separate; but suns fear nothing more than darkening and

  destruction, holocaust, the twilight of the gods. Zarathustra too knew only

  light and darkness. Already in Scheerbart’s writing, “Rakkóx, der Bil-

  lionär,” who wants to use his bil ions to gradual y turn the earth into a

  shimmering architectural palace, perishes miserably in a war that he un-

  successful y tries to prevent through the “commingling of al races.” And in

  fact back then — in 1900 — a huge increase in personal steam travel was

  supposed to see to the “flushing out of national elements.” Ten years later

  there was “The Aviator’s Dream,” a strange air-spectacle with the same

  goal: countless aviators, whirring around and among each other, gradual y

  give up, change, and switch “fatherlands” — they no longer see each other

  as Scandinavian or Chinese but as “passengers” — — — “air-uncles.” Five

  years before the war, this was only the external, seemingly innocuous, and

  carefree reflection of events that could no longer ful y hide their sinister,

  “nervous-making” character under a seemingly spotless surface. Certainly

  there were hints — “who would want to lead revolutions or make wars,”

  when a few hundredweights of dynamite dropped from above could now

  easily destroy any major city — “it’s now far too easy . . .” But Scheerbart

  had already grown uneasy over one thing: that the darkening of the lumi-

  nous might occur not according to laws or rules written in the stars, but

  arbitrarily, at any time, by accident; that the devastation of beauty could

  happen suddenly — irrevocably — with a childish senselessness. Was he

  now trying to appeal to humanity? Culture and humanity: like Nietzsche,

  he saw these things as far from the reality of the world. Culture is the reli-

  gion of the strong, rock-solid and benevolent; humanity, the instinct of the

  weak, the sniveling, and therefore often anarchic. And so by 1909 he had

  written the utopian pamphlet The Development of Aerial Militarism and the

  Demobilization of European Ground Forces, Fortresses, and Naval Fleets,

  a text already pregnant with al the volcanoes of the future. Here, on the

  wide fields on which the terrible new catastrophes are played out, every-

  thing dies: animals, humans, and al civilization. Only the air fleets remain

  and continue to flourish magnificently — and yet somehow there were stil

  il ogical people somewhere on the earth who lacked complete sympathy

  for this charming technological toy! But by 1910 Hal ey’s comet had come

  streaming across the sky — undeflectable, unavertable, in accordance with

  natural law — this was what final y brought the gathering tensions to the

  point of explosion. “Orchids, snowdrops,” — cried Scheerbart — “trig-

  ger quite particular emotions, have effects on the soul — and a gleaming

  269

  A N S E L M R E U S T

  comet . . .” Hal ey’s comet had previously appeared just before 1789; and

  now once again we were visited with revolutions, convulsions, and com-

  motions of the most terrible kind. The steerable airship — that is the new

  revolution, the new — terrible epoch. So said Paul Scheerbart.

  Since then he lived in a state of terrible “nervousness.” He withdrew

  from society. Got drunk. “Now do you understand why I’ve become so

  gloomy?” he asked his last friends. But his tremendous, truly inspired mind

  was nonetheless able to invent two more engines of fantasy powerful enough

  to fly away from the dreaded “dirigibles,” inventions which in fact forced

  them temporarily into service: Perpetual Motion and Glass Architecture.

  Here it was again: the ideal star, a dancing star, al turmoil and light . . .

  Perpetuum mobile: the ultimate machine, the one that final y makes al oth-

  ers superfluous, a likeness of the infinite, a planet: how can one understand

  this bold bacchanalian dream, conceived as a bulwark, continually making

  the little wooden crutches and paltry wheels it constantly needed, weighing

  itself down only in order to launch itself higher and farther — leaving only

  the self-important philistines to their awkward smiles and refutations . . . ?

  And Glass Architecture — it was ultimately the most profound bulwark

  against the storm that came smashing everything to shards from above that

  was ever conceived . . . ! Or — was it ironic? What breaks more easily than

  glass? Wait and see. A few rattling panes won’t do it. But — the effects

  of light! Sparkling palaces, the interplay of colors, millions of glimmering,

  sparkling, spinning sparks — an intoxication of color! The whole earth — a

  glittering, flickering crown of pearls! And here it is again: only light and

  darkness. But the darkness wil not come. The earli
est light of dawn and

  the latest sunset shimmer in glass palaces. And then the illuminated wal s,

  the colorful domes, the gay colored lights. Even flowers are dif erent under

  colored glass, their souls change — greenhouses. Behind colored glass,

  people wil not be so evil. They wil be more religious — like in the colored

  half-light of Gothic cathedrals — —

  Culture! Culture! — So that it won’t be shattered again and again: we

  wil build it out of glass, awe-inspiring glass . . . Truly, this Scheerbart — if

  only Europe had heard his voice, if only it had been able to — because,

  like al true originals, he spoke an untranslatable language — it would have

  laughed more and become — more awestruck, more reverent. And if only

  Scheerbart had been awarded the Nobel Prize, as the only real and true

  apostle of peace in Europe, as I continually pleaded between 1911 and

  1914 . . . ! Then perhaps his voice would have been echoed — since most

  people need external signs and signals in order to take notice and listen . . .

  270

  ON THE BIRTH, DEATH, A N D REBIRTH OF DION YSIS

  Certainly, he knew better than anyone that he could not hold back the

  approaching destiny: and so in 1913 he wrote Lesabéndio — a last wil and

  testament bequeathing comfort to the peoples of the world: “Do not fear

  pain — but do not fear death, either!” Who knows — perhaps the most

  terrible pain was needed for the final culture, for our highest development.

  And stil he experienced the reality — the war. The first reality, how-

  ever — that was lethal to this great mind! The total darkening of this star.

  Eclipse of the sun. Death.

  His little “Perpet” models (as he cal ed the machine) were never even

  dimly realized, as mentioned above; neither was his Glass Palace, despite

  the “real” one built for him by Bruno Taut — : rather, the Glass Palace

  worked like protective goggles to shield such bright inner vision — and

  therefore Paul Scheerbart was so grateful to Taut — for keeping the un-

  fathomable depths of his inner vision from blinding him.

  But the war — that was the first reality that real y horrified him . . . not

  from fear or cowardice. Oh no — — . Only culture — culture!

  Dionysus was once more torn apart by titans. Dionysus is dead.

  But he must rise again.

  In whom? When?

  Translated by Anne Posten

  271

  A Letter from Bruno Taut to

  His Brother Max, October 30, 1915

  Zehlendorf. Oct. 30, 1915

  My dear Max. You haven’t written for quite some time. I hope you have

  been wel . You’l have some rest now that the of ensive is over. Please write.

  There’s not much new here — except for something very sad: since 14

  Oct. our dear Star Papa Paul Scheerbart is no longer with us. He had a

  stroke, struggled in a coma for 24 hours, and then passed away. We went

  to the funeral, which was dreadful: it was organized by the self-proclaimed

  association of “poets” and the speeches were awful. Everyone was terribly

  upset.

  ([Planc?] Nov. 5)

  That was now quite some time ago, which is what it makes it so difficult

  to tel you and Mutz about it. One cries one’s eyes out not to have him

  here anymore. I stil feel like I have been orphaned. But Paul Scheerbart

  lives — not just in his work — but in al his humanity. I don’t know of any-

  thing else new. I’ve long been waiting for news from Hoffman, who’s in

  the trenches in east Galicia. You write too and — at least say that you are

  there. We won’t lose hope.

  Brotherly greetings!

  Your Bruno

  Transcribed by Hubertus von Amelunxen and translated by Anne Posten

  A letter from Bruno Taut to Max Taut, his brother and fellow architect in the firm Taut &

  Hoffman, on the death of Paul Scheerbart. Taut wrote the first half of the letter from the

  Berlin neighborhood of Zehlendorf two weeks after Scheerbart’s death. Max appears to have

  been on the Western front at the Battle of Loos in France, which concluded on the same day

  as Scheerbart’s death, October 14. Taut was probably writing from the offices of Taut and

  Hoffman, on what was then the Berlin-Potsdamer Chaussee. In the second half of the letter,

  Taut notes that he is writing about a week later, no longer from Zehlendorf but from “Planc.,”

  an abbreviation possibly for Planckstraße in the nearby Mitte neighborhood. Taut explains

  his difficulty and delay in sending Max the sad news and is anxious about their architectural

  partner Franz Hoffmann, who was a cavalryman at the German eastern front at the time.

  272

  Hubertus von Amelunxen

  “. . . versions of the seemingly

  imperfect . . .”

  Thoughts on Paul Scheerbart

  and Walter Benjamin

  “I became a humorist out of rage, not out of kindness,” wrote

  Paul Scheerbart.1 His friend Stanislas Przybyszewski, echoing

  this, said that Scheerbart possessed “the desperate grief and

  nobility of a great man,” one who “smothered life’s hellish

  pain with laughter.”2

  The act of reading a text by Scheerbart inevitably induces a laughing

  dream-state or perhaps a dreamy laughter. It is not hearty laughter, as our

  writer delicately upsets the ordering of things of this earth, rearranging

  them within cosmic space and expanding the earth’s finitude outward

  with fantastical interstellar possibility. “The earth,” says Knéppara in

  Scheerbart’s “moon novel” The Great Revolution, “is really a very boring

  and disagreeable star.”3 Thus the character Mafikásu is able to convince

  the moon-men to turn their gaze from the earth, end their millennia-long

  observation of humankind’s drive toward self-destruction, and instead

  look at the other side of the moon using a telescope equal in length to the

  diameter of the moon itself. Hundreds of years in construction, allowing

  the discovery and excavation of all the moon’s crystalline treasures, this

  Walter Benjamin manuscript 836. This manuscript is one of the few surviving examples of

  Benjamin’s exploration of Scheerbart, a set of notes on Scheerbart’s novel Münchhausen und

  Clarissa (Münchhausen and Clarissa), which Benjamin bought in winter 1922 and probably

  read in 1922 or 1923. Other examples of Benjamin’s interest in Scheerbart appear in two essays

  associated with his Arcades Project, a collection of essays and fragments initially inspired by

  the glassed-in shopping arcades of Paris: “Experience and Poverty,” which discusses Scheer-

  bart and glass architecture and “On Scheerbart,” an essay on Scheerbart’s novel Lesabéndio.

  Benjamin’s planned book “The True Politician,” which was to contain an extensive exploration

  of Scheerbart’s work, is lost or was never completed.

  275

  HUBERTUS VON A M E L U N X E N

  telescope opens up a vista so big and wide that the moon-men—in fact

  the moon itself — become “all eye.” Stanley Kubrick might have been

  reading Scheerbart. As in Scheerbart’s novels, the timeless flight through

  opalescent nebulae at the end of Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey presents

  the end
of a history of humanity, and of a humanism that understands

  all persons in proportion to their similarity to the world of humans. As

  Kubrick presented us his realization of the computer HAL or envisioned

  a reverse cosmic time leading to the birth of a “new” man, Scheerbart

  turned away from humankind and from humanity’s civilizing activities,

  emphatically welcoming “the great revolution” in the moon-men’s renun-

  ciation of Earth.

  In 1914, the year before his death, Scheerbart protested vehemently

  against the very idea of a “world war” and was an oracle for an interstellar

  peace, in contrast to war on earth. In a brief, late essay on Scheerbart (writ-

  ten in French), Walter Benjamin wrote that Scheerbart’s great achievement

  was to call on the stars for aid in the preservation of humankind’s creation

  here below (“La grande trouvaille de Scheerbart aura été de faire plaider

  par les astres auprès des humains la cause de la création.”)4 Benjamin’s first

  essay on Scheerbart was written between 1917 and 1919, a commentary

  about Scheerbart’s asteroid-novel Lesabéndio, which Benjamin received

  as a wedding present from Gershom Scholem in 1917. Benjamin had a

  long-standing fascination with Scheerbart’s work and was familiar with

  many of the misfit writer’s novels, stories, and miscellanea. Gershom

  Scholem describes another great essay, probably finished in 1920 but

  regrettably now lost, titled “The True Policitian,” in which Benjamin

  draws on Scheerbart for his political theories, which he later linked to

  Brecht’s ideas of epic theater at the end of the 1920s.

  Notably, the essay “Experience and Poverty,” published in December

  1933, also makes substantial reference to Scheerbart. In that essay

  Benjamin compares Scheerbart to the artist Paul Klee and the architect

  Adolf Loos, saying no one had greeted the arrival of the “naked man of the

  contemporary world who lies screaming like a newborn babe in the dirty

  diapers of the present . . . with more joy and hilarity” than Scheerbart.5

  At the heart of Benjamin’s sympathy toward Scheerbart is the latter’s

  turning away from earthly naturalism, to turn instead toward the “arbi-

  trary, constructed”6 — toward Glass Architecture— as well as Scheerbart’s