Books: My Life and My Efforts

K >> Karl May >> My Life and My Efforts

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In stating that I got to know what literature, or let me rather
say reading material, the mentality of the general public desires,
I am asking you to take this statement serious. It should not be
said that each librarian in every public library and every rental
library could make the same experiences, because this is not true.
A reader in freedom and a reader in prison, this are two entirely
different characters. In the latter, reading can actually become
a spiritual requirement for his existence. His nature is changing
direction, it is turning around. The external personality no
longer matters under the discipline of the institution; the
internal one emerges. And this is the one which has to be
discovered and seized by the officials, by the system of
reeducation in such an institution, if the greatly humane purpose
of punishment is to be realized: moral uplifting and
consolidation, reconciliation between society and the so-called
criminal, who have both committed a sin against one another. In
freedom, this emergence of the internal personality is the
exception, but in captivity it is the rule. During his
imprisonment, the prisoner has to do without all of his physical
privileges. In the physical respect, he is no longer a person,
but just a thing, a number, which is registered in books and by
which he is also addressed. Just the more strongly, yes even with
an unstoppable vitality, his internal form, his soul emerges, to
demand its rights, to satisfy its needs. The body is forced to
put up with the prison's clothing and the prison's food. But do
not dare to commit the mistake to restrict the soul in the same
manner as well! Forcefully, it seeks to break out of the prison's
clothing; famishedly, it demands a kind of food, by which it can
become ethically sound and strong, to free itself from the
bondage, in which it languished up to now. Believe me, no convict
wishes to be evil; they all wish to be good. In the deepest
bottom of his heart, everyone has the urge to be, not just
physically, but also ethically, free, even the seemingly
unreformable ones. But from what shall this naked, hungry soul
receive good clothing and good food, meaning good in the ethical
sense? From itself? From the sermons, held in the institution
every Sunday? From the few, short visits of the institution's
chaplain and other officials? From the companionship of the other
prisoners? However you may answer these questions, the main
source of all reeducation, improvement, and uplifting can under
conditions like these only be the library. Each prisoner, who
conducts himself in such a manner that he does not have to be
forbidden to read, receives one book per week. For seven days,
its contents provides the spiritual food for his famished soul.
He is not allowed to choose the book; he has to take what he
gets. What he is given, can turn out to be his blessing or his
misfortune, can enrich his knowledge or worsen his punishment, can
lead him towards understanding himself and the errors of his ways,
but it can also offend and harden him. One of my fellow
prisoners, an intelligent banker, had, for three quarters of a
year, received nothing but old issues of a magazine called
"Fraundorfer Blaetter" to read, dry instructions in gardening,
which neither interested him, nor could benefit him in any way.
He put up with it, being increasingly embittered, until I got in
charge of the library and gave him something more fitting to his
needs. An actor, who was a hothead, was thus enraged by the tales
of Jeremias Gotthelf, that he had almost been punished for
improper behaviour. The last one he had to read bore the title
"How Five Girls Miserably Perish with Brandy" [a]. When I gave
him a volume by Edmund Hoefer [b], he was as happy as if I had
given him a fortune. A social democratic plumber had been
victimised my a long series of devotional books. He angrily swore
to me that just for these books there could not be any God. He
had only gone bankrupt due to his bitter poverty; but the authors
and publishers of these scriptures were bankrupt due to
self-righteousness and arrogance and deserved at least the same
prison sentence as he.

[a] "Wie fuenf Maedchen im Branntwein jaemmerlich umkommen" was
published in 1838. Jeremias Gotthelf is a pseudonym for the
Swiss author Albert Bitzius (1797-1854).
[b] Edmund Franz Andreas Hoefer (1819-1882).

From these examples you can see how well I first had to get to
know my library and then also the needs of its readers. This
involved some serious and difficult psychological considerations
and led to the sad final conclusion that, basically, of the kind
of books we needed there were only a very few. They were not just
missing from our prison library, they were also missing from
literature in general. I thought of my boyhood, of the little
tracts I had read then and of the trash which had poisoned me; I
thought further, and I compared. Then, a realization dawn on me.
Are only the inmates of the penitentiaries in confinement? Is not
every human being basically a prisoner? Are not millions of
people confined by walls, which might not be visible to the eyes,
but the existence of which can nonetheless be felt just too well?
Does it only apply to the inmates of a penitentiary that the body
has to be constricted, so that the higher part of our being, the
part which came from above, shall reveal itself? Does it not
apply to all mortals, and thus to all of mankind, that everything
which is low has to be put in bondage, so that the soul, having
gained liberty by such means, could uplift itself up to the
highest ideal to be found on earth, to the nobility of the spirit?
And are not religion, art, and literature those things which are
supposed to guide us from these depths into those heights? The
very literature, I, the prisoner confined to my narrow cell, am
also a part of!

Proceeding with this train of thought, I arrived at considerations
and conclusions, which might seem to be very strange, but were in
their essence quite natural. A light shone between my four tight
walls; they grew more spacious. At first I felt, than I saw, and
finally I understood the concealed and yet intimate connections
between the small and the big, the physical and the spiritual, the
body and the mind, the finite and the infinite. This was the
time, when I started to comprehend those dear, old fables of my
grandmother in their deepest meaning. For entire nights, I lay
awake and pondered. I was chained to the deepest, lowest, most
despised Ardistan and sent all of my thoughts up to the bright,
free, Jinnistan. I imagined myself as the lost human soul, which
can never be found again, unless it finds itself. This finding of
one's true self can never be achieved high up in Jinnistan, but
only down here in Ardistan, among the suffering of earth, the
torment of mankind, eating the husks of the lost son [a] of our
biblical story. My imagination started to put this what I was
looking for into a tangible form, to be able to seize it and to
hold on to it. It dwelled and lived within me. And not just
there, but also outside of me, omnipresent, in every other human
being, and also in the entire human race as one large and whole
entity. At this time, Marah Durimeh took form within me, this
great, glorious soul of mankind, to which I gave the appearance of
my beloved grandmother. At this time, Tatellah-Satah for the
first time appeared within me, this mysterious "keeper of the
great medicine", whom my readers got to know in the thirty-third
volume [b] of my works. And at this time, the idea of "Winnetou"
was born as well. Do not get me wrong, it was just the idea, not
really him, whom I did not find until later. In those days, the
psychological volumes of the officials' library and all others
which had been made available to me were - almost devoured, I was
inclined to say; but this would not be the truth, because I have
slowly analysed them, dissected them word by word, and have marked
every word with a thoughtfulness, which is most likely not a very
common thing; but I have done this so eagerly and with a hunger,
with a zeal, as if my life, my salvation would depend upon me
becoming fully aware of my internal condition. And when I finally
thought that I was on the right path, I reached back into my
childhood and turned back to my old, bold wish "to become a
story-teller, like you, grandmother". After all, I was in in one
of those places which are the greatest and richest sources of
stories to tell, in prison. Here, all this gets condensed and
concentrated which out there, in freedom, flows past so easily and
thinly, that it cannot be seized and even much less be observed.
And here, the contrasts, which outside intermix like on a plane
surface, rise high up like mountains, so that, in this
magnification, everything is revealed which would otherwise remain
concealed in secrecy. They lay opened up before me, those
difficult, scientific volumes on psychology, especially on
criminal psychology. Almost every line was impressed on my
memory. They contained the theory, a conglomeration of riddles
and problems. But what this meant in practice, I could see all
around me in a truthfulness, which was just as plain as it was
disturbing. What a contrast between theory and practice? Where
was the truth to be found? In the opened books or in open
reality? In both! Science is true, and life is true. Science
commits mistakes, and life commits mistakes. Both of these ways
lead via mistakes towards the truth; there, they will have to
meet. Where this truth is and what it says, we can only guess.
Just one eye is granted the gift to glimpse ahead at it and this
is the eye of - - the fable. Therefore I want to be a
stroy-teller, nothing but a story-teller, just as grandmother was!
I only need to open my eyes, to see them recorded, hundreds and
hundreds of incarnations of these parables and salvation seeking
fables. One in every cell and one on every chair in the
workshops. Lots of sleeping beauties, who are just waiting for
the kiss of mercy and love to wake them up. Lots of souls,
languishing in bondage, in old castles, which had been converted
into prisons, or in modern huge buildings, in which kindness goes
from cell to cell, from chair to chair, to wake up and to free,
whoever proves himself to be worthy of the awakening and of
freedom. I want to be the mediator between science and life. I
want to tell parables and fables, with the truth being hidden
deeply inside, the truth which by other means cannot be perceived,
yet. I want to derive light out of the darkness of my life in
prison. I want to convert the punishment, which has come upon me,
into freedom for others. I want to turn the severity of the law,
under which I suffer, into a great sympathy for all those who have
fallen, into a love and mercy, to which there will finally be no
"crime" and no "criminals", but only the sick, again and again
nothing but the sick.

[a] "the lost son": see Luke 15:24: "For this my son was dead,
and is alive again; he was lost, and is found."
[b] "Winnetou IV", a.k.a. "Winnetous Erben"

But no one may suspect, that my stories are only parables and only
fables, for if it was known, I would never achieve what I intend
to achieve. I have to become a fable myself, I, my own self.
This will surely be a boldness, which might easily ruin me, but
what does the fate of one single, small human being matter, when
the subject is the great, hugely arising question facing the
entire human race? What matters the tiny fate of a despised
prisoner, who is anyhow already lost to society, if the manner in
which "crime" is regarded and discussed does not change soon!

This was a thought which came to me quite suddenly, but sunk in
deeply and never left me again. It gained power over me; it
became large. It finally encompassed my entire soul, which was
probably because it contained the fulfilment of all this, which
already, since my childhood, lived as my wish and hope within me.
I seized it, this thought; I extended and deepened it; I
elaborated on it. It had me, and I had it; we both became
identical. But this did not happen quickly, it rather took a
long, long time, and even harder and more dreary days than the
present ones passed by, before I had developed the plan of my work
and had it such firmly fixed, that no further change was to be
made to it. I planned to continue writing my humorous stories and
village-tales from the Ore Mountains for a while, to make a name
for myself among the German readers and to show them that I was
absolutely just moving on god-fearing territory. But then, I
wanted to turn to a genre, the public was interested in, and
possesses the greatest ability to make an impression: to the
traveller's tale. To make real journeys the basis of these tales,
was no absolute necessity; after all, they were only meant to be
parables and only fables, though extraordinarily meaningful
parables and fables. Nevertheless, journeys were desirable, to
conduct studies, to get to know the various circles in which my
characters had to move. Most of all, I had to prepare myself
thoroughly, study geography, ethnology, and languages. I had to
take my topics from my own life, from the lives around me, from
the place where I was at home, and therefore, I could always
maintain truthfully that everything I told about was experienced
or witnessed by myself. But I had to move those topics out into
distant lands and to foreign peoples, to give them the effect they
would not have dressed in the familiar garments of home. Set in
the prairie or under palm-trees, in the glistening sun of the
orient or in raging blizzards of the Wild West, in perils which
would evoke the reader's strongest compassion, thus and in no
other way all of my characters had to be depicted, if I was to
achieve through them what they were meant to achieve. And for
this purpose, I had to be, at least theoretically, as much at home
in all of those countries which I had to describe as a European
could possibly be able to. So I had to work, to work hard and
exhaustingly, to prepare myself; and for this, the quiet,
undisturbed prison cell, I lived in, was just the right place.

There is a truth of earth, and there is a truth of heaven. The
truth of earth is presented to us by science, the truth of heaven
by revelation. Science usually proves its truthfulness; what a
revelation asserts, the learned will regard as nothing more than
believable, but not as proven. Such a true revelation from heaven
descends down to earth on the rays of the stars and goes from one
house to the next, to knock and to be allowed to enter. It is
rejected everywhere, because it wants to be believed, but it is
not believed, because it possesses no learned proof of validity.
Thus it goes from one village to another, from one town to
another, from one country to another, without being listened to
and without being accepted inside. Then, it ascends back up to
heaven on the rays of the stars and returns to the one from whom
it came. Weeping, it laments before Him of its pains. But He
smiles kindly and speaks: "Do not weep! Go back down to earth
and knock at the door of that one person, whose house you have not
found, yet: the poet. Ask him to dress you into the guise of a
fairy-tale, and then try your luck again!" It obeys. The poet
lovingly takes it on and dresses it up. It now begins its journey
once again as a fairy-tale, and wherever it knocks, it is welcome.
The doors and hearts are opened for it. Its words are attentively
listened to; it is believed. It is asked to stay, because it has
become so dear to everyone. But it must go on, on and on, to
fulfil the task it had been given. But it only leaves as a
fairy-tale; as the truth, it stays. And even though it is not
seen, it is nevertheless there and works its influence within the
house for all times to come.

So, this is the fairy-tale! But not the kind of fairy-tale for
children, but rather the true, genuine, real fairy-tale, the
fables and legends, which are in spite of their unseeming, simple
appearance the highest and most difficult of all forms of fiction,
due to the soul which lives within each tale. And one of those
poets, to whom the eternal truth would come, to be dressed up, I
wanted to be! I know very well, how bold this was. But I admit
it without apprehension. Truth is so much hated, and the
fairy-tale is so much despised, as I am myself; we are a good
match. The fairy-tale and I, we are being read by thousands,
without being understood, because the depth is not explored. As
they say that fairy-tales were only for children, so I am referred
to as "author for young people", who would only write for immature
boys. In short, I need not apologise at all for having been so
bold to wish for nothing more than to be an author of fables and
parables. Do not "my life and my efforts" by themselves already
seem rather like a fairy-tale, and are there not almost
innumerable fables and fairy-tales, my opponents have build up
around me! And whenever I protest against this, I am believed
just as little as some people believe in the fairy-tales. But as
for every genuine fairy-tale, there will finally come the time,
when its truth will be evident, so all of my truth will eventually
become evident, and what they do not believe from me today, they
will learn to believe tomorrow.

Thus, all of my traveller's tales, which I had intended to write,
were meant to be read figuratively, were supposed to be symbolic.
They were meant to say something which was not visible on the
surface. I wanted to bring something new, something blissful,
without putting my readers at variance with the old, the previous.
And what I had to say, I had to make them look for; I could not
lay it openly before their doors, because people tend to ignore
everything they get so cheaply and only appreciate what they had
to fight for with great effort. It would have been an
unforgivable mistake, to hint right from the start, that my
traveller's tales were to be read figuratively. My books simply
would not have been read, and everything I wanted to solve would
have remained a fable and a fairy-tale. The reader had to find
unsuspectingly what I had to give; he would then regard it as a
prize he had fought for and hold on to it for the rest of his
life.

But what was this, actually, I wanted to give? This was many
things and nothing commonplace. I wanted to answer the questions
of mankind and solve the mysteries of mankind. Laugh at me if you
will; but this was what I wanted; I have tried it and I will
continue trying it. Whether I will achieve it, neither I nor
anybody else would be able to know. In carrying out my plan, I
might have committed many a mistake, because I am just a flawed
human being; but my intentions have been good and pure.
Furthermore, I wanted to publish my psychological experiences. A
young teacher, who has been punished, talking about his
psychological experiences? Is this not even more ridiculous than
the first plan? You may think so if you will; but I have seen in
hundreds and hundreds of unfortunate people that the only cause
for the beginning and continuation of their misfortune had been
that their souls, those most precious entities of the entire
creation of earth, had been completely neglected. The mind is the
spoiled, conceited teacher's pet, the soul is the rejected,
starving and freezing Cinderella. For the mind, there are all
kinds of schools, from the simple primary school up to the
university, but there is not a single school for the soul. For
the mind, millions of books are written, but how many are there
for the soul? To the human mind, thousands and thousands of
monuments are built; where are those, which are dedicated to the
praise of the human soul? Well so, I am saying to myself, let me
be the one writing for the the soul, exclusively for the soul
alone, no matter whether I will be laughed at for it or not! The
soul is unknown. Therefore, many people will either not
understand or misunderstand my work, but this should by no means
keep me from doing what I had planned.

This was basically enough for one person; but I did not want just
this, I even wanted much more. All around me, I saw the deepest
misery of mankind; to myself, I was was its centre. And high
above us was the salvation, was the noble state of the human soul,
we had to aspire up to. But this task was not just ours alone,
but rather it had been given to all of mankind; the only
difference was that we, who were staying in a so much deeper place
than the others, had to ascent much further and with more
difficulties then they. From the depth into the height, from
Ardistan to Jinnistan, from a low, lustful person, rising to
become a nobly spirited person. How this had to happen, I wanted
to demonstrate by two examples, one in the orient and one in
America. For these, my very special purposes, I divided earth in
my mind in two halfs, in an American and an Asian-African half.
There lives the race of the native Americans and here
Semitic-Mohammedan race. I wanted to make these two races the
subjects of my fables, my thoughts, and explanations. Therefore,
my primary task was to learn about the Arabian and other languages
as well as the native American dialects. The steadfast faith in
Allah on the one side and the highly poetic faith in the "great,
good spirit" of the others, fitted well with my own, firm faith in
God. In America, a male character, and in Asia, a female
character were to represent the ideal, by whose example my readers
had to let their ethical intentions grow upwards. The one
character became Winnetou, the other one Marah Durimeh. In the
west, the plot shall rise, by and by, from the low life of the
savanna and prairie up to the pure and lofty heights of Mount
Winnetou. In the east, it shall uplift itself from the dunes of
the desert up to the hight summit of Jebel Marah Durimeh.
Therefore, my first volume starts with the title "Durch die
Wueste" . The main character of all of these
tales was, for the sake of unity, supposed to be always the same,
a noble human soul in his earliest stages, who cleanses himself by
and by from all the dross of an anima-person. For America he was
supposed to be called Old Shatterhand, but for the orient he was
to bear the name Kara Ben Nemsi [a], because I took for granted
that he would have to be a German. He had to be introduced as the
one telling the stories, as the "first person narrator". This
first person is not real, but a fictional character. But even
though this "first person" does not exist, everything which is
being related about him shall still be based in reality and become
reality. This Old Shatterhand and this Kara Ben Nemsi, this
"first person" is meant to portray this great question of mankind,
which was created by God himself, when he walked through paradise,
to ask: "Adam, i.e. human being, where are you?" "Nobly spirited
human, where are you? I only see fallen, low people!" This
question of mankind has since then gone through all times and all
countries of the globe, calling out loudly and lamenting loudly,
but never receiving an answer. It has seen people of violence by
the millions, fighting, mangling, and annihilating one another,
but it never saw a person with a noble soul, who was like the
inhabitants of Jinnistan and lived by their wonderful law, that
everyone had to be his neighbour's angel, so that he shall not
become his own devil. But eventually, mankind must and will
nonetheless rise to such a hight, that this question, which had
been asked in vain before that time, will receive its bliss
bringing answer from somewhere: "Here I am. I am the first nobly
spirited person, and others will follow after me!" Thus, Old
Shatterhand also travels and thus Kara Ben Nemsi also travels
through those countries, to look for nobly spirited people. And
wherever he finds none, he gives an example through his own nobly
spirited behaviour, how he thinks such a person would have to be
like. And this fictional Old Shatterhand, this fictional Kara Ben
Nemsi, this fictional "I", does not need to remain fictional, but
has to manifest himself, has to become reality in my readers, who
are experiencing in their minds and souls everything just as he
does, and who therefore, like my characters, are rising up and
ennobling themselves. In this manner, I am contributing my part
to solve this great task of enabling the violent people, who are
the people on a low level, to develop into the nobly spirited
people.

[a] In "Through the Desert" the main character is introduced by
his sidekick to a third person by this name. The first
person narrator then explains it like this: "The good man
had at one time before asked me for my name and actually
kept the word Karl in his memory. But since he was unable
to pronounce it, he, without thinking much of it, turned it
into Kara and added Ben Nemsi, meaning descendant of the
Germans."

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