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be no change in my condition, then there’s no point transferring me to another place like Stetten. I don’t need a doctor or parents to drive me to despair, criminal behavior. If Papa has no use for me at home as a son, then he hardly has all that much use for a son confined to a lunatic asylum. The world is big, very big, and a single being isn’t all that significant.
    By the way, I’m expecting an answer. If you don’t have anything to say, then the issue is quite straightforward. I still hope, what’s that?—nonsense!
    Listen, Theo wrote recently: “Just put that girl out of your mind; there are thousands of better, more beautiful girls!” One could write to you in the same vein: “Just put the boy out of your minds,” etc., etc.
    TO JOHANNES HESSE
    Stetten, September 14, 1892
    Dear Sir,
    Since you’re so conspicuously eager to make sacrifices, may I ask you for 7 marks or a revolver right away? You have caused me such despair that you should now be prepared to help me dispose of it, and rid yourself of me in the process. I should’ve croaked last June.
    You write: We haven’t “really reproached” you for complaining about Stetten. That attitude would seem totally incomprehensible to me: nobody ought to deprive a pessimist of the right to complain, which is his only, and, indeed, his ultimate, right.
    â€œFather” is a strange word, which I cannot quite fathom. It ought to mean a person one can love with all one’s heart. How I yearn for that kind of person! Could you ever give me some advice? In the old days, it was easy to make one’s way in life, but that’s more difficult nowadays, if one hasn’t got the right grades, identification papers, etc. I’m an energetic fifteen-year-old, maybe I could find a niche in the theater somewhere?
    I don’t want to have any dealings with Herr Schall; he’s a heartless, black-suited creature. I hate him, and I could stick a knife in him. He won’t admit that I have a family, just like you and the others in that respect.
    Your attitude toward me is becoming more and more tense. If I were a Pietist and not a human being, if I could turn all my attributes and inclinations into their exact opposite, then I might coexist harmoniously with you. But I cannot and shall not live like that; I would be responsible for any crimes I committed, but so would you, too, Herr Hesse, since you have made it impossible for me to enjoy life. Your “dear Hermann” has turned into somebody else, a misanthrope, an orphan with “parents” still living.
    You should never again write “Dear H.,” etc.; that’s a dirty lie.
    On two occasions today the inspector caught me not following his orders. I hope catastrophe strikes soon. If only there were some anarchists around!
    H. Hesse,
    a captive in
    Stetten prison,
    where he “isn’t being punished.” I’m beginning to wonder who precisely is the idiot in this affair.
    By the way, it would be agreeable to me if you were to pay an occasional visit here.
    TO MARIE HESSE
    [ Basel, October 20, 1892 ]
    My poor, dear mother,
    Things cannot go on this way; I finally have to come out with it. Poor Mother, forgive me, forgive your fallen son; forgive me, if you love me, if you believe that there’s a divine spark in me yet.
    These roads and meadows, where I once played as a child, seem to be reproaching me, now that I’m no longer a child or even a son. I’m just a miserable being who rails against man and fate and cannot and will not ever love himself.
    Please, Mother, don’t mention the letter to anybody, especially not Grandfather, or the people in Basel. You alone may forgive me.
    Walking along the great, flowing Rhine, I have often imagined how wonderful it would be to perish in these dear, familiar waves. My life and my sins would vanish into oblivion. But best of mothers, I can still find some respite, a