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PARTISAN REVIEW
world of books from which, so it seemed to me, shone light and
warmth. He himself spoke as if he were reading from a book, freely, and
he moved without bragging in that world of glorious names and great
ideas, while I quivered with excitement, with vanity, shyly entering this
world of great men, fearing the world I had left outside and into which
I had to return.
These afternoon visits with my older friend continued and became
more frequent. I suddenly improved my German, I started reading Ital–
ian. I even brought home, to my poor apartment, beautifully bound old
books. I fell behind in my school studies. Everything I read looked to me
like the sacred truth and my sublime duty, from which I could not
wrench myself if I did not want to lose my self-respect and all my self–
confidence. I knew only one thing: all those books had to be read, and
such or similar things needed to be written. I had not thought of any–
thing else in life.
I remember one day in particular.
It
was the month of May. Maks
was preparing for his final exams, but without excitement or noticeable
effort. He led me to a small separated bookcase on which golden letters
said:
Helios Klassiker-Ausgabe .
And I remember him telling me the
bookcase was bought along with the books. To me even the bookcase
looked sacred and its wood imbued with light. Maks took out a volume
of Goethe and begun reading
Prometheus .
He began with some new, previously, at least to me, unknown voice,
and it was obvious he had read that poem an infinite number of times:
Cover thy heavens, Zeus,
With clouds of mist,
And, as a senseless child
Who lops the thistles' heads,
Try your strength with oaks and mountains;
Yet, leave
The earth of mine
In my cottage, not raised by thee,
Leave my hearth,
Whose glow
You envy!
At the end, he rhythmically but forcefully pounded the arm of the chair
he was sitting in with his fist; his hair fell on both sides of his flushed
face .
