In this blog post, I will explore the relationship between knowledge (intellect) and life (love) through the lens of Hermann Hesse’s *Narcissus and Goldmund*, examining it from both psychological and artistic perspectives.
When I was young and naive, I thought mountains were just mountains and water was just water. But as I studied, accumulated knowledge, and came to understand the world, I realized that mountains were not just mountains and water was not just water. However, after studying imagination and gaining wisdom about humanity and life, I found that mountains were indeed mountains and water was indeed water.
I’m not sure if this is entirely accurate, but I’ve transcribed from memory an article I once read in the “University Newspaper” by a respected mentor. The exact phrasing may differ, but the gist should be largely correct. This passage came to mind while I was translating Hermann Hesse’s (1877–1962) *Narcissus and Goldmund*. To put it boldly, it would not be an exaggeration to say that *Narcissus and Goldmund* is a fictional elaboration of the above concept. If we rephrase the passage above, we can summarize it into three stages: a state of seeing the world solely through its superficial appearance without any discernment; a state of using discernment to distinguish and classify the world; and a state of realizing the invisible cosmic order that lies beyond such artificial classifications. To simplify it further, these could be condensed into the stages of ignorance, knowledge, and enlightenment. Of course, this is the journey of Goldmund in the novel.
There is one more person who comes to mind while reading this novel: the Swiss depth psychologist Carl Gustav Jung (1875–1961). Since Hermann Hesse was born in 1877, the two were almost contemporaries. Their years of birth and death are similar. However, the fields in which they were active differed. Jung was a psychologist, and Hesse was a novelist. Yet, the content presented in Jung’s psychological theories and the themes unfolding in Hesse’s novels correspond in quite a few respects. Even though Hesse suffered from mental exhaustion at the age of 39 and received psychotherapy from Dr. Lang, a disciple of Jung, at that time, it cannot be concluded that Hesse’s novels were entirely influenced by Jung’s theories. One cannot become a great novelist simply by applying academic theories to one’s work. I would rather believe that outstanding individuals of the same generation seem to achieve an unconscious rapport even without direct interaction.
Jung argued that within the depths of the human psyche, masculine and feminine tendencies coexist regardless of biological sex. He called the masculine tendency within women the animus and the feminine tendency within men the anima. For reference, the Latin word “animus” means spirit, mind, or courage, while “anima” means light, life, or soul. In other words, whether male or female, humans are psychologically androgynous. Jung stated that the animus tends to be more enterprising and rational, always striving to rise to the surface, while the anima tends to be more dreamlike and gentle, seeking to descend into the depths of the human psyche. Therefore, the activities of the Animus are suited to logic and reasoning, while those of the Anima are suited to dreams, love, and reverie.
I will refrain from delving into Jung’s fascinating theories regarding the activation and deactivation of the Animus and Anima. However, I introduced Jung because reading the protagonists of this work, Narcissus and Goldmund, as incarnations of the Animus and Anima, respectively, makes understanding this novel much quicker and more enjoyable. Come to think of it, I feel that the old translation of this novel’s title as “Knowledge and Love” wasn’t entirely wrong. Since the title was chosen by regarding Narcissus as a symbol of intellect and Goldmund as a symbol of love, it is, in a way, a well-translated title.
In the early part of this work, it is Narcissus who drives the narrative. He is a scholar and a devout man who walks the path of a monk—a path dictated by external norms—without the slightest deviation. He is utterly rational and utterly fair. He is the most ideal embodiment of the Animus. What stands out most about him is his discernment. He defines scholarship, an intellectual pursuit, as follows:
“Scholarship, to borrow your words exactly, is nothing other than ‘the obsession with establishing differences.’ You couldn’t define the essence of scholarship more accurately than that. For those of us who pursue scholarship, nothing is more important than establishing differences. Scholarship is the art of establishing differences. Discovering the differences that allow us to distinguish between individuals—that is precisely what it means to know them.”
The word that catches our eye in the above quote is “obsession.” In short, scholarship is also the product of obsession and desire. What kind of desire? It is the desire to know more about the world, and to know it more accurately, by “establishing differences.” And as long as we are human, that desire is a natural one. Every person has a tendency to derive boundless joy from the very fact of learning something. It is precisely this tendency that the French philosopher Gaston Bachelard (1884–1962) termed the “Prometheus Complex.” He said the following:
“I propose that we place under the name ‘Prometheus Complex’ every tendency that urges us to know as much as our fathers, more than our fathers, as much as our teachers, and more than our teachers.”
The fact that Narcissus declares that scholarship is his true calling and that he has no choice but to follow that path signifies that he is the very embodiment of such a desire; therefore, it would not be far-fetched to regard him as the embodiment of the Animus.
As such an intellectual being, Narcissus is clearly superior to Goldmund. This is because Goldmund is still a naive boy who has not yet developed discernment. When Goldmund entered the monastery, he believed he was destined to walk the path of a monk. He sees little difference between himself and Narziss. And indeed, he appears as a model student with a devout faith. He respects and loves Narziss. This affection and respect are directed toward someone who shares similar life goals, yet is superior in every way. However, he lacks the awareness of why he must walk that path. The path he believed to be his own was merely one planted by his father’s desires and intentions. He was unaware that he and Narcissus were fundamentally different people, destined to walk different paths. It is Narcissus who awakens Goldmund to this reality. He plays a role similar to that of Demian in Hesse’s other novel, *Demian*, who helped Sinclair emerge from his shell. Like Demian, Narziss is a mentor who guides Goldmund to walk his own path. However, there is a crucial difference. Demian is of the same kind as Sinclair. He leads Sinclair onto “the path they must walk together.” Therefore, Demian is an eternal mentor and prophet to Sinclair. However, Narcissus’s role in *Narcissus and Goldmund* differs from that of Demian. He certainly awakens Goldmund from his slumber. But he awakens Goldmund in order to steer him onto a path different from his own—preventing Goldmund from continuing down a path he mistakenly believes to be the same as his own. Early in the novel, Narcissus says the following to Goldmund:
“Goldmund, there is only one thing in which I am superior to you. While you are half-awake, or sometimes completely asleep, I am awake. When I say I am awake, I mean that I recognize the irrational forces, impulses, and weaknesses within myself through reason and consciousness, and that I know how to deal with them. Learning how to do that—that is precisely why you have met me. (…) In this respect, I am superior to you. And it is precisely in this respect that I can help you.”
Narcissus is an awakened being and knows many things. He knows that Goldmund is different from him, and he knows that his task is to awaken Goldmund from his slumber and guide him toward a proper self-awareness. In contrast, Goldmund is in a state of ignorance, knowing nothing. It is Narcissus who awakens Goldmund. Thanks to Narcissus, Goldmund comes to realize that he and Narcissus are different. The moment one realizes that one is different from others, it is only natural for the question “Then who am I?” to arise. But Goldmund cannot know the answer to that question. This is because “knowing” is not his true nature. The answer is something that reveals itself only through living. This is because the answer is not a clear one obtained through the path of “knowledge,” but a mystery that can only be realized through the path of “life.” Goldmund sets out on a journey of wandering not to “know” who he is, but to “live” his own life—one distinct from Narcissus’s—and to experience the mystery of that life. He breaks away from the misguided path of “knowledge” and chooses the path of “life.” “Intellect” and “love” are precisely “knowledge” and “life.” “Narcissus” and “Goldmund” are precisely “intellect” and “love,” and “knowledge” and “life.” And “Narcissus” and “Goldmund” are also the very destiny of humanity. For it is the destiny of humanity to be bound to oscillate between knowledge and life. Humans are beings who live in the world and alongside the world. To put it somewhat grandly, they live and perish as beings belonging to the order of the universe. But humanity does not stop there. While living as such beings, humans also seek to observe, explain, and understand themselves—and the entire universe that encompasses them—from the outside. Thus, humans are beings who shuttle back and forth between “life” and “knowledge,” between the inside and the outside. This is analogous to how the animus—the desire to rationally explain and understand the world—and the anima—the desire to dream alongside the world—coexist within the human psyche. Hesse’s masterpiece *Narcissus and Goldmund* becomes far more fascinating when read as a drama of the conflict and coexistence of these two psychological tendencies. It is even more engaging if we view Narcissus and Goldmund not as individual characters, but as symbols representing the two tendencies that exist deep within our own psyches. What do you think? Don’t you want to reread it, perceiving the two characters as two distinct tendencies within your own mind?
However, there is a very intriguing element hidden within this work. “Narcissus” and “Goldmund,” “reason” and “love,” “knowledge” and “life”—these do not merely coexist in a state of simple opposition; rather, a hierarchy is established between them.
Following the previous quote, Narcissus says the following. It is a truly beautiful passage.
“But, Goldmund, in every other respect, you are superior to me. No, rather, it would be better to say that the moment you discover yourself, you will become superior to me. (…) People like you, with such intense and delicate senses, who are soul-oriented and prone to daydreaming, who are poets and easily fall in love—such people are always superior to us intellectual types. You are beings born of the motherly principle. You are capable of living a full life, for you are endowed with the power of love and sensitivity. We rational beings may often appear to lead and dominate people like you. But we cannot live a full life. We live on barren ground. A full life, the sweet juice of fruit, the garden of passion, beautiful artistic landscapes—these things belong only to you. Your homeland is this very earth. Ours is a realm of ideas and ideals. You run the risk of drowning in the world of the senses, while we risk suffocating in a vacuum. You are an artist, and I am a thinker. You sleep in your mother’s arms, and I lie awake in the desert. The sun shines upon me, and the moon and stars shine upon you. In your dreams, young girls appear; in mine, my students appear… “
In the quote above, Narziss (reason and scholarship) tells Goldmund (sensation and art) that Goldmund is superior to him in every way. To those of you who might nod in agreement without a second thought, I ask: Do you truly agree with this? Don’t we live our lives viewing intelligent people and those with extensive knowledge as superior beings? Don’t we place greater value on an active life of leading and dominating others? Don’t we regard the thirst for power, knowledge, and domination as humanity’s most primal desires? And compared to the robust masculinity of the Animus, don’t we consider the gentle femininity of the Anima to be inferior? Honestly, which of these beings do you truly want to become?
Let’s rephrase the question this time. Which path would you choose? A life in which you sacrifice living for the sake of knowledge, even while knowing that life takes precedence over knowledge? Or a life lived to the very end, even if there is no predetermined path and an abyss-like void lies ahead where you must live out your life in its entirety? The question is too grand. But *Narcissus and Goldmund* is a novel that poses such grand questions. And there is a fundamental premise underlying those questions. These are questions posed by a being who harbors a great desire: no matter which path is chosen, they will never live a meaningless life as a trivial existence. And the fact that this novel compels us—who have forgotten such questions—to ask them seriously is precisely why we should read it carefully.
Through this novel, Hesse clearly places the anima-oriented life above the animus-oriented one. He makes this intention clear through the words of Narcissus. Let me quote a few paragraphs.
“First, he is seized by doubts about the path he has taken.”
“If viewed from God’s perspective on high, is this exemplary life governed by order and discipline—this life that has renounced sensual pleasures, shunned filth and blood, and retreated into philosophy and meditation—truly better than Goldmund’s life? Was humanity truly created to live within a fixed routine and duties, like a bell signaling prayer time? Was man truly created to study Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas, to learn Greek? Was he created to kill his senses and flee from the world? Did God not send man down to this earth by endowing him with senses and instincts, with darkness stained by blood, and with a tendency to fall into sin, pleasure, and despair? Rather than washing one’s hands clean of the world and enjoying a pure life, or strolling safely through the flowerbeds of a beautiful, lonely garden composed of harmonious ideas with a sinless body, is it not a purer and more human life to surrender oneself to the cruel waves of reality—to its chaos—commit sins, and endure their bitter consequences? Is it not a braver, and indeed, a more noble life? Is it not perhaps a harder, braver, and more noble life to wear tattered shoes, endure the scorching sun or the pouring rain, suffer hunger and poverty, and live by surrendering oneself to sensual pleasures only to pay the price in agony?
And then a dramatic reversal takes place. Just as he had once shaken Goldmund awake, this time Goldmund’s “life” itself shook the very foundations of his “life as knowledge.”
Narcissus’s thoughts always circled around that question. Just as he had once intruded almost violently into Goldmund’s young life, transporting him to new realms, this time it was the other way around: his friend had shaken him to his core, forcing him to doubt and reexamine himself. Now the two were equals. It was as if Narcissus were receiving back, multiplied many times over, what he had once given to Goldmund.
Eventually, he confesses to Goldmund.
“Forgive me for not telling you this sooner. (…) I love you so much. You are so precious to me, and you have enriched my life. (…) My life lacked love. It was as if the greatest thing in life was missing from me. (…) I didn’t treat people unfairly. I always tried to treat them fairly and with patience. But I never loved them. I always liked erudite people, but I never loved a scholar with weaknesses, despite those weaknesses. If I have come to understand even a little of what love is, it is thanks to you. I’ve come to know how to love only you, among so many people. You can’t even begin to imagine what that means to me. It’s like a spring welling up in the desert, or a tree blooming in the wasteland. The fact that my heart didn’t wither away—that a space within me remained open to grace—is solely thanks to you.”
To me, this confession sounds just like the confession Sun Wukong would utter if he suddenly realized—after wielding his magic staff, riding a cloud, and rampaging through the world, declaring it too small—that he had been playing all along within the Buddha’s palm. The intellect, or the Animus, is just as triumphant as Sun Wukong. Yet, upon realizing he has been within the Buddha’s palm all along, he becomes humble. To put it somewhat schematically, it is a journey from Intellect › Love to Intellect = Love, and then to Intellect ‹ Love. However, while the Intellect › Love schema implies that intellect is superior to love, the meaning of the Intellect ‹ Love schema is different. In that case, love is not superior to intellect but embraces it. Love does not compete with intellect for superiority but embraces it in its bosom. The anima embraces the animus while standing in opposition to it. That embrace is the embrace of love and the embrace of a mother. What Goldmund ultimately sought to reach through love and art was precisely that motherly embrace. And Goldmund’s journey in this work is a journey toward that mother. Hesse refers to that mother—whom Eastern philosophy would call the “Earth Mother”—as “Mother Eve.” That “Earth Mother,” “Mother Eve,” is the image and symbol of the anima, the feminine aspect of the human psyche, blooming in its most beautiful form. Death, which one meets in that very mother’s embrace, is no longer an object of fear. Death, too, becomes simply a return to the mother’s embrace. From the perspective of reason, birth and death—which signify merely a beginning and an end—become a journey from the mother’s embrace to the mother’s embrace.
“My curiosity about death stems from the belief—or perhaps the dream—that I am still on my way to my mother. I hope that death will be happiness, a happiness and joy as great as the first act of love. I cannot shake the thought that death is not a man wielding a sword, but a mother leading me to nothingness and purity.”
“Lying submerged in the stream, I knew I was dying. But everything was different from when I was in the Count’s prison. I did not resist death. Dying no longer frightened me. From that moment on, I dreamed amidst intense agony. Or perhaps I saw a vision—I don’t know, but you may think of it as you will.”
I felt a searing pain in my chest and screamed, and then I heard someone laughing. It was a sound I had never heard since my childhood. It was my mother’s laughter—a laugh filled with joy and love. At that moment, I saw my mother. She laid me across her lap, opened my chest, slipped her fingers deep between my ribs, and tried to pull out my heart. The moment I saw that and understood, I felt no pain at all. Even now, the pain has returned, but it is neither pain nor an enemy. It is merely my mother’s fingers pulling out my heart. She works her hands busily. Sometimes she presses my heart tightly and moans as if in a trance; sometimes she laughs; sometimes she hums affectionately. Sometimes she isn’t by my side but is up in the sky. At such times, I see Mother’s face through the clouds. It is a face as vast as the clouds themselves. Mother floats there, wearing a sad smile. That sad smile draws me in and pulls my heart out of my chest.“
Let us not dwell any longer on such a Mother-Eve. As Goldmund says, it is because Mother would not want it.
”Listen, (…) I must now bid you farewell. Before we part, I must tell you everything. I’ve wanted to tell you about Mother for a long time. About how her fingers were clutching around my heart. The desire to sculpt Mother’s likeness was the most precious and secret dream that had long captivated me. Mother’s image was the most sacred of all the images I had ever created. I always carried the image of Mother—an image of love and mystery—in my heart. But just recently, I could no longer bear the thought of dying without having sculpted a statue of my mother. My whole life seemed in vain. Then something strange happened. I realized that it wasn’t my fingers shaping and creating my mother’s form, but her hands shaping and creating me. She is wrapping her fingers around my heart, tearing it away, and emptying it. In this way, Mother is leading me to death, and along with me, my dream, my beautiful ancestor, and the image of the great Mother Eve are also dying. I can still see her form. And if I still have strength left in my hands, I could sculpt her. But Mother does not want that. Mother does not want her secret revealed. Mother would rather I die. I am willing to die. “With Mother’s help, it is not difficult at all.”
That farewell is not a farewell. As I finish this translation, I listen to the Goldmund living within my heart, just like Narcissus. And I whisper quietly.
“If only this world could become like Mother’s embrace…”
Let me add just one thing before concluding. The path Goldmund walked is that of an artist. Even if becoming an artist was not his ultimate goal, art was an inevitable process he had to undergo on his journey back to his mother. Therefore, *Narcissus and Goldmund* contains many flashes of insight into art. Since I’m already at it, I’ll conclude this commentary by quoting just a few paragraphs.
“Standing before the work, the person who was creating that figure with determination was no longer Goldmund himself. It was Narcissus himself who, through the power of the artist Goldmund’s hands, created the pure image of a being liberated from the transience and mutability of life.”
“As you know, the model for this statue is not me, but my dearest friend. It was not I who brought light and peace to this work, but that friend. This work was not created by me, but by that friend who entered my soul.”
“It was about overcoming the transience of life. In a life that feels like a fool’s game or a dance of death, the one thing that remains and endures—that is art. Art forms a silent empire of images and sacred things beyond the fleeting moment. Working on art was so wonderful and comforting to me. It felt as though I were bestowing eternity upon that which vanishes in an instant.”
“The first image, or archetype, of a great work of art is not actually a living being. That real being merely provides the inspiration for that first image. The first image is not made of flesh and blood. It is spirit. It resides within the artist’s soul. Narcissus, such images live within me as well. Someday, I want to express them and show them to you.”
“Goldmund, I am learning so much from you. I am beginning to understand what art is. Before, I thought that compared to philosophy or scholarship, art was not worthy of serious consideration. I used to think, ‘Human beings are dubious creatures, a mixture of spirit and matter. The spirit opens the path of knowledge leading to eternity for humanity. Conversely, matter drags humanity down and binds it to the fleeting and ephemeral. To elevate life and make it meaningful, one must renounce the sensual and pursue the spiritual.’ Outwardly, I pretended to hold art in high regard, but deep down, I actually looked down on it. I was arrogant. But now I think I’m beginning to realize just how diverse the paths to knowledge are. “It has occurred to me that the path of the spirit may not be the only path, nor even the best one. Of course, that is the path I must take, and I shall remain on it. But you, on a path diametrically opposed to mine—the path of the senses—have deeply grasped the secret of existence. And you have expressed it more vividly than any philosopher.”
When Narcissus conversed with Goldmund, it was easy for him to assert his superiority by pitting his own discipline and intellectual logic against his friend’s passion. But isn’t every subtle gesture in Goldmund’s works—his eyes and mouth, a single twig of a plant, every fold of clothing—more valuable, more real, more vivid, and more absolute than everything a single thinker could ever achieve? Could it be that this artist, whose heart is filled with conflict and suffering, has created a symbol of the pain and struggle that countless people in the present and future will endure? As countless people pay homage to that statue, might their anguish and longing be transformed into comfort and certainty, and might they derive great strength from it?
Yet an artist is not merely a being who basks in the joy of creation while creating art. There is also the anguish of being an artist. The artist’s anguish that Hesse describes in this work—the dilemma of choosing between artistic creation and the life experiences that make that creation possible—is the anguish of every true artist.
To be mocked by life was a shameful thing. It was like a joke, and it was also sad. One could live as if suckling at the breast of the primal mother, Eve, guided solely by the senses. In doing so, one might taste every kind of happiness, but one cannot escape the precarious fate of human existence. It is like a mushroom growing in the forest: today it displays brilliant colors, but tomorrow it rots away. Conversely, one could resist the transience of life by holing up in a studio to erect a monument to this fleeting existence. But that means abandoning life and becoming a mere tool. Such a life is less a life than a tool in the service of eternity. In the course of such an endeavor, life will wither away, and one will lose freedom, fulfillment, and the joy of being alive. The life of Master Niklaus was precisely that.
Oh, human life has meaning only when it achieves both of these, only when it is not torn apart by the cruel demands of this either/or choice. To create without paying the price of one’s own life! To live life without abandoning the sublime destiny of the creator! Is that truly impossible?
Hermann Hesse was born on July 2, 1877, in the small mountain town of Calw in southern Germany. Though his hometown, which he loved all his life, was a small town, Hesse lived as if in the wider world. His father, Johannes Hesse, was a North German-Russian missionary who had served in India, and his mother, Marie, was also the daughter of a missionary and was born in India. Hesse was also greatly influenced by his maternal grandfather, who worked in Kalf publishing books on Protestantism.
At the age of thirteen, Hesse attended a Latin school in Göppingen, entered a theological seminary at fourteen, and at eighteen began working as an apprentice at a bookstore in the university town of Tübingen. Fascinated by Goethe, he devoted himself to poetry and self-published his first collection, *Romantic Songs*, in 1899, followed by his second collection, *An Hour After Midnight*, though the reception was not particularly favorable.
He then shifted his focus to fiction, gaining recognition as a novelist with the publication of *Under the Wheel* in 1906 and *Gertrud* in 1910. He continued to publish poems and novels until the outbreak of World War I, and in 1919, he published *Demian*, which brought him lasting fame. Until the outbreak of World War II, he published major works such as *Siddhartha*, *Steppenwolf*, and *Narcissus and Goldmund*, and began writing *The Glass Bead Game*, a utopian tale that seemed to stand in opposition to Nazism. Begun around the same time as the rise of the Hitler regime, the work was completed in 1943 with the publication of the second volume, ten years after the prologue was released in 1934 when he was 57. Hesse won the first Nobel Prize in Literature awarded after World War II for this work.
Afterward, he withdrew from the world and lived a quiet, prosperous life until his death on August 9, 1962, at the age of 85. True to his own words that his works were “not novels but biographies of the soul,” he left behind works that serve as guides for the lost and wandering souls of modern people. The fact that his works are still loved by countless people around the world is not only evidence that modern people are lost and wandering but also proof that humans will forever feel a thirst for the soul.
