Let's stay in the 1950s for a bit, to mull over a few tawdry excerpts from the bizarre, discredited "final book" of Nietzsche, "My Sister and I." For those who haven't kept up with their faux-Nietzsche, "My Sister and I" purports to be an autobiographical account of Nietzsche's incestuous relationship with his sister Elizabeth, translated by one of N's primary translators, Oscar Levy. The 1951 edition of the book contains an introduction supposedly written by Levy. In the introduction (now believed to have been written by an ambitious publisher: the translator was dead before the book came out), Levy explains that "My Sister and I" was penned while N was in the asylum in Jena and smuggled out by an ex-clergyman, who then traded the manuscript so that his (Jewish?) wife could get safe passage out of Europe.
Quelle histoire. The problem with the whole story is that there's no primary manusript; in fact, there's no copy of a translation that could be proven to be Levy's. But "My Sister and I" is a book that a certain sort of N fan would very much wish to be true, because it clears up two things quite quickly: yes, N did sleep with Elizabeth, and no, N was never quite the anti-Semite others made him out to be. So the book's still got some believers, though it would be far more tragic if it were in fact the real thing. Here's a bit:
"It first happened between Elizabeth and me the night our young brother Joseph died, though we had no idea she was dying when she crept into my bed. She was pleading that it was could where she was, and she knew how warm I always was. As a matter of fact, this was not true. Even in those early days, chills seized me and held on to me at the oddest and most unexpected times. And I was particularly cold that night...all afternoon little Joseph had kept the household in turmoil with his screaming and gasping. Suddenly I felt Elizabeth's little hands in mine, her hissing little voice was in my ear, and I began feeling warm all over."
Judith Krantz writing an entry for an Edgar Allen Poe style contest? Try this:
"Verily the love of a woman is a balm for the wounded soul, but incest is a closed garden, a fountain sealed, where the waters of life are dried up and the flowers bloom only to wither at the touch."
And so on. There are also lots of paeons to Heine and digs at Karl Marx, thoughts on Salome and some great cattiness directed at the Wagners ("Cosima will outlive all of us. Where other children are baptized she was vaccinated.")
5:55:44 PM 
|
|
