Letter to Rachel Bluwstein

There was a time when the writing of a letter, like the receiving of a letter, was in itself like a holiday for me. I lived in letters—as I told you once and also wrote—the way I live in nature. When agonies came to me—and they are frequent guests—I had two ways to renew my spirit: I would walk alone in nature for a while or I would write a letter to one of my friends. And not necessarily about what was pressing on my heart, of that explicitly I would not speak, but instead of matters close to my heart. And those two would bring me the needed respite, a reconciliation with everything, a feeling of sharing in the grief of all the world and with the universal poetry of sorrow.

Now almost nothing is left to me but nature. For a long time now the desire to write letters has diminished. And when I remember the letters I wrote to you, I cannot say that there were many of them, or that I write in the same manner, or with the same spirit that I used to write to you.

What has caused this change? It is hard to say. It is difficult from me to clarify it to myself. And perhaps it is just a passing weakness. In any case, it has greatly influenced my relationship between myself and others. I am becoming more and more closed off within myself. Who is to blame for this, me or the others? What is the difference? More and more I am looking for the human being, for the soul. You wrote me once that there those who kneel down before me. But that is not what I am looking for. I do not like bended knees, even before me. And perhaps it is even more difficult for me to see it before me. I seek a beating heart, a living soul. I would want people to be attracted to one another like those stars, each one great in itself, and great in their relationship to each other. These are great relationships suitable for a human being, if it is truly the crown of creation. And do not say that I demand too much, that I demand that people be angels. No! I only demand that they be natural, true, just like in nature. In nature there is no great and small. There everything is great, everything is true. In nature no one knows who is greater than the others: the star or the worm.

And this I do not find. And the more difficult thing is, that I do not find this not only in others, but also in myself. Only in nature do I find this, and when I am in nature, I find it also in myself. There I am as great as a star and as a worm.

But what a strange soul has God given me, that it is attracted precisely to people, to the soul of man, attracted—and burned or frozen. Sometime it seems: here is the person, here is the soul. But it is enough in one utterance, in one word, in one glance, in one gesture—and you see an abyss between your soul and theirs. And you fall into the abyss, fall and break like a broken vessel. [ . . . ]

And when I speak to many, I am speaking truly to the individual soul, since the many are ultimately composed of individuals, but there, the many do not see me and I do not see them. There, in truth, a single soul speaks and a single soul listens. There is a perspective, but this too must be added—it is a too-distant perspective. However, there the soul has infinite distances. And this is the only place where I find comfort from all that I suffer in the company of humankind (whether it is my fault, or the fault of the others or the fault of both together—there is no difference).

And if you think that I do not suffer there, you are mistaken. There you will also find the sufferings of my soul, but of course, in another form, and there they take a different character, there they come from a higher sphere. And this comes to my poor soul as a result of my soul seeking the truth—the logical truth, the spiritual truth, and the truth in life—and the purity it is seeking. Purity as the heavenly essence and truth as the essence of life, as the infinite essence. This lowly soul neither seeks beauty nor does it know how to ask [for it]. And when she sees—how much internal deep ugliness there is in what the aesthetics consider beauty, if only the form is somewhat beautiful—she almost despises the beauty. This humble soul is flawed, as you see, but how much is it punished! It is difficult to find the truth and the purity—O how difficult it is for this humble soul to find these on its own!

But such is life: ups and down, doubts, wars, but also certain victories. And in this I live. And when I manage to find somehow to write what I want, I feel good, festive.

I have something like this festive feeling now, because I sent a new item to Ha-Po‘el ha-tsa‘ir [The Young Worker]¹ something not terribly important, but I found it necessary, perhaps a necessity of the moment. It was before noon. And in the afternoon I also worked well, and in the evening I sat down to write to you. [ . . . ]

Right now I can tell you, that as much as I have managed to be acquainted with you, I can’t agree with your assumption that you don’t have any personal original content. I can tell you, that I have learned a great deal from within your soul, and you cannot learn from something that has no substance.

I think, that the content of your soul is essentially your subconscious; it may be that the flow of the illuminating oil streaming from your subconscious is not as rapid toward your conscious mind, and the originality is not easily recognized; but you are original in life, with unmediated directness in your actions and feelings. I believe that I thought this way before and hinted at something like this in a previous conversation. Do not take this lightly. Originality in life, unmediated originality in life, is even more important than recognized originality, than originality of thought and talent.

There may be an additional factor. It may be that your powers of thought and talent are not yet ripe, because the assembling of your world has not yet been completed. There are talents that do not ripen until very late. Take for example, Mendele Mokher Sforim. In his first writings, the talent that later became evident is not seen, and originality is not visible at all.

Therefore, when I advised you to study drawing, I didn’t advise you so much for the present as for the future. And I said to you once explicitly: perhaps one day there will awaken in you an urge to draw, then you’ll have the ability to do so, because you’ll have the required knowledge and the required preparation.

I don’t wish to awaken your hopes, since I’m not certain, that they are not imaginary. Nevertheless I trust your sound logic, and I tell you: who knows? Perhaps you really have original talent, and precisely because it is original, it is difficult for it to find the path to be realized, it is hard for it to find itself.

I, as I have written you once, am completely ignorant in art. And still I permit myself to share one thought on this matter with you.

The Congress² was, as you know, in one of the more grandiose halls in Vienna. And while sitting there, I felt that the hall says or sings something and mostly it seems to shout, what, I don’t know, because I am not an artist; and more, my soul is silenced as if the sound of the hall is overpowering it.

Then I thought: perhaps art doesn’t have to speak, but be silent. Perhaps the soul of the artist doesn’t have to speak from within, but the soul of the viewer has to speak when he sees art, just as it speaks when it sees the silent nature. It is clear that the word speaks in relationship with the soul of the viewer doesn’t fit my intention because there is more speaking as well as more silence here.

And perhaps this kind of art, the silent art, the art that seemingly says nothing; but the soul of the viewer says a great deal on its behalf—perhaps to this kind of art your talent is born, where there is more unknown [talent] than known. [ . . . ]

Reading too much is more harmful than productive because it weakens the independent work of the mind. In particular the very books that are near to the soul are harmful, because the soul is more influenced by them and is more enslaved by them. I personally think, for example, that Knut Hamsun³ influences you more and enslaves your soul more than others precisely because he is very close to your soul. But this harms you. You are not Knut Hamsun and should not be, but because of your proximity to him, you find it hard to find yourself. And this goes as well for the rest of the writers and poets close to you. In particular, you must be intellectually critical of them and be wary of their influence on you.

Of course, I have not come to give you rules and laws: I only wish to encourage your autonomous thinking. If I have succeeded, I will be very pleased.

As for Hebrew I would advise you to read the Bible in an orderly fashion the way Psalms are read, each day five or ten chapters—as much as there is time and desire—regardless of whether or not you understand the words and ideas. Many writers and nonwriters have done this until there were people who knew the entire Bible by heart. This will bring you great benefit. You should also read and study the books of agadah.