As a young adult, one of my favourite novels was Narcissus and Goldmund by Hermann Hesse.

I didn’t know where to go in life but I knew my life had to be big.  Books pointed the way … many ways.  This particular paperback novel grew to be well thumbed in my hands, worn and folded.

Here’s the gist of the story:

“In Narcissus and Goldmund by Hermann Hesse, we journey into the contrasting lives and philosophies of two medieval men.  Our story begins in a monastery, where Narcissus, a gifted academic and ascetic monk, recognizes the restless spirit and individualistic drive in his pupil Goldmund.  While Narcissus devotes himself to studying and spiritual pursuits, he recognizes that Goldmund has a contrasting destiny and encourages him to leave the monastery in pursuit of artistic and sensual pleasure.

With Narcissus’ encouragement, Goldmund embarks on an exploration of the outside world, a realm teeming with sensuality, art and the fleeting beauty of life.  Through these experiences, he revels in the pleasures of the flesh and discovers his talent as a gifted sculptor, crafting artistic renditions of the human form.  Goldmund’s world becomes one deeply rooted in senses, emotions and capturing the transient beauty of life through his craft.”

Ah yes.  My mind was vibrant even way back then, and my fingers yearned to be.

Many decades later, I have expressed my divinity in voice, piano, guitar and cello, with a small dabble of batik.  All this as the spirit climbed … alone and in connection with beloveds.  The two views remain friends.

I’ve forgotten the flow of dialogue between Goldmund and Narcissus but I smile when their moments return to me softly.  A few minutes ago, I wanted to share with you something that Goldmund said, something that would shine on our faces.

And I found what I was looking for:

I believe . . . that the petal of a flower or a tiny worm on the path says far more, contains far more than all the books in the library.  One cannot say very much with mere letters and words.  Sometimes I’ll be writing a Greek letter, a theta or an omega, and tilt my pen just the slightest bit.  Suddenly the letter has a tail and becomes a fish.  In a second it evokes all the streams and rivers of the world, all that is cool and humid, Homer’s sea and the waters on which Saint Peter wandered.  Or becomes a bird, flaps its tail, shakes out its feathers, puffs itself up, laughs, flies away. You probably don’t appreciate letters like that very much, do you, Narcissus?  But I say: with them God wrote the world.

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Thank you, book companions of the past

Welcome to the present

And what of the future?