New England Review

I’ve just crossed over the border, and whenever one of us whose real homeland is language first sets foot on German soil, we feel a peculiar sense of strain, nowadays almost a certain trepidation. We can’t and don’t want to deny that since our earliest years when we were first beginning to understand what life is, we have felt a grateful love for Germany, which has given us, among others, a Riemenschneider¹ and a Dürer, a Goethe and a Bach—in short, our very cultural heritage and upbringing. Nor can we forget that those most characteristic and important Swiss, who refused to be subservient to German culture but instead shaped the relationship into a productive give-and-take, would certainly be unimaginable without the achievements of German intellect. [End Page 135]

So when we pass over this national border, we are already coming from a Germany of the spirit. Will we be disillusioned when we see the real Germany? Will our love for Germany be misused, misinterpreted, and disfigured into a “Longing for the Reich” so that our feelings about Germany will have to turn to indignation? And if today we don’t find that intellectual Germany whose classical language serves as our artistic model, will we then be forced to conclude that all its spirit and all that we loved about it is gone and we need to divorce ourselves from what exists now? Or can we put our trust in those silent ones who have remained in the country, a Carossa,² for example, or whatever their names might be now?

That is the real question, whether in the end we should believe the rabble-rouser or the poet. Who should set the standard for us, the braying mob or the lone individual who, despite being powerless, makes history, at least intellectual history? It’s not mere curiosity that impels us to make this journey. For us it’s a matter of faith, of a spiritual and intellectual foundation we once took for granted but that from now on will be questionable, a foundation without which we may be unable to fully thrive and prosper. For no serious German-speaking Swiss, whether poet or some other kind of artist, can give up our neighbor Germany with a light heart, lose it in spirit, and put an end to our shared cultural identity. What I mean is that going to Germany may be less a test of the Germans, the way some very arrogant people see it who think of themselves as divine messengers who examine and punish. It is rather a test of our own intellectual attitude, our inner openness and sense of security, which may protect us from placing too much weight on the present moment.