The Man of Sorrows — Postscript

— Cornelis de Bondt

Postscript

Exactly one year after Goethe’s visit, he stood at my doorstep again, wearing the same dark blue suit, complete with a waistcoat, bowtie, and aftershave. We settled in the salon, in the same arrangement as last time. After exchanging pleasantries, I asked him the reason for his new visit, “…I certainly have many questions, but we could have handled them through mail as well.”

“I happened to be in the area,” he replied, “and in a conversation, things go faster and can be more extensive.” I had an uneasy feeling, as if he was withholding something, but I decided to let that rest for now and first ask my questions.

“I must honestly say that the story, as ingenious and entertaining as it may be, doesn’t come across as very credible to me. There is no trace of evidence, or do you have something up your sleeve, and is that the real reason for your renewed visit?” I decided to get straight to the point…

“I have certainly not withheld anything, the reason I gave for my visit is genuine. And as for your question about evidence, I only have this text.” When he spoke, he looked me straight in the eyes, and whether he was an exceptionally talented actor or simply telling the truth, I couldn’t tell. He continued, “However, there are several aspects that, while not constituting direct evidence, make the story somewhat plausible. I will mention a few of them.” He took the story out of his briefcase, probably a copy, but I couldn’t see it clearly, and began to leaf through it.

I grabbed my copy of the story as well, I had already placed it next to me on the coffee table. “Do we have the same page numbering?” I asked.

“Indeed.” He continued flipping through the pages and suddenly said, “Here, from the section about Nietzsche, starting from page 46, but actually even a page earlier, Rome in 1929 — Kircher couldn’t have known all these things in 1656, yet they are described in that text from that time.”

“Yes, that may be, but that text could have been written centuries later,” I countered.

“That’s precisely the whole issue. I saw that text in the Vatican library, and it was clearly written in 1656, on paper and with ink from that time — wait…” He retrieved his briefcase and pulled out a document, handing it to me. “This is a photocopy of the first page of the text. I received it from the librarian, and it has an authenticity certificate stating that the document is genuine. It may not be conclusive proof, but it certainly makes the matter very plausible, don’t you think?”

I examined the document; it was just a photocopy, of course, but I had to admit it appeared authentic. It could be verified, at least. “Perhaps,” I said hesitantly. I didn’t want him to think I was completely convinced because I wasn’t.

“Maybe you should ask your other questions first; that might help further convince you. But perhaps it’s better if I first tell you more about the time machine. We can proceed from there.”

“Alright, tell me what you know,” I replied.

“I don’t know anything about the technology itself, but I do know some details that are not mentioned in the text. For example…”

“How do you know those details? Did you find other texts?” I interrupted.

“I live in his hometown, or rather village, and I work nearby at the Fulda Monastery, and indeed, I found some more texts of his there. They were deeply hidden in the archives, and no one knew about them. However, even in the Vatican text, there was more information than I ultimately included in the story. My focus was on the story itself, not the technology.”

“But that’s essential!”

“Yes, I understand that now.”

Not at first, huh? Yeah, right, I thought. “Okay, how did this time travel actually work?”

“As I mentioned before, I don’t know the exact details, but I do know that it involves two of his other inventions: the magnetic clock — magnetism plays a crucial role in time travel — and the perpetual mobile. It is known that he made a design for it, but in reality, he was much further along with it. The time machine is a form of that principle. His discovery of being able to travel not only on April 21 but also on June 21 completed it. He could travel back and forth over a relatively short time span, two months, without limitations. A perpetuum mobile. Furthermore, he can always return to April 21, 1656, essentially ‘pausing’ in time while doing everything he desires in any desired time. It’s a form of ‘eternal life!’”

“I have another question,” I said. “What about the influence on history? The story suggests that Kircher changed history. How does that work? Is the previous version of history erased?”

“That is indeed what Kircher writes; he discovered that. When he returns to Nicaea, on page…” he briefly flips through the text, “yes, on page 43, he realizes that history has changed, and the previous version is gone. He suspected that, of course, but now he has proof.”

“Can he encounter himself during such a journey?”

“No, he can only move with his cabin, always from and to the same place. He can never encounter himself; he exists in only one place at a time. If he is in Nicaea in 325 AD, he is not simultaneously in Rome in 1656 AD.”

“But doesn’t he change then?”

“Of course, just like any person, but he does it in different places at different times. However, one thing remains unchanged, at least if he keeps returning to April 21, 1656 — he doesn’t age. That date is his absolute reference point. He discovered that, and his entire project revolves around it.”

“But ethical questions arise from such a project!” I interject.
That is indeed possible, but I refrain from making a moral judgment; this matter goes far beyond that.”

“So, you align with the Revaluation of all Values, I understand, you stand behind it.”

“I am curious, I want to know where it leads. Dr. Faustus, in a way. Yes, that’s how humans are.”

“And then a murder here or there doesn’t matter? Everything in service of science?!”

“The deaths of Tacitus, Eva, and Toama are certainly regrettable and tragic. Kircher was genuinely troubled by it. But we also kill animals to eat them; we destroy nature for progress and our well-being. I don’t see a fundamental difference. The irony of Toama is that the gullibility of this ‘doubting Thomas’ became his downfall. Tacitus was already at the end of his life anyway. I believe Eva’s death bothered Kircher the most.”

“And what he did to Nietzsche! If that story is true, he turned eleven years of his life into a living hell. That may be worse than death!”

“If you compare yourself to a hammer and dynamite, don’t be surprised if someone wields an axe. I suspect that if he knew what had happened to him, he would even applaud it. After all, he also says in the preface of Ecce Homo: ‘When you have all disowned me, I will come back.’ Well, he has returned, only in the form of Kircher, the Übermensch.”

“He also writes, in the final chapter, that he might be the most terrifying human being who has ever existed, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t also be the greatest benefactor.”

“And perhaps Kircher will prove to be that.”

“I hope with all my heart that this entire history is just a grand fantasy.” I said it sincerely, but immediately after saying it, I realized that it actually meant I believed in the story. That greatly disturbed me.

There were still three things I wanted to know more about. “Did that Athanasius of Alexandria, from Nicaea, really exist, and is he therefore another victim of Kircher’s contribution to science, or is he entirely a creation of Kircher?”

“The latter,” Goethe stated firmly. “He was brought to life by Kircher, a sort of addition to history, a part of what he called his ‘Great Plan’.’”

“At least that’s something,” I said bitterly. “One more question: at the end of the text, he writes that he had to prevent Nietzsche from writing the text Die Umwertung aller Werte because he wanted to write it himself. Did he do it?”

“That is an interesting matter,” Goethe replied. “The text I found in Fulda, which I mentioned earlier, provides an answer to this. It turns out that Kircher had the original title of the text I gave you last year. However, he later changed it to the title that now appears above my story, ‘Schmerzensmann.’ He crossed out the title ‘Die Umwertung aller Werte.’ But the structure of the four parts, numbered with Roman numerals from I to IV, is still recognizable. Instead of four essays, they have become four sentences, symbolizing the contracting time, as seen in the fourth sentence. These four sentences replace the four essays, as he explains in the text I found in Fulda. It is also numbered with the same Roman numerals. I have a copy of it here.”

He handed me the sheet of paper with the following text:

I. “The Umwertung is not a text but a praxis, words travel on the back of action.”
II. “The Übermensch is not a race or a group, it consists of only one person.”
III. “The Umwertung is an Arcana, in which humanity is liberated from the Church.”
IV. “Christ as_not Christ, Time contracts.”

“He makes it personal!” I exclaimed.

“It depends on how you look at it,” said Goethe. “The fact that the Übermensch is one person seems to suggest that, but the higher goal is suprapersonal; you can deduce that from the other three points, which refer to ‘action’, ‘humanity’, ‘the Church’, ‘Time’ — in short, matters or concepts that transcend the personal. The Umwertung applies to humanity, in other words, whether the Übermensch is one person or not. The ‘Christ’ was also one person.”

“Or two…” I made a playful remark.

“No, one!” he said seriously. “The fact that Athanasius needed two is irrelevant; it was about the Idea of Christ.”

I decided to let that point rest and asked further, “I understand the first three points, but the last one is enigmatic. ‘Time contracts’ — does that have something to do with time travel? And what does ‘Christ as_not Christ’ mean, ‘Christ as Anti-Christ’?”

“Let’s start with the latter. The as_not formula is a messianic formula derived from Jewish mysticism. It doesn’t mean ‘Christ as not-Christ’ as you suggest; it’s not a comparison in that sense. It pertains to an ‘Aufhebung’, as can only be said in German.”

“I am familiar with that concept,” I said, but Goethe still explained, leaning forward towards me, he lectured:

“‘Aufheben’ means ‘to lift u’ in two senses: to rise up and to dissolve. Actually, the word is a metaphor of itself, both meanings are sublated in the word aufgehoben. Now, back to the messianic formula; it means that Christ both rises up and dissolves into his opposite. I believe that for Christ, the figure of the Antichrist symbolizes this Aufhebung. Expressed in the correct formula, your proposal would be as follows: ‘Christ as_not The Antichrist.’ Both figures have risen up and dissolved into each other.”

I nodded obediently. “I understand. The fact that there are then two versions of Christ, the twin brothers, so to speak, makes it even more intriguing. And now, about that time travel.”

Goethe sank back into the cushions on the couch. “Kircher’s time travel is actually nothing more than the technique to make the Aufhebung possible. That’s why, in that sense, it is personal, as you said. He is the only one who possesses this technique.”

“He could also make the technique available to others,” I interjected.

“But then the danger arises, which is certainly not imaginary, that it can and will be used for wrong purposes. I understand his restraint on this matter.”

“So we must silently assume that Kircher has no ill intentions and poses no danger…”

“That’s correct,” Goethe said with a serious and devout expression. “That he has only good intentions and poses no danger, that’s what I mean.”

“I see,” I said.

I had one more question, the crucial question: “Is Kircher still alive? I mean, have you heard anything from him, a new text, a sign, something that indicates he is still working on his ‘Great Plan’?”

He hesitated slightly too long before answering, at least in my perception. “No,” he said, “not that I have noticed. But I assume that he is still alive, mostly in his own time, 1656. And remember, he has time, all the time; quite literally.”

Since I had no more questions, at least not to ask him at that moment, we concluded our conversation. I thanked him for the texts and explanations, and I saw him out.

“Will I see you again?” I asked in the doorway.

He turned around and said, “Most likely.” Then he walked away.

I decided to pour myself a glass of wine, even though it was still too early for that, at least according to my own standards. But I wanted to let go of everything for a moment, give my mind a chance to be absent. The latter didn’t really work; I kept seeing Goethe’s face in front of me. Suddenly, I remembered something, a kind of déjà vu. I had met him before, a long time ago. I delved into my memory, and then I recalled a brief moment when we had seen each other. It must have been in the late summer of 1978 because I was watching the sudden death of a pope on TV. The doorbell rang, I answered it, and now I am absolutely certain that it was Goethe standing on the doorstep at that time.

He looked at me, apologized, “Apologies, wrong address,” and then walked away. I didn’t pay much attention to it, still dazed by the strange death of the pope. I searched through my archives and found a newspaper that I had kept for that reason, with a report about it. It concerned Pope John Paul I; his papacy had lasted exactly 33 days. There were various mysteries and conspiracy theories surrounding his death. Rumors circulated that his death was somehow connected to malpractices in the Vatican Bank. I read through the newspaper article, poured myself another glass of wine, and suddenly I was fixated on the number of days of his papacy, 33! Could that be a coincidence? Kircher?! Was he behind it? I told myself to be careful now, conspiracy theories have an irresistible allure.

I decided to put this matter out of my mind; it was all too unbelievable, that eccentric Dr. Goethe, the Kircher text, time machines… It had to be nonsense. But intriguing nonsense nonetheless.

Two months after the visit of Goethe, on June 21st, to be precise, I experienced a peculiar repetition of my déjà vu. It was different this time: after I opened the door, Goethe didn’t immediately walk away but entered my house with me. We watched the rest of the news segment about the pope together and then chatted about the papacy, Christianity, and all the theatrics surrounding it. He didn’t stay long, at least in my altered — or affected? — memory. I also don’t recall if he introduced himself to me or what the purpose of his visit was. The memory only encompassed this brief fragment.

I felt a strong sense of unease, fear, and even a beginning of panic. I sat in my living room and pondered for a while. Goethe’s face appeared before me, the one from two months ago, and from his visit the previous year, as well as the one from my memory today. What was disconcerting was that it seemed as if nothing had changed in his face, even though a span of twenty years should imply some degree of change. Suddenly, I stood up, grabbed Thomas Kanaan’s book about Kircher from the bookshelf, opened it, and stared at the priest’s portrait. I thought I saw a striking resemblance between Goethe’s face and Kircher’s. Or was I imagining it? I walked to the window with the book in hand and gazed thoughtfully outside. Could it be true? Could Kircher still be engaged in his travels, and thus in changing history? Was this his ‘Great Plan’, using the technique of controlling time to make it contract? The accumulation of sudden new memories seemed to point in that direction. But why did I still remember the previous version of his visit from 1978? Shouldn’t that have been erased? Or was this what Goethe meant by ‘Aufhebung’, that eventually all memories merge into one total memory, as if time transforms into one fused entity? And if that’s the case, should we approve or disapprove of it? Everything becomes one, and one becomes everything; we become what we are. May the gods — whichever they may be — be with us!

— Den Haag, June 21, 1998