Who then talking to me?

Who then  talking to me? Who explained me the problems far
surpassing my understanding? Who combined high and low, and laid
the Foundation of what will become the main passion of the second half of my life? Who
still, except the distant guest who appeared out of the region where
high and low?
 This dream initiated me into the mysteries of the earth. It was a kind of burial
in the ground, and it took many years before I went out again. Today I
know what it happened then to make as much light as possible in
around me the darkness. It is an initiation into the Kingdom  darkness. At this point
unconsciously, I started my intellectual life.
 In 1879 we moved to Klein-Huningen near Basel. The move
I don't remember, but remember what happened a few years later. One night,
when I was in bed, his father carried me in his arms and carried to the West
porch. It was after the eruption of Krakatau in 1883.
 Another time a father asked me to show the comet shone brightly in
the Eastern part of the sky.
 And one day there was a flood. Flowing through the village the river Vize
broken dam, the upper struts of the bridge collapsed.  Drowned fourteen
people, yellow water the stream carried them into the Rhine. When the water receded,
several corpses stuck in the sand. As soon as I learned about it, I
it was impossible to keep. Actually I found the body of a middle-aged man in
the black ecclesiastical robe, he apparently just returned from Church. He lay
half buried in the sand, covering your eyes with your hands. Just me
was transfixed by the spectacle of slaughter pigs. To the horror of my mother, I was left
to watch to the end. These things caused me great interest.

 To the same years in Klein-Huningen are my early
the experience associated with art. The house in which we lived, was built in
XVIII century for the priest. It was a dark room where there was a good
the furniture and on the walls were old paintings. I especially remember
Italian painting depicting David and Goliath. It was a copy of the painting
Guido Reni, the original of which is in the Louvre. How it got in our
family, I do not know. In that room there was one old picture that
now hangs in my son's apartment: view of Basel Dating from the early nineteenth century.
Often I  slipped into this dark, separated from other room and for hours
sat there, staring at the paintings. It was the only manifestation
lovely, I know.
 About the same time - should be, I was still a kid (not older than
six years) - aunt took me to Basel and took to watching stuffed animals in
Museum. We spent a long time there, because I wanted to consider all
carefully. At four o'clock the bell rang, it meant that the Museum
closed. My aunt shook me and scolded, but I couldn't break away from
Windows. Meanwhile, the hall was locked and  we had to go the other way - to
staircase, through the antique gallery. And here I was in front of these amazing
images! Stunned, I widely opened my eyes. I have never had
to see anything as beautiful. But I could not consider so long,
as I would like. Aunt pulled me by the hand to the exit. I plodded on step
behind her, she loudly repeated: "Samurize, you naughty boy, samurize,
you naughty boy!" And only then I realized that the figures were naked that
only a Fig leaf. I just didn't notice! This was
my first meeting with beautiful. My aunt was outraged, though she
dragged me out of the brothel.
 When I was six years old, my parents took me on a tour in
Arlesheim. On this occasion, the mother put on her dress which I never forgot,
and this is her only dress that was etched in my memory. It was
sewn from black fabric with little green crescents. Early image
the mother is the image of a graceful young woman in this dress. In later
my memories she was elderly and plump.
 We went to Church, and the mother suddenly said: "And itCatholic
the temple." Fear and curiosity prompted me to slip away from her and look
inside. Time was just enough to see large candles in ornate
decorated the altar (it was the eve of Passover), but then I tripped on the step
and hit his chin on the iron. I remember I was deeply hurt and I
much was bleeding, when my parents raised me. My feelings were
contradictory: on the one hand, I was ashamed because my screams
attracted the attention of the parishioners, on the other hand, I felt that I had done
something forbidden. The Jesuits, a green curtain, the secret eater... It's the same
the Catholic Church that is associated with the Jesuits. It is my fault that I fell and
shouted.
 For many years, I had only to enter the temple, I felt a secret fear
before the blood, falling and Jesuits. These were images which when
thoughts about the Catholic Church, yet its atmosphere has always fascinated
me. The presence of a Catholic priest has sharpened my senses (if such
possible). And only in my thirties, I ceased to feel a sense of oppression
before the mother-Church. The first time I felt it in the Cathedral of St.
Stephen's Cathedral in Vienna.
  When I was six years old, his father began to teach me Latin, and I started
to go to school. I had nothing against the school, it was easy because
I was always ahead of others, learning to read before he goes to school.
However, I remember when, not knowing how to read, I pestered my mother to
she honored me, "Orbis pictus", an old, richly illustrated children's
in the book, I found the descriptions of exotic religions. It was unusually
interesting pictures with images of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva,
to her mother, I kept coming back to him. And whenever I did,
I have a vague sense of kinship of these images with my "first
revelation", but I haven't talked about that. It was my secret. Indirectly
the mother confirmed my feeling - I've noticed a slight contempt in her tone when
she spoke of "the Gentiles." I knew that she is not taking my "revelation", and
just horrified, and I didn't want once again to injure yourself.
 Such childish behavior was due, on the one hand, with a sharp
sensitivity and vulnerability, on the other - and this is especially important with
loneliness in the early period of my life. (My sister  was born in nine
years after me.) I played their games. Sorry, can't remember
what to play, just remember - I didn't want to be disturbed. Plunging in
their games, I couldn't stand when she was looking for me or talking about me and my
the game. The first clear recollection is about the games belongs to the seventh or eighth
year of life. I loved the dice and built towers, which are then enthusiastically
destroyed "by an earthquake". Between ten and eleven years I
drew battles, assaults, bombings, naval battles. Then I filled
the entire book of exercises ink blotches and had fun coming up with them
a fantastic explanation. And the school I liked besides those,
what I finally had friends - something I had so long been
deprived.