Jewish Encounters with Buddhism in German Culture: Between Moses and Buddha, 1890–1940 [1st ed. 2019] 978-3-030-27468-9, 978-3-030-27469-6

Table of contents :
Front Matter ....Pages i-ix
Introduction (Sebastian Musch)....Pages 1-18
Buddhism and German-Jewish Orientalism (Sebastian Musch)....Pages 19-40
The Buddha, the Rabbis, and the Philosophers: Rejections and Defenses (Sebastian Musch)....Pages 41-99
The Bridgebuilders: Jewishness Between Asia and Europe (Sebastian Musch)....Pages 101-187
The Assimilation and Dissimilation of a Buddhist Jew: Walter Tausk’s Contested Identities (Sebastian Musch)....Pages 189-244
Conclusion: Toward the Study of Jewish-Buddhist Relations (Sebastian Musch)....Pages 245-253
Back Matter ....Pages 255-289

Citation preview

PALGRAVE SERIES IN ASIAN GERMAN STUDIES

Jewish Encounters with Buddhism in German Culture

Between Moses and Buddha, 1890–1940 Sebastian Musch

Palgrave Series in Asian German Studies Series Editors Joanne Miyang Cho Department of History William Paterson University of New Jersey Wayne, NJ, USA Lee M. Roberts International Language Culture Studies Department Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne, IN, USA

This series contributes to the emerging field of Asian-German Studies by bringing together cutting-edge scholarship from international scholars in a variety of fields. It encourages the publication of works by specialists globally on the multi-faceted dimensions of ties between the German-­ speaking world (Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and German-speaking enclaves in Eastern Europe) and Asian countries over the past two centuries. Rejecting traditional notions of West and East as seeming polar opposites (e.g., colonizer and colonized), the volumes in this series attempt to reconstruct the ways in which Germans and Asians have cooperated and negotiated the challenge of modernity in various fields. The volumes cover a range of topics that combine the perspectives of anthropology, comparative religion, economics, geography, history, human rights, literature, philosophy, politics, and more. For the first time, such publications offer readers a unique look at the role that the German-speaking world and Asia have played in developing what is today a unique relationship between two of the world’s currently most vibrant political and economic regions. More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14664

Sebastian Musch

Jewish Encounters with Buddhism in German Culture Between Moses and Buddha, 1890–1940

Sebastian Musch Department of History Osnabrück University Osnabrück, Germany

Palgrave Series in Asian German Studies ISBN 978-3-030-27468-9    ISBN 978-3-030-27469-6 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-27469-6 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2019 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, express or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover illustration: AF Fotografie / Alamy Stock Photo This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

This book is based on a dissertation at the Hochschule für Jüdische Studien Heidelberg under the title “Jewish Orientalism? Jewish Responses to Buddhism in German Culture (1890–1940)”

Acknowledgments

The completion of this book has been a long journey spanning almost six years and three continents. I’m extremely grateful for the friends and colleagues, who made this journey possible. First of all, I want to thank Frederek Musall, who initially suggested this topic to me. Without his constant encouragement and unwavering support, this book would not have materialized. I also want to thank Gregor Ahn for agreeing to serve as my second reader. A special thanks goes to Cedric Cohen-Skalli for hosting me at the University of Haifa. He provided guidance when I needed it the most and I’m thankful for his unfailing scholarly support and friendship. I’m particularly grateful to everybody from the Posen Society of Fellows. The two summer seminars in Berkeley have been a wonderful occasion to discuss my work in an intellectually stimulating as well as pleasant setting. I’m indebted to Rachel and David Biale, Naomi Seidman, Fania Oz-Salzberger, and David Myers for organizing these seminars and the erudite discussion of my research. Martin Jay invited me to spend the academic year 2015–2016 in the History Department at University of California (UC) Berkeley and I am grateful for his support and advice. Rachel and David Biale were crucial in making me feel at home in Berkeley. I further want to thank Naomi Seidman for inviting me to the Dissertation Writing Group at the Graduate Theological Union, where I wrote substantial parts of Chap. 4. Susannah Heschel invited me to Dartmouth College where I spent a wonderful summer in 2016. I want to thank her for this invitation and her continuing support ever since. vii

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I’m also indebted to the following persons, who were so generous to offer their advice (in more or less chronological order): Guy Stroumsa, Amos Morris-Reich, Yotam Hotam, Boaz Neumann, (z”l), Zur Shalev, Ory Amitai, Paul Mendes-Flohr, Andrea Sinn, Russell Berman, and Lawrence Baron. I have presented parts of this work at the following institutions and am particularly grateful for the enthusiasm and interested questions I received from the audience (again in more or less chronological order): University of Haifa, Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, University of Helsinki, University of Heidelberg, University of Frankfurt, Mahachulalongkornrajavidyalaya University, University of Oxford, University of Southern California, Harvard University, Dartmouth College, and University of British Columbia. The staff at the following archives has gone out of its way to help me with my research: the Center for Jewish History New  York, the Feuchtwanger Memorial Library at the University of Southern California, the Wroclaw University Library, and, last but not least, Deutsches Literaturarchiv Marbach. I want to acknowledge the generosity of the following organizations and foundations: EDEN-Project (Horizon 2020), the Posen Foundation, the Association of Jewish Studies, the Feuchtwanger Memorial Library at the University of Southern California, the Jewish Studies Program at Dartmouth College, and Deutsches Literaturarchiv Marbach (C.H. Beck Graduiertenstipendium). A semester as a guest lecturer at Uva Wellassa University in Sri Lanka and a month at Shengshou Temple, China, as part of the Woodenfish Humanistic Buddhism Monastic Life Program offered me insights into Buddhism beyond what one can learn from texts. A special acknowledgment goes to my new colleagues in the Department of History and the Institute for Migration Research and Intercultural Studies (IMIS) at Osnabrück University. Most of all, I want to thank my parents for their endless trust, and Bieke Willem, for being my travel companion on this journey.

Contents

1 Introduction  1 2 Buddhism and German-Jewish Orientalism 19 3 The Buddha, the Rabbis, and the Philosophers: Rejections and Defenses 41 4 The Bridgebuilders: Jewishness Between Asia and Europe101 5 The Assimilation and Dissimilation of a Buddhist Jew: Walter Tausk’s Contested Identities189 6 Conclusion: Toward the Study of Jewish-­Buddhist Relations245 Bibliography

255

Index

281

ix

CHAPTER 1

Introduction

In 1938 in the highlands of British Ceylon, the island now known as Sri Lanka, a Buddhist monk named Nyanaponika sat down to pen a letter to a childhood friend. He had recently moved from a hermitage in the southern part of the island, where he had been ordained. Exchanging the crushing heat of the jungle for the milder climate of the highlands, he felt more comfortable. It was the third year since his arrival from Europe and, during that time, the climatic conditions had proven to be his greatest challenge. Somewhere between the ancient capitals of Kandy and Gampola, Nyanaponika had erected a hut to protect himself from the elements on a small piece of land enclosed by rice paddies. For food, he visited the nearby villages where he begged for alms. It was a simple life, but one he had strived for. When he was not busy begging or meditating, he spent his time learning Pali, the holy language of Theravada Buddhism, and Singhalese, which was spoken by the local population. In the letter to his childhood friend, who had also left Europe and resided in Mandatory Palestine, he wrote in his mother tongue, German: My dear Max! How many things have changed for worse and the worst since the last time I wrote you—and not just the Jewish fate!1

1  “Mein lieber Max! Seit ich Dir zum letzten Mal schrieb, wie Vieles hat sich zum Schlimmen und immer Schlimmeren verändert und nicht nur das jüdische Schicksal!” Letter

© The Author(s) 2019 S. Musch, Jewish Encounters with Buddhism in German Culture, Palgrave Series in Asian German Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-27469-6_1

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The “Max” in question was Max Kreutzberger, then head of the Hitachdut Olei Germania, an association for German immigrants to Palestine, and later, among other functions, first executive director of the Leo Baeck Institute in New  York. Behind the name Nyanaponika was Siegmund (Shlomo) Feniger, who would ascend to become one of the twentieth century’s foremost Buddhist intellectuals in Sri Lanka, a towering figure who left an indelible imprint on the Buddhist landscape, and whose legacy lives on today in Sri Lanka and beyond. Feniger was born in Hanau on July 21, 1901, to Jewish parents, and he was raised in a traditional Jewish environment.2 Even after discovering Buddhism in the 1920s and immigrating to British Ceylon in 1935, throughout his life he retained a strong sense of belonging to the Jewish people. Even though he wrote his most accomplished works decades after the destruction of German-Jewish culture, Nyanaponika was a scion of the encounter between German Jewry and Buddhism in the first decades of the twentieth century. It is the story of this encounter that I want to tell in this book. This encounter includes some of the most prominent German-Jewish voices, as well as unknown figures, from philosophers and novelists to journalists and rabbis. Franz Rosenzweig, Martin Buber, Jakob Wassermann, and Lion Feuchtwanger are included, as are relatively unknown figures like Paul Cohen-Portheim and Walter Tausk, among others. This study spans the decades before the First World War up to the destruction of German Jewry during the Holocaust. Many of the people in this story went into exile, and many others were killed. Yet, as Nyanaponika showed, the story would live on. We begin in the 1890s, although it would take nearly two more decades for Buddhism to become an important topic in German culture and to exert an influence that is both near-ubiquitous and yet seldom acknowledged. However, I have not chosen the date by chance. The 1890s mark the threshold between the extant concern with India (and also by extension Buddhism) during the nineteenth century and the emergent rise of Buddhism as a religion. The idea that Buddhism was a religion, even a “world religion,” comparable to Christianity and Judaism, had proliferated during the previous decades from Siegmund Feniger to Max Kreutzberger, June 27, 1938, Box 8, Folder 35, Max Kreutzberger Collection, Leo Baeck Institute, New York. 2  Bhikku Bodhi, Nyanaponika: A Hundred Years from Birth (Kandy: Buddhist Publication Society, 2001), 3.

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and gathered momentum in the 1890s.3 Famously, Arthur Schopenhauer declared himself a “Buddhaist” in 1856, but only in the 1890s was the time ripe for a figure like Theodor Schultze to emerge, a senior Prussian state employee (Oberpräsidialrat), who described himself as a Buddhist and published books like Der Buddhismus als Religion der Zukunft in 1894.4 German thinkers and artists like Richard Wagner and Friedrich Nietzsche already had something of a penchant for Buddhism, but only in the 1890s did Buddhism garner enough social capital to be considered in its own right. Buddhism was no longer automatically subsumed under Indian thought or East Asian religion. And the (bourgeois) public fervently embraced it. In 1899, the Professor of Indology Leopold von Schroeder stated that “every newspaper wants an essay; every Verein wants to have a lecture about the Buddha.”5 However, von Schroeder, the clearheaded scholar, was not pleased that the rise of Buddhism was inconceivable without the widespread popularity of theosophy, which took interest in Buddhism to a new level. However, while innumerable mystical or occultist movements played a major role in the spread and reception of Buddhism in German culture, Buddhism quickly emancipated itself from its theosophic roots. After the turn of the century, for many people, Buddhism was about to become the main attraction (see Chap. 3). Its followers wanted Buddhism to be seen as a full-­ fledged religion, and in 1903, German Buddhists found their first institutional home in the Buddhistischer Missionsverein in Deutschland. Following the ascendance of Buddhism to a religion around the 1890s, we can observe the dissemination of Buddhist ideas among the intellectual and cultural elite, concomitant with a renewed interest in Schopenhauer 3  Tomoko Masuzawa, The Invention of World Religions: Or, How European Universalism was Preserved in the Language of Pluralism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005), 140f. 4  See Volker Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur (Berlin: Theseus, 2000), 74 and Perry Myers, German Visions of India, 1871–1918: Commandeering the Holy Ganges during the Kaiserreich (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), esp. chapter 3. Urs App has shown that Schopenhauer was already interested in Buddhism in his youth and thus decades before he utilized Buddhist ideas in Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung. See Urs App, “Notes and Excerpts by Schopenhauer Related to the Volumes 1–9 of the Asiatick Researches,” Schopenhauer Jahrbuch 79 (1998), 11–33. 5  Leopold von Schroeder, “Indiens geistige Bedeutung für Europa,” in Reden und Aufsätze, vornehmlich über Indiens Literatur und Kultur (Leipzig: Haessel, 1913), 181. Also quoted in Suzanne Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire: Religion, Race, and Scholarship (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 275.

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and Nietzsche. In 1916, a bibliography (albeit an incomplete one) of available German titles on Buddhism already listed more than 2500 entries.6 As such, at the start of the twentieth century, we can see Buddhism’s sudden transformation from an obscure topic, largely of interest to a few misfits and lonesome scholars, into a fashionable subject that left its mark on the writings of the foremost—not only Jewish—authors of the period. Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha is certainly the most famous example, but others including Rainer Maria Rilke, Alfred Döblin, Thomas Mann, Bertolt Brecht, Fritz Mauthner, Franz Werfel, Stefan Zweig, and many more integrated Buddhist ideas into their writings. The diverse understanding of what was passed down as genuine Buddhism offered something for everyone. From the turn of the century until the First World War, when interest in Buddhism peaked, one can note both a shift and a bifurcation. Scholarly attention waned during this decade, but it was now up to committed Buddhists and less committed literati to come to terms with this new phenomenon. Committed Buddhists often struggled with the question of what it meant to be a Buddhist in Germany. Literati, on the other hand, used their ideas of Buddhism quite freely. Buddhism was for many a flexible, malleable mass that could be used, combined, chopped up, and reassembled. The coexistence of rational and spiritual interpretations of Buddhism underlines the fact that, in the end, the mind was the only Procrustean bed to which one had to conform.7 The severance of religious practice from philosophical ideas, which we can identify in the West’s approach to Buddhism to this day, facilitated the adoption of the latter. Once Buddhism had become popular and capable of standing independently, it was taken up by those looking to supplement their Weltanschauung without subscribing to all of Buddhism’s sweeping claims. This bifurcation was most visible in the kind of questions that were raised in the respective circles. On one side, some pondered if Buddhism entailed vegetarianism or celibacy for German laity. Should they live as monks and wear robes? Should they erect a stupa or found a Buddhist monastery on

6  See Hans Ludwig Held, Deutsche Bibliographie des Buddhismus (München: Hans Sachs Verlag, 1916). 7  Please see Donald S. Lopez’s excellent study on how Lamaism was portrayed as the most authentic and the most degenerate form of Buddhism at the same time. Donald S. Lopez, Prisoners of Shangri-La. Tibetan Buddhism and the West (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1998), 10ff.

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the island of Sylt?8 More generally, should Buddhist customs be transported from Asia to Germany, and if so, to what extent? These were practical questions, most of which did not find ready-made answers in the Pali Canon. Indeed, they often required some hermeneutic effort. As a result, different German schools of Buddhism were established. On the other, philosophically inclined, side, the key question was whether Karl Eugen Neumann’s German translations from the Pali Canon were an intellectual achievement comparable to Martin Luther’s translation of the Bible (as George Bernhard Shaw and Edmund Husserl believed) or Shakespeare’s plays (a position held by Thomas Mann and Jakob Wassermann).9 This was a discussion of lofty intellectual ideas and such was their Buddhism. It is unlikely that Thomas Mann, Alfred Kubin, Karl Gjellerup, or the other writers and artists enamored with Buddhism ever contemplated robing up. Their interest was chiefly confined to the ideas that the Buddha (re-) presented and less about practical concerns. Following the rise from the obscurity of homegrown German Buddhism to a cultural phenomenon that enticed many writers and intellectuals in the interwar period, a notable decline is visible with the rise of the Nazi regime. Subsequently, the bevy of those with a penchant for Buddhism became dispersed. Most literati were now less interested in Buddhism and their preoccupation with it often had to yield to the more pressing demands of simply surviving. They became more attentive to worldly issues and only a few (among them Lion Feuchtwanger, whom we discuss later) dared to connect a Buddhist message to the shift in the political sphere. Others argued that National Socialism and Buddhism shared common ideas. The joint usage of the swastika was the key piece of evidence in this regard. The antisemitic undercurrent that had plagued German Buddhism 8  In 1927, Paul Dahlke erected a Buddhist monument in the Northern part of Sylt. It was destroyed in 1939 by the German air force to make room for an airfield. For more info, see Martin Baumann, “Ein buddhistisches Denkmal auf Sylt,” Lotusblätter 2 (1994), 24ff. See also: Martin Baumann, Helmut Klar—Zeitzeuge zur Geschichte des Buddhismus in Deutschland (Konstanz: Martin Baumann, 1995), 146f. 9  Only Rainer Maria Rilke was not excited about Karl Eugen Neumann’s translation. See Ulrich Baer, The Rilke Alphabet (New York: Fordham University Press, 2014), 16f. Cf. Hellmuth Hecker, Die Lehre des Buddha und Karl Eugen Neumann: eine Betrachtung zum 90. Geburtstag K.E. Neumanns (Konstanz: Verlag Christiani, 1955), 31. See also: Ina Seidel, Edmund Husserl, and Jakob Wassermann, “Über die Reden Gotamo Buddhos,” Der Piperbote 2 (1925), 17–20.

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from its inception was now in plain sight. Intellectually meager as this current was, its disappearance during the 1930s was hardly noticed outside of the circle of its most dedicated adherents. While some would continue to hold on to Buddhist ideas privately or even start successful careers in the Buddhist world, like Nyanaponika, German Buddhism lost its cultural clout during the 1930s. The Second World War marked the temporary end of the German fascination with Buddhism. This study draws from a myriad of sources—such as philosophical treatises, novels, essays, diaries, and letters—and excavates a large (yet far from complete) field of the Jewish-Buddhist encounter in Germany. Though generically diverse, these texts are connected by their preoccupation with the same inherent questions: What is the relation of Buddhism to one’s own Jewishness? How can one embrace Buddhism and still retain a sense of Jewish identity? Is Buddhism inimical to Judaism? Perhaps there is no conflict at all? Might one’s Jewishness lead to Buddhism, or vice versa? The figures in this study addressed these and similar questions throughout their writings, both explicitly and implicitly, casually and obsessively. Moreover, when they wrote about Buddhism, they were also negotiating their own Jewishness. How this entanglement between Buddhism and Judaism came about and how (partly antisemitic) forces shaped it are discussed throughout this study, providing the background for the manifold Jewish responses to the influx of Buddhism into German culture. In Chap. 2, “Buddhism and German-Jewish Orientalism,” I discuss the existing literature on German Orientalism and the extent to which contemporary research in postcolonial theory might be useful in exploring the reaction of German Jews to Buddhism. In Chap. 3, “The Buddha, the Rabbis, and the Philosophers: Rejections and Defenses,” I provide an overview of what I have dubbed the “Buddha-­ Jesus Literature,” the large corpus of works that discuss possible links between Buddha and Jesus, or Buddhism and Christianity. Taking its cue from Romanticism, the Buddha-Jesus literature absorbed many popular themes of German Orientalism of the nineteenth century. This discourse, which was immensely popular between 1890 and 1914, produced hundreds of articles and books, and Jewish rabbis and philosophers took note of it. Often it was seen as a tool of delegitimizing Judaism, and the concurrent entrance of Buddhism into German mainstream culture was thus perceived as a threat. I show how rabbis, community leaders, and philosophers warned against Buddhism, and how a negative perception of Buddhism

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came to inform their work. Theodor Lessing, Franz Rosenzweig, Leo Baeck, and Martin Buber are featured alongside other, lesser-known figures. In Chap. 4, “The Bridgebuilders: Jewishness Between Asia and Europe,” the focus shifts to novelists and journalists, among them some of the magnificoes of German-Jewish literature, and their appraisal of Buddhism. I discuss Lion Feuchtwanger, Paul Cohen-Portheim, Jakob Wassermann, and Walter Hasenclever and their ideas on Buddhism and Jewishness. Here we find an exoticist fascination with Buddhism, India, and China, or the East more generally. Some would write explicitly Buddhist works, while others more implicitly incorporated elements of Buddhist thought into their oeuvre, often undetected by their audience and/or critics. Even though they often saw Judaism as a vis inertiae and distanced themselves from their Jewish upbringings, they nevertheless retained some kind of Jewish identity. By contrast, Buddhism proved appealing on account of its perceived status as a philosophy and not a religion. I examine this intertwining between Buddhism and Jewishness and how concepts of Jewishness often aligned with the perception of Buddhism. Chapter 5, “The Assimilation and Dissimilation of a Buddhist Jew: Walter Tausk’s Contested Identities,” comprises a microbiography of Walter Tausk, who adopted Buddhism as a religion after his experience as a soldier in the First World War. Based on his published writings and diaries, we follow the evolution of his stance toward Buddhism, as well as Judaism and his Jewishness. By examining more personal aspects, we can highlight and address questions that previous chapters, which focus less on the private and more on the public perception, left unexplored. We analyze Tausk’s struggle to find his place between Buddhism and his Jewishness in the 1920s and witness his persecution as a Jew during the 1930s. The chapter ends on a solemn note, charting Tausk’s deportation and death in 1941. In the “Conclusion: Toward the Study of Jewish-Buddhist Relations,” I utilize the findings presented in this study to begin to address several issues in the research on the Jewish-Buddhist encounter, both in a German context and beyond. I set out the limits and challenges we face when applying lessons from the German-Jewish response to Buddhism beyond that narrow historical and geographical framework. Before proceeding to the first substantive chapter, several caveats are in order. First, this is not a complete survey of the encounter of German Jews with Buddhism in all its depth. My study focuses mostly on intellectuals, writers, thinkers, philosophers, and rabbis, that is, literati in the broadest

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sense. The Jewish-Buddhist encounter that I describe largely occurred via the written word. Textual production is thus the medium through which the arrival of Buddhism is negotiated. Material and oral culture is only touched upon occasionally. The reaction of, for example, ordinary synagogue-­goers will not be known as long as they did not leave it in writing. This is especially evident in Chap. 5, when we discuss Walter Tausk, who often bickered with his Jewish family. We only know of such family strife through his writings, while his parents and sisters did not have their own voices. Just as the German and European encounter with Buddhism in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries was a textual construction, so too is this study. This leads me to the second caveat: I do not provide an overview of the Jewish reception of Buddhism in Germany between the 1890s and 1940s (which would be a gargantuan task) in all its breadth. I do not consider all responses of German-Jewish writers, and instead focus only on those pertinent to the questions raised above. As I shall explain later, the German fascination with Buddhism often went hand in hand with counter-historical attempts to redefine German or European culture devoid of Jewish contributions. Antisemitism was a frequent feature of German Buddhism, the most striking example of which is what I have dubbed the Buddha-Jesus literature (Chap. 3), which indulges the idea that Jesus was in fact not Jewish, but Buddhist. The context of this study is the renewal of Jewish thought and culture after the turn of the century, which has often been described as dissimilation, born from a combination of antisemitism and the dynamics of assimilation.10 The Jewish engagement with Buddhism, whether appreciative or depreciative, will serve as a test case for the dissimilation hypothesis. Part of Buddhism’s appeal to Jews and gentiles alike lay in its newness. In an age of perpetual crisis, of constant feelings of doom and pessimism, its newness (and ostensibly paradoxically, its age) was Buddhism’s unique selling point. A culture gone sour needed new ingredients, which the teachings of the Buddha offered. The polemics and the attacks against Buddhism, discussed in Chap. 3, paid tribute to these questions and often tried to turn the tables on them. Attacks against Buddhism, concomitant with the defense of Judaism, are especially instructive precisely because of

10  See Shulamit Volkov, “The Dynamics of Dissimilation,” in The Jewish Response to German Culture: From the Enlightenment to the Second World War, edited by Jehuda Reinharz and Walter Schatzberg (Hanover: University Press of New England, 1985), 197.

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their apologetic character. They often tackle the issue head on and do not shy away from taking clear positions. In contrast, the very broad tendency to “culturize” Judaism and Buddhism, that is, to prescind cultural or philosophical traits from either Judaism or Buddhism and argue for an affinity between the two, as discussed in Chap. 4, approaches this question in a more indirect way. Often the reason for this is the genre that writers choose. Novels, dramas, or essays, unlike apologetics or polemics, leave more room for nuance and ambiguity. Their narrative is more explorative than argumentative. Buddhism and, to a lesser extent, Judaism were basically stripped of religious content, becoming thereby a blank canvas onto which meaning could be freely inscribed. German Jews who converted to Buddhism, on the other hand, were less free in how they approached their new religion, as they were often eager to find the purest or most “authentic” version that was not compromised by Western ideas. Conversion can here only be understood as a public avowal, that is, through the written word, since there was no Buddhist authority that could grant or deny access to these aspirants. Those who held Buddhism as a private belief and did not publish in one of the numerous German-Buddhist journals remained under the radar. Just to give an idea of the numbers, the Buddhistische Gesellschaft in Deutschland, which existed under this name between 1906 and 1911, had 50 members, while its journal Der Buddhist had around 500 subscribers.11 The numbers of Germans who actually converted to Buddhism between 1890 and 1940 are relatively small and unreliable. If we look at Germans who became ordained as Buddhist monks during the period in question, the numbers are in the lower double-digit range.12 While Jews made up a disproportionately high number of these German converts, the absolute numbers are too small to draw conclusions. It has become popular to speculate 11  See Martin Baumann, Deutsche Buddhisten—Geschichte und Gemeinschaften (Marburg: Diagonal-Verlag, 1993), 54f. Walter Tausk reported that the Bund für Buddhistisches Leben had 300 members after the First World War and 100 remaining members in 1925. Walter Tausk, Diary Entry, October 30, 1925. Reel 2. I consulted the original diaries at the Walter Tausk Collection at the Wroclaw University Library; however, for this book I relied mostly on the microfilms of the diaries at the Center for Jewish History New  York (AR 4215/ MF359) and all references are accordingly. 12  See the biographical sketches in: Hellmuth Hecker, Lebensbilder deutscher Buddhisten— Ein bio-bibliographisches Handbuch, Bd. II, Die Nachfolger (Konstanz: Universitätsverlag, 1997).

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about the so-called JuBu phenomenon, that is, the disproportionately high numbers of American Buddhists of Jewish origin in recent decades. However, I refrain from drawing similar conclusions about German Jewry.13 After all, German Jews were overrepresented in almost all vanguard movements of that period, and their attraction to Buddhism appears to be a part of this phenomenon rather than grounded in an intrinsic connection between Jewishness and Buddhism. That said, in Chap. 5, I discuss the question of whether Jewish apostasy in favor of Buddhism can be considered a kind of assimilation or dissimilation. Unlike those literati who embraced Buddhism when it was in fashion, like a flavor of the month, and who often drifted toward other sorts of exoticism or vanguard movements shortly thereafter, conversion in most cases was a decision for life (and sometimes death). Walter Tausk’s cruel fate stands in opposition to that of Siegmund Feniger. Together, they are two trajectories of the German-Jewish encounter with Buddhism that seem almost paradigmatic. Unlike Tausk, Feniger managed to leave Europe in time and enjoy a long life in South Asia where he died, much revered, in 1994. Yet there were multiple obstacles to survival, as Feniger was all too aware. In a 1938 letter to Max Kreutzberger, Feniger pleaded for help for his elderly mother’s family, who still lived in Vienna. The situation in the Austrian capital was dire for its Jewish residents, since Nazi Germany had annexed Austria in March 1938. While it is unclear what exactly transpired, Feniger’s mother managed to leave for Sri Lanka. This was a fortunate outcome from a perilous situation, and unfortunately it was as uncommon as Feniger’s future career. Murder was the more common outcome, as in Tausk’s case. Tausk’s fate gives credence to Gershom Scholem’s famous claim that the “German-Jewish symbiosis” was nothing more than a myth, against which Paul Mendes-Flohr maintained that the “German-Jewish symbiosis was within the mind of the Jew, regardless of whether or not it existed between the Jews and non-Jewish German.”14 Mendes-Flohr has further described German Jews as having developed a “dual identity” as they tried

13  The most comprehensive work on the JuBu phenomenon is: Emily Sigalow, American JuBu: Jews, Buddhists, and Religious Change (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2019). 14  Paul Mendes-Flohr, German Jews: A Dual Identity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999), 94. Cf. Scholem’s essay, “Wider den Mythos vom deutsch-jüdischen Gespräch,” published in English as: Gershom Scholem, “Against the Myth of the German-Jewish Dialogue,” in On Jews and Judaism in Crisis, edited by Werner Dannhauser (New York: Schocken Books, 1976), 61–64.

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to come to terms with their Judentum and their Deutschtum.15 This inner dialog was built around the tension that arose from the denial of the non-­ Jewish majority to see their Jewish compatriots as truly German. The German-Jewish encounter with Buddhism is, of course, concurrent with the German-non-Jewish encounter with Buddhism, yet at the same time it is stoked by the popular ploy of using Buddhism against Judaism, as most conspicuously in the Buddha-Jesus Literature. This is most apparent in Jewish attacks and polemics, but it is also traceable in the more positive assessments of Buddhism by Jewish writers and even in how new converters approach their new religion and how they justified their conversion in the eyes of their Jewish peers. The German-Jewish symbiosis existed then at least within the minds of those Jews who did not use Buddhism as an instrument to distance themselves from their Jewishness and, as I argue in Chap. 5, also partially within the Jewish converts to Buddhism. However, in the minds of those who saw themselves as Buddhists, one could even speak of a German-Jewish-­ Buddhist Symbiosis as their soul was not bifurcated between their Judentum and Deutschtum, but trifurcated between their Jewish, German, and Buddhist identities. The roots of this discourse on the bifurcated soul of German Jews, like the origin of the German fascination with Buddhism, lay in the nineteenth century. Mircea Eliade famously identified the whole nineteenth century as an “Oriental renaissance,” albeit a failed one: Schopenhauer compared the discovery of Sanskrit and the Upanishads to the rediscovery of the “true” Greco-Latin culture during the Italian Renaissance. One expected a radical renewal of Western thought as a consequence of the confrontation with Indian philosophy. […] But the “Renaissance” did not come about for the simple reason that the study of Sanskrit and other oriental languages did not succeed in passing beyond the circle of philologians and historians, while, during the Italian Renaissance, Greek and classical Latin were studied not only by grammarians and humanists but also by poets, artists, philosophers, theologians, and men of science.16

While it is indubitable that the Oriental renaissance, as envisioned by Schopenhauer and many others, did not yield the results they had hoped  See Mendes-Flohr, German Jews: A Dual Identity, 93f.  Mircea Eliade, The Quest: History and Meaning in Religion (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1969), 55f. 15 16

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for, the second part of Eliade’s argument seems rather problematic (Schopenhauer is already an example that contradicts Eliade’s assessment; Eliade himself could be considered one as well). This study is largely based on the writings of poets, artists, philosophers, and theologians. What many of them hoped for, and others repudiated, was in fact the “radical renewal of Western thought” through the influx of Buddhism, that is, a renaissance of the Occident through the Orient. Unlike Eliade, it seems practical to draw a line between the beginning of the nineteenth century (roughly from 1800 until the 1830s) and the twentieth century (roughly from the 1890s until the 1930s), thus dividing the period into the first Oriental renaissance (or the Romantic Oriental renaissance) and the second Oriental renaissance (or the neo-Romantic Oriental renaissance).17 It was especially in these two periods that India captured the mind of “poets, artists, philosophers, theologians, and men of science,” while during the in-between period it was mainly philologians who captured the scene. But what distinguishes the second Indian Renaissance from the first is the fact that philological or scholarly accuracy was not the primary aim. The second Oriental renaissance would rather focus on (blurry) connections between Germany (or, at times, Europe) and India (or Asia) than rely on the evidentiary value of etymological inquiries. Despite all Romantic Schwärmerei, the preoccupation with India during the first Oriental renaissance always looked for reputable scholarly assessments of their ideas. For this reason, Friedrich Schlegel’s Über die Sprache und Weisheit der Indier started with a philological assessment of Indo-European languages before discussing philosophy and so-called historical ideas.18 At the same time, he not only postulated a somehow metaphysical affinity, but also tried to find a linguistic connection between different languages to elaborate on their genealogy. However, their more scientifically minded successors demanded specialization and rejected the use of philology for Romantic delusions of 17  My periodization differs from Suzanne Marchand’s seminal book, not out of disagreement but mostly because, firstly, I focus on the occupation with Buddhism and Indian thought, while her encyclopedic work includes far more “Orients,” and secondly, she is mostly concerned with wissenschaftlichen debates while I include in my periodization thinkers and literati in a broader sense. I also borrow from her the term “second Oriental renaissance.” See Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire, 15ff and 102ff. 18  See Friedrich Schlegel, “Über die Sprache und Weisheit der Indier,” in Kritische Ausgabe, Bd. VIII, edited by Ernst Behler and Ursula Struc-Oppenberg (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh Verlag, 1975), 105ff.

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universality. This kind of boundary-crossing also became a trademark of the second Oriental renaissance and often ignored or bended philological and scientific results, or what in the 1820s the German Orientalist Julius Mohl had described as the achievements of the first generation of German Orientalists, namely “erotic and romantic rubbish.”19 Thus, as Suzanne Marchand has rightfully observed, after the 1820s, the Romantic idea of India as a place of origin had lost its appeal, and by the 1850s it seemed rather outlandish.20 Yet at the end of the nineteenth century, this idea would become reputable once more. Marchand has dubbed this the liberal/neo-Romantic (or post-liberal) divide, namely the generational gap between those who were (mostly) active between 1850 and 1885 and who published in the years afterward.21 While I think that this nomenclatural distinction is not useful when it comes to the reception of Buddhism, it corresponds neatly with Buddhism’s rise to respectability within the wider intellectual and cultural public. The second Oriental renaissance (with its focus on Buddhism) started in the 1890s, and its early proponents were part of the so-called Generation of 1890.22 This generation has been described as being in constant revolt against liberalism, rationalism, and positivism, those being the prime elements of the prevalent ideology in academic and intellectual circles of the previous generations. Heavily influenced by Schopenhauer and later Nietzsche, they favored originality over progress and often blurry holistic concepts over clear but pedantic reason. Sweeping claims were preferred over the alleged petty-mindedness of the scientific method. While I therefore retain the description of the second Oriental renaissance, mostly to emphasize the continuity with the first Oriental renaissance of German Romanticism, I would also distinguish between the two overlapping phases with this second renaissance and dub them the (earlier) substitutive Buddhism and the 19  “Fatras érotiques et romantiques,” quoted in: Raymond Schwab, La Renaissance Orientale (Paris: Payot, 1950), 150. Cf. Douglas T.  McGetchin, “Wilting Florists: The Turbulent Early Decades of the Société Asiatique, 1822–1860,” Journal of the History of Ideas 64 (2003), 569. Cf. also: Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire, 123. 20  See Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire, 123. 21  Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire, 216ff. 22  Originally published in 1958, this is the classical study of the generation of 1890: H.  Stuart Hughes, Consciousness and Society (New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers, 2008), esp. chapter 2. See also: Kevin Repp, Reformers, Critics, and the Paths of German Modernity: Anti-politics and the Search for Alternatives, 1890–1914 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000), chapter 1.

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(later) supplementary Buddhism, respectively. Substitutive Buddhism saw the Buddha’s teachings as a substitute for another Weltanschauung, for example, Christianity and Judaism, but also positivism, nationalism, and socialism. Of course, while their Buddhism often still featured what they nominally eschewed, its proponents believed that they had found an alternative that could replace their old ways of thinking completely. Starting with the ground-breaking Theodor Schultze, these early proponents regarded Buddhism as a religion that could rival, even in its rational incarnation, Christianity and Judaism. Yet for them, Buddhism was not merely a religion: it was a transformative force encompassing all spheres beyond the religious. However, another batch of later Buddha aficionados formed part of the second Oriental renaissance: Supplementary Buddhism, which grew increasingly prominent around the First World War, did not retain the all-encompassing claims of substitutive Buddhism. For its proponents, Buddhism was also a transformative force, but it would supplement, and not substitute, one’s antecedent Weltanschauung. One could be a Socialist and Buddhist. Or, of course, a Jew and a Buddhist. From this it follows that for substitutive Buddhists, religious content played a more serious role. They were also more likely to reach for the textual corpus and even learn Pali or Sanskrit. Finding the original message was more imperative for them than for the supplementary Buddhists, who were often content with one source, mostly Karl Eugen Neumann’s translation from the Pali Canon. However, we can find among them both ardent rationalists and eccentric theosophists, with a middle ground between them. The same goes for supplementary Buddhists. In fact, the distinction between supplementary and substitutive Buddhists is not based on their conceptualization of Buddhism as rational or irrational, as we can find examples on both sides of the aisle. The decisive point is the function (substitutive or supplementary) of Buddhism in their respective convictions. Among those included in this study, most belong to the realm of supplementary Buddhism, which was for them just one of several fashionable ideas. Buddhism, in their reading, possessed an openness that made it especially appealing. Walter Hasenclever, for example, might have seen himself as a Buddhist, but he saw no problem in simultaneously adopting Swedenborgian mysticism. The above attempts at providing a historical categorization give rise to another issue, namely the historicity of the Buddha. How could one gaze at a religious figure steeped in an almost impenetrable spatial and temporal distance?

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One has to remember that at the beginning of the twentieth century, many basic facts about Buddhism either were in dispute among scholars or did not trickle down to the less scholarly inclined followers. For example, in his article “Buddha and der Buddhismus” from 1908, the Zionist author Max Nordau, who in his book Entartung had counted a proclivity for Buddhism among the symptoms of neuropathy, argued that, without doubt, Buddhism was the most widespread religion of the present day, which echoed Schopenhauer’s earlier (and incorrect) view.23 In 1904, Anton Gueth (Nyanatiloka) became the first German to be ordained as a Buddhist monk. Only after an Odyssean journey through Asia, finally reaching Bombay, did he realize that Buddhism was no longer existent in India.24 These two examples serve to remind us that reliable information about Buddhism, although considerably greater than before the advent of the first Oriental renaissance, was still rare. While now the distinction between Mahayana and Hinayana, or between Theravada, Zen/Chan, and Lamaism had reached the status of common knowledge, other details were uncharted or distorted, or even contradictory. The infighting within the German-­ Buddhist community concerning their conflicting interpretations caused strife and significantly weakened the movement; at times, it caused confusion among German Buddhists about the right path. Underlying many of the claims and objections made in these disputes are links to the prevalence of historicist thinking, because ideas about Buddhism were intrinsically tied to the historical figure of the Buddha, founder of a religion like Jesus and defier of ossified authorities like Martin Luther.25 How could one reconcile the historicity of Buddha, namely Siddhartha Gautama, with the historical-critical skepticism that had gnawed away the credibility of Christianity and Judaism and thus fueled the ascendance of Buddhism in the first place? Historicism’s rise to prominence in German thought was closely tied to the critical examination of the historical figure of Jesus, going back to David Friedrich Strauss’s Das Leben Jesu—kritisch bearbeitet, first published in 1835. The profound impact of this line of thinking and the 23  “Sicher ist, daß der Buddhismus die weitaus verbreitetste Religion auf Erden ist und anscheinend noch immer langsam und in der Stille neue Gebiete erobert.” Max Nordau, “Buddha und der Buddhismus,” Die Gartenlaube 55 (1908), 592. See also: Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 146f. 24  Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 171. 25  See Masuzawa, The Invention of World Religions, 134.

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r­epercussions of the spread of historicist thinking during the nineteenth century can also be found in much of the religious and theological thought at the beginning of the twentieth century, when the crisis of culture went hand in hand with the so-called crisis of historicism. The historical criticism directed at religious figures and scripture in fact appeared as a counterpart to the rationalism and positivism lamented even by many secular thinkers. While Salo Baron, one of the preeminent scholars of Jewish history, proclaimed that “the entire problem of faith and history (Glaube und Geschichte), so troublesome to many modern Protestant theologians, loses much of its acuteness in Judaism through the absence of conflict between the historical and the eternal Christ,” others have persuasively argued that, for many German-Jewish thinkers, the question of historicism and the historical gaze toward religion was a paramount concern.26 This is certainly also the case for German Buddhists. If the historical figure of the Buddha is held to the same standards as Jesus Christ, how could one ascribe veracity to the stories of the Buddha while doubting basic facts when it comes to Jesus and even his existence? This question plays a continuous role in the ceaseless efforts to find a link between Jesus and Buddha as described in Chap. 3. Buddhism had to be approached in such a way that would avoid the trap of historicism and the application of historical criticism to the figure of the Buddha. As such, the Buddha escaped this historical gaze, or was only subjected to it perfunctorily. In fact, it appears that many of the early German Buddhists, for whom the corrosive effects of historical criticism and rationalism turned Christianity or Judaism into a rather unappealing creed, were rather lenient when it came to applying the same kind of scrutiny to Buddhism and its founding father. There are several preliminary explanations for this: First, there is the lack of written documents on Buddhism and especially the Buddha in German. While the availability of scholarly books on Buddhism and novels with explicit Buddhist content increased dramatically during the nineteenth century and exploded into an unprecedented number of publications at the beginning of the twentieth, in comparison to the literature on Christianity and Judaism (or even Islam) compiled over millennia, Buddhist literature was still in another (lower) 26  Salo Baron, History and Jewish Historians: Essays and Addresses (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1964), 109. Cf. David N. Myers, Resisting History: Historicism and its Discontents in German-Jewish Thought (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003), esp. 33f.

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league. Translations from the ancient Buddhist canon were scarce and often too strongly influenced by the translator’s worldview to provide an objective idea. Where there was less text to critically scrutinize, faith in textuality seems to develop more easily. Second, and closely related to the first, Buddhism did not come with any such historical package. Neither persecution, nor war, political, cultural, theological conflicts darkened the image of Buddhism when it arrived. It had less European or German history than, say, Islam. The third reason is deeply rooted in the Western tradition of Orientalism (and we shall hear more about this, especially in Chaps. 3 and 4), namely the idea of the East (or Buddhism) being outside of history. The idea behind Hegel’s declaration from 1822 to 1823 that “in China as in India there is no progress forward” remained intact throughout the nineteenth century; it was not seriously shattered by the increase in knowledge, nor was it altered by Germany’s colonial acquisitions in China that began in 1897.27 One last point deserves our attention here before commencing our study in earnest, if only to underline the complexity, entanglements, and surprising twists that accompany the proceeding story. Karl Eugen Neumann, whose translations from the Pali Canon had received glowing praise, was the son of the Jewish opera singer and impresario Angelo Neumann. The older Neumann, who later converted to Catholicism, was best known for his production of Der Ring des Nibelungen. After some initial reluctance on the part of Richard Wagner, whose antisemitic attitudes have been well documented, the two men formed a close and trusted partnership, a friendship even.28 Wagner had once attempted to pen a Buddhist opera titled Die Sieger, in which the Buddha reaches Nirvana through the Romantic love for a young casteless girl.29 Although he later gave up on the plan, Wagner’s intention was to make the Buddha compatible with his Romantic concept of Gesamtkunstwerk by instilling him with passion and emotions. Karl Eugen, son of a Jewish Wagnerian, however, would, in some measure, complete that aborted attempt. Neumann gave the Buddha a voice akin to the neo-Romantic mood that had swept the 27  “Es ist in China wie in Indien kein Fortgang zu anderem.” Georg W.  F. Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Weltgeschichte. Band II–IV. Die Orientalische Welt. Die griechische und die römische Welt. Die germanische Welt, edited by Georg Lasson (Hamburg: Felix Meiner Verlag, 1988), 275. 28  Milton E. Brener, Richard Wagner and the Jews (Jefferson: McFarland & Co. 2006), chapters 30, 38, 39. 29  Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 84f.

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nation during the fin de siècle. While philologists criticized his translation, among artists and writers Neumann’s idiosyncratic Buddha—a mixture of Schopenhauerian philosophy and Wagnerian language—received near-­ universal praise.30 The German-Jewish writer Albert Ehrenstein called Neumann’s translations “the most beautiful and best legacy ever given to the German people.”31 In this light, what follows is a study not only of German-Jewish writers who perceived Buddhism as Jews, but also of German-Jewish writers who perceived Buddhism as Germans. The self-Orientalization, the trifurcated soul of those who saw themselves as German, Jewish, and Buddhist, and the denunciation of Buddhism in favor of Judaism were as much a German response as a Jewish response. The fact that some of these aspects occurred exclusively among Jewish writers and thinkers does not diminish their embodiment in a German context. The purpose of this study, then, is not to emphasize the distinctiveness of German Jews and their thinking about Buddhism in contrast to non-Jewish Germans, but rather to highlight that, even in their responses, they were as Jewish as they were German.

30  See the small brochure Die 12 Wegbereiter from 1921  in which German writers were invited to recommend 12 indispensable books. Stefan Zweig, Walter Hasenclever, and Klabund emphasized here the importance of Neumann’s translation for their own life. Leo Weismantel (ed.), Die Zwölf Wegbereiter—Ein Almanach persönlicher Beratung für das Jahr 1921 (München and Frankfurt: Verlag der Arbeitsgemeinschaft, 1921), 13f, 21, and 24. See also: Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 90ff. 31  “Wer den Weg sehen oder gehen will, lese, studiere, beherzige die Reden Gotamo Buddhos, sie sind nun endlich hörbar geworden, uns geschenkt von dem herrlichen Genius Karl Eugen Neumann: nun sind sie das schönste und beste Vermächtnis, das je dem deutschen Volk wurde.” Albert Ehrenstein, “Die Reden Gotamo Buddhos,” in Aufsätze und Essays. Werke, Bd. 5, edited by Hanni Mittelmann (Göttingen: Wallstein-Verlag, 2004), 248.

CHAPTER 2

Buddhism and German-Jewish Orientalism

In 1978, Edward Said’s Orientalism saw the light and almost instantly transformed the way in which Western academia spoke about the East, the Orient, Asia, or the Other. As Said had shown, the talk of geographical entities was often intertwined with European imperialism, colonialism, and racism. Applying the lessons provided by Foucault’s notion of discourse, Said argued that Orientalism was “a Western style for dominating, restructuring, and having authority over the Orient.”1 It was not long (in academic terms, at least) after the publication of Orientalism that two lacunae in Said’s work were noticed and subsequently filled. On the one side, there was the question of German Orientalism, and on the other, the question of Jewish Orientalism. In this chapter, I discuss the theoretical foundations and implications of the scholarship on these two Orientalisms and consider their applicability in Jewish responses to Buddhism. In 1944, at the height of the German extermination of European Jewry, the Jewish novelist Elias Canetti wrote in the German language of his affirmation of his Jewish identity while also claiming an openness to other possible identities: Should I shut myself off against eh Russians, because Jews exist, against the Chinese, because they are far away, against the Germans, because they are 1  Edward Said, Orientalism (London: Penguin Books, 2003), 3. Originally published in 1978 by Routledge.

© The Author(s) 2019 S. Musch, Jewish Encounters with Buddhism in German Culture, Palgrave Series in Asian German Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-27469-6_2

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possessed by the devil? Can I not still belong to them, like I used to, and remain Jewish?2

This serve us here as a reminder of the limitations of categorizations like German, Jewish, and German-Jewish. Canetti’s claim to a hybrid identity that united all of these supposedly clashing aspects undercut attempts to force an individual’s life and world into labels. I shall return to this at the end of the chapter, but for now I merely point out that the rejection of clear-cut labels does not protect one from applying them to oneself. After all, this is a study of those often defamed as Orientals and their view on the Orient. Famously, Edward Said had largely ignored the German involvement with the Orient. He cited practical reasons for limiting his study to the “Anglo-French-American experience of the Arabs and Islam,” since there would be “virtually no limit to the material” given that he would also have had to deal with “India, Japan, China, and other sections of the Far East.”3 However, he also gave theoretical reasons that cut right to the core of his argument. While Said acknowledged the existence of a German Orientalism, he nevertheless saw it as fundamentally different from the Orientalism in the French, British, or American cultural realms. The reason lies in Said’s attempt to connect Orientalism to Empire, political institutions with their socio-economic underpinning, meaning that Orientalism, the production of knowledge about the Orient, not only intellectually justified imperialism and colonialism but also contributed to its successful implementation.4 While these three countries had tangible politics, that is, related to power, German Orientalism was couched in the minds of scholars, and therefore was solely an intellectual pursuit: [At] no time in German scholarship during the first two-thirds of the nineteenth century could a close partnership have developed between Orientalists and a protracted, sustained national interest in the Orient. There was nothing to correspond to the Anglo-French presence in India, the Levant, North 2  “Soll ich mich den Russen verschließen, weil es Juden gibt, den Chinesen, weil sie ferne, den Deutschen, weil sie vom Teufel besessen sind? Kann ich nicht weiterhin allen gehören, wie bisher, und doch Jude sein?” Elias Canetti, Die Provinz des Menschen. Aufzeichnungen 1942–1972, 61. 3  Said, Orientalism, 16f. 4  See the erudite discussion in Robert J. C. Young, White Mythologies: Writing History and the West (London: Routledge, 2004), 168ff.

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Africa. Moreover, the German Orient was almost exclusively a scholarly, or at least a classical, Orient: it was made the subject of lyrics, fantasies, and even novels, but it was never actual, the way Egypt and Syria were actual for Chateaubriand, Lane, Lamartine, Burton, Disraeli, or Nerval. There is some significance in the fact that the two most renowned German works on the Orient, Goethe’s Westöstlicher Diwan and Friedrich Schlegel’s Über die Sprache und Weisheit der Indier, were based respectively on a Rhine journey and on hours spent in Paris libraries. What German scholars did was to refine and elaborate techniques whose application was to texts, myths, ideas, and languages almost literally gathered from the Orient by imperial Britain and France.5

There is much truth in the above quote, perhaps more than has been acknowledged by Said’s critics.6 However, while Said might be right that the German interest in the Orient (including what Said had called the Far East) started with poetry and linguistic inquiries, colonial aspects always played an implicit role. Friedrich Schlegel, after all, learned Sanskrit from the Indologist Alexander Hamilton, who had served as a British naval officer for the East India Company (see the Excursus in Chap. 5). Furthermore, as the books by Nina Berman, Susann Zantop, and Todd Kontje have  Said, Orientalism, 19.  In 1984, a clearly irked Said called the critique of his exclusion of German Orientalism “superficial or trivial, and there seems no point in even responding […].” Further, he wrote of German Orientalism that “no one has given any reason for me to have [it] included.” Edward Said, “Orientalism Reconsidered,” Cultural Critique 1 (1984), 90. Reasons can now be easily found and the books mentioned in the following footnote provide ample evidence. Said’s rejection of his critics has been competently analyzed in Daniel Martin Varisco, Reading Orientalism: Said and the Unsaid (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2007), 89ff. See also Nicholas A. Germana, The Orient of Europe: The Mythical Image and Competing Images of German National Identity (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2009), 4ff. The first work on German Orientalism, a dissertation by Andrea Fuchs-Sumiyoshi, concluded that Said’s concept is not applicable to the German context as writers mostly wrote positively or neutrally about the Orient and did not try to establish a cultural authority. See Andrea Fuchs-Sumiyoshi, Orientalismus in der deutschen Literatur. Untersuchungen zu Werken des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts, von Goethes ‘West-östlichem Divan’ bis Thomas Manns ‘Joseph-Tetralogie’ (Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag, 1984), 158f. On the other side, we find Bassam Tibi who wrote that the “Othering of ‘the Muslim’ as homo islamicus replaces rational thought. The German variety of Orientalism is the most arduous in this regard.” Bassam Tibi, Islam between Culture and Politics (Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), 33. For the notion of a German colonial Sonderweg, which Said seemed to (inadvertently?) bolster, see Russell Berman, “German Colonialism: Another Sonderweg?,” European Studies Journal 16 (1999), 25–36. 5 6

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persuasively shown, German interest in the Orient was not solely a scholarly affair.7 Starting in the Middle Ages, the East was often linked, in the German imagination, to (visions of) conquest and power. Even before the so-called scramble for Africa, individual German states had sought colonial possessions and during Germany’s official colonialism in the Wilhelmine era, a similar discourse on Orientalism to that which existed in other colonial powers was certainly under way. However, in her invaluable work of encyclopedic range, Suzanne Marchand has argued that power, conquest, and colonialism were only secondary, and that German Orientalism was more focused on questions of origin, history and revelation, and progress: “[…] knowledge as understanding can also lead to appreciation, dialogue, self-critique, perspectival reorientation, and personal and cultural enrichment.”8 This might seem at first like a trivial statement, but since Said’s argument, which rested on Foucault’s sinister description of knowledge as power, engaged in sweeping generalizations, one has to remember that German knowledge acquisition about the Orient was more than a mere colonial attitude. In addition, it was often used to criticize German culture and society. This was especially true when it came to the perception of Buddhism. While European colonialism was certainly crucial in providing the public with information about and access to the East, the discourse about Buddhism in Germany was detached from actual imperial politics on the ground. The contemporary East was of little interest, as was the time of the Buddha. In this way, the German gaze on Buddhism was Orientalist, but it was mostly focused on what it could do for Germany and not on the colonization of Buddhist societies. Therefore, we have good reason to allow for a congruency of both aspects (the external colonial gaze and the internal societal focus) and, as I argue in this study, these two different approaches were not necessarily in conflict. This is especially true when we look at German-Jewish Orientalism. While it is certainly not colonial in any meaningful sense, the Jewish responses to Buddhism existed precisely in the interplay between 7  See Nina Berman, German Literature on the Middle East: Discourses and Practices, 1000–1989 (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2011). Susanne Zantop, Colonial Fantasies: Conquest, Family, and Nation in Precolonial Germany, 1770–1870 (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997). Todd Kontje, German Orientalisms (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2004). 8  Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire, xxv. See also, for an example of how Orientalism was used as a way of self-critique: Robert Lemon, Imperial Messages: Orientalism as Self-Critique in the Habsburg Fin de Siècle (Rochester: Camden House, 2011).

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an Orientalist discourse of power and its critique. However, I argue that the link between German-Jewish responses to Buddhism and actual colonialism is rather weak. The term colonialism loses its analytical and political poignancy if any kind of mental othering is dubbed colonial and applied to, for example, the internal Jewish Orientalism in respect of East European Jewry (more on that shortly). The aforementioned book by Suzanne Marchand is the best study to date on German Orientalism. However, Marchand’s book closes with the onset of the Weimar Republic, while the story I am trying to tell here continues (at least) until 1940. As such, her conclusions were not applicable in their entirety to the context on which I am focusing. Marchand identified several facets of how Orientalism in the German Reich, despite all its continuities, differed from that in the Weimar Republic. While these aspects did indeed concern the community of scholars who engaged with the Orient, the personnel of this study are both wider and narrower. They were not only scholars (indeed, most were not); they were also writers, literati, thinkers, and so on. They were not interested in the Orient per se, but in Buddhism, often with a very loose understanding of the latter. Nevertheless, it will be helpful to consider the reasons Marchand gives for the decline of German Orientalism, and to compare them to the discourses covered by the present study.9 First of all, and perhaps most obviously, the German Reich lost its colonies after the war. This political situation had ramifications, not explicitly for political writers beyond the borders of the Reich, but within the wider German cultural realm. This is due to the decrease in colonial content within German language publications. Second, Marchand mentioned the almost complete breakdown of the research infrastructure, which had grown over the last 100 years and had channeled views on the Orient. Amid the hyperinflation of the 1920s, travel abroad became an expensive enterprise. The turn against positivism and rationalism also saw a decline in the meticulous scholarly preoccupation with the Orient. One of the most stunning scholarly achievements of German Orientalism was the conquest of the languages of the East. Now that the East could be understood through the right neo-Romantic attitude, mindset, affinity, or ancestral disposition, why would one engage in the painstaking process of learning Sanskrit? This is certainly also true of the individuals considered in this book; hardly any of the major figures had any knowledge of so-called Eastern language. The prevailing attitude was 9

 Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire, 476ff.

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that German was sufficient to understand the essence of the Buddha’s teachings (Franz Rosenzweig was one of the few figures herein who doubted the reliability of the translations). Third, Marchand referred to the effects of the First World War’s death toll on German Orientalists and identified the Weimar Republic as the “Indian Summer” of German Orientalism.10 This seems to be a less relevant aspect for the present study, since many of the figures discussed only came to Buddhism through the war. In popular culture, the Orient became a staple during and after the First World War. The Nobel Prize in Literature in 1913 that went to the Bengali author, Rabindranath Tagore, was both a signal and catalyst.11 As far as Buddhism goes, its cultural capital flourished during the 1920s and it acquired a certain chic that might have been the envy of previous generations of scholars. A couple of years after her game-changing book, Marchand offered her reading of Weimar Orientalism. In an article titled “Eastern Wisdom in the Era of Western Despair: Orientalism in 1920s Central Europe,” she argued that “it may well be the era in which orientalist scholarship was closer to the cultural pulse of the nation than ever before […].”12 The reason for this, according to Marchand, lay in the fact that non-specialist literati at the time were drawn to the fashionable Eastern wisdom that had been uncovered by specialists. As she reminds us, it was easy to find Eurocentric biases in all of these works, yet at the same time they were among the very few to take Asian culture seriously. Marchand concludes by noting that perhaps the much maligned figure of the orientalist needs a bit more nuance, and deserves a bit more credit for—in some times and places especially—challenging Eurocentric norms. Orientalists have often played an iconoclastic role, as did elite consumers of “oriental wisdom” in the early Weimar era,  Ibid.  Martin Kämpchen has skillfully described the Tagore craze that swept through Germany especially during Tagore’s visits in 1921, 1926, and 1930. The list of his interlocutors is long and illustrious. It includes Albert Einstein, Adolf von Harnack, Käthe Kollwitz, Rudolf Otto, Paul Natorp, Stefan Zweig, Thomas Mann, and Martin Buber. Franz Kafka commented: “In Wirklichkeit ist Rabindranath Tagore nur ein verkleideter Deutscher.” Quoted in: Martin Kämpchen, Rabindranath Tagore und Deutschland (Marbach am Neckar: Deutsche Schillergesellschaft, 2011), 19. 12  Suzanne Marchand, “Eastern Wisdom in an Era of Western Despair—Orientalism in 1920s Central Europe,” in Weimar Thought: A Contested Legacy, edited by Peter E. Gordon and John P. McCormick (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013), 341. 10 11

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exposing those brought up on the Bible, the classics, and European literature to other worlds—though of course some have also helped to create derogatory stereotypes or assisted in processes of securing and deepening of imperialist rule.13

Marchand rightfully gestures here toward a potential conflict. In theoretical approaches to Orientalism, we oscillate between the sincere fascination and enthusiasm of the West for the East, and an incapability to refrain from cliché-ridden generalizations about the East’s people. As such, it appears that the utility of Said’s theorem might be exhausted when it comes to describing the Orientalism of the 1920s, or, as I would argue, the Jewish engagement with Buddhism between 1890 and 1940.

Orientalism and the Jews While Said’s assessment of German Orientalism may have been flawed, we have to thank him for the prolific literature that has flourished since then and sought to correct his account. Combined with the ambivalent turn triggered by Homi Bhabha and other postcolonial theorists, a more nuanced picture, often in stark opposition to Said’s assessment, has emerged. An excessive focus on the national framework, in which the Western constructs of the Orient were developed, has served to obscure a more fragmented, heterodox approach, which investigates the colonial discourse within. In this light, Said’s theoretical achievement, his monolithic notion of Orientalism, has been criticized by postcolonial scholars whose very critiques have their roots in Said’s writing. In fact, halfway through his book, Said distinguished between two forms of Orientalism. On the one hand, we find the unconscious “latent Orientalism” whose “unanimity, stability, and durability […] are more or less constant.”14 This is the realm of essential ideas, fantasies, and imagination.15 On the other hand, we find a “manifest Orientalism,” which expresses itself through “various stated views about Oriental society, languages, literatures, history, sociology, and so forth.”16

 Marchand, “Eastern Wisdom in an Era of Western Despair,” 354f.  Said, Orientalism, 206. 15  See Homi Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994), 102f. 16  Ibid. 13 14

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As Robert J.C.  Young and Homi Bhabha have noted, Said does not expand on this distinction, but instead, in a quasi-reversal, traces it back to a single cause, namely the colonizer’s intention.17 As Bhabha explains: The originality of this pioneering theory could be extended to engage with the alterity and ambivalence of Orientalist discourse. Said contains this threat by introducing a binarism within the argument which, in initially setting up an opposition between these two discursive scenes, finally allows them to be unified through a political-ideological intention which, in his words, enables Europe to advance securely and unmetaphorically upon the Orient.18

In recognizing the perennial ambivalence of the colonial discourse, Bhabha was then led, through the prism of psychoanalysis, to the question of identity. As the colonial subject is, as Bhabha famously wrote in the essay “Of Mimicry and Man,” “not quite/not white,” he is at once a resemblance (mimicry) and a menace.19 This ambivalence is especially clear when one considers the fact that the colonizer’s (or Orientalist’s) society is not monolithic and is in itself fragmented and ambivalent. This is also true of German society, both in its pre- and post-1871 framework. Scholars made use of Bhabha’s insights and alongside the post-Said discovery that the German fascination with the Orient was not as innocent as previously thought, the focus shifted to the exploration of Orientalism within a single nation state or society. Various terms have been used to describe this discourse: “Domestic Orientalism,” “Internal Orientalism,” “Nesting Orientalism,” “Internal Colonialism,” or the “Other within.”20  See Young, White Mythologies, 182. Bhabha, The Location of Culture, 102f.  Bhabha, The Location of Culture, 102. 19  “Of Mimicry and Man,” in: Bhabha, The Location of Culture, 131. 20  See, respectively: Louisa Schein, “Gender and Internal Orientalism in China,” Modern China 23 (1997), 69–98. Gabriel Piterberg, “Domestic Orientalism: The Representation of ‘Oriental’ Jews in Zionist/Israeli Historiography,” British Journal of Middle Eastern Studies 23 (1996), 125–145. Milica Bakic-Hayden, “Nesting Orientalisms: The Case of Former Yugoslavia,” Slavic Review 54 (1996), 917–931. Michael Hechter, Internal Colonialism: The Celtic Fringe of British National Development, 1536–1966 (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1975). Cf. Achim Rohde, “Der innere Orient. Orientalismus, Antisemitismus und Geschlecht im Deutschland des 18. bis 20. Jahrhunderts,” Die Welt des Islams 45, 3 (2005), 370–411. Jonathan Boyarin, Storm from Paradise: The Politics of Jewish Memory (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1992), 77. The term “Internal Orientalism” has been used before in Jewish Studies, namely in: Ivan Davidson Kalmar and Derek J. Penslar, “Orientalism and Other Jews,” in Orientalism and the Jews, edited by Ivan Davidson Kalmar and Derek J. Penslar (Waltham: Brandeis University Press, 2005), xix. 17 18

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For the purposes of this study, I will deploy the term “Internal Orientalism.” Internal emphasizes the personal aspect that goes beyond the official discourse and raises (at times intimate) questions about one’s convictions, beliefs, and identity. Orientalism seems to be a more appropriate characterization than colonialism, because, as mentioned above, the German discourse on the Orient was often only loosely coupled to the colonial enterprise. Second, the term Orientalism also helps to distinguish the discourse that I want to highlight in this study from the coeval usage of the term colonialism in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The tension between a supposedly apolitical interest in the Orient, as Marchand noted, and the underlying complicity in an internal Orientalism cannot be resolved by nomenclatural choices. However, I hope to defuse the tension, at least temporarily, until we return to this matter in the concluding part to this study. As attention was focused on Internal Orientalism, the question arose as to whether, and to what extent, German Jews had been subjected to the Orientalist gaze. Again, this insight, which Said had already made in passing—namely that Orientalism was a “secret sharer of Western anti-­ Semitism”—can enable a scholarly reassessment of Jewish history and of the German-Jewish experience.21 If Orientalism had, what Said referred to as, an “Islamic branch,” then it surely had a branch for the other Semites too.22 Not surprisingly, much of this notion was rooted in theological anti-­ Judaism. Was the Hebrew Bible not already proof that the Jews belonged to the Orient and not to Weimar? Johann Gottfried Herder, who was also a Lutheran pastor, believed that the Jewish people “were and are the most distinguished people on earth.”23 Yet at the same time he thought, “this  Said, Orientalism, 27.  Said, Orientalism, 28. See Bryan S. Turner, “Outline of a Theory of Orientalism,” in Orientalism: Early Sources, Volume I, Readings in Orientalism, edited by Bryan S.  Turner (London: Routledge, 2000), 12f. 23  Herder’s ambivalence between admiration and depreciation is best summed up by himself: “Die Juden waren und sind das ausgezeichnetste Volk der Erde: in seinem Ursprunge und Fortleben bis auf den heutigen Tag, in seinem Glücke und Unglücke, in Vorzügen und Fehlern, in seiner Niedrigkeit und Hoheit, so einzig, so sonderbar, daß ich die Geschichte, die Art, die Existenz des Volkes für den ausgemachtesten Beweis der Wunder und Schriften halte, die wir von ihm wissen und haben. So etwas läßt sich nicht dichten, solche Geschichte mit allem, was daran hängt und davon abhängt, kurz, solch ein Volk läßt sich nicht erlügen.” Johann Gottfried von Herder, Briefe, das Studium der Theologie betreffend, Sämtliche Werke, 21 22

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people thus is and remains even in Europe an Asiatic people foreign to our part of the world […].”24 During the emancipation and the ensuing assimilation of the nineteenth century, non-Jewish Germans often pointed to the Oriental background of the Jewish people and deduced from this their categorical otherness. In 1803, the author of the pamphlet Wider die Juden claimed that German Jews “may talk about Goethe, Schiller, and Schlegel all they please; they nonetheless remain an alien Asiatic people [orientalisches Fremdlingsvolk].”25 As Jonathan Hess has shown, biblical scholar Johann David Michaelis wanted to colonize German Jews by externalizing them, that is, by sending them as laborers to an island in the West Indies.26 Often othered as Oriental or Asiatic, Jews were the “other” that could never be completely assimilated even through Bildung. As Susannah Heschel has remarked, “the intimacy between knowledge and power may be better known to Jewish historians than anyone else.”27 The applicability of the Foucauldian basis of Said’s theorem to German-Jewish history is clearly more justifiable than to German history alone. Yet an important question still remains: Was antisemitism just a different aspect Bd. 13, Zur Religion und Theologie (Tübingen: Cotta sche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1829), 152. Cf. Frederick Barnard, “The Hebrews and Herder’s Political Creed,” The Modern Language Review 54 (1959), 539. 24  “Das Volk ist und bleibt also auch in Europa ein unserm Welttheil fremdes Asiatisches Volk.” Johann Gottfried von Herder, Adrastea. Begebenheiten und Charaktere des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts, Sämtliche Werke, Bd. 11, Zur Philosophie und Geschichte (Tübingen: Cotta sche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1829), 220. This passage was quoted approvingly by the infamous antisemite Houston Stewart Chamberlain, in Die Grundlagen des Neunzehnten Jahrhunderts (München: Verlagsanstalt F.  Bruckmann, 1899), 323. See also: Ritchie Robertson, “‘Urheimat Asien’: The Re-orientation of German and Austrian Jews, 1900–1925,” German Life and Letters 49 (1996), 183f. Herder is also crucial in the history of German Orientalism for his constant return to the idea that India was the place of origin of humanity and human language, while at the same time claiming that the Hebrew Bible was the oldest scripture. He swiftly reconciled these two slightly contradictory ideas by claiming that the mythical place of origin in India (presumably Kashmir) must be what in Genesis is described as the Paradise or Garden of Eden. Here lies also the foundation for his insistence that the Jews were an Asiatic people. Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire, 45. Also in: Raymond Schwab, La Renaissance Orientale (Paris: Payot, 1950), 92. 25  Quoted in Paul Mendes-Flohr’s pioneering article “Fin de Siècle, Orientalism, the Ostjuden, and the Aesthetics of Jewish Self-Affirmation,” in Mendes-Flohr, Divided Passions: Jewish Intellectuals and the Experience of Modernity, 81. 26  See the chapter “Orientalism and the Colonial Imaginary,” in Jonathan M.  Hess, Germans, Jews and the Claims of Modernity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002). 27  Susannah Heschel, Abraham Geiger and the Jewish Jesus (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998), 21.

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of a more general hostility toward Semite culture, or vice versa? Was the hatred of the Jewish people since ancient times the catalyst for the Oriental gaze toward Muslims?28 This is not the place to disentangle this extremely important and wide-ranging question. However, we should note, as the postcolonial theorist Ania Loomba reminds us, that “racial ideologies did not work through the ideology of exclusion alone but always strategically appropriated and included many of its others.”29 This realization leads to another question, namely whether, and to what extent, German Jews themselves held on to Orientalist views, or even more provocatively, antisemitic views.30 Already a few years after the publication of Orientalism, scholars of Jewish studies addressed these issues (in fact much faster and much more thoroughly than the link between Orientalism and antisemitism). In 1982, Steven Aschheim published his trailblazing book on the perception of East European Jews, the so-called Ostjuden, by (Jewish) Germans. Curiously enough, Aschheim did not, even in his new introduction from 1999, mention Said’s work. He only referred to Foucault (in passing), George Mosse’s work, and the zeitgeist.31 However, the zeitgeist was less hesitant than Aschheim to integrate Said’s Orientalism into its box of analytical tools, and studies concerning the Orientalist gaze of German Jews with explicit reference to Said’s work soon bloomed. Paul Mendes-Flohr’s authoritative article, “Fin de Siècle, Orientalism, the Ostjuden, and the Aesthetics of Jewish Self-Affirmation,” shed light on the positive reception of the Orient by German Jews.32 28  This link has often been noted but seldom scrutinized. The following studies are authoritative: James Pasto, “Islam’s ‘Strange Secret Sharer’: Orientalism, Judaism, and the Jewish Question,” Comparative Studies in Society and History 40 (1998), 437–474. Rohde, “Der innere Orient. Orientalismus, Antisemitismus und Geschlecht im Deutschland des 18. bis 20. Jahrhunderts.” Christian S.  Davis, Colonialism, Antisemitism, and Germans of Jewish Descent in Imperial Germany (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2012). 29  Ania Loomba, Colonialism/Postcolonialism (London: Routledge, 1998), 217. 30  Steven Aschheim reports that a German publishing house declined his seminal study due to the fear “that because it discussed Jewish criticism, prejudice, and discrimination against other Jews it would provide much-needed ammunition to anti-Semitic forces still alive in German society.” Steven E. Aschheim, Brothers and Strangers: The East European Jew in German and German-Jewish Consciousness, 1800–1923. With a new Introduction (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1999), xxii. Originally published in 1982. 31  See Aschheim, Brothers and Strangers: The East European Jew in German and GermanJewish Consciousness, 1800–1923, xxii and xix. 32  Mendes-Flohr, “Fin de Siècle, Orientalism, the Ostjuden, and the Aesthetics of Jewish Self-Affirmation,” 83ff.

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Together the studies by Aschheim and Mendes-Flohr offered the following picture of Jewish Orientalism. For most of the nineteenth century, the East, especially the East of the Ostjuden, was vilified as primitive, backward, ignorant, superstitious, and dangerously unhygienic. The Jewish writer Karl Emil Franzos spoke of Halb-Asien.33 This was not a compliment, but a condemnation. More than a geographical term, Halb-Asien transported a negative association of everything it assimilated, that is, a cultural Jew would want to distance himself from it. This negative association of the Eastern European Jew was eventually reversed as the East grew in reputation (as described in the Introduction). This familiar story also forms the background for several more recent studies that have shone light on German-Jewish Orientalism. For example, some have argued persuasively for a link between Zionism and European Orientalism, which has implications for the notion of German Orientalism as well.34 My aim here is not to enter into that specific debate, but merely to assess if, and to what extent, Zionism either subverted or reinforced Orientalist stereotypes, insofar as it pertains to the question of Internal Orientalism in the German-­ Jewish context. Zionism as a concept of Jewish authenticity was, for one, deeply entrenched in the neo-Romantic zeitgeist that we associate with the Orientalism of German Jews and the thought of Palestine, that is, the Orient as the (only) space where this authenticity could be achieved. In that regard, Zionism had, as we shall see, many parallels with other Orientalist discourses by German Jewry. Whether such parallels were affirmative or subversive remains an open question for the time being. I am going to explore this question in Chap. 4 during my discussion of Paul Cohen-Portheim, who combined a redemptive spiritual Zionism with an Orientalist fascination with the East and a penchant for Buddhism. 33  See for Franzos and Orientalism: Leo W. Riegert, Jr., “Subjects and Agents of Empire: German Jews in Post-Colonial Perspective,” The German Quarterly 82 (2009), 336–355. For a comprehensive overview of his life, see also: Anna-Dorothea Ludewig, Zwischen Czernowitz und Berlin. Deutsch-jüdische Identitätskonstruktionen im Leben und Werk von Karl Emil Franzos (1847–1904) (Hildesheim: Georg Olms Verlag, 2008). 34  For example, the following articles: Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin, “The Zionist Return to the West and the Mizrahi Jewish Perspective,” in Orientalism and the Jews, edited by Ivan Davidson Kalmar and Derek Penslar (Hanover: University Press of New England, 2005), 162–181; Aziza Khazzoom, “The Great Chain of Orientalism: Jewish Identity, Stigma Management, and Ethnic Exclusion in Israel,” American Sociological Review 68 (2003), 481–510; and Arieh Bruce Saposnik, “Europe and Its Orients in Zionist Culture before the First World War,” Historical Journal 49 (2006), 1105–1123.

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In one of the first books to reveal the positive reception of the Orient by German Jews, Jewish-German Identity in the Orientalist Literature of Else Lasker-Schüler, Friedrich Wolf, and Franz Werfel, Donna K.  Heizer examined how three German-Jewish writers imagined the Orient. She came to the conclusion that their perception of the Orient mirrored the self-perception of what it meant to be a Jewish German.35 While I agree with this conclusion, the three specific cases (Lasker-Schüler, Wolf, Werfel) limit the scope, while her Saidian approach ignores other, newer, and more theoretical contributions by postcolonial theorists. As a result, Heizer does not see this mirroring as German, but only as something Jewish. Jewish-German literature (at least in the three cases Heizer examines) took a special interest in the Orient because German Jews were confronted with the Ostjuden and Zionism’s eastward movement. However, the German-Jewish engagement with the East was as German as it was Jewish. German Orientalism was a cultural phenomenon before Jewish writers paid attention to the Ostjuden or Zionism. The mirroring process described by Heizer drew on almost a century of German Orientalism at a time when the self-perception of Germans was mediated through the East. At the heart of this issue is the following (and this goes beyond Heizer’s book and is relevant to the broader idea of this study): Said could not escape the structure he himself criticized. On the one hand, Orientalism (as a discourse) created an essentialist notion of the Orient as unchanging, while Orientalism (as a book) presented this discourse as essentialist and unchanging through the Occident’s history.36 The essentialist binarism Said castigated was therefore entrenched in his approach as well. Heizer (who serves here as an example for a broader historiographic tendency) also sees German Jews as subverting this binarism through their position between Germany and the Orient. This recalls a similar argument made by Martin Kramer in the introduction to the edited volume The Jewish Discovery of Islam, a Festschrift for Bernhard Lewis, one of Edward Said’s main intellectual opponents.37 Kramer argued that Said had ignored the role of Jewish scholars in the study of Islam (or the Orient) because they would undermine the validity of the fixed dichotomies, which were crucial 35  Donna K.  Heizer, Jewish-German Identity in the Orientalist Literature of Else LaskerSchüler, Friedrich Wolf, and Franz Werfel (Columbia: Camden House, 1996), 90ff. 36  Most thoughtfully criticized here: Young, White Mythologies, 167. 37  Martin Kramer, “Introduction,” in The Jewish Discovery of Islam: Studies in Honor of Bernard Lewis (Tel Aviv: The Moshe Dayan Center, 1999), 1–48.

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for Said’s argument.38 However, Amnon Raz-Krakotzkin has shown that Kramer’s argument implicitly affirmed Said’s dichotomies and did not necessarily challenge Orientalism. This mostly theoretical objection by Raz-Krakotzkin clashed with the findings of Susannah Heschel, who had shown that Jewish scholars from Germany during the nineteenth century spoke highly of Islam, unlike their gentile counterparts.39 When Jewish scholars wrote about Islam, they also wrote about Judaism. By emphasizing the historical link between these two religions, Jewish scholars tried to “de-orientalize” Judaism. In linking Islam to positions of rationalism and enlightenment, they attempted to rid Judaism of its association with messianism, exoticism, eroticism, and internationalism.40 John Efron has made a similar yet more far-ranging argument, namely that Jewish scholars of Islam showed a certain sensibility toward the Orientalist gaze because they “could not be the intellectual vanguard of powers that denied them their rights as human beings. They shared no sense of mission civilisatrice.”41 Only recently has John Efron added a new chapter to the question of Jewish Orientalism, in his book German Jewry and the Allure of the Sephardic. Though Efron focuses on a different image (of the Sephardic) and a different period (the nineteenth century or so), his findings offer up some insights that are pertinent to the present study. Efron sees the roots of the German-Jewish positive image of Sephardic Jewry in the split between German and East European Jewry.42 While the former adopted gentile high culture and sought acceptance by the non-Jewish majority through assimilation, East European Jewry found refuge in Hasidism and mostly ignored gentile culture. German Jewry rose to the middle class, spoke German, and put down the Kaftan. East European Jewry continued to speak Yiddish and found no desire to leave the shtetls in favor of gentile culture. Of course, these are stark and somewhat simplistic contrasts, yet  Kramer, “Introduction,” 3.  Susannah Heschel, “Deutsch-jüdische Islamwissenschaftler und die ‘Entorientalisierung’ des Judentums,” in Was war deutsches Judentum? 1870–1933, edited by Christina von Braun (Oldenburg: De Gruyter, 2015), 150. 40   Heschel, “Deutsch-jüdische Islamwissenschaftler und die ‘Entorientalisierung’ des Judentums,” 166. 41  John M. Efron, “Orientalism and the Jewish Historical Gaze,” in Orientalism and the Jews, edited by Ivan Davidson Kalmar and Derek J. Penslar (Waltham: Brandeis University Press, 2005), 93. 42  Cf. John M. Efron, German Jewry and the Allure of the Sephardic (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2016), 7f. 38 39

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they are, at least in part, validated by another cultural phenomenon: the allure of the Sephardic to German Jewry. While East European Jewry found no appeal in the distant past of the Jews of Medieval Spain, German Jewry discerned a Golden Age. The great transformation that built German Jewry into the cultural force that it became during the fin de siècle and the Weimar Republic, its bourgeoization, its affluence, were an uphill battle and not necessarily matched by appreciation from the majority. The Golden Age of Al-Andalus represented an ideal that was in many respects the Jewish version of (non-Jewish-) German Romanticism’s desire for Ancient Greece or Medieval Germany.43 Efron’s book ends with the decline of Sepharad and the rise of the East as a space of desire. Herein lays the clearest difference in the Jewish response to Buddhism. All those aspects that Jewish scholars thought to counter through the association with Islam were suddenly highly valued in Buddhism.

The Prosthetic Function of Buddhism Did the subversive function of Jewish scholarship on Islam have an equivalent in Jewish responses to Buddhism? Were these responses also subversive? And if so, how is this the case, given that they reiterated Orientalist binarisms? The answers to these questions may be found in the function of Buddhism in different Jewish discourses. To this end, I look not to Jewish scholarship, but rather to the responses of non-scholars, for the latter were not interested in pursuing supposedly objective, value-free scholarship on Buddhism, but instead sought to make use of Buddhism for their own purposes. In the three different types of responses that I scrutinize in this study, Buddhism’s content had been eclipsed by its function. Did Buddhism in its Jewish understanding challenge the Oriental discourse on Judaism? This can only be said of the Jewish responses to the Buddha-­ Jesus literature discussed in Chap. 3 in a very limited sense. Only here do we find a subversion of the ideas of Judaism as perpetuated by Internal Orientalism. On the other hand, in the idea of Judaism as a mediator, (external) Orientalist notions are routinely reiterated. Yet it is here that another subversive element emerged. While the idea of Judaism as a mediator, discussed in Chap. 4, did not challenge the Orientalist discourse on Judaism, it did provide a subversion of the history of the West. However,  See Efron, German Jewry and the Allure of the Sephardic, 231f.

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crucially, these two different discourses ultimately cannot be separated. Chronologically, the discourse on the Buddha-Jesus literature peaked before writers found the appeal of the mediator position of Judaism. Yet there was clearly a circulation of ideas between the former and the latter through common sources. By taking into account both the subversive aspects and the perpetuation of Orientalism, one cannot but think about the interstitial space that German-Jewish scholars occupied. They were as much German scholars as they were Jewish scholars, and the ambivalence of their stance toward the Orient is therefore not surprising. As Homi Bhabha, whose theoretical insights emerge in this chapter as much better suited to our inquiry than those of Said, wrote: “the social articulation of difference, from the minority perspective, is a complex, on-going negotiation that seeks to authorize cultural hybridities that emerge in moments of historical transformation.”44 This is, of course, exactly the project undertaken by Jewish scholars of Islam, namely to authorize cultural hybridities. Buddhism, much more so than Islam, was a blank canvas. As set out in the Introduction, while Buddhism was venerated for its age and its textual basis, its appeal lay in its newness, interpretive openness, otherness, and foreignness. It is helpful to recall here Theodor W. Adorno’s theory of the Fremdwort (foreign word). Adorno famously wrote in Minima Moralia that “foreign words are the Jews of language,” and that a foreign word has the explosive power to challenge an overly homogenous, nationalistic understanding of the word “German.” The foreign word’s sense of otherness could not be assimilated because it filled a lacuna, a lack of a word in one’s language, and it therefore had mostly a prosthetic function.45 At the same time, it introduced a “beneficial interruption,” as it challenged and interrogated the “conformist moment” and the “continuum” of language, as well as, I would add, the discourse as a whole.46 This idea, together with the application of Adorno’s theory of foreign words to Buddhism, speaks to the presence of ambivalence (most clearly evident in Chap. 4) when German Jews as the Oriental Other used another Oriental Other to write a counter-history of  Bhabha, The Location of Culture, 3.  Aamir Mufti was the first to introduce Adorno’s ideas on foreign words into postcolonial theory. See Aamir R. Mufti, Enlightenment in the Colony: The Jewish Question and the Crisis of Postcolonial Culture (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007), 75. 46  Theodor W. Adorno, “Words from Abroad,” in Notes to Literature, Volume One (New York: Columbia University Press, 1992), 189. 44 45

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Judaism.47 Buddhism was the foreigner that could blast open the ossified discourse of the West, and given the at times rather meager interest in its actual message, it served as a prosthesis. Another word on Buddhism is in order here. I do not attempt to define Buddhism in any way nor pass judgment on what was (not) a genuine preoccupation or perception of Buddhism. Subsequently, my understanding of Buddhism is broadly construed and I only occasionally touch upon any differentiation between, for example, Mahayana and Hinayana Buddhism. This should suffice, since most of the figures mentioned in the following chapters neither cared nor knew how to differentiate between different forms of Buddhism. They only distinguished, if at all, between the teachings of the Buddha and current Buddhism (normally to the disadvantage of the latter). As such, any attempt at a definition of Buddhism that would exclude some of the ideas perpetuated by the personnel of this study would be counterproductive. My aim here is not to ascertain the accuracy of individuals’ understandings of Buddhism, or even to disentangle the different Buddhisms and their respective reception. Though such issues are raised at several points, ultimately it is only going to be when they directly pertain to their identity construction.

Permeable Boundaries: German, Jewish, Buddhist German, or even more so German-Jewish, is, of course, a loaded term that is often used in academic literature without sufficient reflection.48 The linguistic definition is frequently applied: a German is one who speaks or writes in German. This definition often ignores the different cultural and intellectual contexts that one could find in the K.u.K monarchy in opposition to, let us say, Prussia. This becomes particularly acute when it comes to discussing Orientalism and colonialism.49 The Habsburg Empire was in 47  See aphorism 72: “Fremdwörter sind die Juden der Sprache,” in Theodor W. Adorno, Minima Moralia. Reflexionen aus dem beschädigten Leben (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1994), 141. 48  See for a good discussion of the terms German, Jewish, and German-Jewish: Sander L. Gilman and Jack Zipes, “Introduction: Jewish Writing in German through the Ages,” in Yale Companion to Jewish Writing and Thought in German Culture, 1096–1996, edited by Sander L. Gilman and Jack Zipes (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997), xvii–xxxiv. 49  For how the colonial imagination in the Habsburg Empire differed from that of the German Reich, see, for example: Ulrich E. Bach, Tropics of Vienna: Colonial Utopias of the Habsburg Empire (New York: Berghahn Books, 2016), 1ff.

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fact a multi-ethnic state and never sought colonial possessions overseas. The German Reich, on the other hand, was rather homogenous and eagerly attempted to “find its place in the sun” (Bernhard von Bülow).50 If Orientalism was indeed closely connected to colonialism, then different supposedly German writers would have quite different ideas about the East depending on whether they were Prussian or Austrian. Yet, this was not always the case, which suggests that state boundaries and political context were less decisive than is often assumed. As such, one should be especially careful when discussing issues of German colonialism or Orientalism and take care not to view every German language author through the same lens. Furthermore, one might justifiably ask where the space of the Internal in German Internal Orientalism actually is. At the same time, does this question, and the need for it to be asked, show that the close connection between political (colonial) power and scholarly (Orientalist) fascination with the East implied by Said not hold true for the permeable German cultural realm? To subsume Hesse, Kafka, or Martin Buber under the label German already undermines a narrow definition and opens up the space for a more hybrid notion of German-ness. The history of Germany, its late encasement in a national state, the exclusion of the Habsburg Empire (the so-called kleindeutsche Lösung), and the German language minorities in Eastern Europe, call for a more hybrid definition of the notion German. This is especially obvious in the case of the German fascination with the East that can be found in various shades and contents. It can be found in Vienna where Freud wrote about the Nirwanaprinzinp in Jenseits des Lustprinzips, in Prague where Kafka wrote Beim Bau der Chinesischen Mauer, and in Montagnola, in the Swiss Canton of Ticino, where Hermann Hesse wrote Siddhartha. These three writers were all, to some extent, part of the German intellectual engagement with the East. Yet, none of them were of German nationality, nor were the works cited written inside the boundaries of the German Reich. Although not the focus of the present study, these writers serve as examples for the working definition of German that I shall be utilizing herein. Our definition is clearly linguistic in nature, rather than based on citizen50  The famous expression, which became a metaphor for German colonialism, was made by Bernhard von Bülow, the then Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, in 1897 in a speech to the Reichstag. Quoted in: Ingo H. Wanke, “Deutsche Sprache und Kolonialismus. Umrisse eines Forschungsfeldes,” in Deutsche Sprache und Kolonialismus. Aspekte der nationalen Kommunikation 1884–1919, edited by Ingo H. Wanke (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2009), 22.

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ship in a state. While we have to keep in mind the national context and its respective colonial engagement, the main characteristic, besides language, is both conscious and unconscious self-positioning. To which Orientalist tradition did the respective writers refer? In which cultural realm did he position himself? What were the stimuli (key moments, debates, and works) in his life and writings? This focus allows us to understand German as rather amorphous, a composition of language, nationality, and intellectual engagement. In fact, as Russell Berman has argued, a more permeable definition of German results in greater permeability for other cultures and enhances its potential for hybridization.51 German is, then, to stick with the terminology of postcolonial theory, a hybrid term. This hybridization is most visible in the border-crossing of German Orientalism and in the different Jewish positions, as both subject and object. This brings us to the next definition, namely that of the second component of the term German-Jewish. This study addresses Jewish responses to the influx of Buddhism in German culture, which begs the question: What makes a response Jewish? Clearly the answer lies not in the response itself but in the respondent. If the respondent is Jewish, then his response can (but need not) be Jewish. The Jewishness of the respondent is the condition, sine qua non a response cannot be Jewish. This then leads to the question of how we are to define which of the respondents are Jewish and which are not. What makes, for example, Walter Hasenclever, a Jewish respondent? While I address this question in the specific case of Hasenclever (as it is directly relevant to his view on Buddhism), I am not going to delve into the complex, multilayered, and at times controversial question of Jewish identity in religion, ethnicity, and culture. The limiting of this question by the hyphenation into German-Jewish does not render it any less complex or controversial. Intellectual efforts can be seen as attempting to find an alternative vision of Judaism in Al-Andalus, in Palestine, or in India. They are, therefore, part of a struggle to regain control of the hyphen that marks the location of hybridity and challenges the dichotomy between German and Jewish.52

51  See Russell Berman, Enlightenment or Empire: Colonial Discourse in German Culture (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1998), 15. 52  I take this notion from Ella Shohat who has argued for a similar perspective on the Mizrahim. Cf. Ella Shohat, “The Invention of the Mizrahim,” Journal of Palestine Studies 29 (1999), 5–20.

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I try to take this struggle seriously and therefore refrain from engaging in any attempt to put the variegated and at times convoluted identity struggle (perhaps best described by Jakob Wassermann in Mein Weg als Deutscher und Jude) into the Procrustean bed that lurks behind an appellation like German-Jewish. Avoiding the issue of a clear definition, this study instead focuses on the question of what it means to the individual to be a German Jew.53 Put differently, one could ask: What does the hyphen do? Reading this question through a particular circumstance— for example, what did this individual think or write about Buddhism, and how is it reflected in his own understanding of what it means to be a German Jew?—will not provide a definitive answer. However, it will afford us a more open discussion of the Jewish experience in Germany between 1890 and 1940 than would the deployment of a definition. Walter Hasenclever, a case that would undercut most essentializing definitions of German-­Jewish (or just-Jewish as well), is an especially illuminating example. The binary option here—either yes or no—does not really do justice to a complicated life, or to the reality of mixed marriages, assimilation, and racial antisemitism that guided the lives of many German Jews in this period (see the subchapter on Hasenclever in Chap. 4 on his Jewishness/non-Jewishness). In The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness, Paul Gilroy forges a path that avoids both (Afrocentric) essentialism and a postmodern anti-essentialism that dissolves the individual into a mere token of the universal other. Lifting what Gilroy called “anti-anti-essentialism” from the context of the Black diaspora and transposing it to the Jewish diaspora, we can circumvent both the pitfalls of essentialism and relativism.54 For the purpose of this study alone, I understand German-Jewish identity as “a coherent (if not always stable) experiential sense of self.”55 As such, it is 53  See for the reasoning behind applying this kind of question to German-Jewish history: Michael A. Meyer, The Origins of the Modern Jew: Jewish Identity and European Culture in Germany, 1749–1824 (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1967), 8f. 54  Paul Gilroy, The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness (London: Verso, 1993), 99ff. Bryan Cheyette and Laura Marcus have already discussed the implications of Gilroy’s theorem for the analysis of Jewish history and culture: Bryan Cheyette and Laura Marcus, “Introduction: Some Methodological Anxieties,” in Modernity, Culture and ‘the Jew’, edited by Bryan Cheyette and Laura Marcus (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998), 13f. See also Gilroy’s response: Paul Gilroy, “Afterword: Not Being Inhuman,” in Modernity, Culture and ‘the Jew’, edited by Bryan Cheyette and Laura Marcus (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998), esp. 294f. 55  Gilroy, The Black Atlantic, 102.

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negotiated, transformed, and maintained (since we focus here on textual responses) through language, ideas, arguments, and often between the lines. We can then say that the hyphen in German-Jewish reminds us not only of its hybridization, but also of how both its components are hybrid forms in the first place. The optimal way forward, at least for this study, is to acknowledge this aspect, not through a fixed definition, but via an awareness of its hybridity. This leads us to another issue already touched upon in the Introduction. What qualifies an individual for inclusion in my study? Besides their inclusion in the German-Jewish context outlined above, the primary condition is an interest in Buddhism. An illuminating example of the criteria for (non-)inclusion is Karl Eugen Neumann who played a major role in the translation of Buddhist texts into German. Due to his very few personal pronouncements, which give no indication of his Jewish descent, I am not going to discuss him in any detail. So, besides external aspects (he is German, he is Jewish, he wrote about Buddhism), internal aspects of their writing are important too in this regard; for instance, we might ask whether their interest in Buddhism is linked to their musings on what it means to be a Jew (in Germany). This is clearly not an exhaustive study of everything German Jews wrote about Buddhism during the time period in question. For instance, Chaps. 4 and 6 admittedly do not depict all possible shades of the general material, yet they do present a comprehensive review of reactions to a particular question. Chapter 5 is less exhaustive as it deals with a phenomenon in a history of ideas that is extremely fluid, broad, and in its entirety hard to demarcate. Hence, the chapter focuses on several representative figures in their individual roles. Feuchtwanger, Cohen-Portheim, Hasenclever, and Wassermann are not the only ones who absorbed the idea of Judaism as a mediator in their oeuvre. Other authors might also have warranted inclusion in this study. Alfred Döblin and Stefan Zweig might be the most prominent omissions, but many others are discernible. That said, I do believe that the four writers discussed in Chap. 4 constitute an excellent sample of the ways in which German-­ Jewish writers approached Buddhism. When appropriate, I shall, of course, refer to other authors, but for the sake of minimizing redundancies, I have not thoroughly scrutinized these other authors. So, while the discussion in Chap. 4 often reveals surprising views on each of these four authors’ bodies of work, which have not been addressed previously, the point of discussing them reaches beyond their individual cases.

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Following this functionalist approach to the hyphenated description, German-Jewish, I understand identity through the prism of what the individuals thought of themselves. In his famous Drei Reden über das Judentum, Martin Buber wrote that “we want to and can be aware that we are, in a more poignant manner than any other people, a mix of cultures. Still, we yearn to not be slaves, but masters of this mix.”56 This is where Buddhism entered into and reflected one’s own struggle with the German-­ Jewish identity. It touched upon a question that preoccupied all the figures I discuss in the following pages: What does it mean to be German Jew? In the cases that follow, Buddhism was either a challenge (often a welcome one) to their established answer to that question, or an addition that could provide a more satisfactory answer. While Buddhism’s arrival did not diminish the ambivalence that many felt toward the label German-­ Jewish, it did throw the question into sharp relief.

56  “Wir wollen und dürfen und bewußt sein, daß wir in einem prägnanteren Sinne als irgendein anderes Volk der Kultur eine Mischung sind. Aber wir wollen nicht die Sklaven, sondern die Herren dieser Mischung sein.” Martin Buber, “Drei Reden über das Judentum,” 225.

CHAPTER 3

The Buddha, the Rabbis, and the Philosophers: Rejections and Defenses

This chapter deals with the rejection of Buddhism and the defenses of Judaism by Jewish thinkers. While the following two chapters deals with the appropriation and adoption of Buddhism, it is clear from the outset that this rather positive reception was not unequivocal. Buddhism’s sudden popularity stoked fears among religious leaders. Thinkers, who had previously ignored Buddhism or remained oblivious to its existence, now needed to address the questions that emerged with its ascent. To apprehend the full scope of these negative reactions, we have to pay attention to a theological discourse, which I have dubbed the Buddha-­ Jesus literature.1 While I am not going to sketch out this discourse in its fine detail, I point to several crucial facets that emanated into the thinking of famous figures like Franz Rosenzweig, Martin Buber, Leo Baeck, and Theodor Lessing. There is already a substantial and rapidly growing secondary literature on each of these thinkers, but their views on Buddhism have yet to be adequately explored. However, there is not a case to be made for an overhaul of what we know about each of these writers; rather,

 The Buddha-Jesus literature has received scant scholarly attention. Marchand dedicated several pages to a cursory overview, in: Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire, 270ff. Heschel discussed the phenomenon in relation to its antisemitic content, here: Susannah Heschel, The Aryan Jesus: Christian Theologians and the Bible in Nazi Germany (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008), 38ff. 1

© The Author(s) 2019 S. Musch, Jewish Encounters with Buddhism in German Culture, Palgrave Series in Asian German Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-27469-6_3

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as I argue, an addendum is called for. Buddhism’s link to the Buddha-­ Jesus literature has been missing from the discussion of these authors. However, before we can address these questions, we first have to understand the origins of the Buddha-Jesus literature and identify its assumptions and implications. How could this discourse be simultaneously so believable and yet so outrageous?

The Buddha-Jesus Literature At the very beginning of his famous lecture series, Das Wesen des Christentums, the Protestant theologian Adolf von Harnack lamented the current confusions that obfuscated the Christian mind. The search for Jesus was obfuscated by the spread of outlandish ideas in the “Tagesliteratur.”2 As a first example, Harnack mentioned the following: He hears some people maintaining that primitive Christianity was closely akin to Buddhism, and he is accordingly told that it is in fleeing the world and in pessimism that the sublime character of this religion and its profound meaning are revealed. Others, on the contrary, assure him that Christianity is an optimistic religion, and that it must be thought of simply and solely as a higher phase of Judaism.3

Clearly, Harnack saw both suggestions—namely the intrinsic affinity to Buddhism and the mere evolution from Judaism—as distorting the essence of Christianity. Regarding Buddhism, Harnack alluded here to the BuddhaJesus literature and its attempts to prove the Buddhist influence on Christianity. This was one major theme of the Buddha-Jesus literature: Jesus was influenced by the teachings of the Buddha. Not only had scholars in the meantime shown that Buddhism was much older than Christianity, but there also existed a resemblance (indeed, to many Christian thinkers, an uncanny resemblance) between the lives of Siddhartha Gautama and  Adolf von Harnack, Das Wesen des Christentums (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Mohn, 1977), 13. 3  Adolf [von] Harnack, What is Christianity? (New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1902), 2. “Er hört da solche, die da behaupten, das ursprüngliche Christentum habe dem Buddhismus sehr nahe gestanden, und es wird ihm demgemäß gesagt, daß sich in der Weltflucht und dem Pessimismus das Erhabene dieser Religion und ihre Tiefe offenbare. Andere versichern ihm dagegen, daß das Christentum eine optimistische Religion sei und lediglich als eine höhere Entwicklungsstufe des Judentums aufgefaßt werden müsse.” Harnack, Das Wesen des Christentums, 13. 2

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Jesus. Did the gospels exhibit Buddhist influences or just the apocrypha?4 Was the story of Barlaam and Josaphat not proof of the ties between Christianity and Buddhism? Was Jesus a crypto-­Buddhist? Had he even been to India, where he might have learned about the Buddha?5 Could one reconcile Buddhism with Christianity? A whole literature grew out of these questions, which gained traction after the 1890s and culminated in the fin de siècle. In 1922, Hans Haas published his Bibliographie zur Frage nach den Wechselbeziehungen zwischen Buddhismus und Christentum, which listed several thousand publications.6 While Haas also listed publications in English, French, Italian, and Dutch, the predominant part was in German. This was, first of all, a sign of the German dominance in Indology and the study of Sanskrit since the mid-­nineteenth century, when German universities had taken over this crown from the French.7 Second, this corroborates the claim that Buddhism had garnered unparalleled influence in German culture, mostly through such theological discussions. Before Buddhism could be picked up by the secular(-ish) Jewish writer discussed in the next chapter, its reception was shaped by the questions surrounding Judaism’s supposed affinity with Buddhism. Another aspect deserves our attention here. Much of the Buddha-Jesus literature was fed by an anti-Jewish impetus. Of course, proposing that Jesus might have taken over the teachings of the Buddha was, for many proponents of the Buddha-Jesus literature, a way of delegitimizing Christianity in favor of Buddhism. If much of Jesus’s teachings were derivative, why not honor the original founder in the first place? However, for a vocal and strong contingent of this group, the real target was Judaism. If Jesus was a crypto-Buddhist, then he could not be Jewish. Even further, all of Christianity’s (modern) troubles stemmed from the alliance with 4   For the first position, see Bergh van Eysinga, Indische Einflüsse auf evangelische Erzählungen (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1904). For the second position, see Hans Haas, Buddha in der abendländischen Literatur? (Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs, 1923), esp. 33ff. See, for an attempt to cast doubt on the older age of Buddhism in an influential Jesuit magazine: Stephan Beissel, “Einfluß des Christentums auf den Buddhismus in der spätrömischen Kaiserzeit,” Stimmen aus Maria-Laach 74 (1908), 354ff. 5  See, for an attempt to directly link Jesus to India Theodor J. Plange, Christus—Ein Inder? Versuch einer Entstehungsgeschichte des Christentums unter Benutzung der indischen Studien Louis Jacolliots (Stuttgart: Hermann Schmidts, 1906). 6  Hans Haas, Bibliographie zur Frage nach den Wechselbeziehungen zwischen Buddhismus und Christentum (Leipzig: J.C. Hinrichs, 1922). 7  See Douglas T.  McGetchin, Indology, Indomania, and Orientalism: Ancient India’s Rebirth in Modern Germany (Madison: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2009), 53f.

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Judaism and would vanish once its Buddhist foundation was restored. This was an attempt to eradicate the Jewish roots of Christianity. In fact, from the Enlightenment onward, discourses on Eastern wisdom and Buddhism were applied to challenge the religious significance or the cultural contribution of Judaism. Voltaire advanced the claim that the Jewish religion was merely a derivative of the Vedic religions of the Indo-­ Aryans.8 As another starting point we could identify Friedrich Schlegel’s Über die Sprache und Weisheit der Indier, in which he claimed that Sanskrit was actually the protolanguage underlying all other languages. Schlegel further claimed that languages could be divided into two groups: those with the inflections and those with affixes. Following this division, his successors would call those languages with affixes “semitic” and those with inflections “Indo-Germanic” or “Indo-European.” Even though Schlegel appreciated Hebrew poetry, he implicitly favored those languages that were derived from Sanskrit as being close to the Urweisheit (primordial wisdom) of the ancient Indians (see Chap. 4 for more on this). While these ideas played an important role in the genesis of the Buddha-Jesus literature, there is another point of origin, which seems more pertinent: the so-called Creuzer-Streit. Between 1810 and 1812, the Heidelberg classicist Friedrich Creuzer published his four-volume magnum opus Symbolik und Mythology der alten Völker, which caused a dispute that rattled the exclusive circles of Weimar classicism with the bold claim that the ancient (classical) myths and religions are descended from a primordial Indian religion and that this primordial Indian religion was monotheistic. This was almost a full-blown attack against both Weimar classicism and the idealized picture of Greece promoted by Winckelmann, Schiller, and their ilk. However, it was also a critique of Christianity. Creuzer challenged the hermetic picture of Greece that dominated German thought, in which the ancient Greeks developed philosophy because they were the only ones sufficiently sophisticated to do so and replaced it with a counter-narrative of his own9: according to Creuzer, the Greeks were actually the ones who tainted the pure, original message of the Orient. 8  See Dorothy Figueira, Aryans, Jews, Brahmins: Theorizing Authority through Myths of Identity (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2002), 17. 9  See Eva Koczisky, “‘χαλεπὰ τὰ καλά’: Das Konzept und die Rolle des Orients in Creuzers Werk im Vergleich zu Görres,” Heidelberger Jahrbücher, 200 Jahre Heidelberger Romantik 51 (2008), 305.

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Creuzer’s iconoclasm obviously stirred up some controversy and soon entered into a more general discussion that was under way at that time— namely if, and to what extent, Christianity was the sole foundation of European culture and its achievements.10 One of his forerunners and main supporters was his Heidelberg colleague Joseph Görres, who had made similar arguments in his Mythengeschichte der asiatischen Welt (published in 1808 and dedicated to Creuzer), where he drew an important parallel that would prove to be very influential and only the beginning of numerous similar accounts: Brahmanism and Buddhism were like Catholicism and Protestantism, respectively, that is, the old guard against a new (rather ascetic) reformism.11 While other thinkers, most famously Johann Gottfried Hermann, August Boeckh, and Wilhelm von Humboldt, drew a sharp distinction between the Greeks and the Romans on one side, and “the rest” (e.g., Egyptians, Hebrews, Persians, and Indians) on the other, Creuzer sought to blur these lines and argued for a gradual genealogical dependence between these peoples.12 While Creuzer also relied to a great degree on Schlegel’s book, he nevertheless controverted Schlegel’s insurmountable distinction between organic and mechanical languages. For Creuzer, the language of a people is not completely expressible through words, utterances, and writings; it also includes images and symbols, that is, the visual tradition of that which cannot be expressed in speech. Against the ontologization of geographical divisions, Creuzer and his comrades in arms would argue for a slow unfolding of a human mode of transmitting mental content through symbols, a mode that includes all humans. This ultimately blurred the line between Christians and heathens. If monotheism originated from India, then it underlay both Judaism and Christianity. Abraham and Sarah were just a deviation, a Jewish copy of Brahma and his wife Sarasvati. Ultimately, following Creuzer’s genealogical line of thinking, the church’s symbols and myths were not genuinely European but rather of Asian heritage. But, going even further, Creuzer claimed that if Christianity maintained that its symbolism carries some metaphysical truth within it, then the same had to be said of ancient Indian symbols, which,  Cf. Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire, 68.  See Christoph Jamme, “‘Göttersymbole’ Friedrich Creuzer als Mythologe und seine philosophische Wirkung,” Heidelberger Jahrbücher, 200 Jahre Heidelberger Romantik 51 (2008), 488. 12  See Koczisky, “‘χαλεπὰ τὰ καλά’: Das Konzept und die Rolle des Orients in Creuzers Werk im Vergleich zu Görres,” 305. 10 11

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furthermore, were older. And in being older and closer to the original source, they might be even less compromised, since they were not distorted by the Jewish interstage. His brother in arms Carl Ritter, geographer at the University of Berlin, went even further. In 1820, he published his Vorhalle Europäischer Völkergeschichten vor Herodotus, um den Kaukasus und an den Gestaden des Pontus—Eine Abhandlung zur Altertumskunde, in which he speculated that this vestibule to religion and civilization stood on the ground of northern India and was in fact inhabited by a monotheistic “Buddha cult,” which later spread across the world and reached Asia Minor and Europe, where it was transformed by different nations according to their needs. Consequently, Apollo, Wotan, and the monotheism of Judaism and Christianity could be reduced to deviations from one original northern Indian cult, to which they paled in comparison. But Ritter and his inflated speculations comprise just one example of several scholars inspired by Creuzer who would trace Europe’s civilization and religions back to India. The controversy around Creuzer’s claims simmered for nearly 20 years (1810/1812–1829), and even though they would be endorsed fully or partially by such intellectual heavyweights as Hegel and Friedrich Schlegel, on the opposing side stood Johann Heinrich Voß and Friedrich Schleiermacher, with scholastic opinion slowly tilting in favor of Creuzer’s opponents.13 At the beginning of the 1830s, the highly productive era of Romanticist conjectures and wild scientific theorizing about an Eastern cradle of human civilization came to an end, and this would remain so for a long time (at least within the academy). Thus, it took the work of some academic “outsiders” to reintroduce the themes that had been so powerful during the Romantic era. This included people who chiefly operated outside the university, or were frowned upon by their fellow academics, such as Schopenhauer, Wagner, and Nietzsche. In 1819, Schopenhauer published his magnum opus Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, but the book was largely met with indifference. After 1844, when Schopenhauer republished the book with a second volume—for the most part a critique of Kant—he received some recognition. But only at the beginning of the twentieth century would Schopenhauer acquire his status as one of the most formidable thinkers of the nineteenth century, thanks principally to the popularity of two other figures: Richard Wagner and  See Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire, 71.

13

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Friedrich Nietzsche. When, in 1887, Leopold von Schroeder published his study Indiens Literatur und Cultur in Historischer Entwicklung, which contained a chapter on the history of Indology in Germany, Schopenhauer, who would later (and today) be considered a leading figure in the history of Indian and Buddhist thought in Germany and one of those responsible for popularizing Buddhism, was not even included.14 The same goes for Oldenberg’s seminal work Buddha, which would become one of the most successful publications in this field—indeed, so successful that it remains in print in German and English to this day.15 It is quite telling that Oldenberg’s study still seems to be of some value to readers, while later studies during the fin de siècle and the Weimar Republic, which had greater access to primary sources and translations of Buddhist texts, are deemed so bound to their time (and their neo-­Romantic ideals) that they have little appeal to the contemporary reader, who presumably expects an introduction based on a “scientific” reading than on wild, surreal theories. Schopenhauer’s initial obscurity stands in stark contrast to his later acclaim and his role in popularizing Buddhist thought in Germany. Richard Wagner was expressing both a certain sense of Romantic nostalgia and premature fin de siècle avant-gardism when, in 1855, in a letter to Franz Liszt, he declared that the pure and unmixed Christianity (“das reine, ungemischte Christentum”) originally had Buddhist roots.16 The pure and profound Buddhist doctrines were actually transmitted to the Mediterranean realm through Alexander the Great’s Indian campaign. But then, through the rival faith of the hidebound (engherzig) Judaism, Christianity was tainted and developed its current form, which Wagner despised at this point of his life.17 It was also around this time that Wagner planned his opera Die Sieger (The Victors), which dealt with the overcoming of eruptions of passion through self-knowledge among Buddhist monks. His opera Parsifal took up several themes of this unfinished project and can be seen as an attempt to retrieve the lost pure Christian ­doctrine.18 Wagner was clearly influenced by Schopenhauer, as was the  See Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire, 303.  Hermann Oldenberg, Buddha: Sein Leben, seine Lehre, seine Gemeinde (Berlin: Wilhelm Hertz, 1881). See for more: Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire, 271. 16  Quoted in Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 84. 17  Ibid. 18  See, for the link between Die Sieger and Parsifal: Wolfgang Osthoff, “Richard Wagners Buddha-Projekt ‘Die Sieger.’ Seine ideellen und strukturellen Spuren in ‘Ring’ und ‘Parsifal,’” Archiv für Musikwissenschaft 40 (1983), 189–211. 14 15

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other towering figure in this discourse, Friedrich Nietzsche, who, of course, would become much famed during the Wilhelmine era (at least at the end of it) and the Weimar Republic.

Buddhism as the Religion of the Future This brings us to the new popular interest in Buddhism, the second Oriental renaissance, and its first protagonist, Theodor Schultze. From the 1880s onward, through several publications, Schultze argued that Buddhism was the religion of the future, culminating in the aptly named Der Buddhismus als Religion der Zukunft.19 According to Schultze, Buddhism would free Europe from Christianity, which was only a Trojan horse for Jewish and Semitic influence in the first place. Here we find a racialized version of the Schopenhauerian idea that Europe has to be cleansed of Jewish influence that conceals its true Buddhist self.20 The idea that Buddhism was the religion of the (European) future was widely shared. The antisemitic writer Karl Bleibtreu published an essay titled Die Zukunftsreligion: Der Buddhismus.21 In 1903, Carl von Thomassin made similar claims in his article Der Buddhismus als Religion der Zukunft, and Anton Weis-Ulmenried went even further and argued that Buddhism was the world religion of the future (Die Weltreligion der Zukunft).22 What these and a plethora of similarly themed articles had in  First in two volumes as: Theodor Schultze, Das Christentum Christi und die Religion der Liebe; ein Votum in Sachen der Zukunftsreligion (Leipzig: Friedrich Wilhelm, 1891). And: Theodor Schultze, Das rollende Rad des Lebens und der feste Ruhestand (Leipzig: Friedrich Wilhelm, 1892). For the first time together as: Theodor Schultze, Der Buddhismus als Religion der Zukunft (Leipzig: Friedrich Wilhelm, 1894). See also, for the location of Schultze in relation to Dahlke: Myers, German Visions of India, 1871–1918, 82f. 20  See Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 80 and 135f. Cf. Gregory Moore, “From Buddhism to Bolshevism: Some Orientalist Themes in German Thought,” German Life and Letters 56 (2003), 22f. See also: Frank Usarski, “The Perception of Jesus and Christianity among Early German Buddhists,” in Buddhist Perception of Jesus: Papers of the Third Conference of Buddhist-Christian Studies (St. Ottilien 1999), edited by Perry Schmidt-Leukel (St. Ottilien: Eos-Verlag, 2001), 116. 21  Karl Bleibtreu, “Die Zukunftsreligion: Der Buddhismus,” in Von Robespierre zu Buddha (Leipzig: W. Friedrich, 1899). 22  Carl von Thomassin, “Der Buddhismus als Religion der Zukunft,” Zeitschrift für Missionskunde und Religionswissenschaften 18 (1903), 1–12 and 45–63. Anton WeisUlmenried, “Der Buddhismus, die Weltreligion der Zukunft,” Neue Bahnen 5 (1905), 73–76. See both Haas, Bibliographie zur Frage nach den Wechselbeziehungen zwischen Buddhismus und Christentum and Held, Deutsche Bibliographie des Buddhismus, for more examples. 19

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common was the belief that Christianity did not offer the kind of remedies that Buddhism provided. Antisemitic clichés were often extended to Christianity as well. Some argued that Christianity could be salvaged if unfettered from Jewish influence, while others saw it as irretrievably tarnished. Proponents of Buddhism claimed a philosophical superiority. Buddhism was more apt to the times, their perils, and advancements. Buddhism in Germany, as far as it was connected to the Buddha-Jesus literature, came with an almost reformist zeal. Its deep association with antisemitic ideas, especially the non-Jewish Jesus, made it less popular with German Jews, but for Christians it offered access to a Christianity unsoiled by Judaism. The Buddhist Jesus was an Aryan Jesus.23 Harnack had already, despite opposing political antisemitism, made use of antisemitic tropes in arguing against the continuity of Judaism. He and many participants in the debate on the Buddha-Jesus literature were in fact what Paul Mendes-Flohr referred to as “metaphysicians of contempt.”24 Since antisemitic and anti-Jewish prejudice ran deep among Christian thinkers, the dejudaization of Jesus met with less resistance than the threat of a religious rival. That Christian circles were rattled by this new competitor in the marketplace of religious ideas is clear from their occasionally alarmist reactions. As early as 1887, the framework for attacks was established in the following quote by Christian Pesch: “Buddhism is atheism or agnosticism and maybe also nihilism.”25 Eduard Bratke, a professor of ecclesiastical history, first in Bonn and then Breslau, took aim at the core of what had initially caused the surge of interest in Buddhism, namely its grounding in philosophical thought and its distance from religious practice: The selfishness of relinquishing even love for the sake of avoiding pain, the degradation of women, the saccharine-cruel perversion of nature regarding Buddha’s death are all aspects unbearable for the occidental spirit. The glorification of a beggar’s life and the absolute cult of relics of this alleged 23  See Heschel’s discussion of this and other attempts to rid Jesus of his Jewish descent by Christian theologians before, but especially during, the Third Reich. Heschel, The Aryan Jesus: Christian Theologians and the Bible in Nazi Germany. 24  Mendes-Flohr, Divided Passions: Jewish Intellectuals and the Experience of Modernity, 207ff. 25  “Der Buddhismus ist Atheismus oder Agnosticismus und vielleicht auch Nihilismus.” Christian Pesch, “Die sittigenden Erfolge des Buddhismus,” Stimmen aus Maria-Laach— Katholische Blätter 33 (1887), 119.

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hyper-spiritual religion are, as so many other things, routinely glossed over by European Buddhists.26

In 1917, an article called for Buddhism to be taught in schools with the aim of combating the growing interest among the next generation.27 Here, a Professor Finklenburg offered rebuttals to the most common ideas (e.g., that Christianity is derivative of Buddhism) and proposed argumentative strategies for teachers. Buddhism’s weak points are swiftly identified: it expedites nihilism in the ethical realm and indulges idolatry and polytheism in the religious realm, while opening the way for atheism in the philosophical realm.28 Among Christian apologists who were concerned about the popularity of Buddhism, this constituted the winning trifecta: nihilism, (possibly polytheistic) idolatry, and atheism. That these three facets somewhat contradicted one another was of no concern. Of equally little concern was that some of Buddhism’s supporters regarded epithets such as nihilism or atheism as badges of honor. For their opponents, however, the charge of nihilism, idolatry, and atheism became polemic staples in the struggle against Buddhism and the conflation of Buddha with Jesus. The latter is what made the charge of idolatry so fraught. While most of the Christian commentators noted that Buddha was not a deity, they often argued that, over time, Asian societies slid into worshiping the Buddha as an idol.29 This neatly merged with the argument that due to its atheism, Buddhism lacked a moral grounding and subsequently proliferated egoism.30 26  “Der Egoismus, der, um nur dem Leiden zu entgehen, sogar die Liebe verwirft, die Herabwürdigung der Frau, die süsslich-grausame Unnatur des Todes Buddha’s sind einem abendländischen Geist unerträglich. Die Verherrlichung des Bettlerlebens, und vollends der Reliquienkultus dieser angeblich so übergeistigen Religion pflegt von den europäischen Buddhisten wie so vieles anderes vertuscht zu werden.” Eduard Bratke, Review of Buddha und Christus, by Otto Veeck, Theologisches Literaturblatt 14 (1893), 418. 27  [No forename] Finklenburg, “Der Buddhismus. Eine Stoffsammlung für schulmäßige Behandlung desselben,” Monatsblätter für den katholischen Religionsunterricht an höheren Lehranstalten 18 (1917), 8–16 and 35–55. 28  Finklenburg, “Der Buddhismus. Eine Stoffsammlung für schulmäßige Behandlung desselben,” 51ff. 29  For example, here: Pesch, “Die sittigenden Erfolge des Buddhismus,” 126. Pesch argued that Buddhism was originally atheist, but because God is a human need, the figure of the Buddha was deified and revered as an idol. Finklenburg spoke of fetishism. Finklenburg, “Der Buddhismus. Eine Stoffsammlung für schulmäßige Behandlung desselben,” 10. 30  See, for example, here: Christian Pesch, “Die buddhistische Moral,” Stimmen aus Maria-Laach—Katholische Blätter 33 (1887), 18f.

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Even though many of Buddhism’s sympathizers argued along antisemitic lines, their opponents did too. Antisemitism, as usual in German history, could be found on both sides of the aisle. The influential antisemite Theodor Fritsch, who was behind the völkisch hate sheet Hammer— Blätter für deutschen Sinn, portrayed Buddhism, the religion of the future, as a threat to the Aryan race and clearly on the rise, as he wrote in this scaremongering passage: Who even knows that several tens of thousands of our compatriots have converted to Buddhism? That they own Buddhist associations, Buddhist magazines, Buddhist cloisters? And yet, it is so. “The Buddhist world” is zealously at work and seeks to extend its reach far and wide. A multitude of associations and societies work their influences from individual to individual, e.g. via pamphlets and books. The Buddhist cloister in Vihara, close to Lausanne, is turning Germans into Indian penitent monks. Just as humanists used to ‘latinise’ their names, many Buddhist do not hesitate to ‘Indianise’ their simple German names. This is how plain names such as ‘Müller’ or ‘Mayer’ turn into, for example, Vasettho or the ‘great wisdom implying’ name Bhikkhu Nyanatilokka. At the same time, people are exceedingly talented at creating proselytes, even if, admittedly, the general ‘un-­ aryanization,’ the race degeneracy plays into their hands. Physical ‘turanization’ is immediately followed by the psychological kind. This why perhaps it is not an empty presumption if they proclaim Buddhism to be the ‘religion of the future,’ possibly because they believe that the encroaching masses of yellow people may at some point take the trowel from their hands.31

31  “Wem ist es bekannt, dass schon mehrere Zehntausend unserer Landsleute sich zum Buddhismus bekennen? Dass sie bereits buddhistische Vereine, buddhistische Zeitungen, buddhistische Klöster besitzen? Und doch ist es so. ‘Das Hauptorgan, Die buddhistische Welt,’ ist eifrig am Werke und arbeitet in die Ferne, die zahlreichen buddhistischen Vereine und Gesellschaften von Mann zu Mann wie durch Flugschriften und Bücher und das buddhistische Kloster Vihara bei Lausanne macht Deutsche zu indischen Büssermönchen. Wie die Humanisten seinerzeit ihre Namen lateinisierten, so zögern auch die Buddhisten nicht, ihren schlichten deutschen Namen zu indisieren; so wird aus einem simplen ‘Müller’ oder ‘Mayer’ etwa ein Vasettho oder der ‘hohe Weisheit andeutende’ Name Bhikkhu Nyanatilokka. Und dabei verstehen es diese Leute ausgezeichnet, Proselyten zu machen, wobei ihnen freilich die allgemeine Entarisierung, die Rassen-Entartung in die Hände arbeitet. Der körperlichen Turanisierung folgt eben die geistige auf dem Fusse. Darum ist es vielleicht auch keine leere Überhebung, wenn sie den Buddhismus bereits heute als ‘Religion der Zukunft’ bezeichnen, möglicherweise in der Überzeugung, dass die anrückenden Massen der Gelben doch einmal die Kelle aus ihrer Hand entgegen nehmen werden.” Quoted in: “Rundschau,” 405.

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Obviously, this quote is full of hyperbole. The combination of a threatening front of Buddhists, the Yellow Peril, and a weakened Aryan race sought to confect an image of Buddhism as a menace that was threatening Germany. Fritsch thus took the discourse on the Buddha-Jesus literature beyond the realm of theology and expanded it. As such, for Fritsch, Buddhism is not just a danger on a religious level, it is also a threat on a military level. German Buddhists are a fifth column undermining the German nation and the Aryan race. There are clear parallels between the antisemitic discourses of this period and Fritsch’s account. Unsurprisingly, he saw the rise of Buddhism as a Jewish plot against Germany.32 For Fritsch, Buddhism was “to lead poor Germany through Buddha and Brahma to the Talmud.”33

Rabbinic Responses While Jewish responses were numerous, when compared to their Christian coevals, they were strikingly muted. These issues were discussed in Jewish publications, as we shall see, but they assigned far less significance than in, for example, Catholic journals. Why does it appear that Christian thinkers inserted themselves into the discourse on the Buddhist roots of Jesus much more vigorously than Jewish thinkers?34 The reason could, of course, 32  For more on Theodor Fritsch and the influence of Hammer—Blätter für deutschen Sinn on the antisemitic right and the Jugendbewegung, see Uwe Puschner, “Völkische Bewegung und Jugendbewegung. Eine Problemskizze,” in Jugendbewegung, Antisemitismus und rechtsradikale Politik. Vom “Freideutschen Jugendtag” bis zur Gegenwart, edited by Gideon Botsch and Josef Haverkamp (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014), 19f. For biographical information on Fritsch and his activities as a publisher, see Klaus Wand, “Theodor Fritsch (1852–1933)— der vergessene Antisemit,” in Israel als Gegenüber. Vom alten Orient bis zur Gegenwart. 25 Studien zur Geschichte eines wechselvollen Zusammenlebens, edited by Folker Siegert (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 2000). See also Davis, Colonialism, Antisemitism, and Germans of Jewish Descent in Imperial Germany, 47f. 33  “um das arme Deutschland über Buddha und Brahma zum Talmud zu führen.” Quoted in “Rundschau,” Indien und die Buddhistische Welt. Deutsche Zeitschrift für das Gesamtgebiet des Buddhismus und der indischen Kultur 6 (1913), 405. 34  Of course, we can also find sharp denouncements by Jewish thinkers. Max Nordau offered in his book Entartung (1892–1893) the following scathing verdict: “The degenerate who shuns action, and is without will-power, has no suspicion that his incapacity for action is a consequence of his own eyes, he constructs a philosophy of renunciation and of contempt for the world and men, asserts that he has convinced himself of the excellence of Quietism, calls himself with consummate self-consciousness a Buddhist, and praises Nirvana in poetically eloquent phrases as the highest and worthiest ideal of the human mind. The degenerate

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lie in the subject: the origin of Jesus was more crucial for Christians than for Jews. However, the antisemitic narratives on both sides turned this discourse into an intermediate concern for Jewish thinkers as well. In addition to this, calls for the establishment of a new religion for the future also took aim at Judaism. Proselytizing could be as much of a threat to the Jewish community as to the Christian one. Yet, Jewish responses were less aggressive and more substantial than their Christian counterparts, who polemicized more openly, freely, and hysterically. Clearly, the Jewish responses, which we shall discuss later in the chapter, did not appreciate the new prominence of Buddhism, but, in contrast to views within some Christian circles, many also did not see it as an existential threat. Another reason might lie in the power disparity between Christian and Jewish commentators. Christian theologians ignored or disparaged contributions by Jewish thinkers, which remained, what Christian Wiese called, “a cry into the void.”35 The lack of resonance in what Jewish writers saw as a sideline in the first place led to an increased focus on more pressing issues. In the case of the Buddha-Jesus literature, with its antisemitic associations, this had the effect of a subdued response. While the Buddha-Jesus literature was then clearly not the hot iron that it was for many Christian thinkers, some Jewish thinkers did address the issue head on. Some of these poignant rebuttals in Jewish journals are discussed later in the chapter. But before proceeding, another aspect is worth noting. Even though few and insane are predestined disciples of Schopenhauer und Hartmann, and need only to acquire a knowledge of Buddhism to become converts to it.” Max Nordau, Degeneration (London: William Heinemann, 1895), 20f. “Der thatenscheue, willenlose Entartete, der nicht ahnt, daß seine Unfähigkeit zum Handeln eine Folge seiner ererbten Gehirn-Mängel ist, macht sich selbst weis, daß er aus freier Entschließung das Handeln verachte und sich in Thatlosigkeit gefalle, und um sich in den eigenen Augen zu rechtfertigen, baut er sich eine Philosophie der Entsagung, der Weltabkehr und Menschenverachtung auf, gibt vor, er habe sich von der Vorzüglichkeit des Quietismus überzeugt, nennt sich voll Selbstbewußtsein einen Buddhisten und rühmt in dichterisch beredten Wendungen die [sic] Nirvanah als das höchste und würdigste Ideal des Menschengeistes. Die Degenerirten und Irren sind die vorbestimmte Gemeinde von Schopenhauer und Hartmann und sie brauchen den Buddhismus nur kennenzulernen, um zu ihm bekehrt zu werden.” Max Nordau, Entartung, edited by Karin Tebben (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013), 31f. Nordau clearly did not react to the Buddha-Jesus literature, but his negative opinion of Buddhism was rooted in his race theories. In 1908, Nordau, when he wrote the aforementioned article on Buddha and Buddhism, sounded more conciliatory. See Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 146f. 35  Christian Wiese, Wissenschaft des Judentums und protestantische Theologie im wilhelminischen Deutschland (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999), esp. 240ff and 285ff.

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Jewish thinkers engaged directly with Buddhism, they often (consciously or unconsciously) took over many of the arguments dealing with it. So while certain thinkers—for example, Franz Rosenzweig, Martin Buber, and so on—did not properly contribute to the Buddha-Jesus literature, many elements of this discourse are reflected in their negative reception of Buddhism. So, we have two different levels of engagement here: the few Jewish thinkers who wrote articles in response to the ongoing debate, often trying to provide a distinctive Jewish viewpoint; and the permeation of the Jewish perception of Buddhism beyond that single confined discourse. In what follows, I discuss an article by Samuel Krauss, which is exemplary of a Jewish contribution to the Buddha-Jesus literature. Since Krauss is something of an unknown figure, I start out with a brief biographical overview. Samuel Krauss was born in Hungary in 1866 and received a traditional Jewish education in two yeshivot, which he supplemented with a secular education at the high-school level.36 He continued this two-tier education by studying both at the Rabbinical Seminary and at the university in Budapest. The seminary’s rules obliged him to obtain a doctorate at a university. After a stopover in Berlin, Krauss successfully submitted his doctorate in 1893 at the university in Gießen, where he came into contact with Protestant theologians. In his dissertation, with direct reference to the New Testament, Krauss attempted to show that many Latin and Greek neologisms originated from Rabbinic literature.37 In 1894, Krauss returned to Hungary, where he taught for 12 years, before taking up a professorship at the Israelitisch-Theologische Lehranstalt in Vienna.38 In 1938, he escaped to Cambridge, UK, where he spent the remaining years of his life until his death in 1948. His dissertation, in which Krauss investigated the influence of the Hebrew language on Greek and Roman writings, as well as his entire educational path, was clearly in the mold of the Wissenschaft des Judentums. 36  My biographical sketch follows: Catherine Hészer, “The International Context of Samuel Krauss’s Scholarship: Network Connections between East and West,” in Modern Jewish Scholarship in Hungary: The “Science of Judaism” between East and West, edited by Tamás Turán and Carsten Wilke (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2016), 175ff. 37  See Samuel Krauss, “Zur Griechischen und Lateinischen Lexikographie aus Jüdischen Quellen” (PhD diss., University of Gießen, 1893), in Byzantinische Zeitschrift 2 (1893), 496f. 38  Hészer, “The International Context of Samuel Krauss’s Scholarship,” 180.

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Here he implicitly argued for the deep immersion of Judaism in classical civilizations. Against the attempts of historians and theologians to relegate Judaism to a different historical realm, Krauss attempted to show the indispensable contribution—linguistic and beyond—of Judaism to the formation of Latin, Greek, and, ultimately, Christian culture.39 The discrepancy between this classical conception and the counter-­ historical narrative advanced by many German Buddhists is clear, and it was precisely this counter-historical narrative that bothered Krauss. In 1917, he published his article Ein Wort zur buddhistischen Bewegung in Germany, in which he addressed the wave of Buddhist publications in the country.40 First, he highlighted the lack of scientific rigor in contemporary Buddhist literature: If one scrutinises this or that Buddhist work more closely, it immediately becomes apparent that glorifying Buddha’s teachings is a matter close to the authors’ hearts, as is spotlighting the teachings’ advantages and wishing for their dissemination at the expense of Christianity. In short, they wish to portray Buddhism as the religion that creed-needy people require and might profit from, including in those areas where Christianity failed.41

Krauss asserted that, upon closer inspection, Buddhist publications were biased and did not portray an objective image of Buddhism, even though most of them were cloaked in scientific garb. He acknowledged that the Buddhists had detected an opening for their teaching due to Christianity’s failure. He did not, however, further elaborate as to what exactly comprised Christianity’s failure. Clearly, Krauss saw Buddhism as a rival to Christianity and less so to Judaism, which gave rise to two questions: Is the displacement of Christianity by Buddhism imminent? And should the Jewish people hope for such an outcome?

39  Krauss, “Zur Griechischen und Lateinischen Lexikographie aus Jüdischen Quellen,” 495ff. 40  See Samuel Krauss, “Ein Wort zur buddhistischen Bewegung,” Neue jüdische Monatshefte: Zeitschrift für Politik, Wirtschaft und Literatur in Ost und West 14 (1917), 418–420. 41  “Sieht man sich das eine oder das andere dieser buddhistischen Werke näher an, so merkt man gleich, daß es den Verfassern eine Herzenssache ist, die Lehre Buddhas zu glorifizieren, ihre Vorzüge hervorzukehren, ihre Verbreitung auf Kosten des Christentums zu fördern und herbeizuwünschen, kurz, sie als diejenige Religion hinzustellen, die dem glaubensbedürftigen Menschen not- und guttut, auch dort, wo das Christentum versagt hat.” Krauss, “Ein Wort zur buddhistischen Bewegung,” 419.

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Krauss saw no immediate threat in Buddhism to the hegemony of Christianity. First, he concluded, one’s religion had a powerful grip on one’s mind that could not be shaken off so easily. Writing in 1917, he saw the ongoing war as proof of the vitality of the “great cultured nations” that contravene the ideas of renunciation, escapism, and suffering.42 This would turn out to be a misguided statement, soon invalidated by the zeitgeist, when the war was seen not as a sign of European societies’ health but rather as their death knell. In fact, the First World War, as we shall see in the next chapter, played a major role in the dissemination of Buddhism in German culture. Krauss further opined that German Jews should not express schadenfreude over Christianity’s powerful new adversary. For German Jews, Christianity was an enemy that they knew. The arrival of a new religion could disturb the interdenominational truce. Further, Buddhism’s rise to prominence might have consequences for the Jewish community, as it could also lead Jews astray through the brightness of the new. Consequently, Krauss urged them to stay in the Jewish community, as perseverance would eventually get the better of divergence.43 In line with his argument in his dissertation—namely the existence of a linguistic line of continuation between Hebrew on the one side and Latin and Greek on the other—Krauss saw Christianity as an offspring of Jewish ideas: The success of Christianity was the success of the Jews, as Christianity was built on Jewish ideas and had proliferated them across the whole world. Yet Krauss could not refrain from the pointed remark toward Christianity, and especially Adolf von Harnack’s claim that the “Gospel is […] religion itself.”44 As we have seen, Harnack had mentioned the rise (or threat) of Buddhism at the beginning of Das Wesen des Christentums.  Ibid. “nach der ungeheuren Kraftenfaltung der großen Kulturvölker.”  Krauss, “Ein Wort zur buddhistischen Bewegung,” 420. “Ein Beharren wird euch dann richtiger dünken als ein Abschwenken.” 44  The whole sentence runs like this: “Indem man die ganze Verkündigung Jesu auf diese beiden Stücke zurückführen kann—Gott als der Vater, und die menschliche Seele so geadelt, daß sie sich mit ihm zusammenschließen vermag und zusammenschließt—zeigt es sich, daß das Evangelium überhaupt keine positive Religion ist wie die anderen, daß es nichts Statutarisches und Partikularistisches hat, daß es also die Religion selbst ist.” (Harnack’s italics). Harnack, Das Wesen des Christentums, 47. See, for a thoughtful discussion of the implications of Harnack’s concept of Christianity as the religion itself for Judaism and other religions: Sonja Lukas-Klein, Das ist (christliche) Religion. Zur Konstruktion von Judentum, Katholizismus und Protestantismus in Adolf von Harnacks Vorlesungen über “Das Wesen des Christentums” (Berlin: LIT-Verlag, 2014), 82f. 42 43

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How, Krauss asked, could Harnack elevate Christianity over all other religions and claim that only Christianity had the necessary qualities of the true religion when Christians were flocking to Buddhism?45 Krauss did not provide an answer to this question; however, I would suggest that he thought that the reason for this contradiction lay in Harnack’s myopic understanding of history. Because Harnack’s whole premise was built on a historicist understanding of Christianity, he subsequently struggled to find an essence that transcended its historical contingency.46 The arrival of Buddhism posed something of a disruption (if not unprecedented, then certainly unsettling in its temporal proximity) of the fragile alliance between history and essence in Harnack’s thought. Either Christianity’s essence was pegged to history, an assumption that was challenged by the combination of Buddhism’s older age and its current popularity, or essence and history were not linked, which would then prompt the question as to why Harnack sought to understand the essence through history in the first place. Krauss concluded his essay with a warning: The Jewish people had failed to understand the world-changing advent of Christianity from within their own circle. Later, they repeated that mistake in the case of Islam. This time, with Buddhism, they had to remain vigilant. Sure, it was only a relatively small group of swarmers and enthusiasts at the moment, but that is how Christianity and Islam had started. Buddhism could become a powerful force in the future for the Jewish people. This warning is built on several assumptions, the most important of which is that Buddhism had never exerted influence over Judaism or Christianity (or Islam for that matter). Thus, Krauss casually discarded the basic premise of the Buddha-Jesus literature, as well as the notion of Judaism as a bridge between East and West, which we further discuss in 45  Here, Krauss’s ironic take on Harnack: “Bekanntlich war es A. von Harnack, der in seinem so weit verbreiteten Buche Das Wesen des Christentums für das Christentum einen Platz vindizierte, der diese Konfession über jede Religion erhebt und ihr allein die Qualität zuschreibt, die einer wahren Religion anzuhaften haben. Fern sei uns jede dogmatische Polemik; doch mit Verlaub—eine Flucht zu einer anderen Religion, oder sagen wir, vorsichtshalber, zu einer anderen Weltanschauung, ist doch für die verlassene Religion nicht dasjenige Ehrenzeugnis, das sie als die allein befriedigende, die allein seeligmachende hinstellen könnte.” Krauss, “Ein Wort zur buddhistischen Bewegung,” 20. 46  Cf. Peter Gordon, “Weimar Theology: From Historicism to Crisis,” in Weimar Thought: A Contested Legacy, edited by Peter E.  Gordon and John P.  McCormick (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013), 151.

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the next chapter. He further assumed a struggle of religious ideas that unfolds throughout history, in which Buddhism might be the latest entry onto the world stage. He thus implicitly adopted the Orientalist notion of the ahistorical East. Buddhism only entered history when it became an antagonist for Christianity and Judaism. Krauss’s essay has to be supplemented by more dire warnings, which saw Buddhism as a more immediate threat to the Jewish people. Krauss’s focus on the longue durée remained insensitive to Buddhism’s appeal to his contemporaries, especially Jews. In an article in Der Jude, Rabbi Max Eschelbacher especially saw the Ostjuden, who had only recently come to Germany, as vulnerable to the allure of theosophy, Buddha, and Jakob Böhme.47 After their arrival in Germany, they had sworn off Hasidism and were now seeking a substitute to fill their spiritual void. This assumption is another variation on the Orientalist theme of the irrational East. For an example of an alternative view, which saw Buddhism neither as a Christian issue, nor as only appealing to Ostjuden, but rather of interest to the broad German-Jewish community, we have to go beyond the two options proposed by Samuel Krauss and Max Eschelbacher. In 1907, Rabbi Elieser David from Vienna had already warned against the attraction that Buddhism might pose to members of his community. Elieser David had come to Vienna in 1903 and soon took up several ­crucial positions within Jewish institutions.48 He had resigned from his position in Düsseldorf, because he had opposed several new features that were introduced to the synagogue rite. Once in Vienna, he was appointed the head of the institute for the education of Jewish teachers, in addition to being appointed as a supervisor for Jewish education in Vienna. However, what provided him with the most clout was his position as rabbi at the Leopoldstädter Tempel, the largest synagogue in Vienna, a huge, impressive building whose architectural features borrow from Moorish traditions.49 In his lecture titled Buddhismus und Judentum, David sought to examine Buddhism from a distinctively Jewish point of view, especially  Max Eschelbacher, “Ostjüdische Proletarier in Deutschland,” Der Jude 3 (1918/1919), 519.  See, for a biographical sketch, including his various appointments, his obituary from 1910: “Jahresbericht des Rabbiner-Seminars zu Berlin für 1909/1910 (5670) erstattet vom Curatorium,” (Berlin: H. Itzkowski, 1911), 20f. 49  See, for a discussion, including pictures, of the Orientalist traits in the architecture of the Leopoldstädter Tempel: Efron, German Jewry and the Allure of the Sephardic, 143. 47

48

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since, as he noted, Buddhism had gathered a significant following among “Jewish freethinkers in Vienna.”50 After a thorough discussion of the life of the historical Buddha and the Buddhist teaching on suffering and karma in his long prolegomenon, David paid special attention to Buddhist ethics and aimed to exonerate Judaism from the presumption that it was intellectually and philosophically inferior to Buddhism. Those familiar with Eastern wisdom would often see Judaism’s intellectual inferiority as symptomatic of its optimistic or rose-tinted (or, one could say, naïve) approach to human affairs. Only Buddhism, so they claimed, had the intellectual audacity to face up to the bleak reality and the cruelty to which humans are subjected. David countered this claim with reference to psalms that addressed, according to him, the impermanence of human existence more poignantly than any other source. In David’s reading, Judaism is cognizant of the dire state of the world and its inhabitants. The claim that Judaism, unlike Buddhism, sedates its believers against reality misses the mark. He further asserted: […] which modern pessimistic painter could portray the world’s misery in more glaring pictures than the Book of Job? The Book of Ecclesiastes in its entirety is nothing but an ongoing commentary on the ever-repeating chorus: “Vanity of vanities, everything is vain!51

As we can see, in his role as a rabbi, David called upon the witness of scripture. His defense of Judaism is based on the textual tradition. Its ability to provide answers to today’s questions lies in its history and not necessarily in its ahistorical transcendence. David therefore did not provide a philosophical defense, but instead quoted from scripture to point toward Judaism’s clear understanding of human reality: “Judaism therefore does not deny at all the shortcomings and imperfections of the world.”52 50  “Unter solchen Umständen erscheint es mir durchaus nicht unglaublich, daß der Buddhismus auch unter jüdischen Freidenkern in Wien, wie mir gesagt wird, nicht wenige Anhänger hat.” Elieser David, “Buddhismus und Judentum. Ein Vortrag,” Jahrbuch für jüdische Geschichte und Literatur 10 (1907), 50. 51  “[…] welcher moderne pessimistische Maler könnte das Elend der Welt in grelleren Bildern darstellen, als es uns im Buche Hiob vorgeführt wird? Das Buch Kohelet vollends ist nichts als ein fortlaufender Kommentar zu dem immer wiederkehrenden Refrain: ‘Eitelkeit der Eitelkeiten, alles ist eitel!’” David, “Buddhismus und Judentum. Ein Vortrag,” 63. 52  “Das Judentum leugnet also keineswegs die Mängel und Unvollkommenheiten der Welt.” Ibid.

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However, David asserted that Judaism differs from “Buddhism and the related tendencies in Christianity and paganism” in the consequences it draws from an imperfect world.53 Judaism affirms life, while Buddhism strives to negate life. Judaism is optimistic, while Buddhism is pessimistic. For David, it is Judaism’s affirmation of a living God that turns the bleak reality into a reason for joy. Sure, he admits, suffering abounds in the world, yet Buddhist karma lays the blame on the individual and robs him of his sole solace, that is, his guiltlessness. Judaism concedes the inexplicability of suffering, thus shifting the burden away from the individual. Buddhism twists the sense of life, and David here implicitly also attacks Christianity, as shown through the idealization of the ascetic lifestyle. Yet, while in Christianity only a few aspire to a life of renunciation, in Buddhism this ideal holds true for all. For David, here Buddhism shows most explicitly its disdain for life.54 In Buddhism, the individual subsequently attempts to leave the world behind, while the Jew is compelled to engage with it. David spelled out the slippery slope onto which world-renouncing individualism had stepped: “After all, it is clear that the general realization of the Buddhist ideal of life prevents all cultural work and must ultimately bring about the downfall of the human race.”55 The prevalence of Buddhism on a global scale would have dire consequences for humanity. The idea of Buddhism as the religion of the future is here turned into an ominous prophecy. David did not elaborate any further on this, and instead went on to charge Buddhism, in a lengthy paragraph, with misogyny and misogamy. He concluded with this remarkable sentence: “It is well known that the marriage-hostile views of Buddhism have also penetrated into the New Testament and still today assert a certain validity in the celibacy of the Catholic clergy.”56 While, on several occasions, David pointed to certain parallels between Buddhism and Christianity, this is the only instance in which he presumed a direct influence from one to the other. David affirmed the direct intrusion of Buddhist doctrines into the New Testament, thereby laying the  Ibid.  David, “Buddhismus und Judentum. Ein Vortrag,” 68. 55  “Immerhin ist es klar, daß die allgemeine Verwirklichung des buddhistischen Lebensideals alle Kulturarbeit unterbindet und zuletzt den Untergang des Menschengeschlechts herbeiführen müsste.” Ibid. 56  “Bekanntlich sind die ehefeindlichen Anschauungen des Buddhismus auch in das neue Testament eingedrungen und behaupten in dem Zölibat der katholischen Geistlichen auch heute noch eine gewisse Geltung.” David, “Buddhismus und Judentum. Ein Vortrag,” 69. 53 54

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groundwork for the argumentation that Jesus was not Jewish but Buddhist, even though he himself refrained from making such an argument. His intervention on Buddhism and Judaism was therefore not against the whole discourse per se but remained inside the parameters set since the 1890s. In 1923, Rabbi Julius Bergmann published a heartfelt plea under the title Buddha and Moses. The article begins with a biographical sketch of the historical Buddha. Unlike the other examples, Bergmann’s article does not contrast Buddhism and Judaism as religions, and instead focuses on its founders (“Religionsstifter”).57 The reason for this, for Bergmann, is the complete opposition between Buddhism and Judaism. He wrote the following in reference to the Buddha-Jesus literature: There may have been researchers who sought connections and parallels between Buddha’s teachings and the New Testament. Only between Judaism and Buddhism no connection could be found. On the contrary: they exist in stark opposition to one another.58

This is the stance Bergmann adopted throughout the entire article: Buddhism and Judaism stand at different ends of the spectrum, with Christianity somewhere in between. Yet, as he admitted several times, Moses and Buddha had similar roles and addressed the same issues. Both were founders of religions (“Religionsstifter”), and both were prophets of compassion or pity (“Propheten des Mitleids”).59 Both emphasized moral action and fought against superstition.60 While Buddha and Moses, in Bergmann’s interpretation, had much in common, they diverged in their proposed solutions. Bergmann stressed the many differences between Judaism and Buddhism, which follow the lines already outlined: Judaism is optimistic, while Buddhism is pessimistic; Judaism embraces life, while Buddhism negates it; and so on. 57  Julius Bergmann, “Buddha und Moses,” Jahrbuch für jüdische Geschichte und Literatur 25 (1923), 27. 58  “Es hat wohl Forscher gegeben, die zwischen der Lehre Buddhas und dem Neuen Testament Parallelen und Verbindungen suchten. Allein zwischen dem Judentum und dem Buddhismus gab es keine Verbindung. Im Gegenteil: beide stehen im schärfsten Gegensatz zueinander.” Bergmann, “Buddha und Moses,” 25. 59  Bergmann, “Buddha und Moses,” 25f. 60  “Buddha und Moses legen in gleicher Weise das Hauptgewicht auf das sittliche Tun, auf die Veredlung des Menschen und seiner Lebensführung. Beide haben den Aberglauben aus ihren Religionen ausgeschaltet.” Bergmann, “Buddha und Moses,” 29.

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How do we reconcile Bergmann’s emphasis on the fundamental difference between Judaism and Buddhism with his apparent attempts to find parallels too? The answer might lie in the passage cited above; what is more, this also reveal why Bergmann saw the need to write his article in the first place. While stopping short of an open concession, Bergmann implicitly acknowledged that Buddhism had struck a chord among the German population in general, but also the Jewish community in particular. Bergmann further identified a parallel in the descent of the Buddha and Moses. Referring to this shared feature enabled an explanation of the occurrence of the same set of questions. For sure, one of them, namely Buddha, gave the wrong answers, but the similar questions posed at least addressed the same concerns. Their comparable experiences before the foundation of the respective religions explain their later roles as Religionsstifter. Bergmann’s reaction to Buddhism’s growing popularity was to elevate Moses to the status of a Buddha-like figure. As a figure of comparable stature, Moses was a match for the alluring force from the East: “Two men, Buddha and Moses, are constantly struggling for the souls of men.”61 By amplifying the difference between these two figures, Bergmann forces the reader to make a decision: […] we live in a time of hardship. The poets sing of the torment of existence. The wise men speak of the downfall of culture. Out of India, Buddhist wisdoms are proclaimed, that they may help us interpret the riddles of life. We must now choose: should we strive to overcome the world or to change it for the better? Is the saying true that life is nothing but sorrow or is this life, in the end, a precious gift and a joy received of God despite the pain? We the Jews raise up the Thora and cry: Moses’s teachings are true. We of the tribe of Job, the patient sufferers, we choose life.62

61  “Um die Seelen der Menschen ringen fortdauernd zwei Männer: Buddha und Moses.” Ibid. 62  “[…] wir leben in einer Zeit der Not. Die Dichter singen von der Qual des Daseins. Die Weisen sprechen vom Untergang der Kultur. Aus Indien wird buddhistische Weisheit gerufen, daß sie uns helfe, die Lebensrätsel deuten. Wir stehen vor der Wahl: Sollen wir unser Streben auf Weltüberwindung oder auf Weltverbesserung richten? Ist das Wort wahr, daß Leben nur Leiden ist, oder bleibt am Ende das Leben mit seinen Leiden ein kostbares Geschenk und ein Glück von Gott? Wir Juden heben die Thora empor und rufen: Des Moses Lehre ist Wahrheit. Wir vom Stamme Hiobs, des Dulders, wir wählen das Leben.” Bergmann, “Buddha und Moses,” 30f.

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Bergmann ended his article with this appeal to choose between Moses and Buddha, renunciation or improvement of the world. In the course of 15 or so pages, he had made the circle from a generally sympathetic depiction of the Buddha, drawing out key parallels between the Buddha and Moses, to the denunciation of the former in favor of the latter. The reactions discussed above demonstrate a fluctuation between serious concern and curiosity paired with the occasional hint of schadenfreude. However, while Jewish community leaders duly noted the influx of Buddhism, their reactions are somewhat weak in terms of number and intensity. When their Christian counterparts wrote scathing attacks, the rabbis in question merely engaged in gentle rebukes of Buddhism. There was a hesitancy to attack Buddhism too viciously. While all of the articles discussed above criticized Buddhism on similar grounds to those found in the work of Christian commentators, the zeal and vigor was missing. The open discussion of Buddhism in Jewish journals (all of the above articles were published in journals aimed at a Jewish audience) was comparatively muted. While the titles of said articles purported to investigate Buddhism (“Ein Wort zur buddhistischen Bewegung in Deutschland,” “Buddhismus und Judentum,” and “Buddha und Moses”), the more radical, vigorous, and truculent critiques were to be found in the writings of philosophers who only dealt with Buddhism as a secondary subject matter. It is to the latter that we turn now.

Philosophers and the Buddha: Franz Rosenzweig In the following sections, I am going to discuss Franz Rosenzweig, Leo Baeck, Martin Buber, and Theodor Lessing and their respective views on Buddhism. Each of these thinkers has entire bookshelves of secondary literature dedicated to them, and their life and ideas have been amply discussed, interpreted, scrutinized, and twisted. As such, I limit myself to the briefest sketch of their respective lives and forgo a general presentation of their ideas. I present and engage with their complex philosophical thought only insofar as it pertains to their notion of Buddhism or to their views on the Buddha-Jesus literature. Franz Rosenzweig’s critique of Buddhism, even though it was never the main target, is more scathing than what we have encountered so far from other Jewish thinkers. However, it is also less visible. The reason for this is an integral part of his conception of Judaism, as well as Buddhism,

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and is deeply built into the architecture of his philosophy. The first question I want to address is: How, when, and what did Rosenzweig learn about Buddhism when writing Der Stern der Erlösung? In October 1916, Eugen Rosenstock and Franz Rosenzweig were both young German soldiers deployed to the war. They had met previously in 1913 when Rosenzweig (born in 1886) attended a university course on Medieval constitutional law taught by the slightly younger Rosenstock (born 1888), who was already an established academic. A friendship ensued that would change the course of both their lives, as well as those of the people around them. In 1916, Rosenstock was stationed near Verdun, the site of one of the most deadly battles in human history. Rosenzweig was stationed in Macedonia, where he had enough time to read and to pen almost all of his magnum opus Der Stern der Erlösung. On the fourth day of that October, Rosenstock wrote a letter to Rosenzweig setting out his view on the relationship between Judaism and Christianity. Rosenstock then proceeded to recommend books to Rosenzweig: Have you heard of Wundt’s ‘Völkerpsychologie’? This is also one of the death-bounds of Protestantism. All religions pass in review that Christianity shall successfully be defended against Buddhism.63

Here, Rosenstock still used the formal address of Sie before he and Rosenzweig turned to the informal Du six months later in the spring of 1917.64 The ostensibly formal tone of the letter betrays the close intellectual bond that Rosenzweig and Rosenstock had formed over the previous four years. It was, after all, his encounter with Rosenstock that had prompted a religious U-turn in Rosenzweig’s thinking. In brief, the story that is often told goes as follows: Shaped by the academic philosophy of the day, Rosenzweig subscribed to a philosophical relativism that left no ground for 63   “Kennen Sie Wundts Völkerpsychologie? Auch einer der Todessprünge des Protestantismus. Sämtliche Religionen passieren Revue, das Christentum wird siegreich gegen den Buddhismus verteidigt.” Franz Rosenzweig, Briefe und Tagebücher, 1. Band 1900–1918, Der Mensch und sein Werk—Gesammelte Werke, edited by Rachel Rosenzweig and Edith Rosenzweig-Scheinman (Den Haag: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, 1979), 246. See for the English translation Eugen Rosenstock-Huessy (ed.), Judaism Despite Christianity: The 1916 Wartime Correspondence between Eugen Rosenstock-Huessy and Franz Rosenzweig (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011), 106. 64  See Franz Rosenzweig, Die “Gritli”-Briefe. Briefe an Margrit Rosenstock-Huessy, edited by Inken Rühle und Reinhold Mayer (Tübingen: Bilam Verlag, 2002), 6ff.

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faith. However, confronted with the powerful belief held by Rosenstock, who had converted from Judaism to Protestantism, Rosenzweig also adopted a position of faith, first toying with the idea of converting to Christianity, but ultimately embracing Judaism.65 With this background in mind, how did Rosenzweig respond to Rosenstock’s recommendation of Wundt’s Völkerpsychologie? His answer was lukewarm at best: Wundt also belongs to the large group of people I am not curious about; I shall investigate this matter occasionally if the subjects excites my interest, as the author himself certainly leaves me cold.66

There is no clear evidence that Rosenzweig heeded Rosenstock’s recommendation to read Wundt’s Völkerpsychologie. The catalog of Rosenzweig’s private library only mentions Wundt’s Lehrbuch der Physiologie des Menschen.67 65  In the scholarship on Rosenzweig, the encounter, the ensuing crisis, and its resolution have “become the subject of legend.” Paul Mendes-Flohr and Jehuda Reinharz, “From Relativism to Religious Faith: The Testimony of Franz Rosenzweig’s Unpublished Diaries,” Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 22 (1977), 171. Rosenstock and Rosenzweig supposedly discussed for a whole night, after which Rosenzweig embraced a religious life. The embrace of his Judaism came after a visit to a synagogue on Yom Kippur. Benjamin Pollock has recently challenged the consensus on the course of these events. For example, he argued that Rosenzweig had already adopted a position of faith before the nightly conversation, but he would then only overcome his “Marcionism.” While this is an important contribution, for our endeavor, Pollock’s objections are interesting but largely irrelevant. The timeline of the legend perpetuated still holds up for the most part. Cf. Benjamin Pollock, “‘Not just the God of Revelation’ Rosenzweig’s Leipziger Nachtgespräch and The Star of Redemption,” Rosenzweig Yearbook 8/9 (2014), 72f. We should also mention that Rosenzweig began an affair with Rosenstock’s wife Margrit, called Gritli, as detailed in over a thousand letters published for the first time in 2001. For more on this relationship, the letters and Rosenzweig’s intellectual development as depicted in the letters, see Ephraim Meir, Letters of Love: Franz Rosenzweig’s Spiritual Biography and Oeuvre in Light of the Gritli Letters (New York: Peter Lang, 2006). See also: Franz Rosenzweig, Die “Gritli”-Briefe. Briefe an Margrit Rosenstock-Huessy, 34ff. 66  “Auch Wundt gehört zu den vielen, auf die ich nicht neugierig bin; diese Sachen werde ich mir gelegentlich ansehen, wenn mich das Thema brennt, denn der Autor wird mich sicher kalt lassen.” Rosenzweig, Briefe und Tagebücher, 1. Band 1900–1918, 255f. 67  See “Katalog der Rosenzweig-Bibliothek,” Rosenzweig Yearbook 8/9 (2014), 379. Unfortunately, it is unclear which of Wundt’s works Rosenstock referred to in his letter. Wundt published several works with Völkerpsychologie in the title, among them his magnum opus of ten volumes (Völkerpsychologie. Eine Untersuchung der Entwicklungsgesetze von Sprache, Mythos und Sitte) between 1900 and 1920, and his Elemente der Völkerpsychologie.

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In the above quote, Rosenzweig wrote that he will in fact assess Wundt if interested in the topic, which would soon become the case, namely when writing the parts on Buddhism in Der Stern der Erlösung. Besides that, the first quote, as with the ones that follow, suggests that Rosenzweig was at least aware of the debate surrounding the Buddha-Jesus literature. We can therefore postulate the following hypothesis: If Rosenzweig addressed the Buddha-Jesus literature in his writings on Buddhism, he did so through the prism of Wundt’s Völkerpsychologie. To prove this hypothesis, I first give a short overview of what Rosenstock had called the defense of Christianity against Buddhism by Wundt, before considering other possible sources that Rosenzweig had consulted in relation to Buddhism. In order to avoid drifting too far afield, I am going to skip the overview of Wundt’s life and provide only the briefest sketch of his influential theories.68 Wilhelm Wundt’s Völkerpsychologie was built on the reconciliation between the biological notion of evolution and Hegel’s idea of the development of Geist.69 Intellectual, cultural, and, ultimately, religious developments are inextricably interwoven with physiological processes, yet they cannot be reduced to them. This is where the field of the psychology of the individual (Individualpsychologie) reigns. Language, myth, and ethics emerge from the intellectual interaction within a community (geistige Gemeinschaft), and therefore have to be explained through a psychology that goes beyond the individual. Wundt’s Völkerpsychologie claimed to do Grundlinien einer psychologischen Entwicklungsgeschichte der Menschheit from 1912. Regarding his statements on Buddhism, the difference between these two titles is negligible, especially since they were penned around the same time. Volumes four to six about “Mythus und Religion” of Völkerpsychologie. Eine Untersuchung der Entwicklungsgesetze von Sprache, Mythos und Sitte were published between 1910 and 1914. The former offered a more systematic discussion, while the later concentrated on the development of ideas. I, in my discussion, focus on Elemente der Völkerpsychologie. Grundlinien einer psychologischen Entwicklungsgeschichte der Menschheit, because they advance Wundt’s argument clearly and poignantly. See, for the relation between Völkerpsychologie. Eine Untersuchung der Entwicklungsgesetze von Sprache, Mythos und Sitte and Elemente der Völkerpsychologie. Grundlinien einer psychologischen Entwicklungsgeschichte der Menschheit: Jochen Fahrenberg, “Wilhelm Wundts Kulturpsychologie (Völkerpsychologie): Eine Psychologische Entwicklungstheorie des Geistes,” PsyDok (2016), 18ff. Accessed June 1, 2017. http://hdl. handle.net/20.500.11780/3674. 68  A good biographical overview, as well as a discussion of historical context, can be found here: Robert W.  Rieber and David K.  Robinson (eds.), Wilhelm Wundt in History: The Making of Scientific Psychology (New York: Kluwer and Plenum Publishers, 2001). 69  Fahrenberg, “Wilhelm Wundts Kulturpsychologie (Völkerpsychologie): Eine Psychologische Entwicklungstheorie des Geistes,” 5f.

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precisely that: to look at the communal intellectual, spiritual, and cultural processes and to analyze them with the tools originally provided by Individualpsychologie.70 This rough sketch, which admittedly hardly does justice to Wundt’s complex theory, provides a sufficient grounding on which to grasp his treatment of Buddhism, Christianity, and Judaism. In his Elemente der Völkerpsychologie. Grundlinien einer psychologischen Entwicklungsgeschichte der Menschheit, Wundt argued that in modern times only two world religions (Weltreligionen) existed: Christianity and Buddhism.71 The case for the elevation of Buddhism to the status of a world religion was built on its universality, in both quantitative and qualitative terms.72 Why did Wundt not deem Islam and Judaism to be world religions? Judaism did not hold up from a quantitative perspective. While its universal message could be considered on a par with Buddhism and Christianity, historically it had been defeated. Judaism did not manage to leave its narrow confines behind and thus did not exert the influence nor did it even have anything like the number of adherents that one could expect of a world religion.73 Islam failed on a qualitative level, according to Wundt. While it surely had played an important role in history and could claim a huge number of adherents, it was in the end just an amalgam of Jewish, Christian, Arabic, and Turanian traditions.74 Its supposed universality was derivative and offered nothing new or original. Wundt went to great lengths in placing Buddhism and Christianity on an equal footing. They are complementary, with Buddhism as the Oriental and Christianity as the Occidental highest forms of religion. Yet, their equivalency is more taxonomic than content-based. Where, then, does Wundt defend Christianity victoriously against Buddhism, as Rosenstock claimed? The defense, which was cleverly packaged and delicately delivered, entailed arranging the common features of Buddhism and Christianity as opposing trends. In the eyes of its German followers, Buddhism’s 70   Fahrenberg, “Wilhelm Wundts Kulturpsychologie (Völkerpsychologie): Eine Psychologische Entwicklungstheorie des Geistes,” 15ff. 71  See Wilhelm Wundt, Elemente der Völkerpsychologie. Grundlinien einer psychologischen Entwicklungsgeschichte der Menschheit (Leipzig: Alfred Kröner Verlag, 1912), 491. 72  See for more on the elevation of Buddhism to a world religion, the connection with the birth of Religionswissenschaften, and its quantitative and qualitative aspects: Masuzawa, The Invention of World Religions, 144f. 73  See Wundt, Elemente der Völkerpsychologie. Grundlinien einer psychologischen Entwicklungsgeschichte der Menschheit, 491. 74  Ibid.

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­ estselling point was its philosophical and ethical claim to universality, its b possibility to not only go beyond its geographical confines, but also to provide a message beyond its Oriental audience. The focus on its philosophical content, devoid of most ritualistic elements, could be adhered to equally well in Leipzig as in Kandy. Wundt subtly undermined this claim. Yes, he admitted, Buddhism started out as a philosophy, but over time it incorporated elements of folk religions that clouded its pure philosophical message.75 Its universality was now wrapped in wonder and magic. The purity of its message had been soiled by Indian mythology and subsequently infected all other nations that had converted to Buddhism. Christianity had moved in exactly the opposite direction. Starting out as a folk religion, Christianity adopted Greek and Roman thought and slowly tilted toward a more philosophical conception. The success of both Buddhism and Christianity is based on assimilating and incorporating different forms of faith. While Wundt is not necessarily diminishing Buddhism in favor of Christianity, he implicitly refutes any argument that saw Buddhism as the more advanced, more rational, and more philosophical rival to Christianity. As we shall see, there are certain elements in Rosenzweig’s attitude toward Buddhism that resemble parts of Wundt’s view. However, Rosenzweig also sought out other sources on Buddhism. Thanks to the catalog of Rosenzweig’s private library, his extensive correspondence, and his diary entries, we have a good idea of what other works on Buddhism he consulted. In letters, he mentioned the following books: Karl Gjellerup’s Der Pilger Kamanita and Hermann Beckh’s Buddhismus (Buddha und seine Lehre). We further find in the catalog Willy Haas’s Die Seele des Orients—Grundzüge einer Psychologie des orientalischen Menschen and Hermann von Keyserling’s Innere Beziehungen zwischen dem Kulturproblem des Orients und Occidents—Eine Botschaft an die Völker des Ostens, as well as his Der Weg der Vollendung.76 These last books address Eastern wisdom more broadly than Buddhism directly, but they certainly touch upon issues 75  See Wundt, Elemente der Völkerpsychologie. Grundlinien einer psychologischen Entwicklungsgeschichte der Menschheit, 493. 76  See Israel Aharon Ben Yosef, “Confucianism and Taoism in The Star of Redemption,” Journal for the Study of Religion 1 (1988), 35. Der Weg zur Vollendung was the official journal of Der Schule der Weisheit, which was founded by Keyserling in 1920. The first issue was published in 1920, even though the catalog of Rosenzweig’s private library reads 1919. “Katalog der Rosenzweig-Bibliothek,” 308 and 324. See also, on Keyserling, his school and the journal Marchand, “Eastern Wisdom in an Era of Western Despair,” 349f.

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that Rosenzweig found appealing or rebarbative in Buddhism. Rosenzweig was very familiar with the thought of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche and their renditions of Buddhism. Schopenhauer’s notion of Buddhism also played an important role for Rosenzweig. Alongside the other works, we can draw something of a bifurcated picture of Buddhism through Rosenzweig’s reading list. On the one hand, we find a philosophical Buddhism, which is rational and atheistic. On the other hand, we find an esoteric Buddhism, which is irrational and prone to mysticism, occultism, and mythology. Rosenzweig confronted the task of reconciling these two opposing notions of Buddhism, and he chose the way that resembles Wundt’s argumentation against Buddhism in his Völkerpsychologie. The first trace of an active preoccupation with Buddhism, after Rosenstock’s suggestion in the fall of 1916, we can find in spring 1917. Rosenzweig had bought the two volumes of Hermann Beckh’s Buddhismus (Buddha und seine Lehre).77 Rosenzweig reported that he was quite relieved after having read the books, and stated that Buddhism was only interesting to him as a counterpart to Greece. The thought that he would develop more thoroughly in Der Stern der Erlösung was already nascent. How did Rosenzweig arrive at this notion that Buddhism was a counterpart to (Ancient) Greece? Beckh’s Buddhism was heavily influenced by Rudolf Steiner, the founder of anthroposophy. Steiner had already laid out his eccentric ideas on the Buddha-Jesus literature in a lecture series in Basel in 1909. Here, Steiner argued that Jesus Christ was subjected to the spiritual streams (Geistesströmungen) that had guided the Buddha.78 Especially in the Gospel according to Luke, Steiner saw a corroboration of his theory: Here, the spirit of Buddhism spoke, and Jesus was its spokesman. In Steiner’s befuddling theory, two children named Jesus grew up in Nazareth, one typifying Buddha and the other typifying Zarathustra, with the two uniting in the adult figure of Christ.79 However, Steiner’s theory of the innate connection between Buddhism and Christianity could hardly 77  See Rosenzweig, Briefe und Tagebücher, 1. Band 1900–1918, 377. See Hermann Beckh, Buddhismus (Buddha und seine Lehre), 2 Bd. (Berlin: Göschen’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1916). 78  Rudolf Steiner, Buddha und Christus. Die Religionen der Menschheit im Licht des LukasEvangelium (Bad Liebenzell: Archiati Verlag, 2006), esp. 63ff. 79  Steiner, Buddha und Christus, 167f.

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work without devaluing Judaism. As a counterpart to Christianity, Judaism is only interesting as an omen of Christianity: Who did Moses see on Sinai in the burning bush and in the fire? Christ! But, just as we do not see the light of the sun directly on the moon but only reflected sunlight, so Moses saw a reflection of Christ. And just as we call sunlight that has been reflected by the moon, moonlight, so Christ, at that time was called Yahveh. Therefore, Yahveh is nothing other than the reflection of Christ before he appeared on the earth.80

So, while Steiner presented in his lectures a rather wild yet complex theory of the influence of Buddhism on Christianity, Judaism exists only as a precursor of the latter. Even further, his reading of Moses at the thorn bush perpetuated the idea of the blindness of the Jewish people, allegorized as the blind synagogue, unable to see the truth of Jesus (and Buddha).81 In relation to Buddhism, Judaism is also only present by way of negation, that is, in terms of what it is not. Judaism is not capable of creating the Geistesströmungen that connected the triad of Buddha, Zarathustra, and Jesus: This is why ancient Hebrew culture embraced the virtue of obedience, or submission to the law, whereas the Buddhist spiritual current embraced the ideal of the eightfold path as a direction of human life. […] A personality like the Buddha could not appear among the Hebrews.82

In the spiritual hierarchy that Steiner modeled, the Jewish people are only in the second tier: “While cosmic wisdom guided Indians toward beholding the bodhisattva as the Buddha, the peoples of the Near East, especially the ancient Hebrews, had to remain behind at a lower, more childlike level.”83 Without their own Geistesströmungen, they have to receive a spiritual impulse from outside. Moses and Elias were exceptions, 80  “Wen sah Moses im brennenden Dornenbusch und im Blitz und Donner auf dem Sinai? Den Christus sah er, aber wie man das Sonnenlicht im Mond gespiegelt findet, so sah er den Christus in der Spiegelung. Und so wurde der Christus damals ʻJahveʼ oder ʻJehovaʼ genannt. Daher ist Jahve nichts anderes als die Widerspiegelung des Christus, bevor dieser selbst auf der Erde erscheint.” Steiner, Buddha und Christus, 172f. 81  See, for more on this Moshe Barrasch, Blindness: The History of a Mental Image in Western Thought (London: Routledge, 2002), 78–84. 82  Steiner, According to Luke, 127f. 83  Steiner, According to Luke, 123.

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for Steiner, as they were among the especially perceptive individuals, dubbed in different traditions’ prophets or bodhisattvas. Therefore, Moses and Elias could transmit revelation to their less spiritually inclined people. Steiner’s elevation of individuals came at the expense of the Jewish people as a whole. In fact, the special role of Moses and Elias appears only to justify the historical role of Judaism in the birth of Christianity. The more important spiritual role is given to Buddhism and Zoroastrianism. Thus, his treatment of Judaism, in combination with his theory on the Buddha-­ Jesus children, followed some of the same well-trodden paths of the Buddha-Jesus literature. To be sure, Beckh abandoned the connection between Buddha and Jesus, but he incorporated certain traits from Steiner, as a contemporary reviewer lamented.84 Even though, in a letter to Rudolf Ehrenberg, Rosenzweig wrote very dismissively of Rudolf Steiner (“aber Steiner ist ein Mistbock, den ich nicht brauche”), it seems unlikely that he knew of this background of Beckh’s book on Buddhism. Yet, it seems that Rosenzweig was aware that Beckh did not present him with a neutral description, but rather a biased rendition. In November 1919, he wrote to Gritli Rosenstock-Huessy: By the way, my worst knowledge gaps pertain to India and China, especially India. Maybe I will end up learning a little of the Indian language, not because I don’t trust translations. It is because only the original language makes it possible for me to read in an unbiased and naïve manner, something that is owed to everything. If I read something in German, I seek to confirm my biases. I noticed that this was sometimes the case, especially regarding India.85

In his letters to Gritli Rosenstock-Huessy, Rosenzweig further mentioned reading Karl Gjellerup’s Der Pilger Kamanita while working on Der Stern der Erlösung.86 After some initial hesitation, Rosenzweig grew  Wolfgang Bohn, “Review of Buddhismus (Buddha und seine Lehre) by Hermann Beckh,” Zeitschrift für Buddhismus 2 (1920), 244. 85  “Übrigens sind meine schlimmsten Lücken Indien und China, besonders Indien. Indisch werde ich vielleicht doch noch etwas lernen, nicht weil ich Übersetzungen nicht traue, aber weil nur die Ursprache mich hier noch zu dem naiven vorurteilslosen Lesen bringen kann was man schließlich allem schuldig ist. Lese ichs deutsch, so suche ich Bestätigungen meiner vorgefassten Meinungen, das habe ich jetzt grade bei Indien jetzt öfters gemerkt.” Rosenzweig, Die “Gritli”-Briefe. Briefe an Margrit Rosenstock-Huessy, 202. 86  Rosenzweig, Die “Gritli”-Briefe. Briefe an Margrit Rosenstock-Huessy, 223. See also “Katalog der Rosenzweig-Bibliothek,” 304. 84

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quite fond of the book and read it in a single sitting.87 Gjellerup did not think of himself as a Buddhist, but Buddhism played an important part in his oeuvre. Der Pilger Kamanita was his most successful work and was central to him being awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1917.88 Influenced by Neumann’s translations and the esoteric stream of European Buddhism, Gjellerup’s novel combined a love story, exoticism, and magic with the life of the Buddha: Love conquers the afterworld, and after thousands of existences opens the gate to Nirvana. The whiff of theosophy is easily recognizable, yet Rosenzweig appeared to have understood the novel as a genuine expression of Buddhism.89 In the letter to Gritli Rosenstock-Huessy from January 1919, he wrote of the novel: It does not seem recorded to me at all, and there is something to it, although, although of course—but that is already clear in the works of Tertullian and Augustine, and Buddhism is nothing but part of the Antiquity.90

With this in mind, we see that most of the works that Rosenzweig consulted (that we know of) belonged to the wider discourse on the Buddha-­Jesus literature. While none of them was a direct contribution (like Steiner’s), they were written on themes and ideas that were especially disseminated through the debates around the Buddha-Jesus literature. These debates are reflected in Rosenzweig’s notions of Buddhism, Asia, religion, and, ultimately, Christianity and Judaism, all of which brings us to his acclaimed magnum opus Der Stern der Erlösung. In this enigmatic masterpiece, Buddhism, Ancient Greek paganism, Christianity, and Judaism are commonly referred to with the epithet religion. Yet, Rosenzweig opposed the term religion for Christianity and Judaism.91 He even went so far as to make the following inaccurate claim: “Nor 87  “Anfangs hatte ich mich mehr darüber geärgert als gefreut, aber so in der Mitte des Buches war ich gepackt und las deswegen heut Morgen in einem Zug zu Ende.” Rosenzweig, Die “Gritli”-Briefe. Briefe an Margrit Rosenstock-Huessy, 223. 88  Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 244. 89  See for the esoteric and occultist features of Gjellerup’s Buddhist works: Slepcevic, Buddhismus in der deutschen Literatur, 85f. 90  “Es scheint mir gar nicht verzeichnet, und es ist doch irgendwas dran, obwohl, obwohl natürlich—aber das steht alles schon bei Tertullian und Augustin ganz klar, und der Buddhismus ist eben bloss Antike.” Rosenzweig, Die “Gritli”-Briefe. Briefe an Margrit Rosenstock-Huessy, 223. 91  See, for more on this Peter Eli Gordon, Rosenzweig and Heidegger: Between Judaism and German Philosophy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 134f.

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does he [The Star of Redemption] claim to be a philosophy of religion— how could he, where the word religion does not appear at all in it?”92 However, despite this pronouncement, Rosenzweig used the term religion several times in Der Stern der Erlösung, mostly (but not exclusively) to describe Islam and the Eastern “religions of the spirit,” by which he meant Buddhism, Confucianism, and Daoism.93 This raises the question as to why Rosenzweig considered Islam, Buddhism, Confucianism, and Daoism to be religions, but not Judaism and Christianity. Or rather, what did Rosenzweig mean by the term religion? The difficulty in finding answers to this question lies in Rosenzweig’s inconsequential usage of the word. While most uses have a normative valence, at times he used it purely descriptively, that is, as an umbrella term for all institutionalized, organized, or dogmatized forms of faith. These two meanings coalesced when he spoke of “revealed religion” (geoffenbarte Religion) or “Christian religion” (christliche Religion).94 He referred to a common usage of the word religion, but also implied a pejorative dimension that supplemented the normative usage. Thus, when Rosenzweig referred to Judaism and Christianity as religions, he indicated a historical deviation from their original or true meaning. Or, as he wrote in his essay Das neue Denken: God created precisely not religion, but rather the world. […] The special position of Judaism and Christianity consists precisely in this: that if they become religion, they find in themselves the impulses to free themselves

92  “Er [Der Stern der Erlösung] macht auch nicht etwa den Anspruch, eine Religionsphilosophie zu sein—wie könnte er das, wo das Wort Religion überhaupt nicht darin vorkommt!” Franz Rosenzweig, Zweistromland. Der Mensch und sein Werk—Gesammelte Schriften, edited by Rachel Rosenzweig and Edith Rosenzweig-Scheinman (Den Haag: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, 1984), 140. This was, despite being oft-repeated in the secondary literature, an exaggeration. Even careful readers like Peter Eli Gordon and Ernest Rubinstein claimed that the word religion only occurred in the section titles, which were added by Rosenzweig in the revised version from 1930 and would make the above quoted claim from 1925 accurate. See Gordon, Rosenzweig and Heidegger: Between Judaism and German Philosophy, 134. Cf. with Ernest Rubinstein, An Episode of Jewish Romanticism: Franz Rosenzweig’s “The Star of Redemption” (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1999), 38. 93  Franz Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung. Der Mensch und sein Werk—Gesammelte Schriften, edited by Rachel Rosenzweig and Edith Rosenzweig-Scheinman (Den Haag: Martinus Nijhoff Publishers, 1976), 38, 104, 129, 135, 155, 158, 183, 191, 240, 251. 94  See Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung, 104 and Rosenzweig, Zweistromland, 310.

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from their religiosity and to leave the specialness and its surroundings in order to find their way back to the open field of actuality.95

This paragraph exhibited a strategic position in Rosenzweig’s take on the history of religion. It gave him leverage in his discussion of history, as it allowed for historical deviations that otherwise would not fit into his conceptualizations of Judaism and Christianity. Rosenzweig was less generous when it came to Eastern religions. For one, they were intrinsically tied to a geographical metonymy. Daoism and Confucianism could be collapsed into China, while India referred to Brahmanism (though seldom mentioned) and Buddhism.96 As such, they were immovable objects of history: “China’s and India’s deities are enormous buildings from the blocks of prehistoric times, which as raw blocks in the cults of the ‘primitives’ still extend into our time”97 Here, at first glance, we can find, again, beneath these tropes, the Orientalist perception of the East as timeless and ahistorical. However, a second look shows that what China and India lacked was not historicity, but revelation. For Rosenzweig, it was not a coincidence that revelation turned to the West instead of the East, as the gods of Ancient Greece were more suitable opponents than the Eastern religions of spirit.98 As unrevealed religion, they are part of what Rosenzweig called Vorwelt, and as such, they mostly appear in the first part of Der Stern der Erlösung. The pagan Vorwelt, devoid of revelation, is the realm of philosophy, which explains the close association with Ancient Greece. Greece is the birthplace of philosophy; it is the place where, for 95  Franz Rosenzweig, Philosophical and Theological Writings (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 2000), 129f. “Gott hat eben nicht die Religion, sondern die Welt erschaffen. […] Die Sonderstellung von Judentum und Christentum besteht gerade darin, daß sie, sogar wenn sie Religionen geworden sind, in sich selber die Antriebe finden, sich von dieser ihrer Religionshaftigkeit zu befreien und aus der Spezialität und ihrer Ummauerung wieder in das offene Feld der Wirklichkeit zurückzufinden.” Rosenzweig, Zweistromland, 153. 96  See for the place of Daoism in German philosophy, the very informative book by Eric S.  Nelson, Chinese and Buddhism in Early Twentieth-Century German Thought (London: Bloomsbury, 2017), 111ff. 97  “Chinas wie Indiens Gottheiten sind ungeheure Gebäude aus den Blöcken der Urzeit, die als Rohblöcke in den Kulten der ‘Primitiven’ noch bis in unsere Zeit hineinragen.” Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung, 38. 98  “Es ist kein Zufall, daß die Offenbarung, als sie in die Welt hinausging, ihren Weg nicht nach Osten, sondern nach Westen nahm. Die lebendigen ‘Götter Griechenlands’ waren würdigere Gegner für den lebendigen Gott als die Schemen des asiatischen Ostens.” Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung, 39 Cf. Ben Yosef, “Confucianism and Taoism in The Star of Redemption,” 33.

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the first time, the identity of thinking and being was postulated. The “whole venerable brotherhood of philosophers from Ionia to Jena,” from Parmenides to Hegel, did not challenge this identity between thinking and being, and it is therefore confined to the totality of the Vorwelt.99 Philosophy remained unable to think beyond what there is, and defamed any venture beyond being as irrational. The inextricable relation between the Vorwelt and philosophy made it easy for Rosenzweig to add Buddhism to the equation. Wundt had already argued that Buddhism, in its original form, was the religion closest to philosophy. Yet, as Wundt had also written, Buddhism deteriorated through history into wonder, magic, and myth. Rosenzweig’s reading list suggests not only that he was familiar with the esoteric branch of German Buddhism, but also that he in fact considered it a genuine and r­ epresentative expression of Buddhism. He therefore adopted the idea of Buddhism’s historical deterioration. Nevertheless, Rosenzweig argued that it was precisely its philosophical outlook that had most attracted Westerners since Schopenhauer’s time. Due to its atheism and the concept of Nirvana, Buddhism’s most philosophical innovation (an assessment Rosenzweig would have agreed with), Buddhism had slipped into the irrational. The reason for this slippage lays in its hostility to God. With its complete negation of the ultimate being, Buddhism’s “primitive atheism” opened the door to the pure nothing:100 Apparently, there is nothing beyond; it is a border point; beyond there is only the pure nothing; this concept marks the first station on the road from the nothing to the not-nothing in a last still somehow possible evaporation of all essence.101

Philosophy wrestles with the question of nothing (Nichts), and all religions (in the descriptive sense) engage with the not-nothing (Nichtnichts), the affirmation of life through God, faith, and practice. Buddhism thrives, 99  Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung, 13. In English here: Franz Rosenzweig, The Star of Redemption, translated by Barbara E. Galli (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2005), 18. 100  Rosenzweig, Star of Redemption, 44. “Offenbar gibt es hier nichts mehr weiter; es ist ein Äußerstes; dahinter liegt bloß noch das reine Nichts; die erste Station auf dem Wege, der vom Nichts zum Nichtnichts führt, wird von diesem Begriff in letzter noch irgend möglicher Verflüchtigung alles Wesens bezeichnet.” Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung, 40. 101  Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung, 39.

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for Rosenzweig, in the space between the nothing and not-nothing, between philosophy and belief in God, with all its consequences for life. Touching beyond the nothing of philosophy, only a “salto mortale” rescues Buddhism from its own obliteration.102 Yet, the price is steep: […] because this last abstraction of all divine life is unbearable to the living Self of man and to the living worlds of the peoples, and hence in the long run, life always becomes master over the lifeless pallor of the abstraction—in short, because it is the destiny of the Buddha’s and Lao’tse disciples that a flourishing paganism grows again over the unyielding stone blocks of their non-thoughts, only for this reason in spite of their fascination, the ears of men are inclined to become receptive again to the voices which those men once fled in order to hide in the spaces of Nirvana and Tao, where sound does not reach.103

Because the consequences of the philosophical religion of Buddhism are unbearable for humans, idols and deities are brought back into the picture. The fear of the pure nothing that Nirvana promotes leads humans to return to those features that Buddhism, with its philosophical conception, incipiently overcomes. This ambiguity is expressed in Rosenzweig’s term “religion of the spirit” (Geistesreligion), which combined its philosophical content with its religious form. Its embrace of a pure nothing beyond human imagination had driven Buddhism’s adherents to “a life intoxicated by the gods and hostile to God.”104 Or, to put it differently, its radical atheism leads back to polytheism and idolatry. When Buddhism was seen as purely philosophical, its German and Western advocates ignored the spirits and deities that grew out of it.  Ibid.  Rosenzweig, The Star of Redemption, 45. “[…] weil diese letzte Abstraktion von allem göttlichen Leben dem lebendigen Selbst des Menschen und den lebendigen Welten der Völker unerträglich ist und deshalb das Leben auf die Dauer stets wieder gewaltig wird über die lebensflüchtige Blässe der Abstraktion—kurz weil es das Schicksal der Anhänger Buddhas wie Laotses ist, daß ein blühendes Heidentum die starren Steinblöcke ihrer Ungedanken wieder überwuchert, nur deshalb mögen auch in ihrem Bannkreis die Ohren der Menschen noch wieder empfänglich werden für die Stimmen, vor denen jene Männer einst sich in den schallsicheren Räumen des Nirwana und Tao bargen.” Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung, 40f. 104  Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung, 41. I have slightly corrected Galli’s flawed translation: Rosenzweig, The Star of Redemption, 45. 102 103

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Rosenzweig deployed the same figure of thought on another two occasions in relation to Buddhism. Just as Buddhism’s negation of God had caused folk religion to proliferate, so the negation of the world caused the spread of myths to explain phenomena but never venture beyond. Buddhism is a “primitive phenomenalism” that provides proto-scientific explanations, but can never explain the world’s being itself.105 It is the same case with Buddhism’s negation of the self, which caused the plunge into a “primitive idealism.”106 The Buddha removed all features from himself until he remained nothing but a character devoid of anything but death. The figure of the magician, which Rosenzweig seemed to locate in Asia, is the answer to the recoil that faces the nothing. Through magic one can exert power over oneself at least, thus opposing the idealistic identity of being and thinking. However, this ultimately entails embracing one’s fate and not trying to defy it like the tragic hero of Ancient Greece. Rosenzweig charged Buddhism with “primitive idealism,” “primitive phenomenalism,” and “primitive atheism” because it negated God, the world, and the self (or man). For him, the negation of these three elements is the true scandal of Buddhism. While Buddhism deemed this triad an illusion, for Rosenzweig they are self-evident through their persistence in history: “Ghost vanish at the cockcrow of knowledge; these ghosts never vanish.”107 Rosenzweig argued that because of, rather than despite, what Buddhism had popularized, the exact opposite persisted. That is to say, its philosophy, its rationality, and its atheism ultimately instigated the proliferation of magic, myths, and idols. At the same time, he was able to neatly connect the antagonistic aspects of German Buddhism. There was no need to choose between the esoteric stream of Buddhism, as presented in his readings, and the more philosophically inclined interpretation. There was no historical deterioration of Buddhism à la Wundt’s reading; rather, both sides were intrinsic to it from the beginning. In this sense, Buddhism is distinct from Judaism and Christianity, which, let us recall, were not religions, but communities (Gemeinschaften). Judaism is the community of the “eternal life,” while Christianity is the community of the “eternal way.”108 However,  Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung, 65.  Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung, 82. 107  Rosenzweig, Writings, 118. “Gespenster verschwinden, wenn der Hahn der Erkenntnis kräht; diese Gespenster verschwinden nie.” Rosenzweig, Zweistromland, 145. 108  Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung, 379. 105 106

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emphasizing their eternal character does not mean to lift them out of the muddy waters of history. Judaism had been a witness to the historical event of revelation and is thus grounded in history. Yet Judaism is the constant resistance against the noise of history, against the war cries, and the attempts to dissolve its community.109 Even though Judaism is eternal, it is nevertheless historical too. Besides being the eternal witness of revelation, its historicity is also rooted in its close connection to Christianity. As the eternal way, Christianity is always on its way to revelation. Almost but never quite there, it needs Judaism as a guide along the way and hates it as the (for the time being) sole bearer of revelation.110 Because of what we might call its revelation envy, Christianity attacks Judaism and thus forces it to engage with history. It is this active engagement with history that distinguished Judaism and Christianity from the “ancient rocks,” as Rosenzweig had described them, of Asian religions. This gives rise to another question: If Rosenzweig used the terms China, India, and Asia as synonyms for religions’ traditions in an ahistorical sense, how did he reconcile this usage with the actual political history of the three actors on the world stage? In 1917, Rosenzweig wrote an analysis of world history, or, as he would later call it, a “world-historical doctrine of space.” This little known, idiosyncratic piece, later published under the title Globus: Studien zur weltgeschichtlichen Raumlehre, was written in two sections. The first, titled Ökumene, dealt with the rise and fall of states and empires, or, one could say, with the shifting between political entities. The second part is entitled Thalatta and is focused on the role of the sea within world history. It is important here to note that the first part was about man-made borders, while the second was about borders that were already there “from the beginning,” that is, the seas.111 This beginning is the creation of the world, which not only shaped man, but also determined the geographical structure of the world. Since the world was created with both land and water, and man was created as land bound, the sea, as a natural border, precedes the borders drawn on land. The geographical dichotomy between land 109  See Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung, 418. Cf. Caspar Battegay, Das andere Blut— Gemeinschaft im deutsch-jüdischen Schreiben 1830–1930 (Köln: Böhlau Verlag, 2011), 220. 110  For more on this: Leora Batnitzky, Idolatry and Representation: The Philosophy of Franz Rosenzweig Reconsidered (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000), 154f. 111  Cf. Rosenzweig, Zweistromland, 348. “von Anbeginn.”

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and sea set the stage for the play of shifting borders and, thus, history. But how did this play begin? Rosenzweig postulated a state of nature, the state before the first border was drawn, as the stimulus that launched world history. In that mold, the first sentence of Globus explained: The first human who enclosed a square of earth as property for themselves and their loved ones initiated world history. As he proclaimed, ‘Mine,’ he did not just make his property his own, but also marked everything else as ‘Theirs’ to everyone else. With ‘mine, he created ‘yours’ and ‘his.’112

Implicitly, Rosenzweig argued here that what has a starting point, such as world history, must also have an end point, an end of history. If there was a point before history, there must also be a point after history, that is, when the primordial state of a borderless earth is regained. This thought lies at the core of what Benjamin Pollock had called “redemptive Imperialism.”113 How did Rosenzweig connect the notion of world-­ historical mechanisms that arise out of the drawing of borders to specific historical circumstances? For Rosenzweig, at least as presented in Globus, man thrives by encompassing the world in his own borders. Man’s quest to extend his borders is conditioned by the double structure of land and sea. Historically, Rosenzweig sees the Roman Empire under Augustus as the first political entity that claimed to enclose the world, the ecumene, or at least all of the civilized world. One of the points at which Globus and Der Stern der Erlösung arrive at the same conclusions is in this assessment of the historical intertwining of Christianity and the Roman Empire.114 But at the same time, there is a difference between the descriptions of the all-­encompassing consciousness of the Roman Empire provided in Globus and in Der Stern der Erlösung. In the former, the Roman Empire, under the Emperor Augustus and in its own perception, assumed the role of the ecumene, and as such it brings up, for the first time, the idea of a political entity that 112  “Der erste Mensch, der auf dem Boden ein Stück Erde sich und den Seinen zum Eigentum eingrenzte, eröffnete die Weltgeschichte. Denn indem er Mein sprach, machte er nicht bloß das Seine zum Seinen, sondern auch alles Übrige zum Ihren aller Übrigen: Mit dem Mein schuf er das Dein und das Sein.” Rosenzweig, Zweistromland, 313. 113  See Benjamin Pollock, “From Nation State to World Empire: Franz Rosenzweig’s Redemptive Imperialism,” Jewish Studies Quarterly 11 (2004), 334ff. 114  Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung, 309.

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encloses the whole world. The birth of the idea of the ecumene is also the birth of a historical consciousness.115 This historical consciousness is the “basic fact” (Grundtatsache) of all history.116 In Der Stern der Erlösung, Rosenzweig strikes a different tone: Emperor Augustus never tried to establish a real redemptive ecumene, but only called the limited portion of the world, that was the Roman Empire, ecumene. As a result, his goal was never to conquer all of the inhabited world, but rather to establish clear-­cut boundaries that divided the Roman Empire from the rest.117 Rosenzweig then proceeded to compare this self-limitation with the “great empire of the far East,” China, which followed the same strategy: securing one’s own empire through establishing borders with the rest of the world.118 This shift from Globus to Der Stern der Erlösung points to the bipolarization of world history. These two poles—the Roman Empire and China—or rather the two empires of West and East, are the agents of world history. But while history progresses in Europe through the successor entities of the Roman Empire, China has already reached its final level of development at around the same time as the Roman Empire under Augustus. In aspiring to a real ecumene, and not merely calling themselves such, both of these poles lack the redemptive element. Ultimately, only redemption can, and will, be truly global. Both political empires lack the redemptive potential that guides Christianity and Judaism, and therefore their imperial ambitions necessarily remain parochial. This distinction between a global redemptive imperialism and the parochial imperialism of political empires sets the tone for a rather Eurocentric account of world history that views other parts of the world as appendices of crucial developments in Europe. However, Rosenzweig’s point is not a historical determinism, but rather a theory of geopolitical kairos: In some moments in world history, this spirit of history is more visible than in others. These moments include, for example, the year 1492,  Rosenzweig, Zweistromland, 315.  Ibid. 117  Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung, 309f. 118  Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung, 310. “[…] in den Grundstein dieses Staatsbaus hatte sein Baumeister, der Kaiser Augustus, den Gedanken der Beschränkung auf den vorgefundenen Besitz hineingelegt; nur grenzsichernde Abrundungen sollten gestattet sein; nur um den Umwohnenden den Geschmack an Angriffen zu nehmen, wurden die Adler über die Grenze getragen; dem großen Reich des fernen Ostens gleich, das ja ebenfalls sich selbst unbefangen mit der Welt gleichsetzte, sicherte sich auch dies mittelländische Kaiserreich durch festland-durchschneidenden Wall und Graben sein Dasein gegen den Rest der Erde, den es zu erobern verzichtete.” 115 116

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with Christopher Columbus’s attempt to reach Asia by sailing westward, as well the First World War, which provided the biographical background for Rosenzweig’s engagement with world history. However, while Rosenzweig described world history in clearly Eurocentric terms, in his redemptive vision, there will no longer be a center of the world. Terms like center, periphery, East and West, and North and South will no longer make sense, since humanity will live in one house that knows no borders inside the world. World history that started with the drawing of the first border, the first separation between mine and yours, will have reached its end. Rosenzweig’s method of reading history is not as deterministic as Hegel’s philosophy of history, yet it is nevertheless guided by the trajectory from the creation of the world to its end, when redemption takes over. In this spirit, in a letter to Hans Ehrenberg, Rosenzweig described history as the “curve between the coordinates of time and space.”119 Even though Rosenzweig did not mention Judaism in Globus, it becomes clear in reading Der Stern der Erlösung that Judaism in a way already fulfills redemption on the global scale. The Jewish people are already dispersed around the world, even though spiritually their focus might be directed toward Jerusalem. But they are destined to remain dispersed all over the world to serve as an example of a redemptive future in which borders and states lose their significance. The ontologization of exile that Rosenzweig pursues can be seen as a kind of hybridity. Here, Rosenzweig again takes a negative antisemitic trope, that is, Jews are never at home in their country of residence and remain outsiders inside and inverts it to denote something positive. He agreed that the Jewish people distinguish themselves from other peoples on an ontological level. The kernel of this argument is already inscribed in the traditional antisemitic stereotype of Ahasver, and it is simultaneously validated and negated through Rosenzweig’s approach. The dominance of old and oft-repeated prejudices left its mark on the apologetic. Rosenzweig reaffirmed and yet questioned this dominance by inverting the otherness of the Jewish people. The reaffirmation is, of course, self-submission under the authority of the majority discourse, which sets the rules and conditions of engagement, but on the other side, the act of inversion serves to undermine the dominant discourse. It is thus the hybridity that challenges the power of the dominant (colonial) discourse, as Bhabha notes, and the product of the 119  Rosenzweig, Briefe und Tagebücher, 1. Band 1900–1918, 273. See also: Mendes-Flohr, Divided Passions: Jewish Intellectuals and the Experience of Modernity, 322.

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dominant (colonial) discourse as well.120 The effects of hybridity disavow the desire of the dominant (in this case Christian) group to delegitimize the aspirations of the marginalized (in this case Jewish). This hybrid relation between Christian aspirations to dominate and Jewish aspirations to resist leads to the redemptive future of world politics. It is in the tension between Judaism and Christianity, and not in imperial politics, that the abolition of borders emerges as the final task of a historical process that began when man drew the first border. This brings us back to Adolf von Harnack. With regard to Harnack’s Das Wesen des Christentums, Rosenzweig spoke of the “scientific ­distillation of historical Christianity.”121 Even though these words were expressed in a laudatory manner, they also touched upon the aspect that Rosenzweig found to be most problematic in Harnack’s work, namely its attempt to reach beyond history, to find an essence that transcended historical contingency.122 In his attempt to include Buddhism in his world history and yet deny it any legitimacy in the contemporary debates, Rosenzweig was induced to present his own hybrid version of the ahistorical Asia. This resulted in the positioning of Buddhism (with Daoism, Confucianism, and Brahmanism) at the bottom of his hierarchy of religions/communities. By doing so, he mirrored many of the features of Judaism negatively onto Buddhism. This figure of thought has accompanied us throughout the present chapter. In respect of Adolf von Harnack’s Das Wesen des Christentums, Leo Baeck proposed similar arguments with an even more poignant contrast in his response to Harnack, aptly titled Das Wesen des Judentums. Here, Baeck presented an apologia for Judaism as an ethical religion of reason on a par with Christianity.123 Buddhism and the debate around the Buddha-Jesus literature were not crucial for a book whose chief aim was to counter the arguments of liberal Protestantism. Subsequently, in the first edition of Das Wesen des Judentums, published in  Bhabha, The Location of Culture, 112.  Rosenzweig, Zweistromland, 487. “Die wissenschaftliche Destillierung des historischen Christentums zu einem ‘Wesen des Christentums,’ wie sie hier innerhalb der Mauern der Schule vorgenommen wird, hat Unzählige hinter den Mauern bestärkt in dem Bewußtsein, trotz ja vielleicht selbst gerade in der modernen Bildung Christen zu sein und sein zu dürfen.” 122  For more on Rosenzweig‘s changing view of Harnack, see Michael Zank, Jüdische Religionsphilosophie als Apologie des Mosaismus (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2016), 181ff. 123  See Wiese, Wissenschaft des Judentums und protestantische Theologie im wilhelminischen Deutschland, 135. 120 121

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1905, Buddhism was only mentioned in passing.124 Nevertheless, Baeck confronted Judaism, the “religion of ethical optimism” (Religion des sittlichen Optimismus), with the “religion of pessimism” (Religion des Pessimismus), that is, Buddhism.125 However, Buddhism was not fully scrutinized in Baeck’s thought at this stage. It remained an empty foil that only served to highlight Judaism’s merits. Even later, when Baeck had participated in Hermann von Keyserling’s Schule der Weisheit in Darmstadt, the main meeting place in the 1920s for those interested in Eastern ­wisdom, Buddhism had still not risen to prominence in his thought.126 With the realization of the importance of religious experience beyond reason, which was one of the triggers for the extended second edition of Das Wesen des Judentums, differing significantly in both size and content, Buddhism began to play a more notable role.127 While it was primarily only mentioned in enumerations alongside Protestantism and Catholicism, Baeck did address the antagonism between Judaism and Christianity:128 “If religion is essentially about man’s position in the world, then there exist only two specific basic forms of religion, the Israelite and the Buddhist.”129 Baeck then proceeded to attack Buddhism along the lines  See Leo Baeck, Das Wesen des Judentums (Berlin: Rathausen & Lamm, 1905), 5 and 29.  Baeck, Das Wesen des Judentums, 59f. 126  See, for more on Keyserling and his school: Marchand, “Eastern Wisdom in an Era of Western Despair,” esp. 349ff. 127  Baeck himself spoke of the second edition as a new book. “Nicht nur die Zahl der Seiten ist gewachsen, aufs doppelte fast; der Inhalt vor allem hat auch wachsen wollen. Besonders der zweite Hauptteil, der von den Ideen des Judentums, hat es so erfahren; er ganz eigentlich ist in dem alten das neue Buch geworden.” Leo Baeck, Das Wesen des Judentums. Auflage von 1926. Werke Bd. 1, edited by Albert H.  Friedlander and Berholt Klappert (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2006), 35. I am not going to further discuss the reasons for the absence of Buddhism from the first edition and its inclusion in the second and all subsequent editions. The more moderate tone starting in the second edition went hand in hand with a broader and more inclusive understanding of Judaism. The changes were then, as Baeck himself recognized, in the section “Die Ideen des Judentums” rather than in “Der Charakter des Judentums.” The inclusion of more ideas did not change the character of Judaism as Leo Baeck presented it. For more, see Miriam Dean-Otting, “Hugo Bergman, Leo Baeck and Martin Buber: Jewish Perspectives on Hinduism and Buddhism,” Journal of Indo-Judaic Studies 1 (1999). 128  For an example of Buddhism being mentioned in enumerations, see here Baeck, Das Wesen des Judentums. Auflage von 1926, 73ff. 129  “Wenn es sich in der Religion wesentlich um die Stellung des Menschen zur Welt handelt […] so gibt es nur zwei bestimmte Grundformen der Religion, die israelitische und die buddhistische.” Baeck, Das Wesen des Judentums. Auflage von 1926, 88. 124 125

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we encountered earlier in this chapter in the works of Christian and Jewish writers. For Baeck, Buddhism was nihilistic and pessimistic; it negated life and was amoral and egoistic. In Baeck’s case, such positions align with his notion of Judaism as “ethical monotheism.” As the two Grundformen, Judaism and Buddhism stand at opposite ends. Consequently, Baeck associated with Buddhism everything that Judaism was not. Unfortunately, Baeck did not develop this thought further. Miriam Dean-Otting has offered a neat summary: “Baeck’s treatment of Buddhism is unsatisfactory. This may simply be because he fails to fully understand it and only views it through a limited comparative lens which is focused entirely by a Jewish perspective.”130 Buddhism remained a prop in Das Wesen des Judentums, which largely served merely to highlight key features of Judaism. Baeck’s main target was, and remained, liberal Protestantism, and I would not suggest that the contrasting juxtaposition of Judaism with Buddhism changed this. Of course, in this context, describing Judaism and Buddhism as the two Grundformen of religion was not only a slight against Christianity, which would then be merely derivative, secondary, or even a mongrel of both; it also entailed (re-) claiming a sense of originality against Adolf von Harnack’s attacks. The approaches of both Rosenzweig and Baeck are united in their desire to recalibrate Judaism’s relation to Christianity. In both cases, Buddhism functioned as the other that differed not merely in degree, but also, and especially, in kind.

Martin Buber and Theodor Lessing Buber and Lessing both argued that the Jewish people could be situated between Europe and Asia. Buber popularized the important notion of the Jew as an Oriental. Lessing’s writings circulate around idea of the Jewish people as a bridge between Asia and Europe. As such, both writers expressed positions that are more fully explored in Chap. 4, in which I delve into other variations on these themes. What distinguished Buber and Lessing was their usage of these ideas as an indictment of Buddhism. When Feuchtwanger, Cohen-Portheim, Hasenclever, and Wassermann combined the notion of the Jew as an Oriental, and/or as a bridge between Asia and Europe, with a certain admiration for Buddhism, Buber and Lessing used the same figures of thought to devalue Buddhism.  Dean-Otting, “Hugo Bergman, Leo Baeck and Martin Buber,” 10.

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Of course, as one of the foremost intellectuals of the twentieth century, Martin Buber needs little introduction. Buddhism was only a small aspect in the extensive oeuvre of a true renaissance man, who left his mark on a number of different disciplines. Therefore, as with Rosenzweig and Baeck, I only flesh out the immediate context of his engagement with Buddhism. Buber was an important figure in the popularization of Eastern wisdom in Germany beyond Buddhism. His writings on the subject were also heavily influenced by the zeitgeist, while his engagement with various (not only Jewish) forms of mysticism made use of Indian and Chinese sources. In 1910, Buber published Reden und Gleichnisse des Tschuang Tse, a collection of writings from the Daoist classic Zhuangzi. A year later, he published an anthology of Chinesische Geister- und Liebesgeschichten, which he plucked from the Liaozhai Zhiyi, a compendium of Chinese supernatural tales from the eighteenth century.131 Both volumes were commercial successes and became vade mecums among those with a penchant for the East. After these successes, China took a backseat in Buber’s thinking until 1924, when he delivered several lectures in Ascona on Laozi’s Tao Te Ching. Several shorter works followed, most notably China und Wir. In 1944, Buber published, in Hebrew, the essay A Lesson from China, which dealt primarily with Confucius.132 From this short overview, two things are apparent: Firstly, Buber demonstrated a profound interest in Chinese thought, especially in its Daoist and Confucian (less so in its Buddhist) variants.133 Second, even though he returned to this subject intermittently, Buber’s interest peaked during his mystical period and subsided during his dialogical period (after 1923) until it left no further traces at all (in what Dan Avnon called his period of “attentive silence,” i.e., after 1938).134 Buber’s interest in Chinese thought has been acknowledged many times. The Martin Buber-Werkausgabe 131  I rely on Irene Eber’s qualified discussion of Buber’s knowledge, sources, and treatment of the original Chinese material. See Irene Eber, “Einleitung,” in Schriften zur chinesischen Philosophie and Literatur. Martin Buber Werkausgabe 2.3, edited by Irene Eber (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2013), 13–49. 132  The essay has been translated into German under the title: “Weisheiten aus China,” in: Martin Buber, Schriften zur chinesischen Philosophie und Literatur Martin Buber Werkausgabe 2.3, edited by Irene Eber (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2013), 291–297. 133  See Nelson, Chinese and Buddhist Philosophy in Early Twentieth-Century German Thought, esp. chapter 4. 134  See, for more on the periodization of Buber’s thought and the third period of attentive silence Dan Avnon, Martin Buber: The Hidden Dialogue (Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield, 1998), 33ff.

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­ edicated a whole volume to his writings on Chinese philosophy and litd erature.135 Jonathan R. Herman has already, in an erudite work, discussed the hermeneutic challenges that Buber faced in his discussion of Zhuangzi, and has managed to trace a crucial section of Ich und Du back to Daoist teachings.136 While Buber repeatedly wrote about and worked with Daoist and Confucianist sources—indeed, they appear to be pivotal for his intellectual development—Buber’s engagement with Buddhism pales in comparison. At no time did Buddhism hold the same appeal for him as Daoism. However, his interest in Daoism, Confucianism, and, albeit minimally, Buddhism, as well as Indian and Chinese thought more generally, cannot be read independently of his interpretation of Hasidic mysticism. As is well known, Buber was a pioneer in bringing Jewish mysticism, especially Hasidism, to prominence. Buber’s goal, which he had already explored as early as 1903, was to publish an anthology that would situate Jewish mysticism alongside other forms of mysticism so as to refute the prevalent prejudice that Judaism knew no mysticism.137 While the Upanishads and Daoist texts are included in Ekstatische Konfessionen, Buddhism is absent.138 However, there exist two instances in which Buber addressed Buddhism directly from quite early on. In 1907, Buber wrote a short piece, titled “Buddha,” in which he noted similarities between Buddha, Socrates, and Jesus.139 Buddhism is here associated with the reliance on deeds (“Er erweitert den Bstand der Vedanta nicht um eine Idee, sondern um eine Tat”) and eternal rebirth.140 The tenor of this short yet bewildering piece is the intellectual inferiority of the Buddha’s teachings. While his deeds and life are admirable, his doctrine is empty. He cannot tell us about the nature of being, and following him is a fruitless pursuit. After this bleak 135  Martin Buber, Schriften zur chinesischen Philosophie und Literatur Martin Buber Werkausgabe 2.3, edited by Irene Eber (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2013). 136  Jonathan R. Herman, I and Tao: Martin Buber’s Encounter with Chuang Tzu (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1996), esp. 163ff. The book also includes a translation into English (plus commentary) of Buber’s Reden und Gleichnisse des Tschuang Tse. 137  Yossef Schwartz, “The Politicization of the Mystical in Buber and His Contemporaries,” in New Perspectives on Martin Buber, edited by Michael Zank (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 212. 138  Martin Buber, Ekstatische Konfessionen. Martin Buber Werkausgabe 2.2, edited by David Groiser (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2013), 61ff and 199ff. 139  Published in: Martin Buber, “Buddha,” in Ereignisse und Begegnungen (Leipzig: Insel Verlag, 1917), 3–9. 140  Buber, “Buddha,” 5.

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assessment, Buber’s treatment of Buddhism in Ich und Du is in the same vein. In the third part, while discussing unio mystica, he elaborated on Buddhism’s relation to the I-Thou schema with what has been described as “cautious empathy.”141 Again, as in the article from 1907, the Buddha is described as a mystical paragon: “The first condition of salvation is to face the different mysteries in different ways. It is certain that the Buddha belongs to those who have recognized this.”142 However, again, the Buddhist doctrines are criticized for their destructive features. Thriving to end suffering is an attempt to erase the I from the I-Thou schema. Buddhism is therefore contradictory to Buber’s teaching in Ich und Du, as he tried to become detached from the world to discover the self, while Buddhism seeks to become detached from both the world and the self.143 I am not going to further discuss Buber’s relationship to Buddhism, as others have already done so competently.144 The rationale for this lies in the fact that Buber’s influence on the Jewish reception of Buddhism did not arise from his pronouncements on Buddhism itself. Indeed, his critique of Buddhism was, for the most part, ignored. This is mostly due to timing. Buber’s critique of Buddhism in Ich and Du came too late (the book was first published in 1923) to have any significant impact. In the period between his publications on mysticism (and his neglect of Buddhism there) and his eventual dealing with it in Ich und Du, a myriad of Buddhist literature had come out, different schools of German-Buddhist thought had been established, and many had already switched from Buddhism to the next spiritual flavor of the month. As such, Buber’s influence lays elsewhere, that is, in a notion he advocated that is almost ubiquitous among the writers discussed in Chap. 4: the Jew as an Oriental. Before discussing Buber’s notion of the Jew as an Oriental, which paves the way for the transition to Chap. 4, I first turn to Theodor Lessing, whose ideas shared much in common with those of Martin Buber. Theodor Lessing, the enfant terrible of the German feuilleton of the interwar period, was, without doubt, an ambivalent character. The  Dean-Otting, “Hugo Bergman, Leo Baeck and Martin Buber,” 13.   “Dem unterschiedlichen Geheimnis unterschiedlich gegenüberstehen ist die Urbedingung des Heils. Daß der Buddha zu denen gehört, die dies erkannt haben, ist gewiß.” Martin Bube`r, Ich und Du (Leipzig: Insel Verlag, 1923), 106. 143  See Dean-Otting, “Hugo Bergman, Leo Baeck and Martin Buber,” 14. 144  For example, here Robert E.  Wood, “Buber’s Use of Oriental Themes,” in The Beautiful, the True and the Good: Studies in the History of Thought (Washington, DC: The Catholic University of America Press, 2015), 399ff. 141 142

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s­ candals, shenanigans, and intellectual maneuvers he caused are almost too numerous to count.145 A gifted writer and thinker, feminist, and animal rights advocate, Lessing estranged many benefactors and friends with his polemical articles and sharp criticism. Consciously engaging with his Jewishness, and later even coming close to Zionism, he often deployed antisemitic tropes in his attacks on adversaries. Born in 1872 into a well-educated assimilated Jewish family in Hannover, Lessing experienced what he would consider a very unhappy childhood. At a young age, he came to despise his parents and his Jewish heritage, and with his childhood friend Ludwig Klages, who would later become a famous writer and an infamous antisemite, Lessing read and wrote neo-Romantic völkische literature. In 1895, he converted to Lutheranism. In 1899, his friendship with Klages deteriorated on account of the latter’s antisemitic fervor. In 1906, Lessing took a trip to Galicia, which resulted in a series of articles, after which he denounced Galician Jewry as dirty, cheating, primitive, and obsessed with money.146 Freud is quoted as being disgusted by Lessing’s Jewish self-­ hatred after the latter attacked psychoanalysis as the “spawn of the Jewish spirit.”147 Husserl called him “a philosophical littérateur of unusual talent, but also a character of unusual lowness.”148 After Lessing published a 145  In my biographical sketch, I follow this perceptive biography: Rainer Marwedel, Theodor Lessing 1872–1933: Eine Biographie (Darmstadt: Luchterhand, 1987). 146  Lawrence Baron, “Theodor Lessing: Between Jewish Self-Hatred and Zionism,” Leo Baeck Institute Year Book 26 (1981), 332. 147  Quoted from a letter Sigmund Freud wrote to Kurt Hiller. The full, intriguing passage runs like this: “Es war die Zeit als mir jeder Tag oder wenigsten jede Woche eine Schmähschrift gegen meine Psychoanalysis ins Haus brachte. So kam auch einmal ein Zeitungsaufsatz in dem sie in häßlicher Weise als Ausgeburt des jüdischen Geistes verhöhnt wurde. Als Autor zeichnete ein mit damals unbekannter Theodor Lessing. In meiner Unschuld nahm ich an, es müsste jemand aus der Familie unseres großen Dichters sein, und darum schrieb ich, der sonst niemals auf solche Angriffe reagierte, ihm einen Brief, der an das Andenken des verehrten Ahnherren mahnte. Zu meiner Überraschung teilte er mir in seiner Antwort mit, daß er selbst Jude sei, […]. Ich wendete mich angewidert von dem Manne ab.” Kurt Hiller, Köpfe und Tröpfe. Profile aus einem Jahrhundert (Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1950), 307f. 148  From a letter Husserl wrote as part of the evaluation of Lessing as a teacher and scholar for the Prussian Ministry of Culture: “Ich kenne die Persönlichkeit Theodor Lessing in ihrer literarischen und charakterologischen Art genau—leider nur zu genau. Lessing ist ein philosophischer Literat von ungewöhnlicher Begabung, aber auch ein Charakter von ungewöhnlicher Niedrigkeit.” Quoted in: Barbara Beßlich, “‘Die verfluchte Kultur.’ Theodor Lessing (1872–1933) zwischen Zivilisationskritik, jüdischem Selbsthaß und politischem Reformwillen,” in Jüdische Intellektuelle im 20. Jahrhundert. Literatur- und kulturgeschichtliche Studien, edited by Ariane Huml and Monika Rappenecker (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2003), 78.

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vicious review of the book Bilanz der Moderne by Samuel Lublinski, in which he ridiculed Lublinski’s appearance in antisemitic terms, he engaged in a feud with Thomas Mann, who came out in defense of Lublinski, and published a series of articles attacking the Nobel Laureate in Literature. This scandal further alienated him from the literary and philosophical classes, which he longed to be a part of and yet at the same time despised. In 1925, he followed the process against the serial killer Fritz Haarmann, the so-called Wolfsmann, who killed his victims with a bite to the throat, and defended Haarmann, in a ruthless indictment against modernity, as being merely a symptom of the age.149 Subsequently, Lessing was excluded from the court hearings. His lectureship at the University of Hannover was revoked after he wrote a polemic on the then-elected President Paul von Hindenburg, and right-wing students threatened to boycott the university. In 1930, he published what would become his best-known work, Jüdischer Selbsthaß. Aware of the severe threat posed by National Socialism, Lessing left Germany after Hitler’s rise to power and emigrated to Czechoslovakia, where he opened a school for children of Jewish émigrés. After Goebbels offered a bounty of 80,000 Reichsmark, Lessing was murdered by three National Socialist agents on the night of the August 30, 1933. While such a brief biographical sketch cannot fully do justice to the life of such a controversial man, I want to focus on his most philosophical work, Europa und Asien—Untergang der Erde am Geist, which is infused with Lessing’s desire to create a philosophical system of his own.150 At the beginning, he established his theory of three spheres of consciousness. First, we have the sphere of vitalité, which is the sphere of fullness and depth, within which human beings are entrenched in daily life and which they master instinctively. If we want to understand life rationally, beyond instinct and intuition, we have to break through the fullness of life. We step outside of this sphere and interrupt the natural stream of consciousness, which guides us in the sphere of vitalité. And thus we enter into the 149  Lessing himself pointed out the link between his book on Haarmann and his theories as presented in Europa und Asien—Untergang der Erde am Geist. See Theodor Lessing, Haarmann. Die Geschichte eines Werwolfs und andere Gerichtsreportagen, edited by Rainer Marwedel (Frankfurt a.M.: Luchterhand, 1989), 202ff. 150  Yotam Hotam has observed how much Lessing actually owed to Ludwig Klages and his Lebensphilosophie in the development of his mature thought. Yotam Hotam, Modern Gnosis and Zionism: The Crisis of Culture, Life Philosophy, and Jewish National Thought (London: Routledge, 2013), 100f.

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second sphere of realité. This rational step into reality is necessary because human beings face Not.151 To combat Not is one of our prime occupations as human beings. Corporal and spiritual change is caused by Not and the effort to overcome it. In stepping outside of the fullness of life (from vitalité to realité), humans recognize the hardship of life, reflect on it, and start to seek out remedies. The desire to overcome their state of Not is innate to human beings. Thus, reflection and wanting, thought and volition, are the two main factors that drive humans to achieve new accomplishments. Not is thus the origin of what is commonly called progress. The third sphere, verité, is a kind of platonic realm, from which the spirit (the Geist of the title) originates.152 While vitalité, the fullness of life, is only at home in the present, and verité, the realm of Geist, is eternal, only in the middle realm of realité does causal and historical change occur.153 This change oscillates between the two poles of thought and volition, and this is what constitutes history. But this oscillation does not necessarily remain in equilibrium. Lessing postulated a slow progression toward the realm of Geist, which culminated in his own epoch of modernity. This eclectic attempt to establish an all-encompassing system of thought might strike the reader of Europa und Asien—Untergang der Erde am Geist as idiosyncratic or even outlandish, especially given that systematic passages interchange with graphic descriptions of cruelty against animals, polemics against contemporaries, and sociological descriptions of a wide range of peoples and countries. However, if we look, for example, at Lessing’s account of European domination over the rest of the world, we can find that it is, in large part, a spatialization of the metaphysical underpinnings of his theory of three spheres. Kris Manjapra has described Lessing’s methodology as “cultural phenomenology,”154 which is apt given that Lessing studied with Edmund Husserl. Typological descriptions of Europe, Asia, America, Jews and Parsi, their relations to each other, and their conflicts and struggles are merely metonyms for the conflicts and struggles between the spheres of consciousness, which manifest themselves in reality. Asia is constructed in

151  Not can mean hardship, distress, or misery. Hotam translates it as state of emergency. Hotam, Modern Gnosis and Zionism, 102. 152  Hotam, Modern Gnosis and Zionism, 103. 153  Theodor Lessing, Europa und Asien—Untergang der Erde am Geist (Leipzig: Superbia Verlag, 2007), 10. 154  Kris Manjaprat, Age of Entanglement: German and Indian Intellectuals across Empire (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2014), 176f.

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opposition to Europe. As Lessing wrote on the occasion of Rabindranath Tagore’s visit to Europe in 1926: Europe and Asia … who hasn’t struggled with the question? Who has not felt the hundred polarities agglomerated and slumbering within? The opposition of dream and deed, a mother- or father-centric culture, soul and mind, community and society, people and state, Earth and Sun, world of night and world of day.155

However, this opposition is only externally stable, since internally both Europe and Asia are themselves divided. Europe is a metonym for the geographical entities of Europe and America. Asia is divided between the Buddhist realm of influence, including China and Tibet, and the “Hindu” realm of influence, which basically covers traditional Indian folk religion, Sikhism, and Jainism.156 For Lessing, America represents the world’s reason machinery (Weltvernunftmaschinerie), which subjugates nature and man.157 Of course, with the prevalence of automatic reason and its perfection in America, it constitutes only a relatively new example of the slow subjugation of nature and men, which finds its purest expression in Europe and its colonial empires. This subjugation expresses itself as an imperialism of reason, which also penetrates the fullness of life in other parts of the world. This leads Lessing to condemn multiculturalism. Precisely because of its excessive investment in reason, America became a cultural melting pot, to the point where there exists no genuine culture or community at all. His counterexample is China, which, according to Lessing, has the strongest concept of community and culture in the world. Through the reconciliation of life, represented in the doctrine of Laotse, and Geist, represented in the doctrine of Confucius, China has found a balance that is missing in Europe, and even more so in America.158 While Europe is at the center of this struggle, this does not mean that it is a uniquely European (or American) phenomenon, or that it originated 155  “Europa und Asien. … Wer hat nicht mit der Frage gerungen? Wer fühlte nicht die hundert Polaritäten, die in ihr geballt schlummern? Der Gegensatz von Traum und Tat, Mütter- und Väterkultur, Seele und Geist, Gemeinschaft und Gesellschaft, Volk und Staat, Erde und Sonne, Welt der Nacht und Welt des Tages.” Theodor Lessing, “Tagore in Europa,” Prager Tagblatt, October 9, 1926, 3. 156  Lessing, Europa und Asien—Untergang der Erde am Geist, 125ff. 157  Lessing, Europa und Asien—Untergang der Erde am Geist, 193. 158  Lessing, Europa und Asien—Untergang der Erde am Geist, 136ff.

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there. Anticipating Karl Jaspers’s notion of the Axial Age (Achsenzeit), Lessing postulated a pivotal change in the history of the human being between 500 and 300 BC, as embodied through Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Buddha, Confucius, and Laotse.159 While in European history it is the figure of Socrates who epitomizes the beginning of the prevalence of the realm of spirit, in Asia this figure is the Buddha, who proposes the superiority of the spirit over life. Lessing, however, did not consider Greek philosophy to be the most influential force in European history, but rather Christianity. Here, again, Buddhism and Christianity are mirrored and subsequently castigated: Buddhism tried to overcome Not by dissolving entirely into nothing, while Christianity tried to make a virtue out of Not.160 Buddhism negated Not; Christianity affirmed Not. Therefore, both Christianity and Buddhism are religions that favor spirit over life, yet their diverse comprehension of Not decided the fate of entire regions of the world. While it was in Europe that the devastating effect of Christianity swung the pendulum toward an excess of the spirit, Lessing compared this to the birth of Buddhism in India. The Buddha’s teachings disturbed a magical dreamworld of life by introducing the principle of Not.161 Lessing decries both Christianity and Buddhism as the forces of Geist that drive Europe and Asia, respectively, into decline. Here, we see first the hypothesis that both Europe and Asia have chosen the wrong path, since both have succumbed to the religions of reason—Christianity and Buddhism— which advocate self-aggrandizement and the deification of the human being and its Geist. At times, Lessing’s theorizing would go haywire. He would often contradict himself, making it extremely difficult to even follow his reasoning, which was often erratic and rushed. Myths, fantasies, and personal and collective experiences were combined into fixed descriptions that provided meaning to rather fluid identity inscriptions. Who could be a better example of the fluidity of identity than Lessing himself, as a Jew and an antisemite, as a convert to both Lutheranism and Zionism (to note just a couple of his contradictory positions)? This is especially visible in Lessing’s attempt to use fixed descriptions like Europe, Asia, and Judaism. Yet, they are never as consistent as his usage would suggest; this is particularly evident in his 159  Lessing, Europa und Asien—Untergang der Erde am Geist, 180. Cf. Karl Jaspers, Vom Ursprung und Ziel der Weltgeschichte (Frankfurt a.M.: Fischer Bücherei, 1955), 20ff. 160  Lessing, Europa und Asien—Untergang der Erde am Geist, 183. 161  Lessing, Europa und Asien—Untergang der Erde am Geist, 128.

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approach to Judaism. Sometimes Lessing seemed to discuss Judaism in racial terms and spoke of the Jewish race, but most often he depicted the Jews as a Volk, a notion which he contradicted by putting Judaism on a par with Christianity, and thus designating it as a religion. As Yotam Hotam pointed out, Lessing splits Jewish existence into an abstract Judaism of religion and culture on the one hand, and Jewish life as a nation (or sometimes a race) on the other. However, “[t]he (true) Jew and (spiritual) Judaism in fact contradict each other.”162 While Hotam referred to Lessing’s article Deutschland und seine Juden, published only in 1933, which is the most clear expression of his turn to Zionism, the distinction between two types of Judaism is already present in Europa und Asien— Untergang der Erde am Geist, even though, at this stage, Lessing stressed that even Zionism could not rescue the Jewish people from succumbing to spiritual Judaism.163 For Lessing, the deviation from the ideal of the true Jew, as a combination of the fullness of life and spiritual Judaism, is the consequence of the exposure of Judaism to Christianity. Judaism was Christianized and forgot its true self, thus moving from verité into realité. From what Lessing considered an ideal state of living in equilibrium between life and Geist, Judaism moved into abstraction, pilpulism, dialectics, and disintegration from nature.164 Since this tilt toward Geist, Judaism became a degenerated version of its original self, and yet in its ideal past lay its redemptive task and hope for the future of the Earth. In Chap. 5, we encounter several examples of the notion that the Jewish people could serve as a bridge between Europe and Asia. Lessing differentiated further and identified two peoples—one on the European side and one on the Asian side—that could work toward unity and restore the global equilibrium between life and Geist: Jews and Parsi. Lessing went to great lengths to construct a common ancestry between the Jewish and the Parsi people, which, according to him, can be traced back to Cyrus. He depicted the God of the Hebrew Bible and his supposedly ambiguous behavior as an equivalent of the dual worldview of Zoroastrianism.165 The parallels are evident throughout history: Both Parsi and Jews suffered the same fate, as both are dispersed all over the world. They are destined to live among the nations, and so they embody  Hotam, Modern Gnosis and Zionism, 121.  Lessing, Europa und Asien—Untergang der Erde am Geist, 177. 164  Ibid. 165  Lessing, Europa und Asien—Untergang der Erde am Geist, 170f. 162 163

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the supranational element in world history. This is, of course, a topos that we can also be found in Rosenzweig. The antisemitic cliché of the eternal homelessness of the Jewish people and the Jew, the perceived alien in the midst of a host nation, becomes inverted into a redemptive task in world history. It is the task of the Jewish people to find a solution to the ever-­ increasing tension between soul and spirit, nature and culture, and history and eternity. In Lessing’s words: However, if Jews can find a solution (and they will perish as Jews if they cannot find one), then they may achieve a balance of the old conflict not for themselves, but for everyone. Still, I do not know from which ethnic group the solution for the struggle between soul and mind, between conservative folklore and superordinate national goal should originate, if not from the one who suffers most deeply from the insolvability. This is because all changes in and of the world can only come from the world’s sorest and most suffering spot.166

The genesis of this redemptive task can be neatly linked to Lessing’s desire to come to terms with his own Jewishness. On this reading, his theory seeks not only to validate Judaism ahead of other peoples, but also to abolish everything he despises about himself and about Judaism. At the heart of this attempt is Lessing’s desire to return not to the Jewish homeland, but rather to the original (or a more original) state of mind. It is less a return through space as in Zionism, and more a return through time. The present, the current situation, which Lessing holds as untenable, is only a passing stage between a long-lost past and the far-off possibility of a future, which is conceived of from the past and might be different. But it is, of course, from the present, and from his present struggle with his own identity, that Lessing situates past and future at both ends of an upward, open parabola, which reaches its nadir in his own age. However, Lessing’s theorem of brushing both history and global space against the grain, reversing common perceptions of history and reading it in light of 166  “Können aber die Juden eine Lösung finden (und sie gehen als Juden unter, wenn sie sie nicht finden), dann finden sie den Ausgleich des alten Widerstreites nicht für sich, sondern: für alle. Ich wüßte aber nicht, von welcher Volksgruppe die Lösung des Kampfes zwischen Seele und Geist, zwischen konservativem Volkstum und übervölkischem Ziel […] eigentlich ausgehen sollte, wenn nicht von derjenigen, welche am tiefsten unter der Unlösbarkeit leidet. Denn alle Veränderung in der Welt und an der Welt geht aus und kann nur ausgehn von der Welt wundestem und leidendstem Punkte.” Lessing, Europa und Asien—Untergang der Erde am Geist, 179.

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the past-future parabola, runs up against precisely the problem it tried to solve: namely its attachment to a certain time and place. How did Lessing reconcile his personal position in history with his theory of historical decline and redemptive potential? The redemptive task does not just rest on the shoulders of the Jewish people; even more so, it rests on his own. Redemption of the Jewish people is also self-redemption. While Lessing denounced the absolutism of such binary polarities as Geist and life, he nevertheless affirmed a binary reciprocity, in which two poles depend on, and are formed in opposition to, each other. The sum of all these struggles between different poles constitutes history. Recall that, for Lessing, the curse of modernity consists in its loss of equilibrium, which can only be reconstituted by the most marginal, namely the Jews. The vision needed only exists at the margins. Lessing was well placed to understand what he saw as a process of degeneration of both the Jewish people and of Europe, thanks to his multiple subject positions as modern, European, Jewish, and heretical to all three affiliations. From his proverbial observation platform, built on his own heretical position, Lessing tries to act as a freelance critic who can abstract from his identity and context. Yet, cultural grounding is stronger than the desire of genuine originality, and, ultimately, he failed in this regard. Lessing’s representations of diverse parts of the world and their religious traditions, including Buddhism, followed the German versions of Orientalism, but despite their usage to shed light on the disruptions of modern identity, they are never more than that, that is, reproductions of Orientalist clichés. “The Orientalist’s misrepresentation apparently can be transformed into the critic’s political intervention which dislocates the system,” as Robert J.C. Young put it in relation to Said’s work.167 But just as Said failed to give a coherent account of how the critic can distance himself from the inside while being on the inside, so Lessing could not go beyond the representations on which his identity construction depended. His attempt to distance himself from all affiliations and posit himself as the absolute outsider does not resolve the issue. At the beginning of Europa und Asien— Untergang der Erde am Geist, Lessing announced that he would provide a “world-system. Not for contemporaries and compatriots (Zeit- und Volksgenossen), but for all people and all times.”168 But at the end of the book, he expressed more doubt about such a prospect:  Young, White Mythologies, 179.  “Dieses Werk bildet ein Weltsystem. Nicht für die Zeit- und Volksgenossen, sondern für alle Völker und Zeiten.” Lessing, Europa und Asien—Untergang der Erde am Geist, 9. 167 168

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The present work aims to, from a broad and detached perspective, give an overview and delineate the sphere of education of contemporary humans and to showcase the subsoil of this human cosmos—subsoil that remains hidden from us as long as we wish to act in this world and accomplish anything.169

Lessing then rehearses the motto that he included on the title page: “Let us be more than human beings.”170 In the internal narrative of the book, from the title page to its end, we can trace the journey from the theoretical assumption that, he—the critic of Europe, modernity, and Judaism—can adopt an impartial and objective stance, to where the impossibility of this approach is acknowledged. It is precisely here, at the end of the book, that Lessing presented a twofold solution to the conflict he described throughout the book. One is dubbed the esoteric answer; the other the exoteric answer. The exoteric answer follows the solution already exposed in the book, although it does not mention the unique role of the Jewish people, but rather describes the envisioned equilibrium with reference to Indian and Germanic mythology. But regarding the theoretical problem we encountered, the section entitled Die esoterische Antwort is of greater interest. In the final pages of the book, Lessing offers a vision of the future human condition: Men can be more than “just human beings,” which are bound to time and space. Redemption, on the human level, is, for Lessing, the dissolution of consciousness, the liberation of the human being from the chains of time and space. Mixing, and at the same time contradicting, his earlier pronouncements on Buddhism and Judaism, Lessing called this redeemed human state “Nirvana,” which results in the creation of the Nietzschean Übermensch, the “New Adam.”171 Ultimately, for Lessing, redemption meant dissolution from history and from God. And, one could add, it is also redemption from Lessing’s own Jewishness. 169   “Das vorliegende Werk hatte die Aufgabe, den Umkreis der Bildung heutiger Erdenmenschen gleichsam als darüberschwebendes Auge im Großen zu überblicken und ihn schildernd, die Untergründe dieses Menschenall aufzuzeigen. Untergründe, die uns verborgen bleiben müssen, solange wir selber in dieser Welt mittun und mitwirken wollen.” Lessing, Europa und Asien—Untergang der Erde am Geist, 314. 170  “Seien wir mehr als nur Menschen.” See the epigraph in: Lessing, Europa und Asien— Untergang der Erde am Geist. 171  Lessing, Europa und Asien—Untergang der Erde am Geist, 318. See, for more on the influence of Nietzsche’s thought on Lessing, also in the light of his own book on Nietzsche from 1925: Johannes Henrich, Friedrich Nietzsche und Theodor Lessing. Ein Vergleich (Marburg: Tectum-Verlag, 2004), esp. 79ff. and 111ff.

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That is, his avowed capacity to analyze and scrutinize affairs more thoroughly than his contemporaries arose out of his privileged position as an adversary to dominant cultures, be they German, Jewish, or European.172 At the end of the book, Lessing acknowledged this theoretical puzzle and offered redemption as a solution. Yet, the only possible vocabulary ­available to him was derived from what he had previously condemned. This is the basic predicament of Theodor Lessing, which we can detect in Europa und Asien—Untergang der Erde am Geist and Jüdischer Selbsthaß. While he attacked self-hating Jews (in his book, Lessing cites as examples of this phenomenon Maximilian Harden, Walter Calé, Max Steiner, Arthur Trebitsch, Otto Weininger, and Paul Rée) and, as we have seen, attributed the role of world-changing vanguard to the Jewish people, he was himself an antisemite in his dealings with Jewish contemporaries.173 The split in Lessing’s perception of the Jewish people—on the one side, the spiritual, abstract Jew, and on the other, the living, concrete Jew (the former as an ideal that he revered, the latter as a detestable subject)—shines through in his theoretical positioning. While Lessing aspired to write from an abstract space, his context, as a German, a Jew, and a European, proved to be, in the end, inescapable. This brings us back to an article that had a tremendous impact on Jewish perceptions of Eastern wisdom and Buddhism, namely Buber’s Der Geist des Orients und das Judentum, published in 1915.174 Here Buber subsumed Judaism under the Asian spirit (Asiatischer Geist), along with Chinese, Indian, and Middle Eastern cultures. He further discerned several distinguishing features between the Orient and the Occident. The difference between the Oriental Menschentypus and the Occidental Menschentypus is 172  See, for how Said tried to justify his position as a critic and, in the eyes of Young, failed: Young, White Mythologies, 175f. 173  Lessing dedicated a short chapter with interesting anecdotes to each of these self-hating Jews: Theodor Lessing, Der Jüdische Selbtshaß (Berlin: Matthes & Seitz, 2004). Walter Grab argued that Lessing did not constitute a case of Jewish self-hatred, because he held on to his notion of a global beneficial metaphysical role of the Jewish people. Both aspects, however, do not contradict each other, but are in fact complementary. Cf. Walter Grab, “‘Jüdischer Selbsthaß’ und jüdische Selbstbetrachtung in der deutschen Literatur und Publizistik 1890 bis 1933,” in Judentum, Antisemitismus und deutschsprachige Literatur vom 18. Jahrhundert bis zum Ersten Weltkrieg. Zweiter Teil, edited by Hans Otto Horch and Horst Denkler (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer, 1989), 313. 174  The article was published a year later, together with other articles, as the following: Martin Buber, “Der Geist des Orients und das Judentum,” in Vom Geist des Judentums. Reden und Geleitworte (Leipzig: Kurt Wolff Verlag, 1916), 9–48.

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based on the difference between the motor (motorisch) and the sensory (sensorisch). The “motor type” is found in the Oriental, and the “sensory type” represents the Occidental.175 The Oriental spirit understands the totality of being as constitutive of his life, because separate entities are bundled together through the experience of the Oriental, while the Occidental perceives the multiplicity of being through reason’s a priori categories and fails to establish a holistic notion of the world of being. Thus, only for the Oriental it is possible to understand the meaning and essence of life, because only if life is seen as a unity can one understand it. Understanding is key to answering the questions of everyday life without falling into despair and melancholia. Buber’s inclusion of Judaism alongside other Oriental cultures, and his comparison of Eastern wisdom with Jewish mysticism, can be read as a strategy of coping with the introduction of non-Western religion into the discourse on Jewish identity in German-speaking countries. His early involvement with Hasidism and Zionism were attempts to introduce a renewal of Judaism. In the diaspora, the spiritual sensibility that distinguished the Jew as an Oriental from the Western Jew, who follows institutionalized religion and codified law, was severed from life and could only be renewed by a return to Zion, that is, by going to the Orient. As we can see, Buber’s engagement with non-­Western religions—both concretely, as in Ekstatische Konfessionen and his editions of Chinese writings, and abstractly, as in his concept of the Jew as the Oriental—radiated throughout much of his early thought. The deep feeling of crisis that determined much of the intellectual preoccupation during this era, and the search for alternatives or remedies, reflects, in Buber’s conception of Judaism, its relation to nonWestern religions, and his advancement of a Jewish return to the Orient, through not just political means, that is, Zionism, but also spiritual means. The importance of Buber’s emphasis on the Oriental spirit of the Jewish people cannot be overstated. As I have shown, Buber was not the first to develop this idea, yet his stance among German-Jewish intellectuals in the first three decades of the twentieth century turned him into a notable amplifying force. Even though many of the figures mentioned in Chap. 4 did not refer to him by name, their ideas of the Jewish people as a bridge owed much to Buber’s way of thinking, even though he himself did not go as far as some others mentioned here.

175  Buber, Der Geist des Orients und das Judentum, 11f. Mendes-Flohr, Divided Passions: Jewish Intellectuals and the Experience of Modernity, 86.

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While there does not necessarily exist a clear link between the notion of the Jew as the Oriental, as perpetuated by Buber, Lessing, and those mentioned in the following chapter, and the Buddha-Jesus literature, I hope to have shown that both ideas originated in the same discursive field. The positive evaluation of the Orient preceded the Buddha-Jesus literature. However, when the question arose as to the possible influence of Buddhism on Christianity, Jewish thinkers had to recalibrate their notion of the Orient. In this chapter, we have noted the various ways in which Jewish thinkers rejected the idea of a common space of Judaism and Buddhism. In contrast, in the next chapter, we see how a common space of Judaism and Buddhism influenced the writings of some of the foremost members of the German-Jewish literati.

CHAPTER 4

The Bridgebuilders: Jewishness Between Asia and Europe

In 1916, when the nationalistic fever that had swept through Germany at the beginning of the First World War started to fade and a skeptical counter-­public emerged, Lion Feuchtwanger, who had evaded the blind patriotism early on, published his play Warren Hastings. In a short piece announcing the publication, Feuchtwanger concluded: “maybe this war is nothing but a step in Europe’s path toward the Buddha.”1 As surprising and sweeping a claim this may seem, Feuchtwanger was certainly not the only one to think it. Many perceived the war as a caesura that would put an end to Europe’s path toward a ruthless modernity that had thrived to subjugate the world, fragment the self, and undermine German values. One of the answers to these developments that had ushered in, what Georg Lukács poignantly called “transcendental homelessness,” was the search for solace in the epitome of Eastern wisdom, Edwin Arnold’s “light of Asia,” the Buddha.2 The search for alternatives to rationalism and 1  Lion Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde (Frankfurt a.M: Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag, 1984), 378. 2  Georg Lukács, The Theory of the Novel: A Historico-philosophical Essay on the Forms of Great Epic Literature (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1971), 41. Edwin Arnold, The Light of Asia or the Great Renunciation (Chicago: W.B. Conkey, 1900). Arnold’s narrative long poem about the Buddha, titled The Light of Asia, was the first Western Buddhist bestseller and had a tremendous influence on the (Anglophone) reception of Buddhism. It was less revered in Germany, but still widely read. For its reception, see Christopher Clausen, “Sir Edwin Arnold’s The Light of Asia and its Reception,” Literature East and West 17 (1973),

© The Author(s) 2019 S. Musch, Jewish Encounters with Buddhism in German Culture, Palgrave Series in Asian German Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-27469-6_4

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­ ositivism had already inspired German intellectuals for the two decades p prior to 1914. Moving away from the theories of Hegel and Kant, this generation was heavily influenced by Schopenhauer and later Nietzsche. They favored originality over progress and often preferred blurry holistic concepts to clear but pedantic reason. It is no coincidence that German novelists would play a major role in this intellectual endeavor because, as Lukács argued, the novel, with its link to German Romanticism, was an expression of precisely this transcendental homelessness. The plethora of German novelists who engaged with Buddhist ideas in their work supports this point. However, the Buddha was often just a proxy for something bigger and more opaque: I don’t know what the Buddha stood for, or only vaguely, but let’s accept it, and if we think it matters, then we should do something about it. It either deserves our faith in it or it doesn’t.3

As this above quote from Robert Musil’s Der Mann ohne Eigenschaften reminds us, Buddhism was sometimes an escape for those desperately looking for something to believe in but not finding it in the West. In their “hunger for wholeness,” they put modernity on trial and found a suitable judge in the form of the Buddha.4 This included many Jewish novelists, four of whom we discuss in this chapter, in particular those who engaged with both their Jewishness and Buddhism within their work. This chapter is dedicated to the conception of Judaism as a bridge, a link, or a mediator between Buddhism and Europe. It includes discussions of Paul Cohen-Portheim, Lion Feuchtwanger, Jakob Wassermann, and Walter 174–191. Hoxie Neale Fairchild commented dryly on Arnold’s poem: “So there is such a thing as muscular Buddhism.” This quote reminds us of the affinity between the Western reception of Buddhism in this period and the ubiquity of the Nietzschean notion of the Übermensch. Hoxie Neale Fairchild, Religious Trends in English Poetry: 1830–1880, Christianity and Romanticism in the Victorian Era (New York: Columbia University Press, 1964), 73. 3  Robert Musil, The Man without Qualities, translated by Sophie Wilkens and Burton Pike (London: Picador, 1995), 383. “Ich weiß nicht, was Buddha verlangt hat; nur so ungefähr; aber nehmen wir’s einfach an, und wenn man es für bedeutend hält, dann sollte man es eben ausführen! Denn entweder verdient etwas, daß man daran glaubt, oder nicht.” Robert Musil, Der Mann ohne Eigenschaften, 353. 4  The phrase was, of course, famously coined by Peter Gay in the chapter “The Hunger for Wholeness: Trials of Modernity,” in Peter Gay, Weimar Culture: The Outsider as Insider (New York: W.W. Norton & Co., 2001), 70–101.

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Hasenclever. The notion that Judaism could link the East and West in their different manifestations obviously had much in common with many other Orientalist discourses concerning the relationship between Asia and Europe, Germany and India, and also German Jewry and the so-­called Ostjuden. While these binary divisions are certainly pertinent here (as they were to our discussion in Chap. 3), I am going to return to them only sporadically, since I want to highlight the distinctiveness of Buddhism amid this plethora of correlating arguments. Crucial here is the idea that Judaism could be validated by appropriating the East. As the East, an amorphic topos, gained what French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu calls “cultural capital,” the idea that Judaism could provide privileged access to the East grew in popularity.5 This line of thought inverted the argument, often made by antisemites, that German Jews were not European. Jewish thinkers would appropriate this notion from both sites. Walter Rathenau infamously scolded Jews as an “Asiatic horde on the sands of the Mark Brandenburg” and called for their assimilation.6 Others, fueled by the positive image of Eastern wisdom, would embrace the image of the Jews as Easterners: So what if the Jews belonged to the East? In the age of the West’s decline, this could be a good thing.7 For many German Jews, especially those who made their careers as German writers and who were somewhat detached from their Jewish descent, this embrace of an originally antisemitic narrative was too brash. A more balanced approach was to claim a middle position for the Jews between East and West. Concerning the influx of Buddhism, this meant arguing for an affinity or common core between Judaism and Buddhism. However, this argument touched on questions connected to the historical thinking of that era. As I argue in this chapter, the idea that Judaism, or the Jewish people, somehow act as a transmitter of Buddhist thought to Europe is based on three different, yet complementary, methods of thinking about history: (1) historicist basis; (2) anti-historicist kernel; and (3) present-age particularism. In my view, all the figures discussed in what follows, in their thoughts about history, the present day, and Buddhism, evoke the prevalence of historicist thinking in the nineteenth century. 5  See: Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984), 2f. 6  Walter Rathenau, “Höre Israel!,” Die Zukunft 18 (1897), 454. 7  See the seminal article “Fin de Siècle Orientalism, The Ostjuden, and the Aesthetics of Jewish Self-Affirmation,” in Divided Passions: Jewish Intellectuals and the Experience of Modernity, edited by Paul Mendes-Flohr, 77–132.

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Historicism is the basic implicit assumption that one’s thought is grounded in the historical, insofar as the latter is taken as the starting point and the object of any inquiry.8 While “classical” historicism entailed the search for the advancement of God’s plan, and later for the appearance of metaphysical laws in history, from the 1880s onward, with the preponderance of positivism and scientific objectivity, the gap between the approach of a scientist or a theologian on the one hand, and a historian on the other, would become indisputable.9 While numerous thinkers tried to find a niche for scientific historiography, with varying meanings and levels of success, history was increasingly perceived as something that could not be approached objectively or theologically. As a result, historicism became associated more and more with a relativistic approach to historical facts and, consequently, as a self-fulfilling prophecy; historicism ventured out onto a slippery slope, descending further and further toward the dreaded valley of relativism. As we can already discern from this rough historical outline, historicism was, and remains, a contested term, which is why some definitional caveats are in order. In his seminal article, Two Meanings of Historicism in the Writings of Dilthey, Troeltsch, and Meinecke, Calvin Rand distinguished between historicism as a methodology and as a Weltanschauung, the second being a broadening of the historicist method to encompass other disciplines (and possibly realms of life).10 Clearly, for the writers explored in this study, the key approach is historicism as Weltanschauung, since they were not interested in giving historicist accounts of the past. Nevertheless, Rand’s list of features that he excludes from the ideological core of historicism (knowingly in opposition to some of the thinkers normally associated with historicism) is illuminating for our purposes. According to Rand, historicism is not “a specific logic of history or a systematic philosophy,” nor is it “a theory of inevitable historical laws or cycles,” or “a way of writing history in a purely objective, impersonal, and factual manner,” and last, but certainly not least, it should not “be equated to relativism.”11 Obviously, 8  For the difficulty in defining historicism, see Frederick C. Beiser, The German Historicist Tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 2f. 9  See Charles Bambach, Heidegger, Dilthey, and the Crisis of Historicism (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995), 13. 10  See Calvin G. Rand, “Two Meanings of Historicism in the Writings of Dilthey, Troeltsch, and Meinecke,” Journal of the History of Ideas 24 (1964), 511. 11  Rand, “Two Meanings of Historicism in the Writings of Dilthey, Troeltsch, and Meinecke,” 515ff.

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these four points are easier to heed for historicism as a methodology than as a Weltanschauung, and subsequently, Feuchtwanger, Cohen-Portheim, Hasenclever, and Wassermann would probably take issue with Rand’s descriptions. This is especially true of the last point, which clashes with their coarse Nietzschean understanding of history. As Rand remarks, “relativism is a consequence of historicism for other disciplines, like morality and religion.”12 In this sense, Rand’s ahistorical definition conflicts with the prevalent zeitgeist in our study, which saw historicism at the beginning of the twentieth century, largely triggered by the caesura of the First World War, less as the search for meaning in history, and more as relativistic to its core.13 In light of its limitations, it might be helpful to supplement Rand’s definition with one from the period in question that is not based on hindsight, but rather emerges from a figure whose writing was contemporaneous with the individuals studied herein. In Über den Begriff der Geschichte, Walter Benjamin rebuked historicism because it “contents itself with establishing a causal nexus of various moments of history.”14 This signals not only the point of much of the Buddha-Jesus literature, but also the rise of the historical novel at the beginning of the twentieth century. In a period when the spun web of history was becoming, through scholarly efforts, tighter and tighter, the very substance of this web was being attacked. One could then take these “various moments” of which Benjamin spoke and find one’s own casual nexus. This is what happened in the historical novels discussed here. It is worth noting that none of these novels, including their (however diffuse) Buddhist content, claims to depict history as it was. While the arrival of historicism opened up the scene for this kind of approach, these writers wrestled with the challenge that relativism  Rand, “Two Meanings of Historicism in the Writings of Dilthey, Troeltsch, and Meinecke,” 517. 13  Cf. Charles Bambach, “Weimar Philosophy and the Crisis of Historical Thinking,” in Weimar Thought: A Contested Legacy, edited by Peter E. Gordon and John P. McCormick (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013), 133 and Frederick C.  Beiser, “Weimar Philosophy and the Fate of Neo-Kantianism,” in Weimar Thought: A Contested Legacy, edited by Peter E. Gordon and John P. McCormick (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2013), 118. Cf. also: Friedrich Meinecke, “Von der Krisis des Historismus: Aphorismen und Skizzen zur Geschichte (1942),” in Zur Theorie und Philosophie der Geschichte (Stuttgart: K.F. Koehler, 1959), 203. 14  Walter Benjamin, “Über den Begriff der Geschichte,” in Gesammelte Werke Bd. I.2, edited by Rolf Tiedemann and Hermann Schweppenhäuser (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1974), 704. 12

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posed to morality and religion. In addition, they also (to varying extents) brought religion back into the realm of the historical and thus challenged the relativistic aspect of historicism. As such, attempts to counter historicism, or to overcome its crisis, are built around an anti-historicist kernel, whose main purpose is to go beyond the present’s temporal and spatial confines. As Friedrich Meinecke remarked in respect of Ernst Troeltsch’s book Der Historismus und seine Probleme: “Everything flows, give me the point where I can stand”15 But where was this point to be found? After the demise of God, the suspicion of reason, especially in its neo-Kantian form, perennial principles and concepts were seen as rather dubious foundations amid the rising tide of relativism. Subsequently, the threat of relativism was countered by debunking the all-encompassing claim of historicism, namely that everything had to be understood within history. Among Jewish thinkers, Judaism, or a transcendent interpretation of it, was the plausible candidate for something that lay outside of history.16 Martin Buber’s early volumes of Hasidic tales, published in 1906 and 1908, were deliberately composed with anti-historicist intent. One did not have to resort to plugging these spiritual tales with historical facts in order to make them valuable or of interest to contemporary readers. They were not meant to paint an accurate or objective picture of an up-and-coming religious movement in eighteenth-­century Poland; rather, they were intended to evoke a certain religiosity or spirituality in the modern reader beyond the realm of historical facts. Rosenzweig discovered, in his famous nightly conversation with his friend Eugen Rosenstock in Leipzig, that he would have to opt for a religious life so as to avoid the dreaded historical relativism. For secular Jewish thinkers, however, Judaism (as a religion) alone was not an adequate rejoinder to the tides of historical relativism. Yet, as we see, the specter of Jewish religiosity sometimes crops up in the writings of these secular authors, most notably when they discuss the relationship between the Jewish people and history. In the end, their approaches to history at times incorporate notions of what it means to be Jewish in the modern world, which could be seen as religious notions in secular ­disguise. 15  “Alles fließt, gib mir den Punkt wo ich stehen kann.” Friedrich Meinecke, “Ernst Troeltsch und das Problem des Historismus,” in Zur Theorie und Philosophie der Geschichte (Stuttgart: K.F. Koehler, 1959), 369. 16  See David N. Myers, Resisting History: Historicism and its Discontents in German-Jewish Thought (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003), 171.

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Ideas about a Jewish mediator who comes to remedy the ills of modernity and steer us away from the pitfalls of relativism certainly harbored traces of the messianic. Gershom Scholem argued that just as messianism “is the great catalyst in Judaism,” so Judaism, for these novelists, was the great catalyst of world history up to the present age.17 To reconcile these somewhat contradictory layers, a third aspect, present-­age particularism, had to be added. Subsequently, we can find evidence of this third moment regularly arising among these writers. Presentage particularism is the claim that one is living in a time of caesura, an era of world-historical significance. Here the historicist, that is, relativistic, meets the anti-historicist, that is, perennial, in a Heideggerian fashion, an event that occurs when an idea bursts onto the world stage of historical contingency. This present-age particularism serves to draw together these opposing threads, just as Judaism was thought to fuse together different modes of being and/or thinking. Moreover, as the present age is not an ordinary one, but rather a particular point in human history, the Jewish people are also not just regular people, but are of particular significance. On the stage of world history, there is, to use the title of Paul CohenPortheim’s book, a Mission of the Jew. In an announcement of his play, Warren Hastings, in 1916, Feuchtwanger viewed the First World War in light of the present-age particularism described above: I do not believe it to be a coincidence that now of all times Rabindranath Tagore is being read and played in all languages, that Alfred Döblin’s Wang-­ lun, that wondrous novel of non-reluctance, won the Fontane Award, that Sudrakas Vasantasena is now resounding stronger than ever in Germany and England. Maybe this war means nothing but yet another step taken by Europe toward Buddha. And, if you will, my play certainly is rather contemporary.18

17  Quoted in David Biale, Gershom Scholem: Kabbalah and Counter-History (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979), 148. 18  “Ich glaube nicht, daß es ein Zufall ist, daß gerade jetzt Rabindranath Tagore in allen europäischen Sprachen gelesen und gespielt wird, daß Alfred Döblins Wang-lun, jener herrliche Roman vom Nicht-Widerstreben, den Fontanepreis errang, daß Sudrakas Vasantasena jetzt in Deutschland wie in England stärker klingt als je. Vielleicht bedeutet dieser Krieg nicht anders als einen Schritt weiter auf dem Weg Europas zu Buddha. Und wenn ihr so wollt, dann freilich hat mein Stück eine gewisse Aktualität.” Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde, 378.

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However, reading the war through the inevitable outcome of historical macrological trends, or, what we might call with the Annales School, “longue durée,” stands in stark contrast to the blind stumbling of sleepwalkers as described by Christopher Clark.19 This raises the question of Feuchtwanger’s unspoken assumptions and how they might have filtered into his novels. Fernand Braudel saw his concept of the longue durée as a response to the “general crisis in the human sciences; they are all overwhelmed by their own progress.”20 Feuchtwanger saw his ideas of historical megatrends that had resulted in the ultimate crisis, the Great War, as an overwhelming of the masses by the Western notion of progress. A crisis of faith in the notion of progress—not necessarily in its underlying truth, but more so in its descriptive value or application—can be seen, in Feuchtwanger’s case, to prompt a search for currents that reach back beyond the conventional historical gaze. In imagining history as covering a short time span, the event, or what can be furnished with dates, Feuchtwanger was compelled to look for signs of historical developments in the boundless maelstrom of time. The outbreak of the war, in his reading, was one such sign. When Feuchtwanger wrote that the war presented a step in “Europe’s path toward the Buddha,” he did not imply a historical or dialectical necessity à la Hegel—Nietzsche is, after all, the starting point of the parabola that Feuchtwanger mentions; rather, Feuchtwanger saw in it a contingent result of warring historical forces: reason and unreason, power and renunciation, and so on. The currents, or “waves” (Wellen) in Feuchtwanger’s phrasing, which shape the historical process, are planted in a (vulgar)-platonic understanding of ideas.21 The imprints that these ideas leave on history are always imperfect. It is not pure reason but its distortion that steers humanity, and as such it stands in need of a corrective counterweight. Nor is renunciation a pure idea; it is necessarily ­contingent, historical, and therefore imperfect. 19  Ferdinand Braudel, On History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980), 25. Clark emphasized the decisions by individuals who are “sleepwalkers, watchful but unseeing, haunted by dreams, yet blind to the reality of the horror they were to bring into the world.” Christopher Clark, The Sleepwalkers: How Europe went to War in 1914 (New York: HarperCollins, 2013), 562. Of course, one could argue that Feuchtwanger’s inclination to see the war as the ultimate battle between very abstract historical forces was equally blind to the reality of the horror, yet the point here is the difference between Clark’s focus on individual roles and Feuchtwanger’s emphasis on long historical changes that go beyond a unique human’s existence. That both approaches are not mutually exclusive is also clear, yet will not concern us further. 20  Braudel, On History, 25. 21  See, for example, Feuchtwanger, Jud Süß, 445f.

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Feuchtwanger acknowledged this in the short quote cited at the beginning of this subchapter. The insertion of “maybe this war is …” demarcated a historical-epistemological indeterminacy, acknowledging that Nietzsche might have been right, and accepting the impossibility of predicting the future, its developments and paths, counterpoised by the steadfast belief that one lives in times of radical change. If ideas are never perfect, then the possibility of a misunderstanding of history persists. However, the implications go beyond Feuchtwanger’s Weltanschauung. During the late nineteenth century, a byproduct of historical consciousness, the belief that one lives in times of change or in a time when change is imminent, ready to burst on the stage of world (or at least local) history at any moment, came up against the wall of historicism. Thus, historical consciousness, vaguely understood as the awareness of one’s place in history, independent of what is determined from this assertion and paired with historical criticism, resulted in a relativization of the arc of history and the belief in inevitable change. History was no longer the domain in which God showed his ­fingerprint; instead, history was the expression of human and/or natural forces.22 As a result, a historical nihilism prevailed, propagated most notably by Nietzsche, according to which the human interpretation of history is shaped by the zeitgeist, and, as such, the assertion of lawfulness had to be jettisoned from the historian’s lexicon. On a societal level, this historical relativism resonated with the fragmentation that was often lamented around the same time. Of course, no one who took Buddha’s teachings seriously could deny that he was (also) a historical figure, but often, despite a lack of any divine attributes, he was thought to transcend time. The questions that these writers had to address in their works, if implicitly, pertain to the connection between historical thinking and their attitudes toward the Buddha. Or, one could ask: How does the quest to bring the teachings of the historical figure of the Buddha work with the contingency of history? What can a historical figure, particularly the Buddha, contribute to contemporary Germany? What does the historical dimension of the Buddha’s teachings mean for its contemporary application? Each author also deployed the figure of the Buddha to differing intensities. Cohen-Portheim invoked the Buddha most directly and was especially interested in his bodily manifestations. Feuchtwanger hardly mentioned the Buddha, but instead dealt with a rather amorphous set of  See Myers, Resisting History, 2.

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Buddhist ideas. Jakob Wassermann viewed the Buddha through the lens of his notions of poverty and justice. Hasenclever’s Buddha was a historical figure absolutum whose ingenious insights have to be translated for the present age. While there are obvious parallels between the four writers—for instance, the idea of the ontologization of geographical entities and religions with a strong Orientalist and Exoticist bent—significant differences also appear when it comes to the task of populating these ontologizations with content, concrete ideas, and descriptions of the particularities. I begin my discussion with perhaps the least familiar of this quartet, Paul Cohen-Portheim.

Paul Cohen-Portheim: A Mission Between East and West “Natürlich, Ihre Schwäche für das Asiatische ist bekannt. In der Tat, mit solchen Wundern kann ich nicht aufwarten,” erwiderte Herr Settembrini. Thomas Mann, Der Zauberberg, 736.

This chapter begins with a writer who, like Hans Castorp in Der Zauberberg, saw Asia, and especially Buddhism, as a realm of wonder. While a relatively accomplished author in the 1920s, today Paul Cohen-­ Portheim is largely a forgotten figure, and there is hardly any secondary literature on him. So, before addressing Cohen-Portheim’s understanding of Buddhism, Judaism, and history, it is worth providing a brief biographical sketch, not just because it sheds light on the life of an unknown yet fascinating individual but also because those ideas of his that are pertinent to our study are closely bound up with his experience during the First World War, which he expounded upon in his Kafkaesque account in Time Stood Still.23 Paul Cohen-Portheim’s parents were Sephardic Jews who moved from the Austro-Hungarian Empire to Prussia where Paul was born in Berlin in 1880.24 Nothing is known of his family history or of his childhood and 23  Paul Cohen-Portheim, Time Stood Still: My Internment in England 1914–1918 (London: Duckworth, 1931). 24  Entry “Paul Cohen-Portheim,” in Lexikon deutsch-jüdischer Autoren, edited by Renate Heuer, Band 5 (München: Saur, 1997), 194.

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youth. Only via his own account do we know the following: In 1914, as yet without any literary ambitions, Cohen-Portheim was living in Paris where he tried to establish himself as a painter.25 As had been his habit for years, he traveled through England during the summer painting landscapes. When the British Empire entered the war, Cohen-Portheim was prohibited from leaving the country. After supporting himself through odd jobs and illegal employment for a while, he was interned, as were many other citizens of the inimical Central Powers. Cohen-Portheim spent the war years in various prison camps, where a dearth of painterly motivation combined with the monotony of everyday life in these surroundings, so vividly described in Time Stood Still, prompted him to seek refuge in writing. While his first book on the evolution of arts was lost amid the turmoil of the war, his second work, Die Mission des Juden, also written during his internment at Wakefield camp in Yorkshire (only published in 1922), offers a useful entry point into understanding his notion of the Jewish people and their historical function.26 Having yet to establish a complete picture, we also have to consider his other books that, by his own account, comprise the “fruit of Wakefield,” namely Asien als Erzieher and Das Lächeln der sieben Buddha.27  Cohen-Portheim, Time Stood Still, 5f.  See Paul Cohen-Portheim, Die Mission des Juden (Berlin: Verlag bei Erich Reiß, 1922). Cf. Cohen-Portheim, Time Stood Still, 187f. 27  Cohen-Portheim, Time Stood Still, 188. See Paul Cohen-Portheim, Das Lächeln der sieben Buddha. Mit sieben Radierungen von Willy Jaeckel (Berlin: Verlag bei Erich Reiß, 1923). And: Paul Cohen-Portheim, Asien als Erzieher (Leipzig: Klinkhardt & Biermann, 1920). In the only research article on Paul Cohen-Portheim, Georg R. Kaiser detected three distinct phases in Cohen-Portheim’s oeuvre. The first phase was influenced by CohenPortheim’s internment during the War and his reading during this period. It includes Asien als Erzieher, Die Mission des Juden, and also the small booklets Europas Zukunft, from 1923, and Der Geist Frankreichs and Europa, from 1926. The second phase comprised his travel books Paris, from 1930, England, die unbekannte Insel, from 1931, and London, from 1932. The third phase included his account of his internment during the war, Time Stood Still, published in 1931, and Die Entdeckung Europas, posthumously published in 1933. I doubt that this classification holds up, particularly regarding the last phase. However, even if I disagree with his periodization, I am deeply indebted to Kaiser’s article, especially regarding the biographical and bibliographical information. Cf. Gerhard R.  Kaiser, “Paul CohenPortheim—ein vergessener Vermittler von Rang,” in Reme tene, verba sequentur! Gelebte Interkulturalität, Festschrift zum 65. Geburtstag des Wissenschaftlers und Dichters Carmine bzw. Gino Chiellino, edited by Adrian Bieniec et al. (Dresden: Thelem, 2011), 17–37. See the following by Paul Cohen-Portheim: Europas Zukunft (Berlin: Verlag bei Erich Reiß, 1923); Der Geist Frankreichs and Europa (Potsdam: G.  Kiepenheuer, 1926); Paris (Berlin: 25 26

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Only when we have considered the evolution of his own thinking can we thoroughly explore Cohen-Portheim’s fascination with Buddhism. In Time Stood Still, he gave an account of the genealogy of his intellectual formation as it evolved during his internment. In his own judgment, it was precisely the life in the camp that afforded him the opportunity of building up [his] own mind, gaining what the Germans call a Weltanschauung, that is, finding out what I thought of the world and of myself related to it. […] What happened was simply that there were no outer interests left after a time, no activities of any significance, and that conditions and circumstances were best ignored. So my energies were turned inward.28

Two key elements influenced Cohen-Portheim’s intellectual development from this moment: internationalism and spiritualism. Internationalism was, for Cohen-Portheim, unimaginable without Asia as an antidote to European nationalism. Spiritualism could not function without Eastern mysticism, including Buddhism, as a counterweight to the European hegemony of reason. While originally a painter, Cohen-Portheim soon discovered that the “expression of emotion by means of pictorial representation, had become meaningless and that I had no desire for it, that something had died and something else taken its place.”29 That “something else” was spiritualism, in particular the practice of table-turning, which offered some relief from the tedium of the daily grind in the prison camp. Spiritualism had already become a bourgeois and proletarian pastime from the 1880s onward.30 In a wide range of occultist trends (e.g., somnambulism, magnetism, or animal magnetism), its theosophical variation became popular around the turn of the century. Thomas Mann’s Der Klinkhardt & Biermann, 1930); England, die unbekannte Insel (Berlin: Klinkhardt & Biermann, 1931); London. Mit 70 Abbildungen nach Aufnahmen des Verfassers (Berlin: Klinkhardt & Biermann, 1932); and Die Entdeckung Europas (Berlin: Neff, 1933). CohenPortheim was also a prolific cultural commentator who published in many newspapers across Europe. He also translated novels from French (Honoré de Balzac, Henri Barbusse, Pierre Dumarchey) and English authors (Rose Macaulay, Vincent Gowen, Joseph Hergesheimer, Harold Nicolson, Dorothy Mills) into German. 28  Cohen-Portheim, Time Stood Still, 175f. 29  Cohen-Portheim, Time Stood Still, 176. 30   Diethard Sawicki, “Spiritismus und das Okkulte in Deutschland, 1880–1930,” Österreichische Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaften 14 (2003), 63.

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Zauberberg prominently featured a spiritist session, which the author himself had witnessed and subsequently chronicled in his essay Okkulte Erlebnisse from 1923.31 As Marianne Wünsch has shown in her insightful analysis of the conceptual framework of Der Zauberberg, the occultist events, depicted in a chapter entitled Fragwürdigstes, assume a middle ground between the disjunctive oppositions that fight for the soul of the protagonist Hans Castorp.32 The opposition between rationalism and mysticism, life and death, action and renunciation, and so on is embodied by the Italian Humanist Settembrini and the Jewish/Jesuit Nihilist Naphta, or, to translate these into geographical terms, the West and the East.33 Fragwürdigstes is the last chapter in the novel in which the ideological fight over Castorp rages. Since Castorp, the German engineer, who, unlike the two extremes Settembrini and Naphta, is guided by moderation, the clear-cut opposition is ultimately abrogated by “a vague ‘gnostic-neoplatonic’-‘spiritist’-‘mystic’ metaphysic” in which occultism becomes embedded as an accepted practice.34 As we see, Cohen-Portheim did not allocate this middle ground between East and West to occultism. However, it did serve as a much-needed correctional device to the excesses of Western reason. In fact, when Mann and Cohen-Portheim jumped on the bandwagon, the spiritual moment had already moved on. Séances with table-turning, as Cohen-Portheim describes them and as featured in Mann’s Der Zauberberg, were supplanted in the first two decades of the new century by the theoretically more sophisticated theosophical teachings with their postulation of a philosophia perennis. Thus, in occultist circles, table-­turning was increasingly considered something of a trivial pursuit, solely thought to be for entertainment, perhaps even humbuggery, which, unlike theosophy and later anthroposophy, would certainly not lead to higher knowledge.35 Yet to understand Cohen-Portheim’s intermixture of theosophy, mysticism, and history, it is crucial to grasp one of the concurrent appearances in 31   Cf. for minutiae: Priska Pytlik, Okkultismus und Moderne—Ein kulturhistorisches Phänomen und seine Bedeutung für die Literatur um 1900 (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2005), 115–140. 32  See Marianne Wünsch, “Okkultismus im Kontext von Thomas Manns Zauberberg,” in Thomas Mann Jahrbuch 24 (2011), 102. 33  See Wünsch, “Okkultismus im Kontext von Thomas Manns Zauberberg,” 90. 34  “eine vage ‘gnostizistische-neuplatonisch’-‘spiritualistisch’-‘mystische’ Metaphysik,” in: Wünsch, “Okkultismus im Kontext von Thomas Manns Zauberberg,” 103. 35  Sawicki, “Spiritismus und das Okkulte in Deutschland, 1880–1930,” 64.

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German culture, which in many ways was a concretion and at the same time an amalgamation of many of the popular intellectual trends: the Lebensreform (life-reform) movement. The diverse, colorful, and at times arcane currents that are often subsumed under this label include groups with a focus on theosophy, nudism, vegetarianism, other forms of asceticism, body culture, pilates, naturopathy, and so on, as well as Buddhism and other forms of Eastern wisdom. Often combining various aspects, they shared a certain neo-Romantic, back-to-nature attitude, often with Nietzschean undertones, which could often be used in tandem with völkisch, nationalist, anarchist, and socialist ideologies.36 Across political ideologies there was a general distrust of the threefold promise of historical progress, technology, and modernization. It has been noted that this was mostly a bourgeois enterprise, while the working class still believed in all three of these aspects.37 CohenPortheim, who was prone to indulge and freely blend several features of these currents, saw their prominence as a sign of what I have called presentage particularism. In Time Stood Still, he explained: All these new movements and new inventions and new sensations signified and brought about the end of an epoch of civilization, or, if one prefers to look to the future, the beginning of a new order. But between one order and the next there is a reign of disorder. That reign began some time in the years before the war, it affected me, as was but natural, and my works of art were but the expression of an inner and personal state of disorder and unrest corresponding to the general.38

His ideas about Buddhism grew out of that “vague ‘gnostic’‘neoplatonic’-‘spiritist’-‘mystic’ metaphysic.” That Buddhism had a distinctive mystical element for Cohen-Portheim is evident from his most fascinating book: Das Lächeln der sieben Buddha, published in 1923 with several etchings by the artist Willy Jaeckel. A deeply mystical verse epic entrenched in Expressionist language, it describes seven different Buddhas, each accompanied by one of Jaeckel’s etchings. Cohen-Portheim himself saw this work, though written years afterward, as a fruit of his internment.39 The seven Buddhas have different attributes and hail from ­ different 36  See Steven E. Aschheim, The Nietzsche Legacy in Germany 1890–1990 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 112 and Walter Laqueur, Young Germany: A History of the German Youth Movement (New Brunswick: Transaction Books, 1984), 46. 37  See Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 134. 38  Cohen-Portheim, Time Stood Still, 141. 39  See Cohen-Portheim, Time Stood Still, 188.

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­ eographical regions, namely the Golden Buddha from Siam, the Silver g Buddha, the Tibetan Buddha, the high standing slender Buddha, the Japanese Buddha, the naked brown Buddha, and the big Buddha from the Middle Kingdom (“Reich der Mitte”).40 Cohen-Portheim’s descriptions of the Buddhas give them an exotic and mystical aura. Emphasizing the splendid adornments of each Buddha, Cohen-Portheim goes on to subvert the supposedly endemic Asian traditions of decorating statues. Each Buddha laments the lavishness of his adornments and proclaims that his message and his smile are untouched by splendor and riches. The opening already evokes an image of the impenetrable East, a familiar Orientalist trope. As the European, guided by Cohen-Portheim, enters what can be described as a cage or temple, he finds the seven Buddha statues seated in a circle. This depiction of scenery evokes Plato’s cave allegory and (perhaps influenced by Schopenhauer) an allusion to the veil of Maya, thus playing with the idea of a concealed truth that can be approached by knowing. The Buddhas’ seven short monologues are offered to the reader as a rite of passage after which the blind will see and the ignorant will know. Behind spirals of smoke and fog, the Buddhas address the nescient visitor. One after another they offer short reflections, lecturing in an almost aphoristic style, alternating between paratactic and hypotactic sentences. The Buddhas often address the reader sternly (“Stör meine Ruh’ nicht—Bleibe mir ferne”), mocking him (“Deiner lach’ ich, du … Mensch! …”), even calling him a “worm” at one point.41 The lectures elaborate on what at that time were conventional Buddhist themes: overcoming fear, cultivating indifference toward love and hate, life and death, the impermanence of being, solitude and consolation. Yet, Cohen-Portheim’s book was a surprisingly heterogeneous addition to a trend that saw Buddhism often as monolithic. The figure of the Buddha could stand for almost anything, and while German scholars had a better understanding of the different schools of Buddhism and their history than ever before, for many literati this growth in knowledge was secondary. What mattered was to understand the core of the Buddha’s teaching, its actual meaning, often quite detached from and sometimes willfully ignorant of Buddhist traditions in Asia. Cohen-Portheim’s depiction of the Buddha engaged deliberately with what for many German Buddhists was an embarrassment and smacked of idolatry. While the 40  Cohen-Portheim, Das Lächeln der sieben Buddha. Mit sieben Radierungen von Willy Jaeckel, 25. 41  Cohen-Portheim, Das Lächeln der sieben Buddha. Mit sieben Radierungen von Willy Jaeckel, 7f. u. 14.

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Buddha’s ideas represented sublime wisdom, the Buddha’s body was ignoble in comparison. Yet a closer look reveals that Cohen-Portheim’s preoccupation with the body of the Buddha was closely linked to his ideas about the transformation of the West through the East. A bodily feature, namely the smile, demonstrated the Buddha’s indifference to the quotidian affairs of the world: The world is nothing but a sham.—still, I smile knowingly. Love and hate, sin and repentance surround me—and I smile, forgiving, I look down on the despairing, and the tears contained in my smile are a balm for their wounds. I smile at the death throes, and smiling, the dying dissolves in the universe. My smile is for all of you, because within me, the universe is enclosed.42

The smile represents the distance from the mundane and the embracing of mystical experience beyond rational perception. It is the smile of the knowing. For Cohen-Portheim, mystic experience does not supersede reason as the primary mode of perception, yet reason has to be complemented by something irrational, that is, the occult, the spiritual, or the mystical, whose precise nature often remains blurry, which, of course, one could argue, lies in its very nature. Or, to put it inversely, mysticism alone, while clearly maintaining priority, is not sufficient but must be supplemented by reason, which has its own limits, or, as Cohen-Portheim notes, approvingly paraphrasing Schopenhauer: “I am convinced of the truth of mysticism, but I distrust the experience of all mystics.”43 In conclusion, this means that subjective experiences are not on par with objectively reached mysticism that sets the framework for the individual’s engagement with what is beyond reason. Cohen-Portheim then endeavored to develop a more refined picture of the relationship between the rational and the irrational beyond the haziness of many of his contemporaries, who abandoned reason altogether. Therefore, he had to locate a terrain where reason ruled, where the domain of the irrational had limits, and the two could thus be combined. He found this exactly where his philosophia perennis had no access, namely in history. 42  “Trug und Schein ist die Welt,—doch ich lächele verstehend. Liebe und Haß, Sünde und Reue umbranden mich,—und ich lächele verzeihend. […] Lächelnd blicke ich auf den Verzweifelnden und die Tränen in meinem Lächeln sind Balsam auf seine Wunden. Dem Todeskampfe lächele ich, und lächelnd löset sich der Sterbende im All. Euch allen gilt mein Lächeln, denn in mir schließe ich das All.” Cohen-Portheim, Das Lächeln der sieben Buddha. Mit sieben Radierungen von Willy Jaeckel, 25f. 43  Cohen-Portheim, Time Stood Still, 183.

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The answer to Cohen-Portheim’s discontent with the hegemony of reason lay in his indistinct mystic-occultist streak, but it also fueled his anti-nationalist stance. In his works Asien als Erzieher and Die Mission des Juden, which have to be read together, Cohen-Portheim provided a systematic account of his thinking, which was otherwise depicted in a rather disorganized fashion and hidden beneath narrative elements. In Asien als Erzieher, Cohen-Portheim tried to bring together his fascination with Eastern wisdom and his anti-nationalism. The title Asien als Erzieher is of a programmatic nature, as he presented his take on the idea that Asia could provide the remedy for the West’s ailments. In Cohen-­ Portheim’s eyes, the main threat to Western society was nationalism. As he explained in the Preface to Asien als Erzieher: This work originated in a prison camp during the years I spent there behind barbed wire. Not only were the prisoners separated from the outside world by the barbed wire, but the camp was further subdivided by it into different parts, and this artificial barrier was sufficient to give rise to an antagonism, a mutual dislike, between the separate camps which steadily increased with the years. Had the other necessary conditions been present, I have no doubt that different languages, religions, races and, finally, hostile nations would have grown up in due course. This artificial, barbed-wire barrier came to symbolise for me everything that divides the human race. Artificial divisions produce antagonisms, which in their turn engender distrust, aversion and hatred.44

Cohen-Portheim recognized here a process that led to nationalism, which had led to the First World War. Against the threat of nationalism and its ensuing violence, Cohen-Portheim juxtaposed what he called “Supernationalismus” or “Internationalismus,” that is, the dissolution of nation states and their integration within a supernational or international framework. His vision bore a certain resemblance to that of the League of Nations, which was founded after the First World War. This is hardly a coincidence. Cohen-Portheim saw this as a quasi-evolutionary development that had led from the individual to the community to the nation and then to a supernation. The dawn of a new era in human development, however, was in need of a catalyst, which, as Cohen-Portheim explained in Die Mission des Juden, rested with the Jewish people. The Jews—the 44  Cohen-Portheim, Asien als Erzieher, 1. Quoted from the English translation: Paul Cohen-Portheim, The Message of Asia (New York: E.P. Dutton, 1934), 5.

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people without a nation—play a crucial role in undermining the hegemony of the nation state over humanity. Die Mission des Juden is a strange and eclectic mix of details on the one hand and sweeping generalizations and abstractions on the other. Cohen-­ Portheim started Die Mission des Juden with a rebuff, very much grounded in historical criticism, of the chosenness of the Jewish people. If there is a mission of the Jew in this world, it is certainly not of divine provenience as he assured the reader.45 In reference to Henri Bergson (“A Jew” as Cohen-­ Portheim pointed out), whom he first read during his internment, the mission of the Jew rather stems from his role in the “creative evolution” of humanity toward unity and justice.46 How do the Jewish people fulfill this role? Through their history. To be more precise, through their history of survival under tyranny and by preserving the idea of justice while constantly facing violence. Cohen-Portheim read the Jewish people’s survival, despite their long history of being subjected to violence and persecution, as proof of their evolutionary function. In circular reasoning, on the one side, the Jewish people survived because they have an ongoing historical function, and on the other side, they have a historical function because they survived. For Cohen-Portheim, then, the Jewish people carry the torch of justice. Subsequently, he used this notion as a cornerstone for a number of ideas concerning the Jewish people and their history: 1. Diaspora: The dispersion of the Jews is a necessary plight, because their diasporic situation is just a response to the prevalence of injustice.47 History commands the Jews to these places where tyranny prevails and the battle between justice and injustice occurs.48 2. Antisemitism: The hatred that the Jews encounter is therefore resistance against the idea of justice, since slowly but surely (with the possibility of major setbacks along the way), progress is inevitable in Cohen-Portheim’s theory of creative evolution. Injustice and tyranny will eventually be overcome by the idea of justice.

 Cf. Cohen-Portheim, Die Mission des Juden, 8f.  Cohen-Portheim, Die Mission des Juden, 5ff and 87. Cf. Cohen-Portheim, Time Stood Still, 181. 47  See Cohen-Portheim, Die Mission des Juden, 30. 48  Cohen-Portheim, Die Mission des Juden, 12. “Die Wahrheit aber ist, daß immer an dem Zeitpunkte, wo Ordnung zur Tyrannei wurde und eine Revolution nahte, der Jude da war— als Opfer und daher als Gegner der untergehenden Ordnung.” 45 46

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3. Judaism and Zionism: Cohen-Portheim’s treatment of the idea of Jewish exceptionalism, of the Chosen People, supplemented his own version of present-age particularism. Due to the rise of nationalism during the nineteenth century, the European Jewry faced the predicament of how to counter the spread of an ideology built on the image of the nation as an organism that had to be separated from foreign elements in order to stay healthy. Three different unconscious responses were identified by Cohen-Portheim. (1) Assimilation: the complete absorption of the Jews into their relative host nations. This option was most common in Western Europe, and while already advanced if not yet completed in Cohen-­Portheim’s own time, he nevertheless saw this goal as achievable further down the line.49 (2) The return to faith: Orthodoxy helped Eastern Europe become a central pillar of Judaism by establishing traditions and folklore deeply connected to the lands, thereby defying the exclusive claims of nationalism.50 (3) Creating a Jewish nationalism, namely Zionism: Especially successful in Eastern Europe among those who did not seek refuge in religion, and particularly inimical to assimilationist tendencies, Zionism countered the nationalism of the host nations. These three responses are justified through the historical role assigned to the Jewish people. Through assimilation in their respective countries, the Jewish undermined (Western-) European nationalism. In so doing, they helped to create a supranational European culture and prefigured the global intellectual shift from national particularism to universalism. Jewish Orthodoxy in Eastern Europe preserved Jewish particularism until the backward circumstances catch up to an enlightened Western Europe, priming it for the transition from nationalism to supranationalism. Thus, Eastern European Orthodoxy will either become Westjuden or directly turn toward the third option, Zionism.51 This brings us to the historical role of Zionism in Cohen-Portheim’s thought. He would have been somewhat disappointed by an ordinary Jewish nation state in Palestine if it were just a lackluster imitation of European parochialism. Cohen-Portheim harbors greater ambitions for the Jewish nation state. Through their history, hardened against the ­myriad inveiglements of national hubris, Jewish nationalism would be the  See Cohen-Portheim, Die Mission des Juden, 94.  See Cohen-Portheim, Die Mission des Juden, 84f. 51  Cohen-Portheim, Die Mission des Juden, 99. 49 50

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first nationalism that is not exclusive but inclusive. Its internal contradictions will stymie the full blossoming of nationalistic feelings and sublimate them with a higher goal. Deploying pseudo-psychoanalytic terminology, Cohen-­Portheim develops a deterministic history of progress from the unconscious to the conscious. In parallel to the individual’s development from childhood, that is, before the authority of the super-ego has kicked in, to adulthood when maturity and reason are more (yet not perfectly) capable of keeping one’s drives in check, humanity as a whole is also advancing from a historical immaturity to an understanding of its own responsibility. An indicator for both individual and collective advancement from unconsciousness to consciousness is one’s respective idea of God. Maturity of consciousness means transferring responsibility for the progress of humanity (as expressed in history) from God to one’s own reason. Zionism is thus the highest form of sublimation, as it transfers the idea of justice from a divine foundation to reason, from a father figure to the Jewish people themselves. Cohen-Portheim speaks of the “New Jerusalem,” turning it into a secular prophecy that promises a redemptive future beyond religion.52 But why, according to Cohen-Portheim, are the Jewish people different from all other people? Because of their long history of diasporism, the Jewish people have evolved as members of different nations, a process that even Zionism will only be able to partly reverse. The Jewish people feature different “types of humans, languages and civilizations” to such an extent that they cannot be immured by the narrow confines of a nation state.53 Therefore, Cohen-Portheim argued that the Jewish state would be the antetype of supranationalism, the first suprana Cohen-Portheim, Die Mission des Juden, 109.   “Menschheitstypen, Sprachen und Zivilisationen.” Cohen-Portheim’s terminology recalls Constantin Brunner’s, who spoke of the Jewish race holding the middle between the Menschheitstypen. See Constantin Brunner, “Die jüdische Rasse,” in Der Jude 2 (1918/19), 300. See also for Brunner’s theories on Jewishness and universality: Rainer Kipper, “‘Ein Kampf um Rom’ und die Sühne Noahs. Völkisches Denken und jüdische Erinnerung Im Deutschen Kaiserreich,” in Populäre Konstruktionen von Erinnerung im deutschen Judentum und nach der Emigration, edited by Yotam Hotam and Joachim Jacob (Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 2004), 29ff. For the link between Brunner’s theory of antisemitism, his nonracial conception of the Jewish race and Zionism, see Jürgen Stenzel, “‘Die Schlechten sind anders—die Andern sind schlecht’ Constantin Brunners Antisemitismustheorie,” in Beschreibungsversuche der Judenfeindschaft—Zur Geschichte der Antisemitismusforschung vor 1944, edited by Hans-Joachim Hahn and Olaf Kistenmacher (Oldenburg: De Gruyter, 2015), 334ff. There are further similarities with Martin Buber’s choice of words, as discussed in Chap. 3. 52 53

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tional state, or a state that, through its very existence, dissolves its own historical basis that is nationalism. Zionism cannibalizes its own foundation, which means the Jewish people will also relinquish their peoplehood: “They will stop being first and foremost and exclusively Jews.”54 After the dissolution of nationalism into supranationalism, the Jewish people will progress to a higher, new, Menschheitstyp that will also transform humanity as a whole. Zionism is thus also a geographical rapprochement on the Jewish historical task, as it positions the soon to be overcome Jewish state at a crucial location, namely Palestine. Situated at the crossroads of Europe and Asia, a supranational state in Palestine populated by humans who challenge the conventional understanding of peoplehood would also supersede the East-West division, geographically, intellectually, and spiritually. In Die Mission des Juden, Cohen-Portheim only gives a rough outline of the implications and ramifications of this transformation, and we have to go back to Asien als Erzieher to find a deeper elaboration of these ideas. Although it was published before Die Mission des Juden, Asien als Erzieher was actually written later and therefore must be read as an addendum to insights provided previously.55 It is a much clearer and more concise depiction of many of the (at times almost rambling) thoughts that comprise Die Mission des Juden. It is also more assertive in its statements and more explicit in its partisanship. For example, in Die Mission des Juden Cohen-Portheim was concerned with providing a fitting justification for each of the three Jewish responses to the rise of nationalism out of their own historical necessity, while in Asien als Erzieher they only exist as means to an end. Consequently, Cohen-Portheim developed a more pronounced tendency for including striking proclamations that are often conclusively inserted into the text, offering a summation of the previous argument in short, bite-sized catch lines. The argument outlined at the end of Die Mission des Juden remained the same: Jewish nationalism will cannibalize itself, both subverting the Jewish people and nationalism into their respective higher order. What Asien als Erzieher offered is a more sophisticated differentiation between Asia and Europe. Cohen-Portheim looked to Asia in general (and, as its most characteristic realization, Buddhism in particular) with a sense of awe and wonder. In Asia, the supernatural was still a force to be reckoned with. 54  “Sie werden aufhören, in erster Linie und ausschließlich Juden zu sein.” CohenPortheim, Die Mission des Juden, 110. 55  For the timeline, see Cohen-Portheim, Time Stood Still, 188.

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Let us turn our attention to an advertisement on the occasion of the publication of Asien als Erzieher that raises several interesting points. As such, it is worth quoting in full: In a different sense than Spengler’s much-discussed work, this book pushes forward into the spiritual centre of this era that is laden with stark contrasts. Based on the teachings of the Far East, Cohen recognises the contrast between Western individualism and Eastern universalism, the latter being taught mostly via metaphysical writings from India. According to him, the current happenings will not initiate the downfall of the Occident. Instead, they will begin a stronger synthesis of humans between Asia and Europe, in a political and spiritual manner. Based on the contrasts between the peoples’ lives, art and minds, the author develops his new philosophy of human reconciliation in a convincing and fascinating way, at the same time hailing a return to universalism. The book is one of the most universal testimonies to the German spirit and shall, like few others, engage the public.56

This paragraph not only neatly captures one of Cohen-Portheim’s central arguments, but also connects the contemporary context with the wider historical context of the ideas that expressed in his book. In addition, it provides us with two clues as to how the book was situated in contemporary debates. For one thing, this ad opens up a discussion surrounding Spengler’s book to which Asien als Erzieher is contrasted antithetically. While Spengler argued for the inevitability of the decline of the Occident, as the West reached the end of its life span, Cohen-Portheim offered a vision of hope, revival, and even historical progress. Far from  “In anderem Sinne als Spenglers vieldiskutiertes Werk stößt dieses Buch ins geistige Zentrum unsrer von harten Gegensätzen trächtigen Zeit vor. Gestützt auf die Lehren der alten Weisen des fernen Ostens erkennt Cohen den Gegensatz des westlichen Individualismus zu dem östlichen Universalismus, den vornehmlich die metaphysischen Schriften Indiens gelehrt haben. Nach ihm bereiten die Zeitereignisse nicht den Untergang des Abendlandes vor, sondern auf politischem, wie auf geistigem Gebiet einen Ausgleich zwischen Asien und Europa, eine höhere Menschheitssynthese. An den Gegensätzen im Leben der Völker, der Kunst und des Geistes entwickelt der Verfasser in überzeugender und fesselnder Weise seine neue Philosophie der Menschheitsversöhnung, die zugleich die Rückkehr zum Universalismus bedeutet. Das Buch ist eines der universalsten Zeugnisse deutschen Geistes und wird, wie kaum ein anderes, die Öffentlichkeit beschäftigen.” Anonymous, “Advertisement for ‘Asien als Erzieher. Von Paul Cohen-Portheim,’” in Exotische Kunst: Asien und Ozeanien. Mit 45 Abbildungen und einer Tafel, edited by Eckart von Sydow (Leipzig: Klinkhardt & Biermann, 1921), 71. 56

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inevitable, the decline might actually turn out to offer an opportunity for global unity and the return of universalism, after which the synthesis of West and East will enhance humanity as a whole. This, however, appears to be simply a surface reading, as the book’s vision of the synthesis of two equipollent geo-ontological entities, Europe and Asia, might not be as balanced as it first appears. Are Asia and Europe really on a par? As the ad concisely (yet perhaps unwittingly) captured, it is a synthesis between an individualism and a universalism into, again, a universalism. To put it more bluntly, Cohen-Portheim could be accused of not actually proposing a coming together of two homologous partners, but rather an eradication of Western individualism through Eastern universalism. Cohen-Portheim would thus basically acknowledge the superiority of Eastern wisdom over the West, as we can discern in the following passage, among others: “For Europe this is the beginning of a new knowledge of the I and the universe, that will equal the Indian way.”57 In the same fashion, he proclaimed that the individual rhythm has been subordinated to the universal one, reiterating the same imbalance. What the Indian has already achieved, “living in the universal,” is for the European still prospective, but when he or she reaches this level, thus enabling the unification of the West and East, this will be “the greatest progress for the human spirit in historical times.”58 Yet at the same time, Cohen-Portheim seemed to envision this unification as a marriage between two equal partners, and in his august rhetoric he appears to fluctuate between proposing an equality of power and an imbalance of power, that is, the prevalence of one side of his East-West dichotomy. To move beyond this impasse, he returned to what he had given up during his internment: the arts. For Cohen-Portheim, in artistic production, the human being can overcome the burden of reason and fully express its dexterity. He mentioned both the close connection between art and religion as a lived reality practiced in Medieval Europe and among Buddhists. He made clear that the bifurcation between artists and scientists in Europe (as he points out, before the onset of that bifurcation, which is not pinpointed with a specific date, artists were also scientists, such as Michelangelo) correlates to the spiritual depletion of modern man. The reconciliation between art and 57  “Wir stehen am Anfang einer für Europa ganz neuen Erkenntnis des Ichs und des Universums, und diese wird der indischen genau gleichen.” Cohen-Portheim, Asien als Erzieher, 147. 58  “[…] der größte Fortschritt des Menschengeistes in historischen Zeiten […].” Ibid.

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science will affect the relation between emotions and reason: “Art awakens that which the mind does not yet know or has forgotten.”59 While not completely synthesizing them, thus potentially rendering any distinction obsolete, such a reconciliation of art and science would constitute the arrival of the Europeans at the highest stage of human development, one to which the Indians have already attained. Again, all of this is fairly commonplace within the Orientalist critique of Western modernity and the hegemony of instrumental reason: Art and science were intertwined before reason seized the scientific method and expelled intuition, thus confining it to the artistic realm. Delving further into his eclectic and somewhat meandering theory brings us to the quintessential affinity between the artist and the scientist, as well as that between the artist and the saint. Uniting both is the dissolution of the “I” into the universal, whether that be a supernatural being or the unshakable truth of love and death. Cohen-Portheim repeated a basic doctrine of the popular strain of Buddhism in the wake of Schopenhauer, namely that the “I” is a delusion.60 By emphasizing the importance of the artist to his holistic vision for the world, as well as the individual, Cohen-Portheim had come full circle from his early days as a painter to his embrace of Zionism. Cohen-Portheim’s Zionist commitment was primarily an intellectual whim, as it was not pursued further and soon dropped from his thinking. On a discursive level it can be situated between Buber’s and Ahad Haam’s cultural or spiritual Zionism and the pan-Asiatic Zionism of Eugen Hoeflich.61 Unlike Hoeflich, Cohen-Portheim did not advocate the complete immersion of the Jewish people into Asia (and the necessary severance from European culture), but instead sought out a middle position. He saw Asia, from the Middle East to the Far East, as one spiritual realm, the locus of a pan-­ Asiatic esprit (similar to Buber’s notion, as discussed in Chap. 3).

 “Die Kunst erweckt, was der Verstand nicht mehr oder noch nicht weiß.” CohenPortheim, Asien als Erzieher, 131. 60  See Cohen-Portheim, Asien als Erzieher, 161. 61  See Hanan Harif, “Asiatische Brüder, europäische Fremde. Eugen Hoeflich und der ‘panasiatische Zionismus’ in Wien,” Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft 7–8 (2012), esp. 652f. See also Mark H. Gelber, Melancholy Pride: Nation, Race, and Gender in the German Literature of Cultural Zionism (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 2000). 59

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Unlike Buber, Cohen-Portheim did not draw the consequences from this view and soon abandoned his ideas of Zionism. Buddhism and Judaism also lost their intellectual clout. Shortly before his death in 1932, Cohen-­ Portheim updated his thinking in a work titled The Discovery of Europe.62 In the meantime, the East-West axis had acquired different coordinates. The East was represented by Russia, while the West was represented by the US. In the middle stood Europe, which was wedged between Bolshevism and capitalism. The basic structure, a struggle between these two opposite forces, was retained, yet its proponents had changed. Two points can be inferred: First, the persistence of the binary division of the world endures on a cognitive level beyond its original Orientalist foundation. Second, Buddhism (and by proxy, the Jewish people) was more of a loose nexus of different associations than any fixed bundle of firm beliefs. To better understand this point, we now turn to one of the bestselling authors of the Weimar Republic, the re-inventor of the historical novel and an early opponent of the war, Lion Feuchtwanger.

Feuchtwanger and the Jewish Way of Renunciation In hindsight, the ignominious ardor with which the eruption of fighting between the European nations was greeted seems not only to tarnish the reputation of some of the most lucid thinkers of this age, but also to raise the question of whether and to what extent other intellectual productions during their period of nationalistic furor are in fact contaminated by their political obfuscation. Among the most common strategies to counter these questions are attempts to disentangle one author’s political thought from their apolitical thought. This is a common approach in the reception of Martin Buber’s oeuvre, whose enthusiasm for the Great War seemed more in line with his apolitical (read: literary, i.e., neo-Romantic) writings than his explicit political ones that in any case follow the current of socialist anarchism and thus are thought to be more pacifist and contrary to the fever of nationalism that he displayed in 1914.63 Second, another common 62  Cohen-Portheim, The Discovery of Europe (London: Duckworth, 1932). The book was published a few weeks after his death. A German translation appeared in 1933 as: Paul Cohen-Portheim, Die Entdeckung Europas (Berlin: Neff, 1933). 63  For Buber’s key role in stoking Jewish enthusiasm for the war, see Ulrich Sieg, Jüdische Intellektuelle im Ersten Weltkrieg. Kriegserfahrungen, weltanschauliche Debatten und kulturelle Neuentwürfe (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2008), 139ff.

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strategy reads an author’s belligerence not as a genuine political expression, but rather as the confusion of an essentially apolitical being that, if interpreted correctly, will reveal the desired normative bent. Traces of irony and aestheticism are thus tokens of an intellectual who confuses highbrow ideas with the mirthless reality intrinsic to the politics of war. A case in point is the attempt to construe Thomas Mann’s now infamous Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen as the expression of a transitional phase, according to which Mann’s political thought remained in an incomplete state until reaching its democratic form.64 That would, of course, coincide with Mann’s own agenda, since he later read his inflammatory statements as the opinion of a hothead indebted to the zeitgeist as opposed to representing a genuine expression of his political convictions at the time. These apologetic attempts are based on the bifurcation between an imaginative geography in which the war between France and Germany, for example, becomes a battle of ideas, and a separate grim reality of violence and war that lies beneath the façade of intellectual aloofness. Building on these premises, we now answer the question of how Feuchtwanger could have seen the First World War connect with the arrival of the Buddha in Europe. Feuchtwanger first encountered Buddhism during his years as a student in Munich, where he studied Sanskrit.65 This encounter with the sacred language of the East and its immense textual corpus occurred after moving out of his Orthodox Jewish home. This shift from Jewish Orthodoxy to secular education and Sanskrit was paradigmatic for Feuchtwanger. Even though he would hold on to a complex Jewish identity, which, as we see, was closely connected to his ideas about the East, he found no appeal in the orthodoxy of his parents. His fascination with the East remains discernible 64  Frances Lee provides a good overview of the secondary literature on Betrachtungen eines Unpolitischen and its reception: Frances Lee, Overturning Dr. Faustus: Rereading Thomas Mann’s Novel in the Light of “Observations of a Non-Political Man” (Rochester: Camden House, 2007), 2ff. 65  Wilhelm von Sternburg, Lion Feuchtwanger: Die Biographie (Berlin: Aufbau-Verlag, 1994), 39 and 153f. For a good overview of Feuchtwanger’s interest in Buddhism and Daoism throughout his life, see Barbara von der Lühe, “Auf der Brücke zwischen Tun und Verzicht: Lion Feuchtwangers Auseinandersetzung mit dem Buddhismus und Daoismus,” in Feuchtwanger und Exil. Glaube und Kultur 1933–1945. “Der Tag wird kommen,” edited by Frank Stern (Bern: Peter Lang, 2011), 99–116. Other works that highlight aspects of Feuchtwanger’s engagement with India are: Shaswati Mazumdar, Feuchtwanger/Brecht. Der Umgang mit der indischen Kolonialgeschichte. Eine Studie zur Konstruktion des Anderen (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 1998). Yong-Sang Lyu, Lion Feuchtwanger und Indien: Die Auseinandersetzung mit der indischen Philosophie zwischen 1914 und 1925 (Bern: Peter Lang, 2005).

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in his writings during the First World War. Long before he would become a bestselling novelist, his first successes were as a playwright and these drew on his knowledge of Sanskrit: In 1915, his adaptation of Sudraka’s Vasantasena, one of the classic Sanskrit plays, was a showstopper and remained so during the Weimar Republic. Feuchtwanger was attracted to the play by its age, harmony, colorfulness, and “its basic Buddhist conviction.”66 In 1917, he authored a second adaptation of an Indian classic titled Der König und die Tänzerin after Kalindasa. Der König und die Tänzerin was less successful, but it shared with Vasantasena the idea of contrasting Indian wisdom on stage with the cruel reality of wartime Germany.67 Next to these two plays on the futility of war and violence, Feuchtwanger also wrote Warren Hastings, penned around the same time as his Sudraka adaptation, first expounding on the view of an Eastern way of thinking as diametrically opposed and yet somehow superior to the Western way. The message was that the East offers attributes complementary to those of the West. Feuchtwanger explicitly penned Warren Hastings with the idea that the time was ripe for the diffusion of Buddhist doctrine in Europe and that the teachings of the Buddha might, in fact, be just the remedy that Europe needed at this time of war.68 Interestingly, Feuchtwanger depicted Warren Hastings as a struggling soul between Nietzsche and Buddha. Hastings assumes the role of the power-hungry Governor, a “man of deeds” whose attempts to reconcile both Europe’s demands and India’s needs lead him into personal tragedy. The victory of his foes, a delegation from London, which tries to bring him in front of a court, will have grave consequences for Hastings: His lover must be sent back to England, Hastings’s reputation will be tarnished with charges of bribery, and he loses his best friend, who will disappointingly turn away from him. And yet, according to Feuchtwanger, “Hastings’ true opponent is India.”69 It is India, then, that has to pay an even bigger price for the man of deeds’ attempt to reconcile the East and West. Hastings orders the execution of the Maharaja, reluctantly but  Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde, 192.  See Sternburg, Lion Feuchtwanger: Die Biographie, 155. See: Lion Feuchtwanger, Altindische Schauspiele. Vasantasena (nach Schudraka). Der König und die Tänzerin (nach Kalidasa) (Leipzig: Reclam, 1969). 68  Lion Feuchtwanger, Warren Hastings, Gouverneur von Indien: Schauspiel in vier Akten und einem Vorspiel (München: Georg Müller, 1916). Cf. Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde, 375. 69  Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde, 377. 66 67

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under false pretenses. The people of Rohilla are left to starve so Hastings can extort money from their enemies and pay off his English prosecutors. The complex web of intrigues in which Hastings becomes entangled, and the fact that he is depicted in an ambiguous manner as a struggling soul between East and West, left some contemporary critics wondering if the play had an overall message. The famous critic and Feuchtwanger’s adversary, Alfred Kerr, quipped about the play: “I don’t want to talk about my viewpoint, but rather of Feuchtwanger’s. … Does he have one?”70 One must concede to this animadversion that the underlying message is not easily discernible, especially if we take Feuchtwanger’s word for it, since a rather marginal figure expresses it, not Hastings.71 Hastings is the tragic individual who, while trying to mediate between the East and West, cannot let go of his desire for power and remains deaf to the true message that is instead attributed to his victim, the Maharaja: The world is not shaped in the manner dreamed up by white people. You cannot conquer it. You cannot keep it. The one who does not attempt to keep it shall be victorious. The one who does not resist shall be victorious. The one not tempted by it shall be victorious.72

Feuchtwanger’s binary division of the world along Orientalist themes is deeply built into the conceptual architecture of his work. His liberal and secular approach to society and history and their entanglements, however, sit uneasily with the traces of redemptive potential. For Feuchtwanger, the sudden appraisal of Buddhism in the West is thought to announce the coming of the dissolution of this division. The historical moment, that is, a war that had devastated vast parts of the West, required the advent of a remedial agent, the Buddha. While every human being fights his or her internal proxy war between the two opposite qualities, there is one group that embodies this struggle the best, and because of its descent, possesses 70  “Ich will nicht von meinem Standpunkt sprechen, sondern von Feuchtwangers … Hat er einen?” Kerr continues: “Er sagt gewissermaßen: ‘Wozu? Ich bin doch ein Dichter! Mit Allseitigkeit!’ Er ist zwar kein Dichter; aber die Allseitigkeit wird geliefert.” Alfred Kerr, Eintagsfliegen oder die Macht der Kritik. Die Welt im Drama, Band IV (Berlin: S. Fischer Verlag, 1917), 174. 71  Feuchtwanger himself would later call this play “confused.” See Lion Feuchtwanger, “Aus meinem Leben,” Almanach für deutsche Literatur 3 (1963), 414. 72  “Die Welt ist nicht von der Art, wie die Weißen sie träumen. Man kann sie nicht erobern. Man kann sie nicht halten. Der siegt, der sie nicht halten will. Der siegt, der nicht widerstrebt. Der hat gesiegt, den sie nicht lockt.” Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde, 377.

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a distinctive ontological predisposition and thus epitomizes the redemptive potential. While his gentile personnel also grapple with this task, Varro from the novel Der falsche Nero, Margarete Maultasch from Die häßliche Herzogin, and of course Warren Hastings, it is left to his Jewish characters to assume, even in death, a place between Asia and Europe. Feuchtwanger’s approach to Buddhism is embedded in an ontologization of political and geographical entities. This ontologization as a static form of othering distinguishes itself by its explicitly conscious deployment, yet it does not attempt to overcome its blind spots. The East as imaginative geography exhibits specific characteristics that transcend historical and cultural contexts. After the introduction of the critique of Orientalism into Western humanities by Edward Said and others, one would, of course, argue that Feuchtwanger actually reinforces the binary division between East and West by reiterating their essential difference. This theoretical approach erects insurmountable walls between these entities and their inhabitants. Why do I speak of a theoretical approach? Feuchtwanger showed no interest in practically experiencing the East or Buddhism, either through travel or through religious practice. Ideas about the East are severed from the realities of people’s lived experience in the East or Buddhists. The crucial part was the transfer of ideas, not deeds, people, or practices. Feuchtwanger’s lack of interest in a deeper understanding of the East and the Buddha, despite his emphasis on their paramount importance for the West, reflects a deeper issue: His historical novels were often more interested in their contemporary message than in their historical settings. Simultaneously, Feuchtwanger was often dismissed as a lowbrow author, lacking the intellectual depth of Thomas Mann’s novels, for example. This was most poignantly captured in 1973 by Marcel Reich-Ranicki’s remarks that Feuchtwanger experienced a “decline in language” due to his “questionable artistic development” that resulted from his enormous bestselling success.73 The allegation was that Feuchtwanger leaned toward popular taste so as to maintain his mass circulation. In the 1930s, Feuchtwanger certainly catered to a popular interest in historical novels, an interest that he himself and Alfred Döblin helped to ignite, but as he elucidated on his attraction to the historical novel, the main incentive was to write books that “provide 73  Marcel Reich-Ranicki, “Lion Feuchtwanger oder der Weltruhm des Emigranten,” in Die deutsche Exilliteratur 1933–1945, edited by Manfred Durzak (Stuttgart: Philipp Reclam Junior, 1973), 445.

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orientation in a convoluted world.”74 Right up to his death, Feuchtwanger occupied himself with the question of the intellectual legitimacy of the historical novel. In his unfinished treatise Das Haus der Desdemona, which he was working on at the time of his death in 1958, he distinguished between the “popular historical novel” and the “serious historical novel.”75 While the popular historical novel’s main purpose is to entertain, it lacks any relevance for the present day, whereas a serious historical novel would combine entertainment with a historical mission and thus “give meaning to history.”76 The task of the author of serious historical novels is not to resurrect a bygone era. The point of reference is in fact the author’s contemporary moment, even if the novel might be set in Ancient Rome (Der falsche Nero), prerevolutionary America (Wahn oder der Teufel in Boston), or eighteenth-century BadenWürttemberg (Jud Süß). Feuchtwanger’s contemporary crisis of culture, alongside a surge of interest in the teachings of the Buddha, results in the infusion of the different historical settings with an idiosyncratic notion of Eastern wisdom. The historical mission was, for Feuchtwanger in his own time at least, to fight the idea that progress had become detached from history. He conceived of his historical writings as a contribution to the struggle against historicism, relativism, and historical skepticism. The triad of progress, history, and reason—those ideas that he saw as the guiding star of humanity—had come under fire. Subsequently, he saw himself as a protagonist in the fight for the future, and to this end, he saw his attempt to “provide the skeletons of history with living flesh” as the most effective weapon at his disposal.77 In Erfolg from 1930, a roman à clef novel on the rise of the NSDAP (Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei) in Bavaria d ­ uring the 1920s, Feuchtwanger had one of his characters, who was modeled after himself, say the following: […] Karl Marx believed that philosophers explained the world; what matters is changing it. I myself believe that the only way to change it is to explain it. If one explains it in a plausible fashion, one changes it in a quiet manner, via ongoing sense. Only those who cannot explain the world sensibly try to  Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde, 423.  Cf. Uwe Karl Faulhaber’s excellent article on this question: Uwe K. Faulhaber, “Lion Feuchtwanger’s Theory of the Historical Novel,” in Lion Feuchtwanger: The Man, His Ideas, His Works, edited by John M. Spalek (Los Angeles: Hennessey & Ingalls, 1972), 67–81. 76  Lion Feuchtwanger, “Notes on the Historical Novel,” Books Abroad 22/4 (1948), 347. Cf. Faulhaber, “Lion Feuchtwanger’s Theory of the Historical Novel,” 70f. 77  Faulhaber, “Lion Feuchtwanger’s Theory of the Historical Novel,” 71. 74 75

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change it using violence. These loud attempts shall not persist; I believe in the quiet ones more. Great empires wane, a good book remains. I believe more in well-written papers than in machine guns.78

This constitutes a leitmotif that is discernible in both his early plays, in which the fascination with Eastern wisdom is clearer, and his novels of the 1930s, when the fight against fascism became his main motivation. In this reading, Feuchtwanger’s hopes in the remedying effects of the East and its epitome, the Buddha, on the West were as pertinent during the time of National Socialism as they were at the beginning of the First World War. The force of ideas would eventually defeat Hitler and his henchmen, as intellectual discourse was superior to and more enduring than worldly power and its crude understanding of the use of force. Feuchtwanger was certainly not a proponent of historical positivism, but he believed that reason could push history forward toward peaceful universalism and cosmopolitanism. In this quest, the historical novel was, for Feuchtwanger, the best weapon “against stupidity and violence, against that which Marx called the sinking in historylessness.”79 More zigzagging than straightforwardly progressing, (Western) history, for Feuchtwanger, had not lost its way; instead, it had been suffered a deflection or detour, one that would be soon corrected. The source of this corrective backlash would be the East (as often epitomized by the Buddha). Over the coming millennia, the East and West will merge, combining European instrumental reason with Asian holistic reason.80

78  “[…] Karl Marx, meinte: die Philosophen haben die Welt erklärt, es kommt darauf an, sie zu ändern. Ich für meine Person glaube, das einzige Mittel, sie zu ändern, ist, sie zu erklären. Erklärt man sie plausibel, so ändert man sie auf stille Art, durch fortwirkende Vernunft. Sie mit Gewalt zu ändern, versuchen nur diejenigen, die sie nicht plausibel erklären können. Diese lauten Versuche halten nicht vor, ich glaube mehr an die leisen. Große Reiche vergehen, ein gutes Buch bleibt. Ich glaube an gutgeschriebenes Papier mehr als an Maschinengewehre.” Lion Feuchtwanger, Erfolg. Drei Jahre Geschichte einer Provinz (Berlin: Gustav Kiepenheuer Verlag, 1930), 358. Cf. Friedrich Sally Grosshut, “Lion Feuchtwanger and the Historical Novel,” Books Abroad 34 (1960), 12. 79  “Ich für meinen Teilhabe mich, seitdem ich schreibe, bemüht, historische Romane für die Vernunft zu schreiben, gegen Dummheit und Gewalt, gegen das, was Marx das Versinken in Geschichtslosigkeit nennt. Vielleicht gibt es auf dem Gebiet der Literatur Waffen, die unmittelbarer wirken: aber mir liegt […] am besten diese Waffe, der historische Roman, und ich beabsichtige, sie weiter zu gebrauchen.” Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde, 501. 80  Lion Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde, 463.

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The binary division between East and West will be temporary, as the onset of globalization will cause a coalescence of the people: In every part of the world, white people and people of colour meet due to facilitated transport possibilities and the overpopulation of many areas. Even though humans’ lethargy and barbaric fighting instincts are incredibly strong, surely the white barbarians shall adopt the civilised behaviour of coloured peoples’ civilised cultures whilst people of colour shall adopt the whites’ technical civilisation, just as stone-age humans at some point started utilising metal-made tools.81

However, if the East and West shall meet, intertwine, and become inseparable, what is the role of the Jewish people in this global play?

Excursus on Friedrich Schlegel’s Über die Sprache und Weisheit der Indier Feuchtwanger’s renditions of Sanskrit plays require us to address the issue of language in our inquiry of Jewish reactions to Buddhism. This is not and cannot be a thorough discussion of the different ideas on Hebrew, German, and Sanskrit as linguistic relatives or foes. This question has been addressed more comprehensively elsewhere.82 However, I would like to discuss how far Feuchtwanger’s ideas, especially those about Sanskrit, go back to the first Oriental renaissance. Generally speaking, language played less of a crucial role in the second Oriental renaissance than in the first. One could be a Buddhist without knowing Sanskrit, Pali, Tibetan, Chinese, and so on. The right mindset, 81  “Überall heute schon stoßen infolgedes erleichterten Verkehrs und der Überbevölkerung vieler Gebiete Weißhäutige und Farbige zusammen. Wenn auch die Trägheit und der barbarische Kampftrieb der Menschen überaus stark ist, so werden doch mit der Sicherheit, mit der die Menschen der Steinzeit schließlich Metallinstrumente gebrauchten, die weißhäutigen Barbaren allmählich die Gesittung der farbigen Kulturvölker, die Farbigen die technische Zivilisation der Weißen annehmen, statt sich gegenseitig totzuschlagen.” Ibid. 82  The classification into Indo-European and Semitic prompted twentieth-century authors to charge Schlegel with being the predecessor of, and therefore at least partly guilty for, the advent of racism and racial antisemitism. To name the most important, see Poliakov, The Aryan Myth: A History of Racist and Nationalist Ideas in Europe, 191. See also Ruth Römer, Sprachwissenschaft und Rassenideologie in Deutschland (München: W. Fink, 1985), 50. And perhaps most controversial: Martin Bernal, Black Athena: The Afroasiatic Roots of Classical Civilization (London: Vintage Books, 1991), 230f.

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the attitude, the Weltanschauung—that was what counted. For most of those literati who were only interested in Buddhism as a philosophy, Karl Eugen Neumann’s translations were sufficient. Feuchtwanger was an exception because he actually knew Sanskrit and, perhaps unsurprisingly, his ideas more closely resemble those espoused during the Romantic first Oriental renaissance when knowledge of languages was pivotal. In a foreword to his Vasantasena, Feuchtwanger wrote: The Indian language is characterised by a ripe sweetness, a moonlit and quiet shine, a flowery grace that allows one to speak the most brazen things without appearing crass or simply ungentle. Added to this is a certain sensibility that captures and holds the quietest nuance, the finest colouring. The Indian knows how to achieve the greatest effect by expertly performing the cumbersome politeness ritual. A kind of parallelism of the limbs as well as a leitmotif-like repetition of characteristic parts infuse his language with emphasis and impact despite all wise restraint, allowing it to resound powerfully and mildly.83

Feuchtwanger’s descriptions of Sanskrit evoke a Romantic tone that is hardly coincidental. To fully understand the connotations that are bound up with this image of Sanskrit, we have to return to the first German who learned Sanskrit, Friedrich Schlegel. Schlegel was not just one of the preeminent Romantic thinkers, but together with his brother August Schlegel, he pioneered the study of Sanskrit (and, indeed, of Indian thought more generally) in Germany. In 1802, Friedrich Schlegel went to Paris to learn Sanskrit from Alexander Hamilton, a British naval officer.84 He was so impressed by the language that he not only urged his brother to follow suit (August would later hold the first chair of Indology in Germany, at the University of Bonn), but also published his Über die Sprache und Weisheit der Indier in 1808, which almost immediately made him the foremost figure among German ­thinkers 83  “Eine reife Süße kennzeichnet die Sprache des Inders, ein mondliches stilles Glänzen und eine blumenhafte Anmut, die auch das Gewagteste sagen kann, ohne grob oder auch nur unzart zu wirken. Dazu eine Sensibilität, die jede leiseste Nuance, jede feinste Schattierung einfängt und festhält. Außerordentliche Wirkung weiß er durch geschickte Verwendung des umständlichen Höflichkeitszeremoniell zu erzielen, und eine Art Parallelismus der Glieder sowie die leitmotivische Wiederholung markanter Stellen sichern seiner Sprache bei aller weisen Mäßigung Wucht und Nachdruck, daß sie mächtig und gelind hinhallt.” Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde, 197f. 84  Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire, 59f.

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with a special interest in anything Indian.85 A philosophical discussion, philological exposition, and cultural treatise, Schlegel’s study would provide a key point of reference for decades to come. A short overview of the main themes follows. Schlegel established a basic global distinction along linguistic lines: Europeans, especially the Germans, and the Indians belong to the same cohort, while the Jews are Semites. Linguistics trumps geographical proximity. While Schlegel still assigns to Judaism a distinctive place in human history (it was, after all, the carrier of the Old Testament), the dichotomy between Indo-European and Semitic has often been read as diminishing the common belonging of Jews and Christians. The German search for a prelapsarian ideal where aesthetics and myths run wild, where a life of purity and wholeness is possible, brought Schlegel to the conclusion that Germans were actually closer to the Indian subcontinent than to their Jewish brethren with whom they had shared the land for ages. Schlegel’s work would have a lasting effect on German thought. Not only did it establish the Indo-German bridge and the secession of the Semites, but it also lay the foundation for the study of Indian, or more generally the Far East, as a reputable field of inquiry.86

85  Über die Sprache und Weisheit der Indier was in fact published a few weeks after Friedrich Schlegel and his wife Dorothea (daughter of Moses Mendelssohn) officially converted to Catholicism. Much has been said about this chronology in secondary literature. His contemporary, Goethe, famously observed that Über die Sprache und Weisheit der Indier could also be read as “a declaration of his conversion to the only true church.” So, Goethe in a letter to Carl Friedrich Zelter: “Man kann dieses Büchlein also auch für eine Deklaration seines Übertritts zur alleinseligmachenden Kirche ansehen.” Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Goethes Briefe und Briefe an Goethe, Band III 1805–1821, edited by Karl Robert Mandelkow and Bodo Morawe (München: C.H. Beck, 1972), 76. Cf. for Goethe’s negative stance toward India: Andrea Polaschegg, Der andere Orientalismus. Regeln deutsch-morgenländischer Imagination im 19. Jahrhundert (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2005), 370. See also Chen TzorefAshkenazi, Der romantische Mythos vom Ursprung der Deutschen: Friedrich Schlegels Suche nach der indogermanischen Verbindung (Göttingen: Wallstein, 2009), 115. 86  See, for example, Polaschegg, Der andere Orientalismus.Regeln deutsch-morgenländischer Imagination im 19. Jahrhundert, 143ff. Klaus Grotsch, “Das Sanskrit und die Ursprache. Zur Rolle des Sanskrit in der Konstitutionsphase der historisch-vergleichenden Sprachwissenschaft,” in Theorien vom Ursprung der Sprache, edited by Joachim Gessinger and Wolfert von Rahden (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1988), esp. 93ff. See in the same volume for a different approach: Martin Lang, “Ursprache und Sprachnation. Sprachursprungsmotive in der deutschen Sprachwissenschaft des 19. Jahrhunderts,” in Theorien vom Ursprung der Sprache, edited by Joachim Gessinger and Wolfert von Rahden (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1988), 52–84.

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Besides labeling Hebrew as non-European, Schlegel argued for such a close kinship between Sanskrit and German that he would actually insist on German being the European protolanguage and not Latin as widely assumed.87 While Schlegel mostly refrained from casting his linguistic theory into a theory of national chauvinism, there is nevertheless an uncanny undercurrent, which would for the most part persist during the nineteenth century, and which (around the same time as Schlegel’s contribution) found its ardent expression in Fichte’s Reden an die Deutsche Nation (like Die Sprache und Weisheit der Indier from 1808).88 Besides establishing the aforementioned division between Semites and Indo-Europeans, instead of Europeans and Asians as commonly found throughout the eighteenth century, Schlegel also pursued an ideological objective. Behind the ostensibly scientific, ergo objective, terminology Schlegel deployed, he formed a politico-cultural program of national and poetic unity. One key to this hidden layer lies in Schlegel’s differentiation between organic and mechanic languages. As Chen Tzoref-Ashekenazi notes in his insightful book on Schlegel, the description “organic” was not an objective one, but had acquired a complex political meaning.89 Organic thus also meant a metaphysical unity of the people in a state entity. Opposed to this, we find the mechanic understanding by the tripartite feudal system that segregated the people into estates. One of the basic tenets of the early Romantics was that the state had to be more than the sum of individuals.90 These were highly normatively charged claims, yet, deterred by the events of the French Revolution, the Schlegel brothers favored a nonrevolutionary republicanism.91 Social reform had to prepare the groundwork for an organic state to emerge. Bildung was the task of 87  See Tzoref-Ashkenazi, Der romantische Mythos vom Ursprung der Deutschen: Friedrich Schlegels Suche nach der indogermanischen Verbindung, 189f. 88  Ibid. 89  Cf. Tzoref-Ashkenazi, Der romantische Mythos vom Ursprung der Deutschen: Friedrich Schlegels Suche nach der indogermanischen Verbindung, 187f. 90  Cf. Frederick Beiser, Enlightenment, Revolution, and Romanticism: The Genesis of Modern German Political Thought, 1790–1800 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), 222f. 91  Frederick Beiser, whose game-changing book on the political theory of the early Romantics provided me with the core features of my own reading, called them “simply reformers, moderates.” This is quite a surprising characterization given the usual picture of the Romantics as seditious hotshots. Cf. Beiser, Enlightenment, Revolution, and Romanticism, 229.

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the day. As such, Germany could be a model for the rest of humanity. His brother, August Schlegel, famously wrote: This cannot be denied: if the Orient is the region from which the regeneration of the human race emanates, then Germany must be seen as the Orient of Europe.92

This political expression was built on the linguistic premises that Sanskrit and German were not only organic languages, but also bound together by the now irretrievable primordial language (Ursprache). While mechanic languages, such as Hebrew, are compositions and initially assembled from the imitation of echoes and sounds, then expressions of emotions, and in a final stage consensual understanding, organic languages, especially Sanskrit, are like an “organic tissue” that grow out of their inner strength.93 While Friedrich Schlegel did in fact believe in the “Ur-unity of mankind,” during the nineteenth century a model would prevail that essentialized or ontologized linguistic differences.94 While this cannot all be pinned to Schlegel’s distinction between organic and mechanic language, his epigones would take his distinction in this direction and infer from a linguistic division that there exists a fundamental difference between people. This short excursus provides us with the background for Feuchtwanger’s Romantic image of Sanskrit. The Romantic idea that Sanskrit offered a sense of wholeness (perhaps only rivaled by German) beyond other languages would take many different forms during the nineteenth century. However, with the surge of Buddhism at the beginning of the twentieth century, this 92  “Das ist nicht zu leugnen: wenn der Orient die Region ist, von welcher die Regenerationen des Menschengeschlechts ausgehen, so ist Deutschland als der Orient Europas zu betrachten.” August Wilhelm Schlegel, Geschichte der romantischen Literatur, edited by Edgar Lohner (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1965), 37. 93  Friedrich Schlegel, “Über die Sprache und Weisheit der Indier,” in Kritische Ausgabe VIII, edited by Ernst Behler and Ursula Struc-Oppenberg (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh Verlag, 1975), 159. Schlegel does not give a more concrete account of the origin of Sanskrit, but in his Die Entwicklung der Philosophie in Zwölf Büchern, he elaborates that the origin of the oldest languages is indeed a revelation. See Friedrich Schlegel, “Die Entwicklung der Philosophie in Zwölf Büchern. Sechstes bis zwölftes Buch (1804/05),” in Kritische Ausgabe XIII, edited by Jean-Jacques Anstett (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh Verlag, 1964), 56. Cf. Sabrina Hausdörfer, “Die Sprache ist Delphi. Sprachursprungstheorien, Geschichtsphilosophie und Sprach-Utopie bei Novalis, Friedrich Schlegel und Friedrich Hölderlin,” in Theorien vom Ursprung der Sprache, Band I, edited by Joachim Gessinger and Wolfert von Rahden (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1989), 480. 94  See Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire, 61.

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idea regained popularity. At the same time, Feuchtwanger tried to transfer those aspects that made Sanskrit organic into his German rendition, and he implicitly lured the public with Sanskrit’s special status.

Jud Süß—Feuchtwanger’s Buddhist Bestseller In 1918, shortly after his Indian plays and Warren Hastings, he wrote the play Jud Süß, which he later turned into the famed novel. This was the first time that Feuchtwanger used the Jewish people as a mediator between East and West. We find here a crystallization of the above idea on the human condition in the figure of the Jew between East and West. Feuchtwanger’s most famous novel, with an infamous reputation, is based on the real story of Joseph Süß Oppenheimer, court Jew to Duke Karl Alexander von Württemberg, who rose to extraordinary wealth and influence under the Duke. Despised by the people of Württemberg, Oppenheimer was, when the Duke fell out of favor, eventually sentenced to death. Feuchtwanger’s novel would become a major success, a bestseller in the Weimar Republic. Lesser known is Feuchtwanger’s early play of the same title, which already anticipated most of the central themes of the novel. Even though Feuchtwanger would later deem the play to be an artistic failure, it became a moderate success in German theaters and consolidated Feuchtwanger’s reputation as a gripping playwright with a sense of history.95 As Feuchtwanger recalls in his autobiographical essay Aus meinem Leben, the play was still in rehearsal when its staging was p ­ rohibited due to fears it could cause disturbances between Catholics and Protestants in a country at war.96 According to Feuchtwanger, one famous writer, Ludwig Ganghofer, was crucial in convincing the authorities to rethink their ban. Ganghofer, then the standard-bearer of the popular, somewhat kitschy Heimatromanen, was not only the favorite writer of Kaiser Wilhelm II, but also a personal friend, who most likely gave his intervention more sway.97 In a letter to Ganghofer from December 2, 1917, Feuchtwanger gave this programmatic statement about Jud Süß:

95  See Lion Feuchtwanger, “Jud Süß. Schauspiel in drei Akten (vier Bildern),” in Dramen I, edited by Hans Dahlke (Berlin: Aufbau-Verlag, 1984), 253–335. Cf. Hans Dahlke, Afterword to Dramen I, by Lion Feuchtwanger (Berlin: Aufbau-Verlag, 1984), 643. 96  Ibid. 97  See Emil Karl Braito, Ludwig Ganghofer und seine Zeit (Innsbruck: Loewenzahn, 2005), 539.

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[…] To me, this is not about the conflict between Jew and Christian. What I wanted to elucidate was a development of a proactive and powerful human into a relinquishing one, of a European into an Indian. My needing a Half-­ Jew to explain this development springs from a theory, which, if I may explain it in rough terms, goes as follows: all acts of practical philosophy culminate either in a will to act or in resignation. Simply put, acting is the result of the European philosophies, relinquishing of the Asian type. Due to geographical reasons alone, Jews seem to be the appropriate intermediaries for both systems, torn by nature between acting and relinquishing. Based on this concept, I modeled the people and happenings in the play.98

What Feuchtwanger reported here in respect of the play is also true of the novel. Oppenheimer, Jud Süß, is sentenced to death for having dishonored Christian women, a charge that he could avoid by making it publicly known that, as he learned earlier, he is secretly of Christian descent. But instead, he embraces his fate and does not resist. His Jewishness led him to reveal a basic insight into the human condition.99 98  “[…] es ging mir nicht um das Problem Jud und Christ. Was ich geben wollte, war die Entwicklung eines Tat- und Machtmenschen zum Verzichtmenschen, eines europäischen Menschen zum indischen. Daß ich einen Halbjuden brauchte, um diese Entwicklung zu gestalten, erklärte sich aus einer Theorie, die, wenn ich sie crasso filo spinnen darf, etwa folgendermaßen lautet: Alles praktische Philosophieren gipfelt entweder im Willen zur Tat oder in der Resignation. Tat ist, grob ausgedrückt, das Resultat des europäischen, Verzicht das Resultat asiatischen Philosophierens. Die Juden scheinen mir nun schon aus geographischen Gründen die gegebenen Vermittler der beiden Systeme. Von Natur hin und her gerissen zwischen Tun und Verzichten. Auf diese Idee hin habe ich die Menschen und Geschehnisse des Stückes orientiert.” Lion Feuchtwanger, “Brief an Ludwig Ganghofer,” in Dramen I, edited by Hans Dahlke (Berlin: Aufbau-Verlag, 1984), 336. In Über Jud Süß Feuchtwanger similarly wrote: “Denn es geht mir in dem Buche Jud Süß ja nicht darum, etwa den Mann Josef Süß zu retten oder eine antisemitische Legende zu zerstören, sondern was ich machen wollte, das war: den Weg des Menschen weißer Haut zu zeichnen, den Weg über die enge europäische Lehre von der Macht über die ägyptische Lehre vom Willen zur Unsterblichkeit bis hin zu der Lehre Asiens vom Nichtwollen und Nichttun.” Lion Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde, 381. 99  In this unpublished poem from 1916 Feuchtwanger made a similar claim on the conditio humana:

Schon Zeugung und Geburt ist Sterbens Anfang, Und Werden ist Vergehen, Entwicklung, Niedergang. Was nützt es vorwärts gehn, und was die Hände regen, Ein jeder Schritt nach vorne geht schon dem Tod entgegen.

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Crucial for our understanding is the opening passage of the fifth book, titled Der Andere, which can be read as Feuchtwanger’s theory of the Jewish people. The opening, a somewhat strange insertion into an otherwise plot-driven second part of the novel, describes the Land of Canaan, “where the paths of the West meet the paths of the East.”100 He then described the Jewish people as sandwiched between three colossi, namely the West with its “thirst for life, for personality, will to deed, to lust, to power,” the South, that is, Egypt, with its gold, dead kings, and thriving for eternity, and finally the East, with its kind wisdom to forget, forgive, and forgo.101 As sketched out in his letter to Ganghofer, Feuchtwanger implicitly juxtaposed Nietzsche and Buddha as epitomes of the Occident and the Orient, respectively. In the middle, where the three waves meet, the people of Israel dwell “at home on the bridge between deed and renunciation.”102 Influenced by all waves, they absorb what is deemed useful. Consequently, he wrote, the Jewish people authored two books: one, the Old Testament, on deeds, and a second one, the New Testament, on Lion Feuchtwanger, Untitled Poem, December 6, 1916. Box AA2, Folder 52, Poems. Lion Feuchtwanger papers, Collection no. 0204, Feuchtwanger Memorial Library, Special Collections, USC Libraries, University of Southern California. 100  “Wo Morgenland und Abendland ineinandergehen, winzig klein, liegt das Land Kanaan. […] Wo die Wege des Westens die Wege des Ostens treffen, liegt die Stadt Jerusalem, die Burg Zion.” Feuchtwanger, Jud Süß, 445. See also “Äußerlich und innerlich war der Jude von den ersten Zeiten an zwischen Europa und Asien gestellt, zwischen die Welt der Tat, der Persönlichkeit, und die Welt des Nichttuns, der Überwindung des Willens, des Aufgehens im Nirwana.” Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde, 447. 101  “Durst nach Leben, nach Persönlichkeit, Wille zum Tun, zur Lust, zur Macht. Raffen, an sich reißen, Wissen, Lust, Besitz, mehr Lust, mehr Besitz, leben, kämpfen, tun. So klingt es vom Westen her. Aber im Süden unter spitzen Bergen liegen in Gold und Gewürz tote Könige, der Vernichtung herrrisch ihren Leib versagend; in die Wüste gesetzt, in kolossalischen Alleen höhnen ihre Bilder den Tod. Und eine wilde, ewige Welle schlägt von mittag her nach dem Lande Kanaan: wüstenheißes Haften am Sein, schwelende Begier, nicht die Form und Bildung, nicht den Körper zu verlieren, nicht zu vergehen. Aber von Ost her klingt sanfte Weisheit: schlafen ist besser als wachen, tot sein besser als lebendig sein. Nicht widerstreben, einströmen ins Nichts, nicht tun, verzichten.” Feuchtwanger, Jud Süß, 445. In his essay Die Verjudung der abendländischen Literatur, Feuchtwanger called these three influences “Babylonian-Assyrian,” “Egyptian,” and “Hellenic.” Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde, 435. In 1930, Feuchtwanger repeated this classification with slight variations in Der historische Prozess der Juden. See Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde, 460. 102  “Sie sind zu Hause auf der Brücke zwischen Tun und Verzicht.” Feuchtwanger, Jud Süß, 447.

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renunciation. Yet, over time, they were lured by the promises of the West and succumbed to the teachings of the Occident. Thus, “they act, fight, grub money” he writes, using the word raffen, which was, of course, highly charged, antisemitic terminology.103 Feuchtwanger essentially suggested here, first, that there exists a factual basis for antisemitism. This is also clear throughout Jud Süß when Oppenheimer and his business are described in antisemitic terms. Second, he suggested that falling into abhorrent behavior, like the antisemites allege, is a deviation from their Jewish roots in the land of Canaan and only due to Western influence. At some point, their oppressed Eastern traits will shine through and urge them not to act, not to grub money, and not to resist. This passage announces the last part of the book in which Oppenheimer decides not to disclose his Christian ancestry and therefore avoid his death. He instead succumbs to his fate, does not resist, and dies as a Jew rather than choosing to live as a Christian. Oppenheimer metaphorically returns to Canaan, where the Buddhist influence is still discernible. As we can see from the above passage, Feuchtwanger’s concept of Jewish people was based not on any biological notion of race or ethnos, but rather on a community shaped by the same ideas. In 1933, in his essay Nationalismus und Judentum, Feuchtwanger negatively evaluated four types of sources of Jewish nationalism: common race, common language, common history, and common land: Judaism is not a race, not a joint territory, not one way of living, not one language. Judaism is a common mindset, a common mental attitude.104

While his distinction between a common history and a common history of ideas, of mentality, is not clear-cut in his essay, Feuchtwanger’s assumption seemed to be that ideas shape history and not vice versa. 103  “Die Söhne des kleinen Volkes gingen aus in die Welt und leben die Lehre des Westens. Wirken, ringen, raffen. Doch sie sind trotz allem nicht heimisch im Tun, sie sind zu Hause auf der Brücke zwischen Tun und Verzicht.” Feuchtwanger, Jud Süß, 447. For the antisemitic cliché of the raffende Juden and its dissemination in the years of the Weimar Republic, see chapter 1 in: Hannah Ahlheim, “Deutsche, kauft nicht bei Juden” Antisemitismus und politischer Boykott in Deutschland 1924 bis 1935 (Göttingen: Wallstein Verlag, 2011). 104  “Judentum ist keine gemeinsame Rasse, kein gemeinsamer Boden, keine gemeinsame Lebensform, keine gemeinsame Sprache: Judentum ist eine gemeinsame Mentalität, eine gemeinsame geistige Haltung.” See his essay “Nationalismus und Judentum,” in: Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde, 479.

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Judaism (or, as he should have written for the sake of coherence, the Jewish people) is bound together by the different mental traces impressed upon it by its middle position. Yet, and this appears to be a central tenet of Feuchtwanger’s literary production, the force of ideas reaches down to the individual level. Historical developments, triggered by the struggle between the antagonism of ideas, play out in each individual’s personal struggle against the tides of the age. This struggle connects a broad swath of Feuchtwanger’s characters, from Warren Hastings to Jud Süss Oppenheimer, but also Die häßliche Herzogin Margarete Maultasch and Varro from his novel Der falsche Nero. Jud Süß can therefore be read as a reflection on the “spiritual dilemma of the Jewish race” and also as a “Buddhist” novel.105 This spiritual dilemma, as Feuchtwanger writes, was based on the life of Walther Rathenau, the industrialist, public intellectual, and foreign minister of the Weimar Republic, a man of wide-ranging interest and outstanding acumen: Years ago, it mattered to me to show the path of a man leading from action to non-action, from doing something to observing, from the European to the Indian worldview. It seemed appropriate to model this concept based on the development of a contemporary man: Walther Rathenau. I tried: it failed. I moved the subject matter two centuries into the past and tried to showcase the path of the Jew Süß Oppenheimer. That brought me closer to my goal.106

This choice is peculiar given that Rathenau, in his infamous essay Höre Israel, had called for German Jewry to assimilate and to reject their Orientalist traits. However, Feuchtwanger saw in Rathenau the holistic embodiment of the “Jewish race.” His struggle with worldly power and 105  William Edward Yuill, “Jud Süss: Anatomy of a Best-Seller,” in Lion Feuchtwanger: The Man, His Ideas, His Works, edited by John M. Spalek (Los Angeles: Hennessey & Ingalls, 1972), 117. Cf. for the role of Rathenau in the genesis of the novel: William Small, “In Buddha’s Footsteps. Feuchtwanger’s Jud Süß, Walther Rathenau, and the Path to the Soul,” German Studies Review 12 (1989), 469–485. 106  “Vor Jahren etwa lag mir einmal daran, den Weg eines Mannes zu zeigen, vom Tun zum Nichtstun, von der Aktion zur Betrachtung, von europäischer zu indischer Weltanschauung. Es lag nahe, diese Idee der Entwicklung eines Mannes aus der Zeitgeschichte zu gestalten: Walther Rathenaus. Ich versuchte es: es mißlang. Ich legte den Stoff zwei Jahrhunderte zurück und versuchte den Weg des Juden Süß Oppenheimers darzustellen; ich kam meinem Ziel näher.” Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde, 497.

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other-worldly goals, as manifested in his wide-ranging publications and activities as an industrialist, writer, and politician, turned Rathenau into the epitome of the Jewish interstitial position between East and West. It was therefore not coincidental that German Jewry would produce such a flamboyant and overarching figure as Rathenau or a writer, like Feuchtwanger himself, who would address these issues. It is especially pertinent to remember that Feuchtwanger saw himself, as well as his fellow writers Alfred Döblin and Rabindranath Tagore, as epitomizing the new intellectual trend toward a spiritual unification of Europe and Asia. The Buddha, as juxtaposed with Nietzsche, plays the complementary counterpart of Feuchtwanger and the like. Asserting for himself the position of the vanguard party, Feuchtwanger’s efforts to popularize classic Sanskrit plays were his way of participating in the spiritual revolution that marked the transition from Nietzsche to Buddha. The author puts the wisdom of the East into the modern Western form and thus ensures its relevance to a modernized Western audience. Fixing the internal scission that modern man has experienced and continues to experience every day requires the antidote of the Buddha to extradite the venomous injections of Nietzschean thought. Just as the Buddha arose as a reformatory figure against the congealed system of thought of the Brahmins, novelists like Feuchtwanger now lead the perennial battle against the fragmentation of man so he can become whole again. He himself plays a historical role that will guide the zigzagging of history toward progress. Feuchtwanger then implicitly claims the position, as a Jew, that the Buddha once embodied. This recalls Nietzsche’s famous claim to be “Europe’s Buddha.”107 What does Nietzsche mean by this claim, and is it related to Feuchtwanger’s transformative project? Nietzsche’s stance toward Buddhism is rather mercurial. As is the case with Judaism, where we can find in Nietzsche’s oeuvre an eclectic mix of antisemitic clichés and philosemitic praise, his treatment of Buddhism is equally layered. As Karl Jaspers has observed, “[a]ll statements seem to be annulled by other statements. Self-contradiction is the fundamental ingredient in Nietzsche’s thought. For nearly every single one

 “-ich könnte der Buddha Europas werden: was freilich ein Gegenstück zum indischen wäre.” Friedrich Nietzsche, Nachgelassene Fragmente 1882–1884. Kritische Studienausgabe, Bd. X, edited by Giorgio Colli and Mazzino Montinari (München: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1980), 109. 107

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of Nietzsche’s judgments, one can also find an opposite.”108 This is certainly also true in the present case. Nietzsche was one of the major catalysts for the equating of Buddhism with nihilism, which has been a common trope in Buddhism’s reception in Europe from its inception until today. The association of Nietzsche’s philosophical thought with nihilism and his prominent role in the reception of Buddhism in Germany served to cement the image of Buddhism as nihilistic. However, Nietzsche is less unequivocal when it comes to an overall assessment of Buddhism. While maintaining that Buddhism and Christianity constituted a religion of decadence that strives to subdue the free spirit of the individual, he nevertheless contemplated the possibility (and positive impact) of the arrival of Buddhism in Europe.109 Like the intellectual supersession of Brahmanism through Buddhism in India, that is, from polytheism to atheism, Nietzsche saw European Buddhism as an antidote to Christianity’s ubiquitous moral hegemony.110 The teachings of the Buddha would lead to the demise of Judeo-Christian slave morality and help humans go beyond good and evil, indeed, to become superhuman (Übermensch).111 Nietzsche is rather ambiguous about the actual potential of Buddhism to achieve this goal. While Buddhism (and its precursor Brahmanism) was for him more advanced, less bound by the chains of morality, it nevertheless did not completely shake off the “spell and delusion of morality.”112 Without going too deeply into Nietzsche’s complex relationship with Buddhism here, most relevant for our study is the idea that Buddhism has a transformative potential for European thought, culture, and society. This is by now a familiar 108  Karl Jaspers, Nietzsche: An Introduction to the Understanding of His Philosophical Activity (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1965), 10. See for the role of Buddhism in Nietzsche’s thought: Benjamin A. Elman, “Nietzsche and Buddhism,” Journal of the History of Ideas 44 (1983), 671–686, esp. 684f. 109  Cf. Friedrich Nietzsche, “Der Antichrist. Fluch auf das Christentum,” in Kritische Studienausgabe, Bd. VI, edited by Giorgio Colli and Mazzino Montinari (München: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1980), 186. See also Friedrich Nietzsche, “Morgenröthe. Gedanken über die moralischen Vorurtheile [1881],” in Kritische Studienausgabe, Bd. III, edited by Giorgio Colli and Mazzino Montinari (München: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1988), 87. 110  Cf. Johann Figl, Nietzsche und die Religionen—Transkulturelle Perspektiven seines Bildungs- und Denkweges (Berlin: De Gruyter 2007), 298f. 111  See Nietzsche, “Der Antichrist. Fluch auf das Christentum,” 186. 112  “Bann und Wahne der Moral.” Friedrich Nietzsche, “Jenseits von Gut und Böse. Vorspiel einer Philosophie der Zukunft [1886],” in Kritische Studienausgabe, Bd. V, edited by Giorgio Colli and Mazzino Montinari (München: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1980), 74.

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thought that we have already encountered several times; however, in relation to Feuchtwanger, it is crucial that this transformation can be conjured up by one or a few individuals’ actions or writings. The relative meekness of Feuchtwanger’s statements on this question does not diminish their radicalness and complexity that rival Nietzsche’s assertions. Feuchtwanger’s style, unlike Nietzsche’s, underplays the idea of imagining Europe (or its people and their thinking) as malleable enough to remold it through the publication of a handful of books. And yet Feuchtwanger was not alone in this, and it speaks to his confidence in the power of literature—a confidence that now seems rather baffling. Feuchtwanger lacked the pompous style so characteristic of Nietzsche, and when making sweeping proclamations his language often relied on indirect questions, irony, and subtle innuendo. But beneath the rhetorics of decency lay an audacity that challenged the status quo: those in power and the convenient truth. The commercial success of Feuchtwanger’s novels, the image of a bon vivant, even a philanderer, serve to undermine the notion of a man deeply committed to a fixed set of doctrines, of someone who believed in the power of the word, for whom the pen was mightier than the sword, for whom a powerful idea could change the world. In this regard, his personality and life are certainly reinforced by his style and method. Feuchtwanger did not have the sharp tongue of Theodor Lessing, his rhetorical weapon being instead the equivalent of the floret rather than Lessing’s “philosophy with a hammer” à la Nietzsche.113 Yet both Theodor Lessing and Lion Feuchtwanger established themselves as preeminent critics of the Hitler regime already in the hours of its inception. That both writers had to leave Germany soon after the socalled Machtergreifung bears witness to the peril of intellectual integrity and audacity. But it also confirms that Feuchtwanger believed in the necessity of the writer to take a stance and readily took the step from theory to praxis, where repercussions could be felt in one’s own life. As for Nietzsche, only the beast lives unhistorically, for Feuchtwanger, the literati give meaning to history—the history of the bestia rationalis nevertheless—and guide humanity toward progress. Writing in a resolute yet subtle style allows the author, especially of the historical novel, to approach delicate subjects more directly. As history illuminates our own time through its temporal distance, 113  Cf. Friedrich Nietzsche, “Götzen-Dämmerung oder Wie man mit dem Hammer philosophirt [1888],” in Kritische Studienausgabe, Bd. VI, edited by Giorgio Colli and Mazzino Montinari (München: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1980), 55ff.

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so Buddhism illuminates Europe through its spatial distance. And on the way to achieving this illumination, poets and writers like Feuchtwanger have to interfere with their own means: “[The] tendency to portray one’s own things in disguise is a basic characteristic of poets.”114 Distance as a literary tool buttresses the message more effectively than crude candor. In comparison to the other writers discussed in this chapter, Feuchtwanger’s proclamations regarding the role of Buddhism lacked coloring and appear rather secondary in an oeuvre that addressed Jewish issues and the rise of the Nazi regime with more panache. The latter issue certainly becomes more urgent at the beginning of 1930 when Feuchtwanger’s life itself, because of his prominent opposition to National Socialism, came under threat. And yet, even in his satirical assault against Hitler and his cronies in Der falsche Nero, Buddhism returns at the end. Using the technique of the Distanzierungsmittel in both Feuchtwanger’s stylistic and historical approaches, the secondariness of direct mentions of the Buddha is not an indication of the secondariness of his significance. If Feuchtwanger really believed that Buddhism could play a transformative role in the history of Europe and the world as a whole, why does he not propagate its message more openly, instead of cloaking it beneath at times opaque historical narratives? In Warren Hastings, the name of the Buddha is not mentioned and yet the play is very much entrenched in Feuchtwanger’s ideas about Buddhism. The apparent absence of the Buddha in the play is in fact a form of distancing. Rather than arguing openly for the merits of Buddhism, Feuchtwanger repeatedly stages an antagonistic struggle so as to convey his message to the reader in recondite terms. In direct reference to Brecht’s theory of Verfremdung, Feuchtwanger explains in Das Haus der Desdemona that a writer who strives to achieve a certain result should present it as something strange (“ein Fremdes”).115 Furthermore, to make the reader or the audience experience an idea, such as the teachings of the Buddha, for example, it has to take on an artistic garb. Finally, this approach takes Feuchtwanger’s own words seriously. Both his theoretical musings and his explicit statements are positioned in the center of the Nietzsche-Buddha axis in his writings. 114  “[Die] Neigung, die eigenen Dinge verkleidet wiederzugeben, ist eine Grundeigenschaft der Dichter.” Lion Feuchtwanger, Das Haus der Desdemona oder Größe und Grenzen der Historischen Dichtung, edited by Fritz Zschech (Rudolfstadt: Greifenverlag, 1961), 151. 115  See Feuchtwanger, Das Haus der Desdemona oder Größe und Grenzen der Historischen Dichtung, 157f.

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Arguing from this position, Feuchtwanger’s stance against the war becomes part of a wider project of a redemptive transformation of the world. This is most evident when Feuchtwanger, looking back at his literary efforts during the war in 1933, spoke about the antagonism of “action and non-action, power and renunciation, Asia and Europe, Buddha and Nietzsche” as his main intellectual preoccupations.116 Shedding light on the forces behind these pairs of interests is the task of the historically conscious novelist, because for Feuchtwanger, these antagonisms are the determinant factors in the history of humanity. They are opposite forces that struggle throughout history and as such have been working against each other. The beginning of the twentieth century sees the final outcome of the weight of Europe’s will to power, “its thirst for power and fight (Kampf) and deed (Tat)” over its Eastern antidote.117 Western colonialism, nationalism, and the First World War are symptomatic of Europe’s underlying structure of addiction to power and action. In the summer of 1935, Feuchtwanger started working on his new project, Der falsche Nero. The novel, a roman à clef on Hitler’s usurpation of power, again plays with the East-West theme noted above. While this has been commented on quite extensively, the Buddhist element that concludes the plot has gone unnoticed.118 Wrapped in the garb of a historical novel, Feuchtwanger satirized the rise of the Nazi regime. Senator Varro conspires to help the potter Terenz, who physically resembles Nero, to claim the title of Emperor. The impostor and his two abettors (who are modeled after Hitler, Goebbels, and Göring) instigate the people to revolt against Rome.119 Through sheer luck, opportunism, and  Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde, 360.  Feuchtwanger, Ein Buch nur für meine Freunde, 377. 118  Substantial readings, to which I am indebted for my reading, are: Christa Heine Teixeira, “Lion Feuchtwanger: Der falsche Nero—Zeitgenössische Kritik im Gewand des historischen Romans: Erwägungen zur Entstehung und Rezeption,” in Travellers in Time and Space: The German Historical Novel—Reisende durch Zeit und Raum: Der deutschsprachige historische Roman, edited by Osman Durrani and Julian Preece. (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2001), 79–109. Klaus Müller-Salget, “Aktualisierte Antike? Lion Feuchtwangers ‘Der falsche Nero,’” in “… auf klassischem Boden begeistert” Antike-Rezeption in der deutschen Literatur, edited by Olaf Hildebrand (Freiburg im Breisgau: Rombach, 2004), 419–432. See also Lühe, “Auf der Brücke zwischen Tun und Verzicht: Lion Feuchtwangers Auseinandersetzung mit dem Buddhismus und Daoismus,” 99ff. 119  Sternburg, Lion Feuchtwanger: Die Biographie, 385. The flooding of the city Apamea, which is a pretext for the invasion by Terenz’s army, is modeled after the Reichstagsbrand. In fact, the parallel is even more evident considering that, in an earlier draft of the novel, 116 117

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Varro’s diplomatic skill, they manage to take over several of the Eastern provinces of the Roman Empire. Soon Terenz becomes a megalomaniac and cannot be controlled by Varro. The conspiracy subsequently unravels, the Empire strikes back, and the triumvirate is executed. However, for Varro, who dreamed of uniting East and West, Feuchtwanger had a different fate in mind. After the Mephistophelian pact unravels and the consequences bear down on Varro, his vainglorious aspirations of bringing the East and West together must yield to more modest goals. The man who engulfed half of the Roman Empire in the abyss can be considered lucky to be alive. He finds, after all, a rather happy existence as a Buddhist mendicant. The key to fulfilling his desire for a meaningful life lies in the individualism of the East. Saving his own life by going East, Varro gives up his universal ambitions. Having made peace with his loss of power, Varro, the formerly ambitious Roman senator, begs for alms and wastes no further thought on his failed conspiracy. Feuchtwanger presents Varro’s second life as an antidote to his power-hungry universalism that sought to subdue the world. The plotline concerning Varro’s fate in the East only runs for a few lines that are interwoven with the execution of Terenz and his two companions, and as such it appears rather marginal. However, we can still discern that the East is envisioned as a redemptive space. Like Jud Süß Oppenheimer, Varro internalizes the lore of the East and accepts his fate. However, the interpretation of Buddhism as individualistic and particularistic is in stark contrast to his earlier conception in which Buddhism was the driving force behind the universal tendency of human progress. As noted, for Feuchtwanger, ideas play a crucial role in determining world history. One of the main strains we can find throughout his wide-­ ranging oeuvre is the importance of ideas and principles, which mostly Feuchtwanger wanted Apamea to be destroyed by a fire as well. His wife Martha proposed the flooding instead of the fire. In his diary, he wrote “Am Falschen Nero. Marta schlägt neuerliche weitgehende Änderung vor: Überschwemmung statt Brand.” Box A 19-b, Folder 17, Diary, July 5, 1936. Lion Feuchtwanger papers, Collection no. 0204, Feuchtwanger Memorial Library, Special Collections, USC Libraries, University of Southern California. The usurping triumvirate viciously persecutes its enemies and opponents, especially Christians, who are blamed for the flood, in what a contemporary reader must clearly understand as a reference to the fate of the communists in the Third Reich. Teixeira, “Lion Feuchtwanger: Der falsche Nero—Zeitgenössische Kritik im Gewand des historischen Romans: Erwägungen zur Entstehung und Rezeption,” 86. Cf. Feuchtwanger, Der falsche Nero, 125.

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arrive in opposed pairs, to historical development. As Feuchtwanger writes in his essay Vom Sinn und Unsinn des historischen Romans, he approaches contemporary issues through the lens of historical settings. Feuchtwanger wrote about his own experience as a novelist: I do not think that a serious novelist who works with historical subjects could ever see, within the historical facts, anything but a means of distancing oneself, as a parable meant to render one’s own attitude to life, one’s own time period, one’s own conception of the world.120

Personal involvement might cloud someone’s judgment, but historical alienation is a useful device to avert the intrusion of personal affects into the narrative. That this theoretical position could in practice lead to artistic imbalances is most effectively proven by Der falsche Nero. As argued by both Arnold Zweig and Georg Lukács, two of the most astute critics of the novel, it is precisely Varro’s motivation (his vision of uniting the East and West) that is the least convincing part of the novel.121 In a letter to Feuchtwanger, Zweig wrote: Your book, dear Feuchtwanger, is, in my opinion, conceived in an all-too arbitrary and individualistic manner. There is no creative reason to justify Varro’s inception of the ‘False Nero’ enterprise out of a play of ideas and lacking any inner turmoil. All the talk about the unification of East and West does not help your case.122

Feuchtwanger’s attempt at combining a satire of the Hitler regime with the West-East theme, thus an overtly political topic with conflicting ideas, failed due to its commingling of these two spheres. He was clearly only interested in the East on a metaphysical, rather than political, level. The 120  “Ich kann mir nicht denken, daß ein ernsthafter Romandichter, der mit geschichtlichen Stoffen arbeitet, in den historischen Fakten etwas anderes sehen könnte als ein Distanzierungsmittel, als ein Gleichnis, um sich selber sein eigenes Lebensgefühl, seine eigene Zeit, sein Weltbild möglichst treu wiederzugeben.” Ibid. 121  See Georg Lukács, Der historische Roman (Berlin: Aufbau-Verlag, 1955), 293. 122  “Ihr Buch, lieber Feuchtwanger, ist mir einfach zu willkürlich und zu individualistisch angefaßt. Daß ihr Varro ohne innere Not aus einer Ideenspielerei das Unternehmen des “Falschen Nero” startet, wird in keiner Weise gestalterisch gerechtfertigt; alles Reden über die Idee der Vereinigung von Ost und West hilft da nicht.” Lion Feuchtwanger and Arnold Zweig, Briefe 1933–1958, Bd. 1 1933–1948, edited by Harold von Hofe (Berlin: AufbauVerlag, 1984), 141.

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East, for Feuchtwanger, could not offer a response to the rise of fascism beyond inner migration. As Zweig’s critique illustrated, the use of the Distanzierungsmittel reached its limit when it combined direct political effects with aloof ideas. While Feuchtwanger’s earlier engagement with Buddhism and the East-West theme provided a coherent Weltanschauung that made a strong case for its beneficial potential, in Der falsche Nero Buddhism became an inept addendum. What Feuchtwanger saw as Buddhism’s strength, namely its renunciation of the world, was in stark contrast to a novel that satirized worldly affairs. This raises the issue, discussed in the following passages, of the relation between Buddhism and satire in German culture. Kurt Tucholsky quipped that the Buddha was too high and fascism too low for satire: “Satire has an upper limit: Buddha escapes from it. Satire also has a lower limit: In Germany, for example, the ruling fascist powers. It’s not worth shooting that low.”123 This is, of course, an inverted satirical attack against fascism, and in respect of the Buddha, it should be taken with a pinch of salt. However, Tucholsky certainly believed that one of satire’s most noble tasks was the fight against fascism. What is notable is the contrasting juxtaposition of Buddha and fascism, which places fascism and Buddhism at the opposite ends of a spectrum. (For a discussion of German Buddhists’ affinity with National Socialism, see Chap. 6.) Tucholsky’s quip did not hold for the satirical potential of fascism, and it was also untrue with regard to the Buddha. With the growing interest in Buddhism in German culture, the Buddha became a familiar topic for satire and was caricatured several times alone in the Simplicissimus. In such caricatures, the figure of the Buddha could represent Buddhism, India, China, Asia, or just Eastern wisdom, but was normally depicted (a motion we have encountered previously) as antagonistic to Germany, Europe, or the West. The Orientalist binary division can thus also be found in German satire. In fact, one of the earliest and best-known depictions of the Buddha in German culture, although at most involuntarily satirical, was Hermann Knackfuß’ copperplate engraving from 1895s Völker Europas, wahret Eure heiligsten Güter, which juxtaposed a dragon-riding Buddha over a burning landscape against the European people, represented through their national allegories. Leading the pack is the German Michel, since the painting was actually 123  “Satire hat eine Grenze nach oben: Buddha entzieht sich ihr. Satire hat auch eine Grenze nach unten. In Deutschland etwa die herrschenden faschistischen Mächte. Es lohnt nicht—so tief kann man nicht schießen.” Kurt Tucholsky, “Schnipsel,” 49.

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based on a sketch by the Kaiser himself, Wilhelm II, who was certainly prone to thinking along Orientalist lines, as evidenced in his infamous Hunnenrede from 1900.124 The Kaiser sent the engraving to Tsar Nicholas II of Russia (to whom he was distantly related) urging him “to unite in resisting the inroad of Buddhism, heathenism and barbarism.”125 The iconic painting was often subject to parodies, satirizing European imperialism and capitalist expansionism, most poignantly in a caricature from one of the most famous German satire magazines, the Kladderadatsch subtitled Der Feind aus dem Osten naht, rüstet euch zum Losschlagen! Völker Europas, verkauft eure theuersten Güter!126 These parodies had in common the exchange of national allegories, the alleviating Buddha, or the hovering cross, for another symbol of otherness: Asia for Europe, the Buddha for a cannon boat, a cross for a sack of gold, and so on. By subverting the original implicit message of European superiority to an almost relativistic stance, the pictorial structure of these parodies suggests a mediated equipollency between the East and West. The art historian E.H. Gombrich noted that the cartoonist, of whom he thinks in terms of a caricaturist, “mythologizes the world of politics by physiognomizing it. By linking the mythical with the real he creates that fusion, that amalgam, that seems so convincing to the emotional mind.”127 In a caricature from the Simplicissimus titled Wenn Buddha Erwacht, it is precisely the physiognomy of those satirized that drives the point home.128 While the first half of the caricature shows the prototypical figurization of Prussian militarism standing idly on a giant Buddha’s lap, the ensuing second half shows the Prussian’s head being crushed by the fist of the awakening Buddha. This is obviously a variation or a parody on the trope of the Yellow Peril, the menace from the East, as we know it from Knackfuß’s painting. Furthermore, this example illustrates the amalgamation of the mythical, that is, the 124  Christa Stolz, Hermann Knackfuss: Monographie über einen im 19. Jahrhundert in Wissen geborenen Künstler. Wissener Beiträge zur Geschichte und Landeskunde 12 (Wissen: Verlag G. Nising, 1975), 32. 125  John C.G. Röhl: Wilhelm II: The Kaiser’s Personal Monarchy, 1888–1900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 909. 126  See Monika Lehner, “Das Bild vom Anderen. ‘Gelbe Gefahr’—‘Weiße Gefahr,’” Mind the Gap(s). Accessed January 20, 2016, http://mindthegaps.hypotheses.org/873. 127  Ernst Gombrich, “The Cartoonist’s Armoury,” in Meditations on a Hobby Horse and Other Essays on the Theory of Art (London: Phaidon Press, 1963), 139. Cf. Volker Langbehn, “Satire Magazines and Racial Politics,” in German Colonialism, Visual Culture, and Modern Memory, edited by Volker Langbehn (London: Routledge, 2010), 117. 128  Olaf Gulbranson, “Wenn Buddha erwacht” [Caricature], in Simplicissimus, 1915, April 20, 35.

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Buddha, with the political, the spiked helmeted Prussian. The physiognomy of the Prussian and the Buddha tell a story beyond the menace from the East narrative, which does not necessarily refute this first reading but rather supplements it. The Buddha’s facial expression when crushing the Prussian with his fist is loosely similar to the stuck-up, militaristic expression of the latter from the first half of the caricature, and thus subverts the idea of the defenseless, pacific Buddha. Through this amalgamation of the two physiognomies, the caricaturist proposed an equipollency between the two figures, even between East and West. In fact, the idea of the “Yellow Peril” was often connected with the notion of the “faceless Asian,” but depicting the Buddha’s physiognomy along the lines of the facial expressions of the Prussian suggests an inherent analogy between the two.129 Indeed, the Asian is shown as faceless; not possessing a face of his own, he can only be imagined by similarity with the European face. Otherness is here constructed along the lines of the familiar, unlike, for example, the caricature from the Kladderadatsch where the Asian’s physiognomy is completely othered. These caricatures illustrate two different kinds of appropriation of the binary rift between East and West. The insurmountable differentness between East and West, Asia and Europe, respectively, can only find expression through complete separation—culturally and often also ontologically—or in the political realm as violent conflict. The social-­democratic, satirical magazine Der wahre Jacob captures these aspects in one of its witty pieces, which, under the headline Großer politischer Karneval, announces a “wrestling match between God Buddha and the painter Knackfuß.”130 The other kind of appropriation implicitly argues for the aforementioned equipollency between East and West. This brings us back to Feuchtwanger’s novel, which takes this path when depicting East and West as two sides of the same coin, as complementary yet completely opposed. To repair the world, or to fix the coin, then, is not to claim the sameness of East and West, but rather to see them as interdependent halves that will establish the world as a whole. While the novel is obviously a satire of the rise and (hoped-for) fall of the Hitler regime, its underlying theme is again the quest for the unity of East and West. However, Feuchtwanger took a different 129  Cf. Jing Tsu, Failure, Nationalism, and Literature: The Making of Modern Chinese Identity, 1895–1937 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005), 67. 130  “Ringkampf zwischen dem Gott Buddha und dem Maler Knackfuß.” “Großer Politischer Karneval,” Der Wahre Jacob 250, 1896, February 22, 2121. Accessed January 22, 2016. http://www.der-wahre-jacob.de/uploads/tx_lombkswjournaldb/pdf/3/13/13_250.pdf.

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stance in respect of this idea that was so prevalent in his writings, which, as I argue, following Lukács, is rooted in the decline of the historical in Der falsche Nero and the rise of the abstract. The meaning of this is easily discernible: Feuchtwanger’s earlier exposition of Buddhism follows the line of an abstract idea of the historical necessity and aims concretely to bring the teachings of the Buddha, the wisdom of the East, or what other form this amorphic idea might take, to the West. This is the case for his earlier plays that deal with Buddhism. Jud Süß, as discussed above, takes a transitional stance. The desultory passage on the unity of East and West in Jüd Süß has its inherent logic in the abstraction of the plot and therefore has concrete effects on the events that follow. In Der falsche Nero, in which the relationship between the historical and the abstract is inverted, the historical is only, as Lukács notes, a “thin cover” (dünne Hülle) through which Hitler as the real target becomes immediately recognizable.131 And yet, while the novel and its themes become more concrete, it is Feuchtwanger’s abstract idea of the East that becomes disconnected from the plot. What we can discern is that Feuchtwanger’s notion of Buddhism developed over time. While earnestly interested in Buddhism and its possible application to the European cultural and spiritual landscape until the end of the First World War, Feuchtwanger dropped the Buddhist substance of his works by substituting it with the more diffuse theme of reuniting the East and West. This reunion of East and West was closely connected to Feuchtwanger’s concept of Judaism as a bridgebuilder, which is featured in several of his most famous novels. With the rise of the Nazi regime, these rather pensive musings were subsumed by a callous reality. Giving up on the East-West theme for a short time, Feuchtwanger attempted an intellectual takedown of National Socialism. The first fruits of this attempt took shape in the unsettling novel Die Gebrüder Oppermann from 1933, which is full of outrage over the intellectual paucity of the völkische ideology and the opportunism of many of its followers. Der falsche Nero, published three years later, takes the same line but includes the East-West theme again. Here, however, the East stands for individualism and, also, for the rescue of the individual from the masses or the mass movements that took over Europe during the 1930s. The idea that Jewish people could reconcile the East and the West had to be abandoned, given that the future of the West was now in peril.

 Lukács, Der historische Roman, 330.

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Jakob Wassermann and the Quest for Justice Jakob Wassermann has served as the perfect example of Gershom Scholem’s assertion that the German-Jewish symbiosis was “never anything else than fiction.”132 In his famous treatise Mein Weg als Deutscher und Jude from 1921, Wassermann voiced his disillusion with his fellow Germans’ refusal to accept him as one of their own. His deep immersion in German culture, his ensuing success as an author of novels in the German language, his patriotism, and even his disdain for Judaism could not liberate him from being seen constantly as a Jew: “It is in vain to live for them and die for them. They say: he is a Jew.”133 Wassermann’s paradigmatic status, due to his desire for acceptance by the non-Jewish majority and his disillusion with their contempt for his Jewishness, has been aptly discussed in the secondary literature.134 What has been ignored so far is his interest in Buddhism and its intersection with his struggle to be German and Jewish. For the sake of offering an overview, a short summary of his life will be worthwhile. Wassermann was born in Fürth in 1873. He grew up in an assimilated, petty-bourgeois family. Judaism did not play a prominent role. His literary ambitions were discouraged. Despite resistance from his family, Wassermann was able to publish his writing. His first success was built on a Jewish theme: His Die Juden von Zirndorf tells the story of a Jewish 132  Gershom Scholem, “Against the Myth of the German-Jewish Dialogue,” in On Jews and Judaism in Crisis, edited by Werner J. Dannhauser (New York: Schocken, 1976), 63. A thoughtful discussion of Scholem’s myth of the German-Jewish symbiosis in combination with Dan Diner’s notion of a negative symbiosis can be found here: Jack Zipes, “The Negative German-Jewish Symbiosis,” in Insiders and Outsiders: Jewish and Gentile Culture in Germany and Austria, edited by Dagmar C.G. Lorenz and Gabriele Weinberger (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1994), 144–154. 133  “Es ist vergeblich, für sie zu leben und für sie zu sterben. Sie sagen: er ist ein Jude.” Jakob Wassermann, “Mein Weg als Deutscher und Jude,” in Deutscher und Jude. Reden und Schriften 1904–1933, edited by Dierk Rodewald (Heidelberg: Lambert Schneider, 1984), 128. 134  For example, here Marcus Bullock, “1928. Jakob Wassermann’s novel Der Fall Maurizius presents his final expression of his views on the relationship of Germans and Jews,” in Yale Companion to Jewish Writing and Thought in German Culture, 1096–1996, edited by Sander L.  Gilman and Jack Zipes (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997), 471–478. Hans Otto Horch, “Deutschtum und Judentum—eine unmögliche Synthese? Jakob Wassermann im Kontext der deutsch-jüdischen Literaturgeschichte,” in Jakob Wassermann. Deutscher-Jude-Literat, edited by Dirk Niefanger et al. (Göttingen: Wallstein Verlag, 2007), 69–89.

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community, their messianic hopes, disappointments, and struggles for a decent life in Germany. A variation on the story of Sabbatai Zevi, Wassermann’s sympathetic depiction of a German-Jewish community and, in the eyes of most Germans, their idiosyncratic manners, brought him many plaudits. Yet, in the ensuing years, he wrote less about Jewish themes, and his novel about Caspar Hauser proved to be his most successful endeavor.135 An important crossroads was reached in 1913 when Wassermann addressed an open letter to Martin Buber titled Der Jude als Orientale. This letter, published in the famous volume Vom Judentum, which brought together an astonishing array of Jewish thinkers (next to Wassermann and Buber, it included Hans Kohn, Karl Wolfskehl, Hugo Bergmann, Margarete Susman, Erich Kahler, Max Brod, Arnold Zweig, and others), recycled ideas that Wassermann had already proposed as early as 1904.136 Back then, in the article “Das Los der Juden” and, in 1909, in “Der Literat oder Mythos und Persönlichkeit,” Wassermann had established several concepts that he would now, in the open letter to Buber, bring to fruition. Two lines of thought stand out: First, the idea, already suggested in the title of the open letter, of the Orientalization of the Jews. Wassermann distinguished between the Jew as a European and the Jew as an Oriental. The former is associated with literature and cosmopolitanism. “It is the contrast between withering and fertility, between isolation and belonging, between anarchy and tradition.”137 The European Jew turned away from tradition and became a rootless individual in his eternal quest for being the other (assimilation to the majority). Wassermann referred to antisemitic stereotypes, which he apparently granted a grain of truth. The cosmopolitan European Jew overreaches, in a quest to belong, and unbound by the (religious?) law, exhibits mania, greed, and criticism for the sake of it, as well as a penchant for speculation, and so on.138 Wassermann contrasted this image, with all its pejorative connotations, with the Oriental Jew. Not 135  Cf. Jakob Wassermann, Caspar Hauser oder Die Trägheit des Herzens (Stuttgart: DVA, 1908). 136  See Jakob Wassermann, “Der Jude als Orientale,” in Vom Judentum. Ein Sammelbuch, edited by Verein jüdischer Hochschüler Bar Kochba in Prag (Leipzig: Kurt Wolff Verlag, 1913), 5. 137  “Es ist der Gegensatz zwischen Verwelkung und Fruchtbarkeit, zwischen Vereinzelung und Zugehörigkeit, zwischen Anarchie und Tradition.” Wassermann, “Der Jude als Orientale,” 6. 138  Wassermann, “Der Jude als Orientale,” 31.

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giving in to individualism, his values are responsibility, commitment, truth, and tradition. Through his mystical relation to reality, he molds, creates, and does not try to emulate it: “[…] he has everything inside what the others are looking for outside […].”139 Similar to Cohen-Portheim’s view, Wassermann saw the Jew as the Oriental in messianic terms. He possesses a transformative power (“verwandelnde Kraft”), is the born creator (“Schöpfer”), and is himself completed (“vollkommen”).140 Wassermann had already revered Neumann’s translation and heaped great praise on his work in a short essay from 1925. An irrevocable monument erected by the German spirit, he eulogized, unique and epoch-­ making and thus only comparable to the Romantics’ translation of Shakespeare’s oeuvre.141 Wassermann himself admitted that he might not be best qualified to judge Neumann’s translation because he did not know the original language (Ursprache): I am not familiar with the Buddha writings in their original language; one might object that I lack the means of comparing both versions and, therefore, the necessary competence. Still, due to my relationship with the German language—to say nothing of the other one [relationship], concerning the matter that I would have to prove—I believe I am in the place to make such an assessment.142

This short passage is extremely interesting. Besides Wassermann’s assertion of his championing of the German language, another discourse is in play. Between the dashes, Wassermann alluded enigmatically to “the other one, concerning this matter” that would allow him to competently judge Neumann’s translation. From the syntax and the content, it is not entirely  “[…] er hat alles innen, was die anderen außen suchen; […]” Ibid.  Wassermann, “Der Jude als Orientale,” 29ff. 141  “Ich halte dafür, daß ein Werk wie das von Karl Eugen Neumann unternommene und mit höchster Aufopferung durchgeführte zu den unvergänglichen Monumenten gehört, die sich der deutsche Geist errichtet hat und in seiner Bedeutung nicht geringer einzuschätzen ist als die epochemachende Umpflanzung des Shakespeareschen Werkes durch die wunderbare Gemeinschaft der romantischen Dichter.” Edmund Husserl, Ina Seidel, and Jakob Wassermann, “Über die Reden Gotamo Buddhos,” Der Piperbote 2 (1925), 19f. 142  “Ich kenne die Buddha-Schriften in der Ursprache nicht; man wird also einwenden, es fehle mir die Möglichkeit des Vergleichs und damit die Kompetenz. Aber aus meiner Beziehung zur deutschen Sprache heraus—von der andern, jene Materie angehenden, die ich erst erweisen müßte, zu schweigen—glaube ich eine solche Behauptung wagen zu dürfen.” Husserl, Seidel, and Wassermann, “Über die Reden Gotamo Buddhos,” 20. 139 140

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clear to what the  other one refers. I would, however, suggest that here Wassermann has his Jewishness in mind, perhaps even his notion of the Jew as the Oriental. Since his Germanness and his Jewishness were inseparable, Wassermann elliptically referred to his Jewishness as another mode of access to the German-Buddhist texts. Therefore, here we find a representation of the interstice between Germanness and Buddhism, which his Jewishness occupied. As an Oriental, the Jewish Wassermann could claim the competence as much as through his command of the German language. In Mein Weg als Deutscher und Jude, this neo-Romantic description of the Jew had mostly subsided. Jewishness is an unselected, involuntary fate.143 However, he never abandoned it completely. Wassermann’s notion of the Oriental owed much to Nietzsche’s concept of the Übermensch. Crucial for Wassermann’s reception of Nietzsche, as well as for the development of his ideas on the Oriental, was, again, the early Buber. Wassermann took over, to a large degree in both his usage of the term Oriental and his concept of the holistic potential of the Jew, Buber’s influential conceptualization of the Jew as an Oriental. This brings us to the second pillar of Wassermann’s thinking, namely the question of justice.144 On the occasion of his 60th birthday, Wassermann published a Selbstbetrachtung, in which an unnamed interlocutor asserted that the central idea of Wassermann’s oeuvre was the idea of justice. His imaginary response is especially revealing. He goes on to explain that justice is a “condition of equilibrium” (Gleichgewichtslage) between guilt and atonement, crime and punishment, suffering and non-suffering.145 The idea of justice is the foundation of Judaism, Wassermann asserted. Because of the long history of continued suffering, the Jewish people retained, developed, and disseminated the idea of justice. The prevalence of justice in Wassermann’s oeuvre is then owed to his Jewishness and his constant search for this condition of equilibrium.  Wassermann, “Mein Weg als Deutscher und Jude,” 104.  For a good overview of secondary literature on this topic, see: Elisabeth Jütten, Diskurse über Gerechtigkeit im Werk Jakob Wassermanns (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 2007), 1–8. For the reception of Wassermann’s oeuvre in the last decade, Marcel Reich-Ranicki’s oft-repeated verdict was especially fateful: “[…] er war ein radikaler Moralist, freilich mit einer Schwäche für billigen Pomp.” Marcel Reich-Ranicki, “Über Jakob Wassermann,” Frankfurter Allgemeine Sonntagszeitung, January 22, 2006, 25. Similar in: Marcel ReichRanicki, Mein Leben (München: DVA, 1999), 135. 145  Jakob Wassermann, “Selbstbetrachtung,” in Deutscher und Jude. Reden und Schriften 1904–1933, edited by Dierk Rodewald (Heidelberg: Lambert Schneider, 1984), 215. 143 144

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In 1919, Wassermann published the short and erratic essay Was ist Besitz?, which has been mostly ignored in the secondary literature.146 Congruent with his novel Christian Wahnschaffe and its baseline question of justice, Wassermann attempted to find the true nature of possession. The essay starts with the claim that contemporary buzzwords like imperialism, capitalism, socialism, and communism are inadequate for providing an accurate description of what possession actually means. After a lengthy discussion of different kinds of possession (“Verbrauchsbesitz, Schmuckbesitz, Erb- und Anhäufungsbesitz und Produktionsbesitz”), Wassermann proceeds to a metaphysical discussion.147 Since possession is a social construct based on centuries- or even millennia-old conventions, he believed one has to adopt a more fundamental approach: My and Yours differ as much as I and World. Someone who owns a thing attempts to incorporate a piece of the world into themselves. The real problem regarding possession culminates in an identity issue.148

Worldly possessions are delusions and dreams. What had started with debunking an understanding of possession in the social sphere has now become completely metaphysical: Only through love, the true incorporation of something or someone external, can we acquire true possession. As such, possession is a union of I and You, an enlargement of one’s solitary identity. The final turn in this long-winded and convoluted essay comes as something of a surprise. After the passage that anticipated Buber’s terminology of dialogical philosophy, Wassermann reversed his previous conclusion and postulated another ideal: namely being without possessions, desires, and wishes. He called this a religious, not a societal, ideal, rooted in mystical-Buddhist tenets. Consequently, he closed the essay with a lengthy quote from Neumann’s translation from the Pali Canon urging disengagement  Jütten referenced the work solely as proof of Wassermann’s knowledge of Buddhism, see Jütten, Diskurse über Gerechtigkeit im Werk Jakob Wassermanns, 105. Cf. A contemporary of Wassermann was more perceptive and connected the essay to Christian Wahnschaffe. See Siegmund Bing, Jakob Wassermann: Werk und Weg des Dichters (Nürnberg: Ernst Frommann, 1929), 203. 147  Jakob Wassermann, Was ist Besitz? (Wien: Verlag “Der Friede,” 1919), 16. 148  “Mein und Dein ist so verschieden wie Ich und Welt. Wer ein Ding besitzt, unternimmt es, ein Stück Welt seinem Ich einzuverleiben. Das eigentliche Problem des Besitzes gipfelt im Problem der Identität.” Wassermann, Was ist Besitz?, 20. 146

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from the world. This is in line with the ending of Christian Wahnschaffe, which was written around the same time and to which we turn now. During the First World War, Wassermann worked on his novel Christian Wahnschaffe, which was published in 1919. His contemporaries had already noticed the influence of Buddhist ideas on this work.149 The outer form of the plot alone gives away the parallelism between its protagonist and the Buddha: Wahnschaffe, born into a rich family, renounces his riches after much liberation and many plot twists, and decides to spend his life among the poorest and lowest strata of society. The protagonist is a ­mixture of Nietzschean Übermensch, especially in his physical appearance, with all its messianic connotations, as well as a Christian saint (the telling name of the protagonist, Christian Wahnschaffe, was conceived right at the beginning of the project), who is drawn to Buddhist renunciation. In an epiphanic moment, Wahnschaffe realizes the ubiquity of suffering: And he knew that all this was deceiving, this peace, this sparkling star, this slightly fluorescent tide, that this was just a cloak, a painted curtain, and that one should not be calmed by it. Terror and fear lay beyond it, an inconceivable pain. He understood, he understood.150

After this insight, Wahnschaffe seeks the recipe for justice in a deeply unjust world. Injustice is here understood in a metaphysical sense, that is, the balance between one’s goodness and one’s fate, but also in a very concrete, economic sense, that is, the balance between rich and poor.151 The recipe consists of acceptance of the inevitable while living a life of humility, compassion, and love. Wassermann’s ideological-religious philosophy freely combined Buddhist, Jewish, and Christian elements in a theory of justice that addressed both social, that is, worldly affairs, and metaphysical, that is, other-worldly affairs. 149   See, for example, Anne Liese Sell, Das metaphysisch-realistische Weltbild Jakob Wassermanns (Bern: Paul Haupt, 1932), 77. Dierk Rodewald (ed.), Jakob Wassermann 1873–1934. Ein Weg als Deutscher und Jude (Bonn: Bouvier Verlag Herbert Grundmann, 1984), 84. Cf. Jütten, Diskurse über Gerechtigkeit im Werk Jakob Wassermanns, 111f. 150  “Und er wußte, daß dies alles täuschte, dieser Friede, dieser blitzende Stern, die leicht phosphoreszierende Flut, daß es nur Gewand war, ein bemalter Vorhang, und daß man sich nicht davon beruhigen lassen durfte. Dahinter war Schrecken und Furchtbarkeit, dahinter war unergründlicher Schmerz. Er begriff, er begriff.” Jakob Wassermann, Christian Wahnschaffe (München: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, 1997), 226. 151  See Jütten, Diskurse über Gerechtigkeit im Werk Jakob Wassermanns, 131f.

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This justice is represented by the novel’s Jewish character, Ruth Hoffmann, a young girl who embodies humility, compassion, and love.152 A pivotal moment for the character development of Wahnschaffe is the murder of Ruth. Confronted with evil, Wahnschaffe is almost driven to despair by his hatred for the murderer and the senselessness of his deed. His path from riches to poverty in the name of social justice is put in doubt. Wahnschaffe confronts the murderer, Niels Heinrich, who at first feels no guilt whatsoever. Wahnschaffe seeks no revenge or earthly justice through the judicial system, but an admission of wrongdoing, a sense of remorse, and ultimately submission under the cosmic law. It is not for him, or any other human being, to judge and condemn Ruth’s murderer. Wahnschaffe overcomes his hatred for the murderer and is freed from the last worldly attachment, emotions. Indifference toward his own emotions (and trust in the karmic laws) means liberation. Here, through this confrontation with absolute evil, Wahnschaffe reaches an insight into a morality beyond good and evil: I do not wish to create an opus, to do good or useful or even great things, I want in, up, out, down; I want to know nothing of myself, I am indifferent to myself, but I want to know everything about humans, because humans, you see, humans, that is where the mystery lies, the dread, that which torments and doles out horror and pain … always one, always to one, then to the next, to the third, and knowing, unlocking everyone, removing the pain like innards from a chicken.153

This passage, spoken by Christian Wahnschaffe at the end of the novel, reflects the different aspects that make up its philosophical and religious elements. Nietzschean visions of the Übermensch meet a Christian-inspired vow of poverty. Jewish social morality is supplemented by Buddhist cosmology. The denouement of the plot comes with Wahnschaffe’s disappearance after he realized the futility of his previous transformation. While 152  My reading owes much to Jütten’s analysis in: Jütten, Diskurse über Gerechtigkeit im Werk Jakob Wassermanns, 111f. 153  “Ich will keine Werke tun, ich will nichts Gutes oder Nützliches oder gar Großes tun, ich will hinein, hinauf, hinaus, hinunter; ich will nichts von mir wissen, ich bin mir gleichgültig, aber ich will alles von den Menschen wissen, denn die Menschen, siehst du, die Menschen, das ist das Geheimnisvolle, das Furchtbare, das was quält und schrecken und leiden macht. … Immer einen, immer zu einem, dann zum nächsten, dann zum dritten, und wissen, aufsperren jeden, das Leiden herausnehmen wie die Eingeweide aus einem Huhn.” Wassermann, Christian Wahnschaffe, 656.

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clearly depicted as a moral improvement, his denouncement of his fortune in favor of a life in poverty, the last, ultimate consequence is his complete disengagement, a renunciation of life as he knew it. In case anybody missed the source of his final decision, Wassermann ends the novel with a short addendum titled Legende. It tells the story of the princess Saldschal, who looks so heinous that her husband never allows her to leave the house. Just before curious visitors intend to enter the house to take a look at the mysterious and much-rumored princess, the Buddha (in Wassermann’s version called “Der Siegreich-Vollendete”) appears to her. The encounter transforms the body of the princess, who is now incredibly beautiful. The stunned king begins to pray to the Buddha. The purpose of the legend in Wassermann’s novel is the assertion of Eastern wisdom. Just as the Buddha transformed aesthetics, so he can transform morality. However, if we look at the source of the legend that Wassermann might have used, another level of interpretation opens up. The legend appeared for the first time in German in 1843 under the title Von der Dordsche genannten Tochter des Königs Ssaldschal, in Der Weise und der Tor, an anthology of Tibetan folk stories by I.J. Schmidt, a Moravian missionary turned Buddhism scholar.154 The second prominent appearance of this legend, and for our purposes more interesting, was in Micha Josef Bin Gorion’s famous anthology Der Born Judas. Bin Gorion, also known by his birth name Berdichevsky, collected Jewish folk tales in six volumes, mostly from Rabbinic literature. In his foreword, he explicitly mentioned Schmidt’s Der Weise und der Tor as a model for his own collection.155 In an addendum to each volume, Bin Gorion included non-Jewish folk tales that appeared to contain parallels to their Jewish equivalent. Here we find 154  See Isaac Jakob Schmidt, Der Weise und der Tor. Aus dem Tibetischen uebersetzt und mit dem Originaltexte herausgegeben. Zweiter Theil: Die Übersetzung (St. Petersburg: W. Gräffs Erben, 1843), 45ff. For more on Schmidt and his research on Tibetan and Mongolian culture, see: Tuska Benes, Language, Philology, and the Nation in Nineteenth-Century Germany (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2008), 91ff. 155  Micha Josef Bin Gorion, Der Born Judas: Legenden, Märchen und Erzählungen. 1. Von Liebe und Treue (Leipzig: Insel Verlag, 1916), 11. In his commentary, Bin Gorion mentions the following source: Wilhelm Radloff, Proben der Volksliteratur der Türkischen Stämme Südsibiriens, Teil 4. Die Mundarten der Barabiner, Taraer, Toboler und tümenischen Tataren (St. Petersburg: Kaiserliche Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1872), 408–431. Bibliographical information corrected and completed by me. Cf. Schmidt, Der Weise und der Tor. Aus dem Tibetischen uebersetzt und mit dem Originaltexte herausgegeben. Zweiter Theil: Die Übersetzung, 375.

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the (slightly altered) legend under the same title as in Schmidt’s anthology.156 Bin Gorion saw a similarity with the tale Das weise Mädchen mit dem Tiergesicht, which he had found in the (supposedly Sephardic) folk tale collection Oseh Pele (1845–1869) by Joseph Shabbetai Farhi.157 The first volume of Der Born Judas was published in 1916, which is around the time when Wassermann worked on Christian Wahnschaffe, and therefore seems the likely source of the final chapter. In 1919, Wassermann turned the legend into the libretto for the opera Die Prinzessin Girnara by the composer Egon Wellesz.158 Did the fact that this legend could claim an interstitial position between Judaism and Buddhism play a role for Wassermann? If we read the link between the two legends, one Jewish and the other Buddhist, as Bin Gorion alleged, in combination with the notion of the Jew as an Oriental, we can see the appeal for Wassermann. Another aspect is notable in this regard: Characteristic for the legend is the description “Der siegreich-vollendete Buddha,” which was coined by Schmidt himself and taken over by Bin Gorion.159 Wassermann, both in the final chapter of Christian Wahnschaffe as well as in Die Prinzessin Girnara, just used the moniker “Der Siegreich-Vollendete.” Clearly the omission of the name Buddha was an attempt to appeal to a broader audience. Stripped of its explicit religious content, the philosophical message became easier to digest. In the interstice between Judaism and Buddhism, Wassermann was attracted to the legend’s supra-religious substance, its deployment of a Nietzschean Übermensch without religious affiliation. For Wassermann, 156  Bin Gorion, Der Born Judas: Legenden, Märchen und Erzählungen. 1. Von Liebe und Treue, 349ff. For more on Bin Gorion and the place of Der Born Judas in the development of his “memory,” see Marcus Moseley, “Between Memory and Forgetfulness: The Janus Face of Michah Yosef Berdichevsky,” in Literary Strategies: Jewish Texts and Contexts, edited by Ezra Mendenlsohn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 101f. 157  Cf. Bin Gorion, Der Born Judas: Legenden, Märchen und Erzählungen. 1. Von Liebe und Treue, 375. It is not entirely clear if and to what extent the tales were of Sephardic origin. Farhi, himself of Sephardi origin, recorded them during a visit in Jerusalem in 1846. While some of the stories from Oseh Pele would gain widespread influence, especially among Sephardic Jews, their distribution before Farhi’s collection remains unknown. See Tamar Alexander-Frizer, The Heart is the Mirror: The Sephardic Folktale (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2008), 36f. 158  Jakob Wassermann, Die Prinzessin Girnara. Weltspiel und Legende (Wien: Ed. Strache, 1919). See also Karl Laux, “Wellesz: Prinzessin Girnara,” Review of Die Prinzessin Girnara, by Egon Wellesz and Jakob Wassermann, Musikblätter des Anbruch 10 (1928), 298. 159  See Schmidt, Der Weise und der Tor. Aus dem Tibetischen uebersetzt und mit dem Originaltexte herausgegeben. Zweiter Theil: Die Übersetzung, 47. Cf. Bin Gorion, Der Born Judas: Legenden, Märchen und Erzählungen. 1. Von Liebe und Treue, 351.

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who, as we have seen, struggled with his Jewishness and his inability to leave his Jewishness behind, the Siegreich-Vollendete is a utopian ecumenical figure. A combination of different Jewish, Buddhist (and even Christian) influences, he transcends identity. He is completed (vollendet) and can no longer be fragmented. The holistic aspects of Buddhism, so crucial for its dissemination among the German public, are again palpable. What are we to make of Wassermann’s erratic mixture of Orientalism, Buddhism, messianism, and Judaism? His Weltanschauung was fluid and allowed for different, at times contradictory, aspects. The base was his identity as a German. Unable to escape his Jewishness, he often attempted to furnish it with a transcendental position between, what he called, Europe and the Orient. It was, however, not Judaism but Buddhism that provided a haven of universality from the woes of hyphenated experience of being German-Jewish. Again, this is less what Buddhism is actually about, and more what was projected onto it. The aspects associated with Buddhism and its overall restorative potential to a split identity are arranged in such a way that they correspond to individual needs. While Wassermann could not choose not to be Jewish, he would exert his freedom of choice when it came to the East.

Walter Hasenclever: A Buddhist Prophet in Dire Times Das Ziel war, das Ziel bleibt: Das Leben im Paradies. Kurt Hiller, “Überlegungen zu Eschatologie und Methodologie des Aktivismus,” 195.

We now turn to Walter Hasenclever, one of the chief pioneers and major representatives of German Expressionism. The popularity that Hasenclever enjoyed in the interwar period seems like a distant memory now. Many of his plays were showstoppers, often causing scandals and extensive press coverage. Der Sohn (written in 1914, premiered in 1916) announced the ascendance of Expressionism to a position of full-fledged literary movement, and it was widely seen as heralding a new intellectual epoch (even by his many adversaries). His Ehen werden im Himmel geschlossen from 1929 resulted in a public uproar and then a blasphemy lawsuit. While Hasenclever had a penchant for Buddhism throughout his life, from his troublesome youth, when he was subjected to physical and emotional abuse by his father, to his suicide in the Camp des Milles prison camp in

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France in 1940, Judaism and Jewishness played a less visible role. Therefore, unlike the cases discussed earlier, our study of Hasenclever does not focus on finding Buddhist aspects in the work of a Jewish writer, but instead seeks to identify Jewish elements in the work of a Buddhist writer. Since this study claims to preoccupy itself with German-Jewish responses to Buddhism, before we dive into Hasenclever’s writings, we must address a pertinent question: Was Walter Hasenclever a Jewish writer? Walter Hasenclever has been commonly described as “German-Jewish” (or “deutsch-jüdisch”).160 This is justifiable, as the Encyclopaedia Judaica notes, since he was “born to a Jewish mother and a non-Jewish father.”161 However, as Bert Kasties has shown in his extremely detailed and indispensable biography, only Hasenclever’s maternal grandfather was Jewish and she later converted to Protestantism.162 On his father’s side, he prided himself on being a descendant of Goethe, an exaggerated claim.163 Walter Hasenclever himself was baptized in a Protestant church and claimed Protestantism as his religion on official documents. The myth of Hasenclever’s Jewish mother probably goes back to antisemitic right-wing circles. The earliest mention that I have located was by Adolf Bartels, who would later become one of the most important figures of National Socialist cultural politics. In an article from 1918 that lamented the Jewish influence on German literature, Bartels concluded that, judging from photos he had seen, Hasenclever must be Jewish.164 A couple of years later, in his (surprisingly) popular book about contemporary German literature, Bartels claimed that Hasenclever was a “Halbjude.”165 Even though Kurt Tucholsky 160  For example, in Hans-Peter Bayersdörfer, “Jewish Self-Presentation and the ‘Jewish Question’ on the German Stage from 1900 to 1930,” in Jewish Theatre: A Global View, edited by Edna Nahshon (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 155. And here: Ritchie Robertson, The “Jewish Question” in German Literature 1749–1939: Emancipation and its Discontents (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 254. 161  Encyclopaedia Judaica, 2nd ed., s.v. “Hasenclever, Walter.” (Detroit: Thomson Gale, 2007), 380. 162  Bert Kasties, Walter Hasenclever. Eine Biographie der deutschen Moderne (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1994), 29. 163  An ancestor was married to Cornelia Goethe, the sister of the poet. See Kasties, Walter Hasenclever. Eine Biographie der deutschen Moderne, 27. 164  “Die Sensationen der neuesten Zeit dürften denn auch alle jüdischen Ursprungs sein: Georg Kaiser, den man jetzt unter allen Umständen zum großen Dichter machen will, ist Jude, Walter Hasenclever, der Verfasser des ‘Sohnes,’ ist es nach seinen Bildern zu rechnen auch, […].” Adolf Bartels, “Kunst und Wissenschaft,” in Die Deutsche Not—Monatsblätter 4 (1918), 31 and 80. 165  Adolf Bartels, Die deutsche Dichtung von Hebbel bis zur Gegenwart. Dritter Teil. Die Jüngsten (Leipzig: H. Haessel, 1921), 220.

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mocked Bartels’s book for “Judenriecherei” and for its “un-­German-­like superficiality,” the idea that Hasenclever was a “Halbjude” spread and was even picked up by Jewish writers on the other side of the Atlantic.166 The American critic Isaac Goldberg, who used Adolf Bartels’s book as proof, called Hasenclever “a young half-Jew” in 1922.167 This claim took on a life of its own and was reiterated again and again throughout the 1920s and 1930s by publications across the political spectrum.168 Especially revealing is the article Der Dichter Walter Hasenclever—Ein psychologisches Problem by the poet Hans Benzmann (1869–1926). In the opening paragraph of his polemic against Hasenclever in particular, and Expressionism more generally, Benzmann lamented the prevalence of a “subversive and corrosive spirit” in German literature.169 The source of this intrusion of “this skeptical spirit” and “nihilistic individualism” into German culture is Jewish authors.170 The rest of the article comprises meticulous (and quite painful) close readings, intended to show that Hasenclever was possessed by skepticism and individualism. Even though Benzmann does not directly claim that Hasenclever is Jewish, the association is clear: Hasenclever is the main proponent of the subversion of German culture by the Jewish spirit. This idea, Jewish by association, proliferated throughout the 1920s on account of Hasenclever’s close connections with (supposedly Jewish) Expressionism, his pacifism, and, on top of that, his alleged sympathies for 166   Tucholsky further: “Der im Irrgarten der deutschen Literatur herumtaumelnde Pogromdepp fällt Urteile wie eine höhere junge Tochter aus der besten Gesellschaft.” Kurt Tucholsky, “Herr Adolf Bartels,” in Gesammelte Werke, Bd. 3 (1921–1924) (Reinbek: Rowohl Taschenbuch Verlag, 1975), 144–148. 167  Even though Isaac Goldberg was aware that in “all that Bartels has written the Jew is one of the arch-villains of German-literature,” he did not doubt the description of Hasenclever. Isaac Goldberg, The Drama of Transition: Native and Exotic Playcraft (Cincinnati: Stewart Kidd Company, 1922), 286. 168  For example, in Abraham Myerson and Isaac Goldberg, The German Jew: His Share in Modern Culture (New York: A.A. Knopf, 1933), 155. In the antisemitic reference work Sigilla Veri, that listed Jews and their alleged crimes, Hasenclever’s mother is also registered as Jewish and his writings are described as being influenced by his “maternal race.” E. Ekkehard [pseudonym for Heinrich Kraeger] (ed.), Sigilla Veri (Ph. Stauff’s Semi-Kürschner)—Ein Lexikon der Juden, -Genossen und -Gegner aller Zeiten und Zonen, insbesondere Deutschlands, der Lehren, Gebräuche, Kunstgriffe und Statistiken der Juden sowie ihrer Gaunersprache, Trugnamen, Geheimbünde, usw. Band IV (Erfurt: U. Bodung-Verlag, 1929), 947. 169  Hans Benzmann, “Der Dichter Walter Hasenclever—Ein psychologisches Problem,” Hochland—Monatszeitschrift für alle Gebiete des Wissens/der Literatur und Kunst 17 (1920), 194–209. 170  Benzmann, “Der Dichter Walter Hasenclever—Ein psychologisches Problem,” 194f.

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communism.171 The accusation of blasphemy against Ehen werden im Himmel geschlossen that were spread by Christian-conservative circles further cemented the image of Hasenclever as an anti-Christian (i.e., Jewish) author. In 1938, his Ausbürgerungsakte (Expatriation file) from the Gestapo dressed up the claim, which had begun 20 years earlier on the basis of Hasenclever’s physical appearance, in official garb: “Hasenclever is a citizen of the German Reich, a non-believer and a Jew. His mother was the Jewess Anni, née Reiß. His father was of German blood.”172 Even after the Second World War, the claim was not debunked; indeed, it continues to live on in the secondary literature and the feuilleton.173 It should be noted that Hasenclever never addressed the question of his alleged Jewishness publicly.174 Pronouncements concerning Judaism are a rare phenomenon, compared to other religions, and they only occur late in Hasenclever’s oeuvre. Judaism is then subjected to the same critique of monotheism that he applied to Christianity. His religious preference clearly leaned toward Buddhism and an ephemeral mysticism. The foes in his critique of religion were dogmatic tradition, institutionalization, and ritualization. Throughout his life, he had a fondness for horoscopes.175 These views correspond with his philosophical disposition, which took umbrage at rationalism and positivism. Peter E.  Gordon has pointed out certain parallels between the Expressionist rebellion in Hasenclever’s play Der Sohn and what he has dubbed Franz Rosenzweig’s “philosophical expressionism.”176 I agree that Hasenclever 171  Again Adolf Bartels: “[…] in der Schule des Expressionismus sind sicher die Hälfte Juden, wenn nicht schon mehr. Das ist aber doch ein bißchen viel, zumal, wenn man bedenkt, daß der Jude immer die Presse und neuerdings auch sonst noch allerlei hat, der Deutsche aber in der Regel nichts.” Adolf Bartels, “Kunst und Wissenschaft,” Die Deutsche Not— Monatsblätter 4 (1918), 31. 172  “Hasenclever ist deutscher Reichsbürger, glaubenslos und Jude. Seine Mutter war die Jüdin Anni, geb. Reiß. Sein Vater war deutschblütig.” Quoted in: Kasties, Walter Hasenclever. Eine Biographie der deutschen Moderne, 355. 173  Most notably, besides the Encyclopaedia Judaica, also in the seminal Kurzbiographien zur Geschichte der Juden: 1918–1945, where Hasenclever is labeled as “Halbjude.” Cf. Joseph Walk, Kurzbiographien zur Geschichte der Juden: 1918–1945 (München: K.G. Saur, 1988), 141. 174  Kasties, Walter Hasenclever. Eine Biographie der deutschen Moderne, 32. 175  Kasties, Walter Hasenclever. Eine Biographie der deutschen Moderne, 24. Further see: Kurt Pinthus, “Foreword,” to Gedichte, Dramen, Prosa, by Walter Hasenclever, edited by Kurt Pinthus (Reinbek: Rowohl Taschenbuch Verlag, 1963), 32. 176  Gordon, Rosenzweig and Heidegger: Between Judaism and German Philosophy, 24f.

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and Rosenzweig share a common horizon in their fight against dry paternal reason, but while Rosenzweig turned to the Medieval Jewish philosopher Jehuda Halevi, Hasenclever sought guidance from the Christian mystical theologian Emanuel Swedenborg. Only during the 1930s, when he was publicly defamed as half-Jewish, did Hasenclever affirmatively adopt his role as a “Jew,” including a more positive, albeit still ambivalent, image of Judaism. While traveling in Morocco in the fall of 1932, he reported to his brother: “Strangest are the Jews—like in the Old Testament. Still pure ghetto. A great world. I prayed for Germany in the synagogue.”177 What is notable is the Romantic perception of Sephardic Jewry, which he seemed to have encountered with sincere enthusiasm. The complex cultural mechanisms that allowed for a positive evaluation of the Sephardic have been discussed in Chap. 3 in reference to John Efron’s recent book on this topic. The fact that Hasenclever prayed in the local synagogue for Germany seems rather tongue-in-cheek, but if we take it at face value, we learn that Hasenclever at least could claim some kind of familiarity with Judaism. Furthermore, as we can learn from the above quote and from his other writings, for Hasenclever, Judaism was the religion of the Old Testament (“alt-testamentarisch”).178 In line with his critique of religion more generally, the high priests presented for him a theocratic cast. Clearly, despite the above quotation, Judaism, especially in its association as the religion of the Old Testament, had a negative connotation for Hasenclever. Hasenclever’s most direct engagement with Judaism and Jewishness can be seen in his play Konflikt in Assyrien. In the spring of 1938, Hasenclever was arrested in Italy, where he had lived in exile since 1936. During Adolf Hitler’s first and only official state visit, the Italian authorities interned all German potential troublemakers, among them 177  “Am merkwürdigsten sind die Juden—wie im Alten Testament. Noch reines Ghetto. Eine großartige Welt. Ich habe in der Synagoge für Deutschland gebetet […].” Walter Hasenclever, Ich hänge leider noch am Leben. Briefwechsel mit dem Bruder, edited by Bert Kasties (Göttingen: Wallstein Verlag, 1997), 49. 178  For example, “Marokko. […] Dort beginnt Tausendundeine Nacht… Diese Welt der fast unberührten arabischen Kultur, das ummauerte Judenghetto mit seinen alttestamentarischen Gestalten, die Bazargassen mit dem Duft des gebratenen Hammelfleisches, des grünen Tees, lagernde Karawanen, vorsintflutliche Kamele, die weißen Dächer, über denen die singende Seufzerstimme des Muezzin die Gebetstunden verkündet—welch ein unvergeßlicher Anblick!” Walter Hasenclever, Irrtum und Leidenschaft. Erziehung durch Frauen. Ein Bekenntnisroman, (München: F.A. Herbig, 1969), 265.

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Hasenclever.179 The only book that Hasenclever had access to during his ten-day long internment was a Bible in German.180 His reading inspired his next play in which he sought to depict the antisemitic politics of the Nazi regime through the Book of Esther. Hasenclever wrote Konflikt in Assyrien in London in the summer of 1938 shortly before returning to France. Until its premiere in April 1939, Hasenclever continued to amend and update key aspects so as to more explicitly criticize contemporary political events. The parallel between the current situation in Germany and the story of Esther is stressed throughout the text: A well-assimilated Jewish minority is threatened with extermination from a society in economic turmoil. Passages by Haman resemble pronouncements by Nazi ideologues, while Mordechai sounds like a German-Jewish patriot.181 The analogy between the Jews in Assyria and Nazi Germany are obvious even to the casual reader. Hasenclever ticked all the boxes, including race laws, Dolchstoßlegende, Blut-und-Boden ideology, and so on. After this initial premise is established, the play continues in a lighthearted, comical fashion, which is at odds with the underlying threat of genocide. The reception was, unsurprisingly, less than enthusiastic. But despite its hostile reception, the play marks Hasenclever’s most thorough discussion of Judaism and as such holds a unique place within his oeuvre. While it might be tempting to read his usage of this material as a rapprochement to Judaism, it should be noted that the textual basis for Konflikt in Assyrien was a Bible translated by Luther that Hasenclever had received at his confirmation in 1905. This fact in and of itself means little but, while generally sympathetic to the Jewish religion, the play communicates the view that Jewish ritual practices are an obstacle to assimilation. This is hardly a surprise given the consistency of his criticism of religion from an early age. While not a religious rapprochement, the play, however, displays an engagement with his Jewish ancestry. Shortly after finishing the play, Hasenclever wrote in a letter that he was sadly “only 25% Jewish.”182 179  Kasties, Walter Hasenclever. Eine Biographie der deutschen Moderne, 333ff. Cf. Walter Hasenclever, “Die Rechtlosen,” Prosa, Ausgewählte Werkein fünf Bänden, edited by Bert Kasties (Aachen: Shaker Verlag, 2004), 36. 180  Barbara Schommers-Kretschmer: Philosophie und Poetologie im Werk von Walter Hasenclever (Aachen: Shaker, 2000), 208. 181  Schommers-Kretschmer, Philosophie und Poetologie im Werk von Walter Hasenclever, 210ff. 182  Kasties, Walter Hasenclever. Eine Biographie der deutschen Moderne, 345.

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In the play, one of the main targets is the idea of Jewish genealogy and of a Jewish identity based on descent, that is, on race or blood, which is supposed by both the Haman and Mordechai. The latter declares to Esther: Whoever sprang from our people, we cannot let go. You belong to the holy covenant, too. You are a daughter of Zion.

Esther answers: Mordecai, you speak just like Haman. Shuddering, I see how much you are alike.183

The question of Jewish descent, regardless of whether it was posed by antisemites or the Jewish community, was seen as an obstacle to personal freedom. Just as the Nazis thought of Jewishness as an inescapable racial fate, so Judaism applied, for Hasenclever, the same rigor by determining one’s descent. His critique of Judaism and his misguided analogy between National Socialism and Judaism is reiterated in Die Rechtlosen, an autobiographical report of his internment in France at the beginning of the Second World War. After one of his fellow inmates reveals to him a plan to transfer his mother’s coffin out of Vienna, Hasenclever remarks, Maybe you have to be a Jew, I thought to myself, to understand this whole thing.

The same inmate continues: We, the scattered and cursed people of this Earth, we return to our beliefs. The more we are persecuted, the stronger we reflect on our origins.184

183  “Wer unserem Volk entsprungen ist, den lassen wir nicht los. Auch du gehörst zu dem heiligen Bunde. Du bist eine Tochter Zions.” and “Mordechai, Du redest genau wie Haman. Ich sehe mit Schaudern, wie ähnlich ihr Euch seid.” Walter Hasenclever, “Konflikt in Assyrien,” Stücke 1932–1938. Sämtliche Werke Bd. II.3, edited by Dieter Breuer and Bernd Witte (Mainz: Hase & Koehler, 1990), 442. 184  “Vielleicht muss man Jude sein, dachte ich, um das ganz zu begreifen.” and “Wir […] das zerstreute und verfluchte Volk dieser Erde, wir kehren zu unserem Glauben zurück. Je mehr man uns verfolgt, desto stärker besinnen wir uns auf unseren Ursprung.” Hasenclever, “Die Rechtlosen,” 126.

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The retort is illuminating and in the same mold as in Konflikt in Assyrien: […] I think your affirmation is beautiful […]. At least you have a goal. You know what still holds Europe together. But are you not falling into the same pitfalls as the Nazis by emphasising your racial awareness? Your family cult reminds me of Old Testament laws that forbade Jews from engaging in mixed marriages. Our modern fanatics have learned much from the high priests.185

Mischehe, that is, interreligious or interracial marriage, for example, between the King and Esther, is vigorously defended by Hasenclever, who sees both religious (Jewish) and racial (National Socialist) objections as two sides of the same coin. In a crucial scene, he argued for the primacy of love over racial and religious opposition.186 The idea that a “Jewish grandmother” should determine one’s life is fiercely mocked and reminds us of Hasenclever himself, who was subjected to antisemitic abuse throughout his life. If we attempt to classify the different attitudes of Hasenclever toward Judaism, one should note that it is not based on temporality. Unlike Buddhism, where Hasenclever favored the ancient (original) over the contemporary (supposedly deviated), he did not draw such a distinction when it came to Judaism. While Judaism, through the association with the “Old Testament,” was clearly the rival image, for him, contemporary forms of Jewish identity construction, including Zionism, were equally harmful. In the end, they prevented Jewish assimilation and the advancement of human equality. Therefore, in his writings we find overwhelmingly negative views of what he saw as exclusionist tendencies in Judaism; indeed, he even considered them as precursors of contemporary racism. These statements complicate the positive depiction of Judaism that is also in evidence. The few occasions on which he expressed admiration for Judaism or the Jewish people are based on Romantic ideas of religious devotion or holidays devoid of any ritual or legalistic aspects. For example, in Konflikt in Assyrien, after Haman is arrested and love has prevailed, Hasenclever 185  “[…] ich finde Ihr Bekenntnis sehr schön. […]. Sie haben wenigsten ein Ziel. Sie wissen, was Sie noch an Europa bindet. Aber verfallen Sie nicht, indem Sie ihr Rassebewußtsein betonen, in den gleichen Fehler, wie die Nazis? Ihr Familienkult erinnert mich an die alttestamentarischen Gesetze, die den Juden die Mischehen verboten. Unsere modernen Fanatiker haben viel von den Hohepriestern gelernt.” Ibid. 186  Hasenclever, “Konflikt in Assyrien,” 442f.

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paints a benign picture of the Feast of Purim. The festive scene, the last one in the play, ends with the onset of the Hochzeitsmarsch by Mendelssohn-­ Bartholdy, who, like Hasenclever, could not escape his Jewish descent. The king’s (ironic) comment is especially revealing: King: Quite Jewish? Don’t you think? Esther: I don’t want to hear about Jews anymore. I love you.187

The king’s insinuation that Mendelssohn-Bartholdy’s music was inherently Jewish recalls, on the one hand, Richard Wagner’s antisemitic attack against the composer in Das Judenthum in der Musik, and, on the other, Hasenclever’s own experience as somebody whose work was judged to be Jewish.188 In the end, the only way to leave behind the division between Jewish and non-Jewish was, as Hasenclever’s Esther suggests, through love. This appears as a rather benign ending for a play that implied an outrageous analogy between Judaism and fascism. It is unclear to what extent the mawkish lines of the finale are Hasenclever’s personal conviction, or whether they are intended to appease the audience at a time when he desperately needed a (financial) success. As implied in his autobiographic novel with the telling title Irrtum und Leidenschaft—Erziehung durch Frauen, love was not the common thread that held his life together. As Kurt Pinthus stated, there appeared to be only one constant in Walter Hasenclever’s life and oeuvre, and that was suffering.189 After disentangling Hasenclever’s relation to Judaism and the Jewish people, let us now turn to his relationship with Buddhism. The starting  König: Etwas jüdisch? Findest Du nicht? Esther: Ich will jetzt nichts mehr von Juden hören. Ich liebe Dich. […]. Hasenclever, “Konflikt in Assyrien,” 459.

187

An alternative ending stops after the King’s comment. The “official” version, that is, the one included in Sämtliche Werke, continues like this: Esther: Ich will jetzt nichts mehr von Juden hören. Ich liebe Dich. Lange Umarmung. Aber eins mußt Du mir versprechen. Du darfst nie mit einer anderen Jüdin schlafen. König: Du bist die erste und die letzte. Das schwöre ich Dir. Hasenclever, “Konflikt in Assyrien,” 483. 188  For Richard Wagner’s attacks on Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, see Brener, Richard Wagner and the Jews, 43ff. 189  Kurt Pinthus, “Afterword,” to Irrtum und Leidenschaft. Erziehung durch Frauen. Ein Bekenntnisroman, by Walter Hasenclever (München: F.A. Herbig, 1969), 336.

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point of Hasenclever’s engagement with Buddhism was a deep-seated pessimism and a sense of never-ending suffering. Even without the aforementioned opinion of a close friend and collaborator like Pinthus, there are sufficient hints within his writings that warrant such a verdict. From his last prose works, written under Nazi threat, that offer a melancholic, often bitter, look back at his life, up to his early works as a young student in Oxford that depict a worldweary Weltschmerz, suffering, the misery of life, and the futile attempts at bliss are what characterize Hasenclever’s writings. Two other aspects accompany the omnipresent suffering, namely suicide and Buddhism. As an implicit principle, Buddhistbased ideas—like Karmic retribution, acceptance of one’s fate, and the ubiquity of suffering—appear to form a constant layer in his thinking. Buddhism, in its Schopenhauerian disguise, is so ever present in his oeuvre that I only focus on its most explicit pronouncements here. At the age of 15 or 16, Hasenclever ventured into his first literary excursions, which resulted in five short stories, all of which dealt with suicide, as his teacher later recalled.190 Around this time, according to his own statement, Hasenclever conceived the idea for his first play Nirwana— Eine Kritik des Lebens in Dramaform, which he wrote at the age of 17 during his first semester as a student at Oxford (he claimed to have paid for its publication with poker winnings).191 The young Hasenclever was deeply influenced by Nietzsche and Schopenhauer, and the play can be read as a shift from the former to the latter.192 The convoluted plot depicts the Nietzschean arson of a church out of passion and love and leads to the realization that one has to pay for wrongdoings in this life. Sternau, who spent a long time in prison for burning down the church (out of an act of love for his lover Ellen), once intended to write a book called Nirwana that would bring Indian thought to fruition in Germany.193 Under Nirwana, he understood the principle that 190  So his German teacher Dr. Löhe, as quoted in Kasties, Walter Hasenclever. Eine Biographie der deutschen Moderne, 34. Four of these five stories were found in 1967 in the archival bequest of Hermann Hesse. 191  Walter Hasenclever, “[Untitled letter to the editor],” Hochland—Monatszeitschrift für alle Gebiete des Wissens/der Literatur und Kunst 17 (1920), 766f. Cf. Kasties, Walter Hasenclever. Eine Biographie der deutschen Moderne, 48f. 192  Schommers-Kretschmer: Philosophie und Poetologie im Werk von Walter Hasenclever, 14. 193  Walter Hasenclever, “Nirwana—Eine Kritik des Lebens in Dramaform,” in Sämtliche Werke, Band II.1. Stücke bis 1924, edited by Annelie Zurhelle and Christoph Bauer (Mainz: v. Hase & Koehler Verlag, 1992), 41f.

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would allow humanity to rise above its mediocrity. Then, in the ­protagonist’s mindset, there is a shift from Nietzsche to Schopenhauer.194 Sternau realizes that all desires and goals are futile, and that life and the pursuit of happiness are merely an illusion. Passion and desire always lead to ill. He consequently accepts his guilt in the misery of the mother of his illegitimate child, who was forced into prostitution. Dutiful to his ethical commitments and atoning for his previous deeds, he renounces his lover Ellen so he can take care of his son. Ellen, who left her affluent husband to be with Sternau, draws another Nietzschean consequence from the futility of life, namely liberation from her humanity, and thus announces her suicide.195 Nirwana has changed its earlier meaning and endures as a distant promise of reward, gratification, and even reunion, whose ultimate attainability is not revealed. The end suggests, however, the prevalence of Schopenhauerian pessimism over Nietzschean heroism, when Sternau overcomes, in full recognition of his powerlessness, the “shadows” that clouded his life. The conclusion suggests that indifference instead of passion should be the guiding principle for one’s life. Even though Buddhism permeates the play on several levels, Hasenclever is not explicit when it comes to its concrete content. He seems not to have been aware of the burgeoning Buddhist literature at that time. While he adopted his ideas on Indian thought and Buddhism from, mostly, Schopenhauer and less so from Nietzsche, and supplemented by a Bergsonian vitalism, he does not appear to have been interested in exploring Buddhism beyond their interpretation. Buddhism is evaluated inside a philosophical framework, that is, in opposition to currents of German (Kantian) philosophy, and not against a religious background, that is, in opposition to Christianity or Judaism. Not surprisingly, then, while themes like suffering, guilt, egoism, suicide, and so on are ubiquitous in the years that followed, Buddhism would play almost no explicit role. In the plays Der Sohn, Der Retter, and Antigone, the critique of Christianity, mostly along Nietzschean lines, provided a red thread.196 As an inversion of the death of the son of God, in 194  I follow, with a slightly different emphasis, Schommers-Kretschmer’s and Kasties’s interpretation. Kasties, Walter Hasenclever. Eine Biographie der deutschen Moderne, 53ff. Schommers-Kretschmer, Philosophie und Poetologie im Werk von Walter Hasenclever, 16–21. 195  Hasenclever, “Nirwana—Eine Kritik des Lebens in Dramaform,” 98. 196  Schommers-Kretschmer, Philosophie und Poetologie im Werk von Walter Hasenclever, 42f.

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Der Sohn the death of the father redeems from the duty of “being” and with the possibility of “becoming.”197 During the First World War, Hasenclever slowly adopted a more irrational stance. His staunch pacifism became more private, and his political activism was replaced by spiritual investigations. In his own words: […] Already in 1917, I recognised the impossibility of implementing political ideals in Germany. […] I refused to play a role in the ill-fated revolution and focussed on mental problems.198

This eventually included a new assessment of Buddhism, outside of the framework set by Schopenhauer, and an encroachment into more religious categories. Paramount to this development was the famous actor Paul Wegener, with whom Hasenclever developed a friendship after their collaboration on a production of Der Sohn in Berlin in 1918. Wegener further stoked his interest in Buddhism and the mysticism of Emanuel Swedenborg, and it was through him that Hasenclever became acquainted with German-­ Buddhist literature, and was now familiar with, at least, the works of Neumann and Grimm.199 When asked in 1921 for book recommendations, Hasenclever first mentioned, under the caption Weltanschauung, Neumann’s translation of Die Reden Gotamo Buddhos aus der Mittleren Sammlung des Pali-Canons. The explanation he gives is especially revealing in respect of his attitude toward religion in the early 1920s:

 Bald seh ich es mit der letzten Klarheit Schein:

197

  Entzünd ich weiter, immer weiter Feuer,   dann bin ich mehr als ich bin—dann werd ich sein! Walter Hasenclever, “Der Sohn,” in Dramen I, Ausgewählte Werke in fünf Bänden, edited by Bert Kasties (Aachen: Shaker, 2003), 89. 198  “[…] schon 1917 erkannte ich die Unmöglichkeit, in Deutschland politische Ideale zu verwirklichen. [….] Ich lehnte es ab, in der verunglückten Revolution eine Rolle zu spielen und wandte mich geistigen Problemen zu.” Walter Hasenclever, Biographische Notiz für Dresdner Verlag, 1921. Walter Hasenclever Nachlaß, HS.NZ86.0001.00035, Deutsches Literaturarchiv Marbach. 199  Cf. Christa Spreizer, From Expressionism to Exile: The Works of Walter Hasenclever (1890–1940) (Rochester: Camden House, 1999), 104. See also Pinthus, “Foreword,” 29.

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If someone wishes to save themselves from the sterile rationalism of Western philosophy and the murky mysticism of the religious communities, and achieve the wisdom of a higher understanding, they should read these books whilst filled by the spirit of worldly pervasion. An addition, if you will, as system of these last truths signifying Europe’s downfall, comes from Georg Grimm: ‘Die Lehre des Buddho’ (The Teaching of Buddha) was published by the same company. The main aspects of the broad and supple stream of Buddhist sources are summarised here in a concise and clear manner—an unmistakeable, convincing depiction of the mighty spiritual creation.200

Under the caption Lyrik, Hasenclever elaborates on the same topic: Another book from the olden days that is worth more than any Christian and mystical dilutions by many poets: Die Lieder der Mönche und Nonnen Gotamo Buddhos (The Songs of the Monks and Nuns Gotama Buddha’s), expertly translated by Karl Eugen Neumann […].201

These short passages paraphrase several common tropes that we saw in the writings of previously discussed writers: The prevalence of rationalism, the desiccation of religious thought and practice in Europe, the downfall of the Occident, and the redemptive potential of Buddhism. Hasenclever was, as we should remember, not a systematic thinker, but a writer who excelled mostly when he could make poignant observations or create atmospheric images with just one or two lines. His poems, plays, and feuilletons were his forte and certainly outrank his long-form writings. An article, titled Lebende Götter, that Hasenclever published in the Danziger Zeitung on June 6, 1924, is revealing regarding his increased familiarity with Buddhism.202 This short yet dense article, at times more 200  “Wer aus dem sterilen Rationalismus der abendländischen Philosophie und dem trüber Mystik der Religionsgemeinschaften sich zur Weisheit einer höheren Erkenntnis retten will, der lese diese Bücher, erfüllt von dem Geist der Weltdurchdringung. Als Ergänzung, wann man will als System dieser letzten Wahrheiten, die den Untergang Europas bedeuten, ist von Georg Grimm: ‘Die Lehre des Buddho’ im gleichen Verlag erschienen. Aus dem breitfließenden, üppigen Strom der buddhistischen Quellen ist hier das wesentliche in knapper, klarer Form zusammengefaßt, eine eindeutige, überzeugende Darstellung der gewaltigen, geistigen Schöpfung.” Weismantel, Die Zwölf Wegbereiter—Ein Almanach persönlicher Beratung für das Jahr 1921, 13f. 201  “Wieder ein Buch aus der alten Zeit, das mehr wert ist als alle christlichen und mystischen Verwässerungen mancher Lyriker: Die Lieder der Mönche und Nonnen Gotamo Buddhos in der ausgezeichneten Übersetzung von Karl Eugen Neumann […].” Ibid. 202  Walter Hasenclever, “Lebende Götter,” in Danziger Zeitung, June 6, 1924, 2.

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societal analysis than a classic review, demonstrates that Hasenclever had acquired a more thorough knowledge of Buddhism. Casting away the Schopenhauerian prism allowed him to characterize different Buddhist traditions. Furthermore, his Buddhist reception was supplemented by a temporal component as he distinguished between ancient and contemporary forms. This diversification of what had once been a solely Schopenhauerian understanding was probably due to the influence of Paul Wegener, whose new film Lebende Buddhas he reviewed alongside Ferdynand Ossendowski’s travelogue through Asia, Tiere, Menschen und Götter. Wegener had undertaken this pet project with significant personal investment and, as Hasenclever noted in the article, used many items of his private Buddhaica collection as props. Hasenclever read both Ossendowski’s book and Wegener’s film as two sides of the same coin, namely as complementary oppositions in the struggle between Asia and Europe. Ossendowski represents the exploration of deep Asian mysticism by Europe, while Wegener typifies the adit of Asia into Europe (which Hasenclever praises). That both Ossendowski and Wegener are European, and therefore the struggle between Asia and Europe is carried out without Asian agency, seems to be of no concern to Hasenclever. On the contrary, the lack of Asian agency corroborates Hasenclever’s Orientalist binary reading. European agency, just as Feuchtwanger thought, means thriving for power and, in consequence, war and revolution, while in Asia, the spiritual reigns. Spiritual passivity is set to prevail over agency-driven despiritualization. Hasenclever further claims that contemporary Asian societies (he seems to think mostly of Tibet) have deviated from the pure teachings of the Buddha and engage in human sacrifice, idolatry, and magic practices.203 However, for Hasenclever, it is not ritual (or even magical) practices per se that are diametrically opposed to Buddhism in its pure, original version. The extension beyond confines (on which he does not elaborate) distinguishes certain legitimate religious practices with ritual components, as practiced in some monasteries in Ceylon, from its improper applications. Hasenclever does not have a problem with rituals and magical practices per se, but only when they reach beyond their own sphere and venture into, for example, the political realm. This overextension is rooted in the institutionalization of rituals, that is, when the free-floating energy is pressed into a suffocating form. 203  See for more on the reception of Tibet Buddhism as deviant from the Buddha’s teachings and as “the other of the other”: Lopez, Prisoners of Shangri-La, 38.

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His preference for Theravada Buddhism over Lamaism has a political basis. Hasenclever sees Tibetan society as governed by a strictly hierarchical, theocratically legitimized feudalism, while monasticism in Ceylon is positively associated with religious communitarianism. The critique of Jewish theocracy that we found in Konflikt in Assyrien, almost 15 years later, was applied to Buddhism as well. So, while Hasenclever did hold an ambivalent attitude toward contemporary Asian society, he nevertheless saw the possibility of its positive influence on Europe, which was threatened by its downfall. For him, Buddhism represented the middle ground between “sterile rationalism” and “murky mysticism.”204 It was in the figure of a Christian thinker, Emanuel Swedenborg, that this ideal was embodied in Europe. In this period, concomitant with the deepening of his fascination with Buddhism, Hasenclever became deeply absorbed by the writings of Emanuel Swedenborg. He even claimed, like the Swedish scientist turned theologian, to suffer from visions.205 In 1922, he started his “calling” to translate pieces from Swedenborg’s writings, which resulted in the publication of Himmel Hölle Geisterwelt in 1925.206 His penchant for occultism and theosophy that had existed since his youth was now the main force that guided his religious views. He saw himself as part of a spiritual vanguard, and his preoccupation with Swedenborg, the metaphysician of the spiritual, heralded the dawn of a new era. Hasenclever put a quote from Balzac’s novel Louis Lambert in front of his translation, which sounds programmatic: Those who dive into these religious currents, of which not all founders are known, understand that Zarathustra, Moses, Buddha, Confucius, Jesus Christ, Swedenborg all have the same principles, and all strive toward the same goal. Still, the latter, Swedenborg, may become the Buddha of the North.207 204  Weismantel, Die Zwölf Wegbereiter—Ein Almanach persönlicher Beratung für das Jahr 1921, 13f. 205  Kasties, Walter Hasenclever. Eine Biographie der deutschen Moderne, 210. 206  “Der Herausgeber dieses Buches glaubte, einer Berufung zu folgen, als er sich im Januar 1922 entschloß, eine Ahnung des Swedenborgschen Geistes seiner Zeit zu vermitteln.” Emanuel Swedenborg, Himmel Hölle Geisterwelt, translated, edited, and with an afterword by Walter Hasenclever (Berlin: Die Schmiede, 1925; Reprint by Zürich: Swedenborg Verlag, 1963), 157. I quote here, as in the following, from the 1963 reprint. 207  “Wer sich in diese religiösen Strömungen stürzt, deren Gründer nicht alle bekannt sind, der erkennt, daß Zarathustra, Moses, Buddha, Konfuzius, Jesus Christus, Swedenborg die

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While the implicit idea of a philosophia perennis that all (the named) religions shared seems inconsistent with Hasenclever’s early pronouncements, he subscribed now especially to the second part of the quote. Through his translation, Hasenclever sought to turn Swedenborg into the Buddha of the North, of Europe, and to instigate a spiritual transformation. In his extensive afterword, Hasenclever explicitly positioned the Swedenborgian philosophy as a cure for the tumult of the times: At the end of a lost war, or a confusing revolution, all spiritual goods removed, spoiled and impoverished, at the start of an unbelievable devaluation threatening to rob it of its last morsel, of its last bit of accomplished labour, the nation seemed to need new mental strength to build upon the ruins of society.208

In his sidelong lamentation over the dire state of contemporary German society, political and cultural crises are rooted in the spiritual incapabilities of modern men, who are “clamped in the straps of an enormous machine, without a soul, without a God.”209 The adit of Asia into Europe had to be negotiated through the work of a European artist. The stakes were high, he insisted, on account of the possibility of another war. Yet Hasenclever was determined to avoid this outcome. While the ensuing crisis had caused the ascendance of Buddhism in Europe, the need was now for a translator. Hasenclever claimed this important role for himself. He tried to portray himself as a modern-day incarnation of Swedenborg and in some sense depicted Swedenborg’s shift from scientist to theologian as a model for his own disillusion with rationalism: “Asking for enlightenment, as the last responsible of his time, he dares to proclaim religion in the dungeon of the gleichen Prinzipien haben, und daß sie dem gleichen Ziele zustreben. Aber der letzte von allen, Swedenborg, wird vielleicht der Buddha des Nordens werden.” Swedenborg, Himmel Hölle Geisterwelt, 9. 208  “Am Ende eines verlorenen Krieges, einer verworrenen Revolution, bar aller seelischen Güter, verdorben und verarmt, im Beginn einer ungeheuren Entwertung, die sie um ihr letztes Stück Brot, um den letzten Rest geleisteter Arbeit zu betrügen drohte, schien die Nation auf den Trümmern der Gemeinschaft neuer, geistiger Kräfte zu bedürfen.” Walter Hasenclever in: Swedenborg, Himmel Hölle Geisterwelt, 157. 209  “Er sah, als er die Werke seiner Epoche prüfte, die Sinnlosigkeit der Menschen und Dinge, hörte den Leerlauf der Betriebsamkeit, erkannte einen Geist, der sich erschöpfte in negativer Unendlichkeit. Philosophie und Dichtung, eingespannt in die Treibriemen einer ungeheuren Maschine, schienen, entseelt und entgottet, nur noch ein Trugbild des lebendigen Kosmos zu sein.” Hasenclever, “Afterword,” 161.

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intellect.”210 Hasenclever speaks here not of Swedenborg but of himself, as he would personally serve as a “medium of a higher revelation.”211 The genealogical lineage that he implicitly invoked runs from Buddha to Swedenborg to Goethe (Hasenclever’s alleged ancestor) to Hasenclever.212 His Swedenborg translations were not just a literary project, but, inflated with magnanimous pomp, he saw them as a historical turning point. Hasenclever was convinced that his ideas would be vindicated, that occultism and astrology would be scientifically proven, and that humanity would enter what he called a “fourth dimension.”213 I would, however, hesitate to see his interest in Swedenborg as a sign for a rapprochement toward Christianity. What he found appealing in Swedenborgian mysticism was its reach beyond institutionalization and Christian dogma. A remark Hasenclever once made, might give us a clearer hint: “Let us say anarchism instead of expressionism, because the man of the future is anarchistic like Buddha.”214 With his amalgamation of Buddhism and Christian mysticism, his rejection of institutionalized rituals, and his openness toward occult practices, Hasenclever’s approach can be called religious anarchism. While it seems rather far-fetched to include Hasenclever’s particular Buddhist-Christian brand among the religious Jewish anarchism of Gustav Landauer and Martin Buber (and, one might add, Gershom Scholem, Walter Benjamin, and Franz Rosenzweig), his attitude toward religion and its latent social and political implications is similar in several aspects. These include a redemptive messianism, a Romantic mysticism, and political thought combined with an apolitical passivity. However, Hasenclever’s religious anarchism, though explicitly messianic, is devoid of openly Jewish elements. One reason for this lay in his holistic approach to rituals and time. Rosenzweig and Benjamin saw in the religious calendar that dictates the point in time of rituals an ­instrument 210  “Um Erleuchtung bittend, als der letzte Verantwortliche seiner Zeit, wagt er es, im Kerker des Intellekts Religion zu verkünden.”Swedenborg, Himmel Hölle Geisterwelt, 160. 211  Swedenborg, Himmel Hölle Geisterwelt, 165. 212  Cf. Swedenborg, Himmel Hölle Geisterwelt, 189f. 213  “Okkultismus und Astrologie sind auf dem Wege, wissenschaftlich bewiesen zu werden. Wir stehen an der Schwelle der vierten Dimension.” Walter Hasenclever, “Die Aufgabe des Dramas,” in Sämtliche Werke, Bd. V, Kleine Schriften, edited by Dieter Breuer and Bernd Witte (Mainz: v. Hase & Koehler, 1997), 275–277. See further Pinthus, “Foreword,” 29. 214  “Sagen wir statt Expressionismus lieber Anarchismus, denn der Mensch der Zukunft ist anarchistisch wie Buddha.” Walter Hasenclever, “Gesundung aus Zerstörungsprozess,” 8 Uhr-Abendblatt, December 31, 1928, 5.

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to reach beyond the notions of progress and history.215 Hasenclever could not have found guidance in the Jewish calendar. His penchant for horoscopes illustrates that, while staunchly opposed to a positivist understanding of history, he saw time as a stream through which one could reach, via occult practices, for example, and excavate hidden knowledge. Rituals replace these purely situationally applicable means with a repetitious structure that subsequently empties them of their spiritual content. It was this insight, facilitated by his preoccupation with Swedenborg, that caused the shift in his approach to writing. Instead of perpetuating “theoretical experiments and literary stubbornness,” his plays would now be concerned with life itself. Even though their opinions on rituals differed, here Hasenclever and Rosenzweig shared an insight: Almost ten years before, the latter had finished his Stern der Erlösung by urging: Into Life.216 Now, Hasenclever would follow suit. This also went hand in hand with a geographical change. After the lukewarm reception of Himmel Hölle Geisterwelt and the apparent absence of its redemptive effect, Hasenclever moved to Paris and returned to playwriting. His plays from the 1920s, which differed substantially from his Expressionist works, had a lighter note and often employed comical elements. In 1928, a new play called Ehen werden im Himmel geschlossen was performed for the first time and it became an audience favorite. The play depicts God and other celestials betting on human marriage. Despite its generally positive reception and comparatively lighthearted tone, the play raised the ire of Christian-conservative circles. In what seems like a coordinated attack, the Catholic Church demanded the cancelation of the play by the municipality (which was denied), while Protestant groups organized public demonstrations and finally filed a lawsuit against Hasenclever.217 In a remarkable document, Hasenclever defended his play: The concept of God in the Old Testament seemed to be barbarically strict, whereas the New Testament God of reconciliation replaces the God of vengeance. However, humans are given the responsibility for this imperfect world. Both views are unfair. The presuppositions of original sin and miracles and, as a last resort, the dictatorship of faith do not cover up the dilemma that the existence of a supreme being was established as the norm for a 215  Cf. Batnitzky, Idolatry and Representation: The Philosophy of Franz Rosenzweig Reconsidered, 138. 216  “Ins Leben.” Rosenzweig, Der Stern der Erlösung, 472. 217  Kasties, Walter Hasenclever. Eine Biographie der deutschen Moderne, 253.

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certain epoch of human development, which was temporally and socially bound for religious-philosophical reasons. If then our concept of God changed over the centuries, it is the poet’s task to reformulate it for our time.218

Several aspects are noteworthy here. First, the degradation of both the Old and the New Testaments. Hasenclever denounced both from the holy scripture of Judaism and Christianity. On the one hand, this marks an attempt to distance himself from his alleged Jewishness; on the other, he is addressing a common argument in Christian anti-Judaism, namely that the God of the Jewish Bible is vengeful, while the Christian God stands for reconciliation.219 Hasenclever then went on to dismantle both notions of God via a historicist argument: Neither idea of God can transcend its historical setting. After rejecting both Judaism and Christianity (or at least what Hasenclever understood by these terms), he suggests a counter model against narrow ideas of religion and against the historicity of religion: I can swear at any time that the intention of my comedy was thoroughly ethical: to give audiences a notion of a higher being that corresponds to our views. That this highest being does not believe in the Pope’s infallibility and thinks certain parts of the Bible attributed to him are apocryphal, seems to me as the right of any prophet, as long as there is no undeniable proof for God’s existence.220 218  “Der Gottesbegriff des Alten Testaments erschien mir von barbarischer Strenge, während im neuen Testament der Gott der Rache von einem Gott der Versöhnung abgelöst ist, wobei den Menschen die Schuld für diese unvollkommene Welt aufgebürdet wird. Beide Anschauungen entbehren der Gerechtigkeit; die Voraussetzung der Erbsünde und des Wunders und als ultima ratio die Diktatur des Glaubens täuschen nicht über die Verlegenheit hinweg, dass hier die Existenz des höchsten Wesens aus religionsphilosophischen Gründen für eine bestimmte Epoche der menschlichen Entwicklung, die zeitlich und sozial gebunden war, als Norm festgelegt wurde. Wenn also der Gottesbegriff im Lauf der Jahrhunderte sich wandelte, so ist es die Aufgabe des Dichters, ihn für unsere Zeit neu zu formulieren.” Walter Hasenclever, “Autobiographische Skizze mit Erläuterungen zur Entstehungsgeschichte der Komödie Ehen werden im Himmel geschlossen,” Walter Hasenclever Nachlaß, HS.NZ86.0001.00034, Deutsches Literaturarchiv Marbach. 219  Cf. Dietrich Walter, “Gott der Rache versus Gott der Liebe? Wider die Verzerrung biblischer Gottesbilder,” Antijudaismus—Christliche Erblast, edited by Dietrich Walter, George Martin, and Luz Ulrich (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1999), 9–27. 220  “[…] Ich kann jederzeit beschwören, dass die Absicht meiner Komödie eine durchaus ethische war: den Zuschauern die Ahnung eines höchsten Wesens zu vermitteln, wie es unserer Anschauung entspricht. Dass dieses höchste Wesen nicht an die Unfehlbarkeit des Papstes

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Hasenclever again assumed here the position of a prophet of modern times, as in his afterword to his Swedenborg translations. Ernst Toller’s description of those years when the yearning for a societal deus ex machina was ubiquitous helps to put Hasenclever’s self-assumed role as a prophet in context: Everywhere the same lunatic belief that a man, a leader, a Caesar, a Messiah, will suddenly appear and work a miracle; will suddenly arise and take upon his shoulders all the responsibility for the future; will master life, banish fear, abolish misery, create new people, a new kingdom of splendour.221

Along with Hasenclever’s repetitious assumption of the role of a prophet, this quotation allows us to see his way of thinking as entrenched in Jewish messianism. As has been pointed out, avant-garde movements at the beginning of the twentieth century, like Expressionism with its high percentage of writers of Jewish descent, were prone to messianic thinking.222 I would, however, not go so far as to categorize Hasenclever’s messianic interest as explicitly Jewish. He was certainly part of the messianism-prone vanguard, not because he was influenced by Jewish tradition or upbringing, but rather because he participated in the same discursive field. Messianic thinking in this period was not limited to Jews. The teachings of the Buddha were popular, as shown in Chap. 4, in antisemitic circles, and yet they fed off the same messianic desire that, for example, animated the Expressionists. The same forces and desires were at play in the right-wing yearning for a strong, messianic leader. The same goes for the George Circle with its Jewish and non-Jewish members. Other examples abound. So, while the role of a prophet that Hasenclever claimed for himself was from the traditional textbook of religion, the foundation of this role was glaubt und manche Stellen der Bibel, die man ihm in den Mund legt für apokryph hält, scheint mir das gute Recht jedes Propheten, solange es keinen absoluten einwandfreien Beweis für die Existenz Gottes gibt.” Hasenclever, “Autobiographische Skizze mit Erläuterungen zur Entstehungsgeschichte der Komödie Ehen werden im Himmel geschlossen,” Walter Hasenclever Nachlaß, HS.NZ86.0001.00034, Deutsches Literaturarchiv Marbach. 221  Ernst Toller, I was a German: The Autobiography of a Revolutionary (New York: Morrow, 1934), 297. 222  Sami Sjörberg, “Redemption, Utopia and the Avant-Garde: German-Jewish Visions of the Future,” in Utopia: The Avant-garde, Modernism and (Im)possible Life, edited by David Ayers et al. (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015), 185ff.

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new. In the above cited defense letter, he laid out a vision of the laws of the world that opposes in its Nietzschean-Buddhist blend any Judeo-­ Christian idea of God or the world: I consider myself close to the Buddhist worldview and believe in karma. Even Zeus is bound to an all-mighty fate, just as God in my comedy. […] I am convinced of a permanent metamorphosis of the world, including human existence. Just as the concepts of good and evil, fair und unfair, crime and punishment are always shifting, the attributes of God, his purpose and his appearance are also always subject to change.223

While it might now be possible to show through a genealogy of these ideas that they are in some way derivative of older Jewish or Christian ideas, it is also clear that Hasenclever thought of this as a new way of thinking. His role as a prophet is sparked by his understanding of history as a Karmic circle, and not by linear Jewish concepts of history as commonly understood. He retained a Jewish concept (messianism) but gave it new content. I now try to bring together these two discourses—namely that of Buddhism and of Jewishness—that permeate Hasenclever’s work. In the 1930s, the political situation grew dire for Hasenclever, not only because of his distant Jewish heritage, but also because he had exposed himself as an opponent of the National Socialist ideology from early on. In September 1938, he was stripped of his German citizenship, which he only discovered through the press in October, but then reported to Kurt Pinthus a feeling of relief: “In the meantime, I bless my fate, that the murderers have expatriated me. […] I have nothing more to do with this vermin.”224 After the inception of the war with the German invasion of 223  “[…] Ich stehe der buddhistischen Anschauung nahe und glaube an das Karma-gesetz [!] Auch Zeus unterliegt dem allmächtigen Schicksal, genau wie Gott in meiner Komödie. […] Ich bin überzeugt von einer ewigen Matamorphose [!] der Welt, also auch des menschlichen Daseins. Ebenso wie die Begriffe von gut und böse, gerecht und ungerecht, von Verbrechen und Strafe sich ständig ändern, sind auch die Attribute Gottes, sein Zweck und seine Gestalt einer Wandlung unterworfen. […]” Hasenclever, “Autobiographische Skizze mit Erläuterungen zur Entstehungsgeschichte der Komödie Ehen werden im Himmel geschlossen,” Walter Hasenclever Nachlaß, HS.NZ86.0001.00034, Deutsches Literaturarchiv Marbach. 224  “Inzwischen segne ich mein Schicksal, dass die Mörder mich ausgebürgert haben. […] Ich habe nichts mehr mit diesem Ungeziefer zu tun.” Quoted in Kasties, Walter Hasenclever. Eine Biographie der deutschen Moderne, 356.

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Poland in September 1939, Hasenclever was interned with other refugees from Germany and Austria at the centre de rassemblement in Antibes near Cannes at the Côte d’Azur. That Hasenclever had in the meantime lost his German citizenship led him into a Kafkaesque struggle with French bureaucracy that, ultimately, did not spare him from internment. In his posthumously published autobiographical novel Die Rechtlosen, Hasenclever provided a detailed account of his time in Antibes. This piece of writing, the last before his suicide, is especially revealing in terms of his ideas about Jewishness, Germany, and Buddhism. These three aspects were of immediate concern to him because of his environment. He was interned because, despite now being stateless, he was originally from Germany. Most of his fellow inmates were Jewish refugees. The constant threat raised questions about suffering and death, which, for Hasenclever, were closely connected with Buddhism. Confronting the toll that the threat of war takes on the civilian population evoked in Hasenclever an affirmation of his German descent via a sense of guilt. While his descent is now associated with shame, the emotional link to Germany is undeniable: “I’m starting to feel awful ashamed. Even if the criminals have expatriated me, I was born there. Let’s not forget that.”225 On another occasion, Hasenclever emphasized his belonging to German culture. This and other passages illustrate that his final years saw an emotional distancing from the Jewish people concomitant with a critique of the antisemitic politics of National Socialism. That Hasenclever criticized racial antisemitism in Konflikt in Assyrien did not prevent him from alleging that German Jews and non-Jewish Germans are separated by different political fates, cognitive difference, and (metaphorical) blood:226 I myself come, as it is so nicely put, from the ‘Goethesche Blutgemeinschaft’ (Goethe’s community of blood). The privy councillor was cosmopolitan and open about it. We are internationally bound.227 225  “Ich fange an mich entsetzlich zu schämen. Wenn mich die Verbrecher auch ausgebürgert haben: ich bin schließlich dort geboren. Vergessen wir das nicht.” Hasenclever, “Die Rechtlosen,” 23. 226  Cf. for the usage of the metaphor of blood in German-Jewish writings: Battegay, Das andere Blut—Gemeinschaft im deutsch-jüdischen Schreiben 1830–1930. 227  “Ich entstamme selber, wie man so schön sagt, der Goetheschen Blutgemeinschaft. Der Geheimrat war ein Weltbürger und machte keinen Hehl daraus. Wir sind international gebunden.” Hasenclever, “Die Rechtlosen,” 69. In Irrtum und Leidenschaft Hasenclever wrote: “Der Verfasser stellt sich die Frage, ob er heute noch ein Deutscher sei. Allerdings. Er ist ein

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While again, affirming his German descent, this remark is also directed against the other, mostly Jewish, German refugees, who could not claim the same deep entanglement with German culture. What are we even? We used to be Germans. We cannot become Jews. France refuses us. America is closed off. Let us not speak of the League of Nations. What remains? We have ripped out our roots and yet, we stumble over them at every step.228

After a Jewish inmate interjects that some go to Palestine, Hasenclever concludes: “The Jews just lost their passports. But we? We are really homeless.”229 Who is that “we”? It is also clear from Hasenclever’s use of personal pronouns that he did not consider himself to be Jewish. He did not perceive himself as belonging to the Jewish blood community, nor to a community of fate. While he describes the plight of Jewish refugees with a sympathetic eye, his stateless condition, his fate, is fundamentally different. Instead, he saw himself as a Weltbürger of German origin. Even though many assimilated German Jews regarded Goethe as a contact point with German high culture, it would go too far to turn Hasenclever’s penchant Volksgenosse Goethes. Er wird diese geistige Zugehörigkeit als Glaubensbekenntnis mit ins Grab nehmen. In ein Grab, das aller Voraussicht nach zum Massengrab Europas wird.” Hasenclever, Irrtum und Leidenschaft. Erziehung durch Frauen. Ein Bekenntnisroman, 317. 228  “Was sind wir eigentlich? Deutsche waren wir einmal. Juden können wir nicht werden. Frankreich lehnt uns ab. Amerika verschließt sich. Vom Völkerbund wollen wir schweigen. Was bleibt noch? Wir haben unsere Wurzeln ausgerissen und stolpern doch mit jedem Schritt über sie.” Hasenclever, “Die Rechtlosen,” 128. Part of this quote (“Wir haben unsere Wurzeln ausgerissen und stolpern doch mit jedem Schritt über sie”) has been placed into a German-Jewish context or as a comment by Hasenclever on Jewish assimilation. Marcel Reich-Ranicki attributes it wrongly to an “assimilated Jew,” while Ruth Schwertfeger uses it to turn Hasenclever into an exemplary representative of German Jewry. While it certainly is an evocative quote, its usage as a metaphor in the context of Jewish assimilation and antisemitism does not do justice to its original intent. Hasenclever did not, as the continuation of the passage confirms, think of the Jewish experience, but rather of explicitly non-Jewish, German intellectuals. See Marcel Reich-Ranicki, Meine Geschichte der deutschen Literatur: Vom Mittelalter bis zur Gegenwart (München: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt, 2014), 53. Ruth Schwertfeger, In Transit: Narratives of German Jews in Exile, Flight, and Internment during “The Dark Years” of France (Berlin: Frank & Timme, 2012), 103. 229  “Die Juden haben nur ihre Pässe verloren. Aber wir? Wir sind wirklich heimatlos.” Hasenclever, “Die Rechtlosen,” 128.

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for Goethe into a sign of his inclusion into the German-Jewish cosmos. Both facets are rooted in the same effort, namely to appeal to the highest cultural authority in a quest for legitimacy. Invoking Goethe as the epitome of Weimar classicism meant pledging alliance to the Weimar Republic: “Weimar emigrates to France.”230 However, Hasenclever’s invocation of Goethe is a protest not only against Nazi barbarism, but also against his alleged Jewishness. In fact, his assessment that the Jews had only lost their passports and not a homeland perpetuates the notion of the un-Germanness of German Jews. Unlike Hasenclever, the Jews had a homeland in Palestine. Die Rechtlosen ends with Hasenclever’s release from the prison camp in Antibes because his books are said to demonstrate that not only is he a staunch enemy of the NS regime, but he is also a true “German Patriot.”231 Yet, as he realizes upon his release, he belongs to the community of imprisoned intellectual Weltbürgern. As a citizen of the world, he is, in the most fundamental sense, stateless. One of his fellow inmates expresses this thought: Do you not think that we have already instituted a new home? Our home is this tent. We will defend our territory even without the army corps. We intellectuals have ambassadors in every city of the world.232

Therefore, Hasenclever, in his own telling, had to be removed by force from his tent in the prison camp: “The chain of fate seemed insoluble. Here sat the disenfranchised, to whom I belonged. My place was with them, and not in Cagnes.”233 Again, he was exiled. After losing his German citizenship, he was now ostracized from the prison world of intellectual Weltbürgern. This interpretation fits with reports by his wife, Edith Hasenclever, that he went voluntarily to the prison camp in Les Milles in the spring of 1940. The French authorities ordered the internment of all remaining German and Austrian refugees, yet did not demand  “Weimar wandert nach Frankreich aus.” Hasenclever, “Die Rechtlosen,” 69.  Hasenclever, “Die Rechtlosen,” 151. 232  “[…] finden Sie nicht, daß wir bereits eine neue Heimat gegründet haben? Unser Vaterland ist dieses Zelt. Wir werden unser Territorium auch ohne Armeekorps verteidigen. Wir Intellektuelle haben Botschafter in allen Städten der Welt.” Hasenclever, “Die Rechtlosen,” 133. 233  “Die Schicksalsverkettung schien unlösbar. Hier saßen die Rechtlosen, zu denen ich gehörte. Bei ihnen war mein Platz, und nicht in Cagnes.” Hasenclever, “Die Rechtlosen,” 153. 230 231

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it of Hasenclever, whose status as stateless had been officially recognized by now.234 Whether out of a sense of allegiance to his fellow refugees or because he had found a new intellectual home among his inmates, Hasenclever showed an increasing fatalism. That one could not escape one’s fate had been a basic conviction of his, ever since he started believing in horoscopes during his youth. With the advancement of the German army, the situation of the prisoners became perilous. As his fellow inmates reported later, among them Lion Feuchtwanger, Hasenclever expressed a growing number of suicidal thoughts during his final weeks.235 Since his youth, the possibility of suicide had lurked on the horizon, and while through constant suffering and episodes of depression Hasenclever had moved forward, now, exiled and under threat of the advancing German army, all paths seemed to lead to a voluntary ending of his life. Hasenclever would not be Hasenclever if he had not attempted to contextualize his death as part of his struggle for a spiritual rejuvenation. How should one act in an age when his grandiose plans for a religious revolution had failed and fascism appeared to prevail? As before, Hasenclever sought refuge in the great spiritual figures that he had admired through most of his life. In Die Rechtlosen Hasenclever invoked Tolstoy as the modern epitome of Buddha and Jesus (“In Tolstoi wurden Jesus und Buddha als Dichter ­wiedergeboren”) and thus an ethical guide in a turbulent age.236 What he said of Tolstoy he also held true of himself: You have just asked […] how Tolstoy would behave nowadays. Maybe he would reply to you like Buddha would: this is the wrong question. There is no relative behaviour, only an absolute one. And this is how we see him, like we already have, leaving his home, which had already been taken from him, and walking alone into the desert to the next prison station. He, who always detested murder and rape, who preached true philanthropy, would not fear  Hasenclever, “Die Rechtlosen,” 169.  In The Devil in France, Lion Feuchtwanger expresses regret that, shortly before Hasenclever’s suicide, he estimated their chances of survival at 5%. The importance of this conversation and Feuchtwanger’s whole description of Hasenclever’s death have been put into doubt by fellow inmate Fritz Wengraf. See Lion Feuchtwanger, The Devil in France: My Encounter with Him in the Summer of 1940 (Los Angeles: Figueroa Press/USC Libraries, 2009), 132ff. Cf. Kasties, Walter Hasenclever. Eine Biographie der deutschen Moderne, 393f. 236  Hasenclever, “Die Rechtlosen,” 136. 234 235

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for his life. Not even at the cross. No Pontius Pilate of the secret police needed to wash his hands of this guilt. Because the death of the prophet would not be a sacrifice, but a matter of course.237

On July 20, 1940, the self-proclaimed prophet Walter Hasenclever took 20 grams of the soporific Veranol. He died the next day. This chapter has discussed the popularity of Buddhism among Jewish literati. Several of the bestselling Jewish writers of the Weimar Republic became intrigued by Buddhism and proposed some Buddhist-inspired ideas or values as a remedy for Europe’s misery. Throughout their works, these authors also engaged with their Jewish identity, often in conjunction with their notion of Buddhism. Buddhism became a versatile, hybrid notion that could be imbued with variations on some central themes: contemplation, the virtue of non-action, organic being, and so on—holistic living as opposed to the fragmentation of modernity. Buddhism is seen as a therapeutic re-enchantment of a modernity that had jumped the rails. Even though they often deployed religious language, there was little interest in Buddhism as an organized religion. These authors were interested in Buddhism’s philosophical or mystical content. As a religion on a par with Judaism, Christianity, or Islam, Buddhism held little value for them. Yet, not everyone subscribed to this position. In the following chapter, I turn to Walter Tausk, one of the rare examples of a German Jew who found Buddhism attractive as a religion.

237  “Sie fragten vorhin […] wie sich Tolstoi heute verhalten würde. Vielleicht würde er Ihnen, wie Buddha, antworten: das ist eine falsche Fragestellung. Es gibt kein relatives, sondern nur ein absolutes Verhalten. Und so sehen wir ihn, wie schon einmal, Haus und Hof verlassen, die man ihm längst genommen hat, und einsam in die Wüste gehen, bis zur nächsten Gefängnisstation. Er, der stets Mord und Vergewaltigung verabscheute, der die wahre Menschenliebe predigte, würde nicht um sein Leben zittern. Nicht einmal am Kreuze. Kein Pontius Pilatus der Geheimpolizei brauchte sich die Hände in Unschuld zu waschen. Weil der Tod des Propheten kein Opfer, sondern eine Selbstverständlichkeit wäre.” Hasenclever, “Die Rechtlosen,” 137.

CHAPTER 5

The Assimilation and Dissimilation of a Buddhist Jew: Walter Tausk’s Contested Identities

This chapter is devoted to Walter Tausk, whose experience was emblematic for many German Jews during the first decades of the twentieth century: He was a patriotic German, a soldier in the First World War, a salesman from the middle class who struggled economically during the 1920s, subjected to violent antisemitism and persecution during the 1930s, and, ultimately, murdered in 1941 by his fellow countrymen. But in addition to all this, Walter Tausk was also a Buddhist. He firmly believed in the teachings of the Buddha—not as a philosophy, as it was perceived by most of those discussed in the previous chapter, but as a religion. Tausk saw Buddhism not as a spiritual addendum to an otherwise secularized Jewishness, but as a replacement for Judaism, the religious truth of which he considered false. Tausk was the epitome of what the Rabbis discussed in Chap. 4 had warned against—namely a Jew who could not find a satisfying answer in Judaism. Instead, he turned to Buddhism. In the following chapters, I hope to answer the following questions: How did this son of a Jewish salesman from Breslau become a Buddhist? How did Tausk try to reconcile his Jewishness with Buddhism? And how did he fare as a Jewish Buddhist in the Weimar Republic and later under the Nazi regime? Answers to these and further questions, which are addressed in this chapter, require another format and a different methodology than that employed in previous chapters. The focus does not solely lie on discourses and ideas, but rather, often very concretely, on the life of one © The Author(s) 2019 S. Musch, Jewish Encounters with Buddhism in German Culture, Palgrave Series in Asian German Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-27469-6_5

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­ rotagonist, Walter Tausk, and how his life is reflected in the way he thought p about Buddhism, Judaism, and Germany. In this light, a more biographical approach is required, which should help to illuminate some of the themes discussed previously. This chapter is designed as a microbiography; however, a short preliminary biographical sketch is nevertheless warranted before discussing several theoretical and methodological issues that arise from Walter Tausk’s particular position, both in his own time and in this study. Little is known of Walter Tausk’s youth, but the following basic biographical data can be substantiated: He was born on April 16, 1890, in Trebnitz, which is now situated in Poland but at that time was part of the German Empire. He attended high school in the town of Hirschberg and learned carpentry.1 His father appears to have owned a trading company in the nearby city of Breslau (today Wrocław) from the 1890s onward. However, it is unclear when the rest of the family relocated there. We only know for certain that the commencement of the First World War in 1914 resulted in Walter Tausk being drafted into the German Army. He participated in the campaign against France and fought in the Battle of Verdun in 1916. During the second half of the First World War, he was stationed in Leipzig. After the war, he moved back to Breslau, where he lived with his mother and two sisters during the 1920s and 1930s. At the beginning of the 1940s, he was deported to the Kovno Ghetto, where he was most probably killed by the German Einsatzgruppen in 1941. Before attempting to flesh out this basic biographical data, I want to address the question, raised in the introduction, as to why the case of Walter Tausk requires a different approach than that of previous chapters, even though, ultimately, it addresses the same questions. To focus exclusively on one individual, interesting though he may be on a personal level, might appear methodologically whimsical in a study that purports to explore what German Jews thought about Buddhism. What, after all, could Tausk offer that other more prominent, influential, and, yes, talented writers could not? Tausk did not exert influence beyond a very limited circle of Buddhists in Breslau, who for the most part were even less influential and did not produce any relevant writings, nor were his ideas concerning Judaism and 1  Biographical information follow: Ryszard Kincel, “Vorwort,” in Walter Tausk—Breslauer Tagebuch 1933–1940, edited by Ryszard Kincel (Frankfurt a.M.: Röderberg-Verlag, 1977), 5–20. So far, this is the only publication of Tausk’s diaries, consisting of excerpts from the time under the Nazi regime.

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Buddhism particularly innovative. He was a self-proclaimed Buddhist, as well as a reader of and contributor to Buddhist journals from the First World War onward, but intellectually, he mostly followed the lines trotted out by others. At times, he seemed to grapple with the concepts in his reading and only scratched the surface of their philosophical content. As such, it is not the aim of this chapter to rescue or elevate a forgotten figure and include him in the pantheon of Weimar intellectuals. While the figures discussed in Chap. 5 subscribed to some kind of Buddhism, they saw it as a philosophy, a way of thinking, an attitude toward life or a Weltanschauung, but not necessarily as a way of life. They did not live out their Buddhist convictions, and they were never confronted with the more practical questions of its applicability. Tausk was different in this respect because he tried to live the life of a Buddhist, with many of its social consequences and at least some of its practical demands. While Buddhism as a way of thinking was certainly paramount for him, Tausk was also eager to apply the Buddhist teachings to his life. At times he even, mostly under the guidance of others, experimented with Buddhist rituals and religious practice, aspects that were anathema for him when it came to Judaism. This is not meant to imply that others—for example, Feuchtwanger, Hasenclever, and Cohen-Portheim—were somehow at fault, since they were all talk and no action when it came to Buddhism. But their interest in Buddhism was rather supplementary than substitutive. Tausk certainly went further in his Buddhism than others. It was not merely an appealing idea, or the flavor of the month—as it had been, for example, for Alfred Döblin—but a transformation of daily life. The metaphysical conceptions of Buddhism had to be supplemented by deeds. This is not to say that Tausk was particularly eager to follow Buddhist rituals (the few times he did engage in them, he had mixed feelings), but that his personal and societal interactions were guided by Buddhist ideas. Consequently, the idea of karmic retribution was of special importance for Tausk. The different approach to Buddhism also became evident when many of the others discussed in this study were contemplating the possibility of emigrating during the 1930s: Tausk was almost the only one who expressed a desire to go to South Asia, where once and for all he would not have to explain his Buddhism to anyone. Another difference should be noted here: Tausk also had a different socio-economic background. He had belonged to the petty bourgeoisie and had never gone to university, where Feuchtwanger, for example, had first encountered Buddhism. While time spent in the circles of intellectuals and artists of both the fin de siècle

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and the Weimar Republic, who adhered to some kind of exoticist quirk, was good practice and hardly a reason for refusing, Tausk found little understanding for his Buddhist sympathies among his peers. While for many of the individuals studied here, Buddhism was a vehicle of edification or a way of expressing opprobrium for Western culture, for Tausk it was more than this: besides being a mental anchor during troubled times, it grew into a tool for distinction, for the assertion of self-worth. Over time, Buddhism became, for Tausk, not only a means of distinguishing himself from his mostly Jewish and certainly petty-bourgeois milieu but also his shot at upward mobility, both socially and culturally. What made Tausk an outsider in Buddhist circles was less his Jewish descent and more his socio-economic background. While a complete academic survey of German Buddhists is still lacking, we can establish some preliminary conclusions from a collection of biographical outlines provided by Hellmuth Hecker, the avid chronicler of German Buddhism. In his two volumes Lebensbilder Deutscher Buddhisten, Hecker lists 139 German Buddhists, of which almost a third (37) held a doctorate.2 While women were underrepresented, (former) nobility and academics (with or without a doctorate) were overrepresented. Many of them were writers or publishers of some sort. Jews were also overrepresented. Hecker’s list includes 12 Buddhists of Jewish descent, which accounts for around 9%, compared to Jews representing less than 1% of the overall population. Of these 12 early Jewish Buddhists, none left as comprehensive an oeuvre regarding their Jewishness as Tausk, and none so assiduously chronicled what it meant to be a Jewish Buddhist in Germany. Siegfried Kracauer provides an intriguing starting point—not as a Zeitzeuge and commentator, but rather, and maybe not coincidently, methodologically. In his posthumously published Geschichte—Vor den letzten Dingen, Kracauer distinguished between microhistory and macrohistory. According to him, microhistory occupies itself with close-ups (Großaufnahmen) that isolate a detail.3 An array of details will provide a “continuum of microscopical small incidents, actions and their interplay,” which will then illuminate the grand developments expounded upon previously, as these details obviously do not occur in a vacuum but in a larger macrohistorical context.4 As has been noted, 2  Hecker, Lebensbilder deutscher Buddhisten—Ein bio-bibliographisches Handbuch, Bd. II, Die Nachfolger, xvff. 3  Siegfried Kracauer, Geschichte vor den letzten Dingen, Werke Bd. IV (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1971), 120. 4  Ibid., 121.

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the German approach to microhistory, namely Alltagsgeschichte, is more concerned with the margins, where deviations from the norms of mainstream society occur, than its Italian counterpart, microstoria, which presupposes “the existence of a comprehensive popular culture.”5 As small and internally fragmented as the German-Buddhist culture was, it possessed a relatively large textual corpus that produced, in merely a couple of years, a reasonably stable canon, primarily centered round Neumann’s translation of the Pali Canon. One could therefore quite persuasively argue for a comprehensive Buddhist popular culture. However, this is only partly relevant for our endeavor, as Walter Tausk occupied the interstices between Buddhist culture and the Jewish environment. His relevance for this study derives from the fact that Tausk was an outsider among outsiders; he was not a typical representative of German Buddhism or Jewry. Tausk’s story will therefore add a further layer to the Jewish reception of Buddhism, but not from the ranks of highly successful writers or unwavering religious leaders, but rather from the margins, where doubt and ambiguity reign. Thus, the following microbiography provides a panorama of a popular culture on a small scale by concentrating on a particular, marginal, case that illuminates the relationship between Buddhism, German identity, and Jewish identity on a level that none of the other figures mentioned in this study approached. While previous chapters followed the line of a more classical study of cultural and intellectual history, concentrating on (the circulation of) ideas, debates among intellectuals, and their sometimes lofty concepts, Walter Tausk takes us into the trenches of everyday life and all its inherent contradictions. As I have shown in Chap. 5, many thinkers were attracted to Buddhism due to what they saw as a low point of European civilization, namely the First World War, and this was also true of Tausk. Many of those attracted to Buddhism had experienced the war at first hand, which, again, was also true of Tausk. The distinction here, however, is one of application, style, and often scope. As epitomized by Feuchtwanger, Wassermann, and Hasenclever, who did not share Tausk’s battlefield experience, one’s Buddhism could often reside entirely in one’s mind. Buddhism was a measure of extreme subtlety. Could anyone tell that Hasenclever saw himself as a Buddhist by his daily conduct? Most could not even tell by his writings. If we ask what it meant for these people to lead a Buddhist life, we learn that few of them seemed concerned with this question. Walter Tausk, 5  Cf. Georg Iggers, Historiography in the Twentieth Century (Middletown: Wesleyan University Press, 1997), 105.

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by contrast, agonized constantly over these questions. How could he lead a devout life in the Buddhist diaspora that was Breslau? How could he reconcile the jarring gap between his convictions and the requirements of social convention? Subsequently, what has previously remained at the sidelines of our inquiry—family, sexuality, social mobility, and later persecution and death—now features more prominently. While ideas and written works still play a major role in this chapter, it is life that provides the soil for our exploration of Walter Tausk via a microbiography. Our main source for exploring the life of Water Tausk is his diaries. The diaries detail his life, albeit with some gaps, from the beginning of the First World War up to 1940, shortly before he was deported. Tausk copied the diaries written during the First World War on his typewriter in 1929. However, the presumably handwritten originals have been lost. His diaries from the first half of the 1920s and from several periods of the 1930s have also been lost. After the last member of the Tausk family, Walter’s mother, aged almost 90, was deported in June 1942, the diaries and letters were sent to the local Gestapo chapter, where they were supposed to be checked for inflammatory statements.6 It is unknown if that ever happened or how they arrived at the university library, but there they surfaced in 1949 and were catalogued under “Tausk, Walter, jüdischer Kaufmann aus Breslau (Aut.).”7 This chapter will feature his diary most prominently, but not exclusively. Tausk’s written estate includes numerous small publications in Buddhist journals and two short monographs, as well as letters encompassing correspondences during the First World War. Walter Tausk’s diaries are somewhat peculiar in their literary form. They are of an idiosyncratic nature and differ considerably from our conventional understanding of the word “diary.” They comprise passages of private writing that often discuss issues of a trivial nature, engage (frequently) in family feuds, and often only seem to address Tausk himself as a possible audience. They serve as self-assurance in his numerous quarrels, detail commercial endeavors, and list his persistent efforts to publish his other writings. His diary often seems to be a personal therapeutic tool for dealing with rejection and conflict, both of which were enduring features of his life. As such, his diaries have all the characteristics of private writings, 6 7

 Kincel, “Vorwort,” 18f.  Kincel, “Vorwort,” 5.

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and yet they are not, as he redacted them heavily. Tausk often added later comments to his original entries. Sometimes he included newspaper articles, official letters from the public authorities, and other items of interest, which at times almost transforms them into a literary collage, more akin to Döblin’s Berlin Alexanderplatz than Anne Frank’s diaries. While they share a first-person narrative, Tausk’s diaries are (more or less) chronological and not (entirely) fictional, but they refer to an existing real world. Tausk was not merely “scribbling down with effortless frankness the little accidents which [he is] honest enough to record as having caught [his] attention at the moment”—which, according to Arthur Ponsonby, the first modern author to publish a study on diaries, described as the pinnacle of diary writing.8 They rather present us with a second reality. The ellipses that frequently occur in his narratives, when suddenly an issue that occupied him for a considerable time is dropped without resolution and never mentioned again, demonstrate that Tausk presented us a reality that is molded according to his own will. It is therefore of paramount importance to approach his diaries critically and not to take them at face value. Of course, Tausk himself would have claimed that he was being objective and representing reality as it was. He saw his diaries, at least those from the First World War, as “historic documents” (Zeitdokumente), his own “History of War” (Geschichte vom Kriege), even though it does seem that he never tried to publish them.9 His goal was to collect impressions from the war and preserve them for future generations. Since he later typed them up, and we do not have access to the handwritten originals, it is impossible to know for sure whether, and to what extent, he changed the entries, especially since some parts seem to be rewritten with later developments in mind. In the 1920s, for instance, his diaries are more concerned with private affairs and are full of gaps. After 1933, Tausk typewrote his diaries again deliberately as historical documents, namely to chronicle the crimes of the National Socialists. These aspects obviously changed the private nature of the diaries and gave them a historiographical aspect.  Arthur Ponsonby, English Diaries: A Review of English Diaries from the Sixteenth to the Twentieth Century with an Introduction on Diary Writing (London: Methuen & Co., 1923), 35. 9  Walter Tausk, Zum Geleit! August 1929. Reel 1 and Walter Tausk, Diary Entry, August 31, 1915. Reel 1. 8

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Lessons from the War We meet Tausk for the first time in the summer of 1915, when, as a soldier in the German Army, he was stationed in French Lothringen. Like many others, the war experience had turned Tausk’s worldview upside down. At this point, he started developing his vision for an alternative worldview— one that would appeal to the unity of mankind and overcome artificial divisions between peoples and religions. However, he was still unfamiliar with Buddhism at this time. Tausk sketched out his pacifistic vision in a frank manner: The atrocities of the war, the nightmare that ensued for all those who experienced the war at firsthand, the killing on the battlefield, the deadly Darwinian struggle of human against human, the self-­ destruction of the supposed “crown of civilization,” all this had to come to an end: “And that must and will be different!”10 For Tausk, as for many others, the war experience was a decisive moment, a shift in one’s outlook on the conditio humana. He ascribed his “new spirit” (Neuer Geist) to a “revelation” (Offenbarung).11 This openly religiously infused language is nevertheless grounded in anti-religious polemic, as the war had turned religion into a farce: The way we soldiers bar none feel here, amidst misery and death, has, in this war, bankrupted all religion—especially, however, ‘so-called Christianity’ with its love for humankind—utterly bankrupted!12

Organized religions, which, for Tausk, included Catholicism, Protestantism, and Judaism, had made themselves accomplices in the carnage on the battlefield. He considered Germany’s religious institutions morally bankrupt due to their support for the war. Their clergy preached hatred between nations and religions, and thus Moses and Jesus had become proxies for mutual destruction. Even though his amorphous outlining of a peaceful future clearly carried redemptive traces, and Tausk routinely deployed Judeo-Christian concepts to describe the shift to a new spirit, the details of which he did not set out at this time, he himself actually perceived it as a turning away from religion. 10  “Und das muss und das wird anders werden!” Walter Tausk, Preface to Letters to War Diary, February 1928. Reel 1 and Walter Tausk, Diary Entry, May 14–15, 1915. Reel 1. 11  Tausk, Preface to War Diary, February 1928. 12  “Wie wir Soldaten fast ohne Ausnahme hier in Not und Tod fühlen, hat in diesem Kriege alle Religion—besonders aber das ‘sogenannte Christentum’ mit seiner Liebe zum Menschen— bankrott gemacht, völlig bankrott!” Walter Tausk, Diary Entry, May 21, 1915. Reel 1.

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Tausk took a hiatus from his diary until the beginning of 1917. Upon resuming his diary, we still find him distant and negative toward the Reform Judaism of his pious parents. He claimed that religion caters to children and the elderly, and the idea of the Messiah had been refuted by the progress of history.13 In a letter to his sister, dated February 1917, Tausk consequently reported that his battalion consisted of “10 Christians, three Jews from Leipzig and my freethinking humble self.”14 Around the same time, Tausk published a poem titled Eine Antwort, which is a devastating critique of war heroism.15 The poem is pacifistic and quivers under the expectation of a spiritual revolution, lamenting that while people at home cheer for victory, the soldiers are silenced. They have seen war and its effects, and they subsequently have become detached from everydayness. This, of course, recalls Franz Rosenzweig’s transformation, only in reverse, because, after his wartime experience, Rosenzweig left behind the abstract world of philosophical thought to stand up and embrace the challenges of the everyday. The soldiers in Tausk’s poem draw a different conclusion: They wait for the future to arrive, for the reign of peace, which will inevitably come as the soldiers have seen the end of their civilization as they know it. Tausk would soon also be able to provide an answer to the question of what could follow the demise of the old way of thinking. It must have been around this time that he first came into contact with Buddhism. However, his diaries for the next few months are still replete with lofty visions for a future free of religion and violence, permeated with anti-Jewish and anti-Christian polemics. It was in the summer of 1917 that Tausk authored his (as far as we know) first poem with a distinctly Buddhist flavor, entitled Meditation, which he sent to his family.16 The poem only appeared in 1920  in Die Zeitschrift für Buddhismus, together with two other poems, entitled Das große Erkennen and Weltentrückt, with their date of origin unknown.17 The three poems depict, in very general terms, an intellectual and spiritual development. The poem Das große Erkennen starts with the dismal recognition that living is suffering, which causes the narrator to accept the futility of all his previous deeds and efforts. His task is now to pursue  Tausk. Letter to Hertha Tausk, January 8, 1917. Reel 1.  “10 Christen, 3 Leipziger Juden und meine freigeistige Wenigkeit.” Walter Tausk, Letter to his Sisters, February 15, 1917. Reel 1. 15  Walter Tausk, “Eine Antwort,” Die Bergstadt 5 (1917), 410. 16  Walter Tausk, Letter to his Parents, June 26, 1917. Reel 1. 17  Walter Tausk, “Das große Erkennen,” Zeitschrift für Buddhismus 2 (1920), 114. 13 14

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the “true meaning of life.” While Das große Erkennen focuses on the intellectual path of the narrator, the next poem, Weltentrückt, limns a moment of spiritual experience that disrupts the ordeal of everyday struggles. Finally, in Meditation, both aspects are united in a vision of spiritual peregrination that leads to “the source of truth.”18 What is the impetus for this pilgrimage to the source of truth? The poem is rather elusive on this point, but it does offer the possibility of a biographical reading. The first stanza includes the following lines: From far swelling up slowly Heavy waves of gray fog Like a flood of water Across all land And the bright day died.19

These “heavy waves of gray fog” mentioned in the second line offer a link to a short report from the battlefield that Tausk published soon after. The piece, called Die Schipper in der Hölle von Ornes, was published in Die Lese, a popular general-interest journal. Apparently, it was well received, and there was even discussion of a reprint in an anthology of war literature, which, as Tausk boasted, would eventually see him become a historical and literary figure (“historische und literarische Größe”).20 However, this plan, like many others, failed to materialize. The report, with the subheading From the war diary of Walter Tausk, describes skirmishes at the French town of Ornes (of which Tausk also reports in his real diaries), part of the Battle of Verdun, during which the protagonist encounters several life-threatening situations, with his escape from death appearing to be entirely by chance. Parallel to Meditation, the report starts with the image of a bright day with a deep blue sky, which too becomes a source of dread, even of fatal danger, as the soldiers near Ornes come under aerial bombardment. And the bright day dies, as the stanza reads in the last line of the poem. There is nothing heroic about the description, but it focuses on the fact that the question of living or dying is taken out of one’s hands and  Walter Tausk, “Meditation,” Zeitschrift für Buddhismus 2 (1920), 117.  Fernab quollen langsam auf Grauen Nebels schwere Wogen, Über alle Lande zogen; Die wie eine Wasserflut Und es starb der helle Tag. Tausk, “Meditation,” 116. 20  Walter Tausk, Letter to Hertha Tausk, August 5, 1917. Reel 1. 18 19

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rather shaped by forces beyond the individual’s control. Given that both works were penned around the same time, a couple of months after the Battle of Verdun, it is not too far-fetched to connect the escape from Ornes with the spiritual journey in the poem cycle. As the bright sky turns gray and the heavy waves of gray fog descend on the battlefield, so the actual war experiences are transported to the intellectual and spiritual realm. The shift in one’s Weltanschauung, as described in Meditation, occurred near Verdun. Now recognizing the futility and perfidiousness of war, Tausk saw the only solution as a complete overhaul of the traditional ways of thinking about the nation and, with it, religion too: “This war and this time also bring us Germans a revolution in the form of a reformation in all areas of our institutions.”21 And yet, Tausk did not positively articulate his vision in terms of a comprehensive set of ideas. At this point, his vision is mostly ex negativo. He described what the desired reformation would abolish and how it would unite humanity, but no further explanations or descriptions are forthcoming. Even though Tausk avoided naming Buddhism directly, he was certainly not shy about disparaging Judaism. In a letter to his sister Hertha, he pulled no punches: It is, of course, just like every religion and belief in a messiah, nothing but a beautiful Christmas fable for little children up to six years of age and elderly people from the olden days. I myself agree with modern times and orient my views and understandings regarding these things based on what I have learned in the field and that I know to be undeniably correct.22

In letters to his family, Tausk continually referred to a new opaque mindset that he had come to know in the field, but he hesitated in reveal21  “Dieser Krieg und diese Zeit bringen uns Deutschen auch eine Revolution in Gestalt einer Reformation auf allen Gebieten unserer Einrichtungen.” Walter Tausk, Diary Entry, August 31, 1915. Reel 1. 22  “[…] es nämlich mit sämtlicher Religion oder Messiasglaube nichts weiter ist, als ein ganz wunderhübsches Weihnachtsmärchen für kleine Kinder bis 6 Jahre und alte Leute aus der alten Zeit. Ich für meine Person gehe da auch mit der neuen Zeit mit und richte meine Anschauung und Erkenntnis in diesen Dingen danach ein, was ich im Felde kennen gelernt und als unumstösslich richtig angesehen habe.” Walter Tausk, Letter to Hertha Tausk, January 8, 1917. Reel 1.

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ing its content. For Tausk’s family, these vague remarks were cause for great concern: In one letter, Tausk labeled himself a pessimist.23 He also started to exhibit a certain world-weariness, which culminated in a request to his family not to bother him anymore with trivial things concerning their household or relatives24: As a matter of fact, I am interested in other, weightier things than these matters, which only appear via mutual disharmony and the incapability to adapt oneself.25

On June 6, 1917, he rather cryptically conveyed a fundamental Buddhist tenet to his parents, dubbed by him the quintessence of what he had learned from his comrades: “If you want to march well in war and in life, you must have light luggage.”26 His family took note of his intellectual transformation, and in turn they demanded answers. To ease their minds, Tausk tried to paint his comrades, who sparked his transformation, as a very distinguished group, emphasizing each one’s accolades. This was also the first time he actually referred explicitly to Buddhism in letters to his family, namely when he lauded one comrade (Paul Eberhardt, to whom we shall return shortly) as “a very distinguished writer and one of the few yet extremely diligent Buddhologists.”27 He added assiduously: “Mother can thus once again be satisfied with the way her son is accommodated in spiritually.”28 But his mother was not satisfied, nor was the rest of his family. Neither his newfound company nor his transformation received familial approval: It was all hokum, and his sister Hertha dismissed Walter’s comrades as “wackos.”29 Estrangement from his family reached another level with the advent of the first Rosh Hashana, following Tausk’s encounter with Buddhism.  Ibid.  Cf. Walter Tausk, Letter to his Parents, August 23 and 30, 1917. Reel 1. 25   “Mich interessieren tatsächlich andere, schwerwiegendere Dinge, wie diese Angelegenheiten, die nur durch Unharmonie unter einander und Unfähigkeit, sich anzupassen, in Erscheinung treten.” Walter Tausk, Letter to his Parents, September 5, 1917. Reel 1. 26  “Wer im Kriege und im Leben gut marschieren will, muss leichtes Gepäck haben.” Walter Tausk, Letter to his Parents, June 6, 1917. Ree1 1. 27  “ganz bedeutender Schriftsteller und einer der wenigen, aber desto gründlicheren Buddhaforscher.” Tausk, Letter to his Parents, June 11, 1917. Reel 1. 28  “Mutter kann also wieder einmal befriedigt sein über die Art, wie ihr Sohn in geistiger Beziehung untergebracht ist.” Tausk, Letter to his Parents, June 11, 1917. 29  “Pachulken.” Cf. the handwritten addendum to: Tausk, Letter to his Parents, June 11, 1917. 23 24

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While his disenchantment with his family’s Reform Judaism was already well known (and thought to be nothing more than a foolish whim), an explicit avowal of Buddhism was still lacking. The exchange of letters on Rosh Hashana forced him to admit his Buddhist convictions. On September 16, 1917, Erev Rosh Hashana, Tausk wrote his family a brash refusal to convey good wishes for the New Year, as “wishes have no purpose, but are only an impure anesthesia for all thinking,” and he had anyhow “reached the conclusion that life equals suffering.”30 Apparently aware of the letter’s brashness and concerned about his parents’ reaction to it, Tausk wrote another missive, on the same day, to his sister Ilse, in which he tried to clarify (and justify) his position: As these days my views are completely devoid of religion—this view has evolved over the years, not from one moment to the next—I do not really know what to write. I came to a point where I have no more tolerance for any known religion or holiday. As this is going to stay that way, I cannot force myself into a position of having a religiously-influenced set of mind, since such a set of mind allows no room for naked facts but darkens the gaze and the capacity to think via messianic—and other—thoughts that are senseless.31

When his sister Ilse described, in her reply, his previous letter as “genuinely Buddhist,” the time had come for Tausk to put his cards on the table. (“If you call my last letter home ’really Buddhist,’ you have hit the nail on the head with it.”32) He asked his sister not to mention his Buddhism to his ailing mother (an instruction she did not heed), and for the first time he explicitly endorsed Buddhism: 30  “Wünsche haben keine Zweck; sie sind nur eine Betäubung aller Gedanken.” and “und dass ich zu der Überzeugung gekommen bin, dass Leben gleichbedeutend mit Leiden ist.” Walter Tausk, Letter to his Family, September 16, 1917. Reel 1. 31  “Da ich heute auf einem total religionslosen Lebensstandpunkte stehe—dieser hat sich im Laufe der Jahre herausgebildet, und ist nicht von heute auf morgen—so weiss ich wirklich nicht, was ich schreiben soll.—Ich bin soweit gekommen, dass bei mir jeder Feiertag und jede Religion, die man so kennt, voll und ganz ausgespielt hat.—Und da es auch dabei bleiben wird, so kann ich mich selbst mit dem grössten Zwang nicht in eine Lage versetzen, die ein noch religiös beeinflusstes Gemüt hat; denn ein solches Gemüt hat keinen Blick mehr für die nakten [sic] Tatsachen, sondern trübt sich die Augen und das Denkvermögen mit Messianischen—und anderen Gedanken, die keinen Sinn haben.” Walter Tausk, Letter to Ilse Tausk, September 16, 1917. Reel 1. 32  “Wenn Du meinen letzten Brief nach Hause als ‘echt buddhistisch’ bezeichnest, so hast Du damit den Nagel auf den Kopf getroffen.” Walter Tausk, Letter to Ilse Tausk, September 21, 1917. Reel 1.

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As I found Buddhism by myself due to my urge for inner satisfaction and a healthy outlook on life that can be built upon and, as well as my capacity for thought allows, concern myself with it, I will not be rid of it. This is because Buddhism provides—even if this is difficult to understand—everything needed and desirable for a contented and good life—something the best-­ built religion or philosophy will never be able to offer. Because these latter ones are fixated on doctrines, strict priestly regulations; they do not permit any development of the mind or of awareness and they lie to each other. That is just not the case with Ur-Buddhism.33

Together, these two passages offer a preliminary résumé of Tausk’s concept of Buddhism. He made no reference to the books he had read, or if he preferred Theravada Buddhism to Zen, and so forth. The only thing that we know at this point is that Tausk saw Buddhism not as a religion, even an anti-religion, but as a rational system of thought, which opposes rituals. Buddhism is here expressly constructed as an antidote to Judaism, as evinced by his constant polemicizing against its messianic aspects. What is new is the addition of philosophy, which—like religion—is doctrinaire. Buddhism, by contrast, is not fixated on commandments, but it is based solely on reason and the encouragement of intellectual development. Use of the phrase “Ur-Buddhismus” points to what was referred to at that time as “pure Buddhism,” that is, a Buddhism that aspires to stay as close as possible to the Buddha’s original teachings.34 Intrinsically linked to this is the view that contemporary Buddhism, as practiced in South Asian countries, is a deviation from its original pure form. In addition, contemporariness also alleged unreason, while originality espoused reason. The repeated references to pessimism and nihilism point to a philosophical conception of Buddhism, possibly mediated through Schopenhauerian

33  “Da ich durch meinen eigenen Drang nach innerer Befriedigung und nach einem gesunden Lebensstandpunkte, auf dem man weiter bauen kann, selbst zum Buddhismus gekommen bin und mich, soweit es mit meinem Denkvermögen geht, mit ihm beschäftige, so werde ich auch nicht von ihm loskommen, da er in jeder Weise—wenn auch schwer zu erfassen—alles das bietet, was zu einem zufriedenen und guten Leben nötig und wünschenswert ist, was aber die bestens ausgebaute Religion und Philosophie nie zu bieten im Stande sein wird. Denn diese letzten versteifen sich auf Doktrinen, feste priesterliche Vorschriften, lassen keine eigene Verstandesentwicklung und Erkenntnis zu und lügen sich gegenseitig an. Alles das fällt aber beim Ur-Buddhismus weg.” Tausk, Letter to Ilse Tausk, September 21, 1917. Emphasis in the original. 34  See Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 149.

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philosophy. Therefore, we might position Tausk somewhere between pure Buddhism and philosophical Buddhism. However, his depiction of Buddhism along rational lines is somewhat contradicted, first, by the German Buddhists (we discuss these later) to whom he actually referred in his letters, who all adhered to more mystical or occult interpretations, and second, by a different narrative of his arrival at Buddhism, which can be gleaned from his other writings. The reasons Tausk gave his family for choosing Buddhism actually omit a key aspect, which, as we shall see, played a decisive role in his path toward Buddhism and for his insistence on its rationality. Thus, we must look behind the narrative that Tausk presented in his letters in 1917. We must, in fact, build a counter-narrative based on his published writings, his later succinct admissions, and a timeline that is not apparent at first glance. While we later return to questions around the influences on Tausk’s Buddhism, it should be noted at this point that his rational interpretation of Buddhism was already at odds with that of the person who had first instilled in him the Buddha’s teachings: Paul Eberhardt (1879–1923). Eberhardt was a prolific writer, but not the great “Buddhaforscher” Tausk imagined him to be.35 While Eberhardt certainly had a penchant for Buddhism, it was just one part of a wider spectrum. He also immersed himself in, for example, Zoroastrianism and the Upanishads. His grandiose mission was an Oriental renaissance—more precisely, a cultural and intellectual revitalization of a West sucked dry by the all-encompassing claims of science’s instrumental reason.36 In fact, his most successful (and, I would argue, most representative) work was Das Buch der Stunde: Eine Erbauung für jeden Tag des Jahres gesammelt aus allen Religionen und aus der Dichtung, a shimmering, mercurial collection of sayings and aphorisms from the Bible to Goethe, from the Bhagavad Gita to Tagore.37 In line with this eclecticism, Eberhardt was certainly not interested in a rational interpretation of Buddhism, or in the discovery of its pure or original

 Tausk, Letter to his Parents, June 11, 1917.  Paul Eberhardt, Der Weisheit letzter Schluss—Die Religion der Upanishads im Sinne gefasst von Paul Eberhardt (Jena: Diederichs, 1912), 115ff. The title (in English: The last conclusion of wisdom—The meaning of the religion of the Upanishads according to Paul Eberhardt) already suggests that Eberhardt was not looking for the unaltered tenets of the Upanishads, but rather extracted a quintessence according to his own whim. 37  Paul Eberhardt, Das Buch der Stunde: Eine Erbauung für jeden Tag des Jahres gesammelt aus allen Religionen und aus der Dichtung (Gotha: F.A. Perthes, 1915). 35 36

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meaning, since, for him, Buddhism formed merely one part of his mystical hodgepodge that could replenish the West’s spiritual desert. Even though Eberhardt was probably the most important influence during the early period of Tausk’s Buddhism, the idea of revitalizing the West was conspicuously absent from Tausk’s writings. Following Georg Grimm, for Tausk the ultimate task of the Buddhist is not to change the world, but to leave it behind.38 His concept of Buddhism was extremely individualistic, and its goal entirely that of overcoming personal suffering: I stand by my view that the more humanity rids itself of foreign help and the more it overlooks daily needs with indifference, the more perfect it will become. Daily needs are, after all, only mundane occupations needed to keep the physical machine running and the mind clear.39

In fact, the only recorded instances of Tausk expressing the need for a new age, a transformation of human beings, or one of the other similar tropes, are from 1915, before he encountered Buddhism. After his Buddhist turn, Tausk became more focused on individual transformation than on changing the world or rescuing the West. If we look at his other writings of the period, during which he claimed to his family that he depended entirely upon reason, we find other suppressed aspects as well. In the autumn of 1917, Tausk wrote his most ambitious work to date, called Friedhofssymphonie, which tells the story of a life-changing stroll in a cemetery.40 That it is not entirely fictitious, but rather based on an actual event, was corroborated twice by Tausk: first, in a letter to his family in which he described an event similar to the plot of the story, and second, in the foreword that accompanied the story when it was published in 1926 under the title Von Leben und Tod.41 At this point, Tausk had already adopted Buddhism as  Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 159.  “Ich stehe auf dem Standpunkt, dass der Mensch desto vollkommener ist, je mehr er sich von fremder Hilfe unabhängig macht und mit der grössten Gleichmütigkeit über die alltäglichen Bedürfnisse hinwegsieht, da sie ja nur Lebenbeschäftigung sind, um die körperliche Maschine in Gang und den Verstand in klaren Verhältnissen zu halten.” Walter Tausk, Letter to his Mother, No Date. Reel 1. 40  Walter Tausk. Letter to his Family, November 7, 1917. Reel 1. 41  Walter Tausk, “Von Leben und Tod (Eine Friedhofssymphonie),” Der Pfad—Eine Buddhistische Zeitschrift 4 (1926), 32ff. 38 39

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his new way of thinking, yet he had not completely internalized it. More concretely, the description renders the moment of a cognitive shift that appears when radical newness, be it religious, cultural, or ethnological, needs to be comprehended in its entirety.42 While Tausk had already rationally comprehended and processed the teachings of the Buddha, it is only through the depicted emotional confrontation at a place that clearly held enormous significance for Tausk that he becomes fully aware of the whole scale beyond rational decision-making. It was not his rational processing of Buddhism, but rather his revelatory moment that caused the full absorption of the Buddha’s message. Newness caused a paradigmatic shift in his outlook, as described in his article on his battlefield experience. At the Battle of Verdun, a Weltbild crumbled, and it was only now, at this cemetery in Leipzig, that a new one was erected. This unfolded in the following manner: Already distraught by his newfound dedication to the teachings of the Buddha, Tausk still struggled to reconcile his own life with the new set of rules he had adopted. Friedhofssymphonie conveyed that this struggle over the meaning of life and death, the constant doubts, and the failures in personal relationships had come to an end on this day in the autumn of 1917: Just as Tausk described in both the letter and the foreword, the protagonist of the story takes a stroll in the Alter Johannisfriedhof (Old St. John Cemetery) in Leipzig (where Tausk was also stationed in the autumn of 1917) and is subsequently confronted with the omnipresence of death. Taken aback by the apparent impossibility of coming to terms with his own mortality, he immersed himself in reflections on life and death. He then stumbles upon a couple of lovers entwined in an embrace, “a triumph of life,” as they “kissed in love, forgetting the world, life, death and themselves, over love.” The protagonist then slowly spirals into a jeremiad over the ephemerality of life. Realizing the futility of his efforts to give meaning to life, he enters an existential crisis: I felt terrible dread as I discovered that I was nothing but a small flame, a will-o’-the-wisp in the surging, smoking, burning cosmos, that I was embed-

42  Cf. Guy G.  Stroumsa, A New Science: The Discovery of Religion in the Age of Reason (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2010), 19.

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ded into that unchanging law of cause and effect. Fear and despair crouched next to me on the grave.43

But suddenly a realization dawns on him: To cross the “ocean of life” one must not succumb to allures, threats, woes, or joys.44 The sight of lovers triggers soul searching, an existential crisis, and, ultimately, the resolution: Lust for life and ignorance urge the individual to cling to life. To overcome the ephemerality of life and the inevitability of death, one has to let go of lust, desire, willfulness, and also, perhaps most importantly, love. In the text, Tausk offered several conclusions, which amount to a manifesto: (1) Lust for life corrodes under the pressure of reason, and ignorance fades away; (2) ridding ourselves of prejudice will allow us to see life as something fluid and ever-changing; (3) discarding the notion of the persistence of an “I” will bring to an end the pitching of opinion against opinion, human against human, and people against people; (4) our own conscience will be our judge, and thus all our deeds will ultimately reflect on us; and (5) in consequence, we have to renounce life and its temptations. This is all fairly standard among German Buddhists of the time. However, this narrative of the encounter with Buddhism left out a more personal stratum. This can be teased out through the chronological sequence of events, as well as the open remarks and ominous allusions in Tausk’s diaries and writings. Despite repeatedly paying lip service to the rational side of Buddhism, this aspect of Tausk’s life is laced with spiritual, almost occultist, elements. The strong reaction to the lovers in the ­cemetery in Friedhofssymphonie is an indication of an alternative motive to the abandonment of his own religious tradition in favor of Buddhism— namely a failed love affair. Was Buddhism just an antidote for a Jewish man suffering from lovesickness for a Catholic woman? What happened? Again, we can only rely on Tausk’s own muddled account, which is not only highly subjective and one-sided but also incomplete, as most of the crucial interactions did not take place personally and are only alluded to a posteriori in the epistolary exchange, in addition to further allusions here and there. The timeline seems rather straightforward: In September 1913, Walter Tausk met Elfriede Tautz, a young Catholic native of the famous spa town 43  “Furchtbares Grauen packte mich, als ich nun wusste, daß ich nur ein Flämmchen, ein Irrlicht im wogenden, rauchenden, brennenden All war, daß ich eingeschmiedet warin jenes wandellose Gesetz von Ursache und Wirkung. Angst und Verzweiflung hockten neben mir auf dem Grab.” Tausk, “Von Leben und Tod (Eine Friedhofssymphonie),” 67. 44  Tausk, “Von Leben und Tod (Eine Friedhofssymphonie),” 69.

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of Reinerz in Lower Silesia.45 Walter was smitten and things soon became serious. An engagement was discussed but was ultimately rejected by Elfriede due to their different religious affiliations in December 1914.46 Elfriede thereafter became engaged to another man—a pharmacist named Hans P.—as Tausk, who was heartbroken, noted in high dudgeon. After a couple of years of silence (in the meantime Walter had embraced Buddhism), Elfriede returned to Tausk at the beginning of 1918 and they rekindled their relationship. From his diary, we can infer that Tausk saw Elfriede’s return in 1918 as a Karmic retribution for his suffering during the war.47 However, their second attempt also failed after a few months, and Tausk then discarded the claim of immediate karmic retribution in favor of a long-term, transgenerational karma theory (we shall return to this during our discussion of Tausk’s attitude toward antisemitism). The reason for their second failed relationship, according to Tausk’s claim, lay not in their different affiliations, but rather in Elfriede’s petulance (“Launenhaftigkeit”).48 On June 16, 1918, Tausk and Elfriede met for a final word after their engagement fell apart, and they took a stroll in the Rosental Park in Leipzig. Apparently, it did not go well. The diary entry from the same day depicts a man in crisis, whose foundations have been shaken. Barely mentioning Elfriede by name (except for a secondary, recalcitrant quip that he does not care about “E.”), Tausk describes the previous six months as a period of insanity, in which “you have been fooled, because you were trenched in emotional suffering.”49 Soon afterward, Elfriede became engaged to the dental technician, pacifist, and Expressionist author Kurt Finkenstein. This timeline already shows the intertwining of his emotional and intellectual crises; however, two spiritually inclined episodes that Tausk recorded in his diary provide a more concise picture of Tausk’s mindset after the first breakup due to his Judaism and before he encountered Buddhism. After becoming aware of Elfriede’s engagement, Tausk sent several malicious letters to her fiancé, Kurt Finkenstein. Here, he

45  Walter Tausk, Letter to Kurt Finkenstein, August 18, 1918. Reel 2. Cf. Dietfrid Krause-Vilmar (ed.), Kurt Finkenstein—Briefe aus der Haft 1935–1943 (Kassel: Winfried Jenior, 2001), 15. 46  Tausk, Letter to Kurt Finkenstein, August 18, 1918. 47  Walter Tausk, Diary Entry, June 16, 1918. Reel 2. 48  Tausk, Letter to Kurt Finkenstein, August 18, 1918. Cf. Tausk, Diary Entry, June 16, 1918. 49  “Du bist genarrt worden, weil du tief im Gefühlsleiden gesteckt hast.” Tausk, Diary Entry, June 16, 1918.

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vaguely warned Finkenstein, who Tausk believed to be “Jewish and insofar a fellow believer” (Glaubensgenosse), of Elfriede’s character flaws.50 The first of these vicious and vindictive letters began with a quote from Anvari Soheili, the Medieval Persian poet (Tausk might have lifted the quote from Schopenhauer’s Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung), advocating detachment from worldly affairs.51 Tausk’s vituperative attack did not yield any results: On February 24, 1919, Elfriede and Kurt were married. In 1919, their first child was born, and soon afterward the couple moved to Kassel, where Kurt opened his own dental laboratory.52 The Finkenstein home quickly became a venue for social gatherings among the town’s left-wing intellectuals. The couple had two more children in 1920 and 1923, respectively. Their third son, Hans-Sylvester, was apparently born with some kind of disability and was sent to a home for disabled children, where he died young in 1928. In 1930, the couple separated and Elfriede moved with her two remaining sons back to Leipzig. In 1927, Tausk met an acquaintance who apparently provided him with news about Elfriede. In a spiteful tone, Tausk chastised Elfriede for abandoning her son, and his acquaintance opaquely alluded to her dire situation. The whole, rather unsettling, episode is given the title Karma (eine wahre Geschichte), which shows that Tausk saw Elfriede’s domestic problem as a form of karmic retribution.53 In line with earlier pronouncements, karma is here again understood as an ethical retribution system, directly intervening in people’s daily lives; however, this does not extend beyond one’s life. Rebirth (or reincarnation), and the karmic effects upon it, is not of his concern, and nor is nirvana. Karma is a “this-worldly” affair with practical implications for one’s imminent future. The whole episode serves to illustrate how the impact of his failed relationship with Elfriede and the subsequent fallout were crucial for Tausk’s 50  Tausk, Letter to Kurt Finkenstein, August 18, 1918. In fact, Finkenstein’s parents were Jewish, but he was baptized. Cf. Krause-Vilmar, Kurt Finkenstein—Briefe aus der Haft 1935–1943, 12. One of Tausk’s main attack lines against Elfriede was her “unbeherrschbare Sucht nach Befriedigung der verschiedensten, wirr Kopf herumschiessenden Wünsche ausund unausgesprochener Art […].” In his diary, Tausk is less vague and complains that every woman understands love as “purely sexual.” Tausk, Letter to Kurt Finkenstein, August 18, 1918. Cf. Tausk, Diary Entry, June 16, 1918. 51  Tausk, Letter to Kurt Finkenstein, August 18, 1918. Cf. Arthur Schopenhauer, Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung. Bd. II (München: Georg Müller, 1913), 125. 52  Cf. Krause-Vilmar, Kurt Finkenstein—Briefe aus der Haft 1935–1943, 15f. 53  Walter Tausk, Diary Entry, March 5, 1927. Reel 2.

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turn away from Judaism and embrace of Buddhism. Elfriede’s engagement to another man did not cause a crisis of faith in Buddhism; quite the opposite. If anything, the earlier events were a sign to push further and move closer to a purer understanding of Buddhism. The conclusion was swift and clear: No longer shall a woman distract him from the teachings of the Buddha—a proclamation that he even extended to his sisters.54 To avoid becoming sidetracked by the challenges of everyday life, Tausk had to decry what had been his main distraction from the Buddhist path over the years: women (lovers, mothers, or sisters). Subsequently, after the summer of 1918, around the time he penned the aforementioned letters, Tausk also developed strong misogynist tendencies. Tausk was not the only one to hold misogynist opinions in the German-­ Buddhist community. In fact, misogyny had played a role in German-­ Buddhist literature from its very inception. The legend of Kunala, which was already prominent in the 1890s, was transformed into a misogynist cautionary tale by Paul Hertwig. Felix Lorenz’s novel Der Buddhist (from 1897) depicted Buddhism as a flight from women.55 The examples are manifold and further research is certainly warranted, but it is clear that Tausk fitted into this pattern, insofar as his shift to Buddhism also constitutes a renunciation of women, which, as a true German Buddhist, Tausk had to avoid: In this manner, family life, living with women, getting married, and everything to do with it is spoiled daily. This way, Gautama Buddha triumphs every day anew.56

The 1920s: Tausk Between Assimilation and Dissimilation Tausk was not alone in his view of the rationality of Buddhism. In fact, the concurrent perception of Buddhism was rife with the idea that it was the most pure, that is, rational, of all religions. Only a few years before Tausk became acquainted with Buddhism, Georg Grimm had started an intellectual enterprise linking what he saw as the original teachings of the  Tausk, Diary Entry, June 16, 1918.  Cf. Pero Slepcevic, Buddhismus in der deutschen Literature (Wien: Carl Gerold’s Sohn, 1920), 95ff. 56  “So wird einem das Familienleben, das Zusammenleben mit Frauen, das Heiraten, und alles was damit zusammen hängt, jeden Tag aufs neue verekelt; so triumphiert jeden Tag Gautama Buddha wieder.” Walter Tausk, Diary Entry, August 2, 1927. Reel 2. 54 55

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Buddha with the philosophical notion of the religion of reason. Even before Hermann Cohen claimed the title of religion of reason for Judaism, Georg Grimm had published, in 1915, his Die Lehre des Buddho, die Religion der Vernunft.57 While Tausk would have objected to the use of the term “religion,” the content does align neatly with the interpretation he espoused in his letters. Furthermore, Buddhism offered Tausk an intellectual vehicle through which to leave behind the supposed parochialism and particularism, and to subscribe to a creed that he saw as an extension beyond geographical and historical boundaries. For sure, the Siddhartha Gautama was a historical figure, but he identified laws that apply to all, even to the Jewish God and the religion’s adherents, male or female. But there was always unease between these aspects. A stark discrepancy existed between Tausk’s notion of the universality of Buddhism and his actual pronouncements in his writings. The same discrepancy held between his idea of Buddhism’s rationality and his penchant for mysticism and occultism. From the beginning of his writings, we can find another, less rational dimension, which, during the 1920s, due to the influence of the Buddhist circles in Breslau, became more overt to the point that Tausk dropped the trope of Buddhism as the most rational religion. Buddhist rituals and festivities, instances of what one might call religious practices, crept into his Buddhist engagement. This development is closely connected with the bifurcation of German Buddhism. In the 1920s, there were two rival schools of Buddhist interpretation in Germany. On the one hand, there were the followers of Georg Grimm, who tried to depict Buddhism as the most rational system of thought imaginable. His approach was rooted in neo-Kantianism, and his Buddhism is more philosophy than religion. On the other hand, we have the neo-Buddhism of Paul Dahlke (1865–1928), who was prone to mysticism and monastic living; he also practiced as a homeopathic physician. Dahlke operated with a holistic vision of body and mind, and for him, fulfilling his medical role, Buddhist practice extended into one’s food and eating habits.58 Inhabitants of the Buddhist house in Berlin-Frohnau, founded by Dahlke in 1922, were encouraged to follow his nutritional regime, as bodily health and Buddhist salvation were seen to go hand in hand.59 Freely combining Buddhism with Lebensreform,  Georg Grimm, Die Lehre des Buddho, die Religion der Vernunft (München: Piper, 1915).  Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 163. 59  Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 164. 57 58

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homeopathy, and science caused Dahlke to see human reason as just one of several prerequisites for achieving nirvana. He imagined Buddhism to play a key role in responding to the dilemma of modern man, torn between religion and science, or between humanity at large and his fatherland. Buddhism à la Dahlke would provide an answer to all these questions. Although Tausk initially maintained that Buddhism was purely rationalistic, after returning to Breslau after the war he refrained from associating with the Buddhist group in Breslau that followed Georg Grimm, instead only mingling with those who oriented themselves toward the ideas of Paul Dahlke.60 This should not necessarily surprise us, however, as we have seen that Tausk, while paying lip service to rational Buddhism, was prone to more holistic versions that revered its theosophic roots. While Tausk resists easy categorization into either the Grimm or the Dahlke camp, we can note that his insistence on Buddhism’s rationalism subsided during the 1920s. Yet, Tausk always remained an outsider in Buddhist circles, due in part to his cantankerous nature but also on account of his free-wheeling reputation and insubordination in response to the demands of doctrinaire purity by the main schools of German Buddhism. Nevertheless, he did thrive, at least for a short time during the 1920s, in an institutionalized Buddhist setting. At a time when Buddhist practice made one an outsider, clubs (Vereine) provided safe havens where like-minded people could meet and express their Buddhists beliefs freely. These Buddhist clubs were attempts to provide a cultural framework and institutional support for Buddhists in their respective areas. When Tausk was stationed in Leipzig, the city was thus already a center of German Buddhism. The origin of this nucleus of Buddhist activity in Germany lay in the decision of the theosophic movement to transfer its main office from Munich to Leipzig in 1898, that is, even before the first Buddhist club was founded.61 Unsurprisingly, many of the Buddhists from Leipzig, even later arrivals like Tausk, had a p ­ enchant for mysticism. At the same time, many also shared a penchant for the anti60  Hecker, Lebensbilder deutscher Buddhisten—Ein bio-bibliographisches Handbuch, Bd. II, Die Nachfolger, 353. 61  Heinz Mürmel, “Der Beginn des institutionellen Buddhismus in Deutschland. Der Buddhistische Missionsverein in Deutschland (Sitz Leipzig),” Buddhismus in Geschichte und Gegenwart. Bd. Nr. 11 Universität Hamburg, Asien-Afrika-Institut, Abteilung für Kultur und Geschichte Indiens und Tibets (manuscript), 158ff.

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semitic counter-history discussed in Chap. 4, and saw Buddhism (and by proxy Leipzig) as the center of an Aryan cultural revolution.62 Karl Seidenstücker, who wrote Buddha und Christus—Eine buddhistische Apologetik, one of the better-known additions to the Buddha-Jesus literature, was also the founder of the first Buddhist club in Germany, the Buddhistischer Missionsverein, in Leipzig on August 15, 1903.63 Seidenstücker’s Missionsverein (see Chap. 2) was a subsequent attempt to build a Buddhist framework outside of the theosophist movement, but he remained deeply entangled with theosophists and adherents of esoteric Buddhism. Yet, despite being ostensibly titled a missionary society, Seidenstücker and his handful of companions officially refrained from any association with religious activity.64 This was still the time of Imperial Germany, which was culturally and intellectually dominated by Protestantism, with “Throne and Altar” (or “Thron, Altar and Nation”) forming a unity while the ruling monarchs were still heads of the Protestant churches in their dominion.65 The doctrine of Nationalprotestantismus led to atheism being equated with anti-patriotism. At the same time, this was also a period of radical change. Modernization and urbanization accompanied alternative explanatory models to those traditionally offered by one’s own religion. The marketplace of religions was now more accessible to the masses than ever before. These changes took their toll on organized religion, and the number of churchgoers hit a new low around 1900.66 The rise of Buddhism was therefore both a signal and a result of this change. Nevertheless, the political and cultural link between Protestantism and the Reich remained strong. As discussed earlier, Kaiser Wilhelm II saw the Buddha as the epitome of the “Yellow Peril” and as such in stark contrast to European culture. It was not a good time to take one’s fascination with Buddhism to the next level—a level that not only saw Buddhism as an intellectual exercise but as a religion to potentially rival that of Protestantism or Catholicism. Of course, since 1871, equal bürgerliche 62  Cf. Heinz Mürmel, “‘Arisches’ Leipzig—Auszug aus Festschrift zu Ehren Prof. Dr Bernhard Strecker,” JJIS—Journal Juden in Sachsen (2011), 22–49. 63  Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 147. Chronik des Buddhismus in Deutschland (Plochingen: Herausgeber Deutsche Buddhistische Union, 1985), 41. 64  Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 147. 65  Thomas Nippedey, “Religion und Gesellschaft: Deutschland um 1900,” Historische Zeitschrift 246 (1988), 597ff. 66  Idem, 602f.

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and political rights, regardless of one’s religious affiliation, were guaranteed across the whole German Reich.67 However, freedom of religion remained in the dominion of the individual German states; Jews were still barred from certain professions, and Buddhists, as with other nonChristians, certainly did not fare much better. In 1873, Prussia, and then most of the other states, allowed secession from the church, but this was less a genuine commitment to freedom of religion than an anti-Catholic measure in the ensuing Kulturkampf of the 1870s that straddled the statechurch divide.68 State repression of Catholicism led to a variegated club culture, a Vereins—und Verbandskatholizismus, which fostered a Catholic subculture that was relatively distant from the official church. Starting with Seidenstücker’s Buddhistischer Missionsverein, we see a similar development toward a Buddhist club culture, with the aim of navigating the pitfalls of Nationalprotestantismus. In 1906, Seidenstücker sought to distance himself from the theosophic movement, which had become increasingly discredited, and changed the name of the Missionsverein to Buddhistische Gesellschaft für Deutschland.69 In 1911, the small group changed their name again, this time to Deutscher Zweig der Mahabodi-Gesellschaft. In 1921, they merged with the Bund für Buddhistisches Leben (founded in 1912), which became Walter Tausk’s spiritual home. This was an unlikely marriage, as the Mahabodi-Gesellschaft was interested solely in plucking the intellectual fruits of Buddhism, “the essence of the Buddha’s teachings,” while the Bund für Buddhistisches Leben sought to live out a monkish Buddhism and had even erected a stupa in Halle in 1911.70 In fact, it was rather a hostile acquisition, as the Mahabodi-Gesellschaft had lost most of its members during and after the war. Its more theoretical approach had become less attractive amid the changing zeitgeist, with a more practical, hands-on message now being favored. Furthermore, Seidenstücker was 67  Michael Brenner, Stefi Jersch-Wenzel, and Michael A. Meyer, Deutsch-jüdische Geschichte in der Neuzeit, Band 2, Emanzipation und Akkulturation 1780–1871 (München: C.H. Beck, 2000), 302. 68   Martin Heckel, “Kulturkampfaspekte: Der Kulturkampf als Lehrstück modernen Kirchenstaatsrechts,” in Staat, Kirche, Wissenschaft in einer pluralen Gesellschaft, Festschrift zum 65. Geburtstag von Paul Mikat, edited by Dieter Giesen et  al. (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1989), 554f. 69  Chronik des Buddhismus in Deutschland (Plochingen: Deutsche Buddhistische Union, 1985), 41. 70  “Um die Erhaltung der äusseren Formen des Buddhismus ist es uns keineswegs zu tun, sondern um das Wesen der Buddhalehre.” Chronik des Buddhismus in Deutschland (Plochingen: Herausgeber Deutsche Buddhistische Union, 1985), 41.

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accused of embezzlement and left the group (he remained a Buddhist, however, before becoming a practicing Catholic in the 1920s), which slid into further infighting.71 The Bund swept up the remaining members and became the center of Buddhist activities, at least between Leipzig and Breslau. It was under the influence of the Bund in the mid-1920s that Tausk started to celebrate Vesak, the festival that commemorates the birth, enlightenment, and death of the historical Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama. However, it was a Jewish holiday, Yom Kippur, in 1918, that caused Tausk to rethink his relationship with Buddhism and Judaism. It was the first time that he had visited a synagogue after being discharged from the army: At this opportunity, I wished to test myself, to see whether I am still allowed to call myself a Jew, to see whether the philosophical makeup of pure Buddhism is still compatible with Jewish morals, custom, and ethics.72

While on his way to the synagogue, Tausk passed by the Alter Johannisfriedhof, which, as we know, was of crucial significance to his intellectual development. Here he encountered, by chance, his old pal Paul Eberhardt. Instead of attending the Yom Kippur service, together they headed to the Völkerschlachtdenkmal (Monument to the Battle of the Nations), where a church choir concert was scheduled to take place. The gargantuan Völkerschlachtdenkmal in Leipzig was inaugurated in 1913, a year before the eruption of the war. It commemorates the Battle of Leipzig (also known as the Battle of the Nations) in 1813, which is widely presumed to have been the bloodiest battle before the First World War. As part of the Befreiuungskriege (Wars of Liberation) against Napoleon’s army, the battle was hyped up by national-conservative circles as playing a decisive role in the eventual abdication of Napoleon Bonaparte, as well as representing the birth of the German national consciousness.73  Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 152f.  “Bei dieser Gelegenheit wollte ich mich prüfen, ob ich noch Berechtigung habe, mich als Juden zu bezeichnen, ob man den philosophischen Bau des reinen Buddhismus mit der jüdischen Moral, Sitte und Ethik verschmelzen kann, […].” Tausk. Diary Entry, August 16, 1918. Reel 2. 73   Stefan-Ludwig Hoffmann, “Sakraler Monumentalismus um 1900—Das Leipziger Völkerschlachtdenkmal,” in Der politische Totenkult—Kriegerdenkmäler in der Moderne, edited by Reinhart Koselleck and Michael Jeismann (München: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 1994), 71 72

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The 91-meter-high monumental edifice was designed and built with religious undertones in mind, and it aimed at a sacralization of the German nation.74 The entrance was adorned with a statue of the archangel Michael, the patron saint of the German people, and an inscription that read: Gott mit uns (God with us). Germany’s dome of liberty (Deutschlands Freiheitsdom)—as it was hailed by the initiators of its construction, the German League of Patriots (Deutscher Patriotenbund)—combined Christian symbolism with a rather eclectic mix of pagan temple architecture. It broke with Christian architecture while eschewing Greco-Roman inspiration in favor of Germanic, Egyptian, and Assyrian elements.75 The combination of the sacral with an imperial gesture was intended to elevate death on the battlefield to a patriotic duty.76 National consciousness, not cosmopolitism, should guide the Germans. Instead of going to the synagogue, Tausk ended up in the edificial epitome of German militarization and glorification of war. He and Eberhardt proceeded to the crypt where the choir concert took place. The crypt was located in the underbelly of the monument embellished with giant death masks and warrior statues holding wake. That Tausk, who at this point was already a staunch opponent of the war, had personally witnessed the atrocities, and time and time again had attacked organized religion for its support of the war effort, would find relief in this setting, in this mammoth monument to the glorification of war and nationalism, might at first appear incredulous. However, in a certain sense, the initiators’ plans were fulfilled, just not in the direction they had intended. The experience on Erev Yom Kippur at the Völkerschlachtdenkmal elevated, rejuvenated, and even liberated Tausk. The trauma of battlefield experience became less constant as a presence in his writings. However, this was not due to an awakening of German national consciousness: […] I felt as if I were not sitting and leaning against a wall, against the Monument to the Battle of the Nations, listening to the Leipzig Church Choir. No! I was leaning […] against some dark, quiet corner at the evening

249. Alfred Spitzner (ed.), Völkerschlachtdenkmal—Weiheschrift (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Haertel, 1913), 14. 74  Hoffman, “Sakraler Momumentalismus,” 268f. 75  Ibid., 272f. 76  Spitzner, Völkerschlachtdenkmal—Weiheschrift, 12. Cf. Hoffman, “Sakraler Momumentalismus,” 272.

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of Yom Kippur in a house of the Jewish God, listening to the sound of the Kol Nidrei prayer.77

In the temple of German nationalism, Walter Tausk found appreciation of Judaism. Here, we find one of the very rare instances in his writings in which he explores the idea that Buddhism and Judaism were not inimical. We can infer from his earlier quote (“den philosophischen Bau des reinen Buddhismus mit der jüdischen Moral, Sitte und Ethik verschmelzen”) that Buddhist ethics’ “this-worldliness,” which was confined to a crude understanding of karma, had to be supplemented by a richer, more practical compass for daily life, such as that which Tausk had learned from Judaism. However, this reconciliation between Tausk’s contested identities was merely temporary. In 1921 and 1922, a two-part piece titled Aus den Aufzeichnungen eines jungen Buddhisten was published anonymously in Paul Dahlke’s journal Der Pfad.78 An extended version was also published anonymously as a monograph in 1924 by Tausk’s friend Oskar Schloss, one of the most active German-Buddhist publishers. The author is easily identifiable as Walter Tausk. The text is composed as a diary, closely resembling Tausk’s own diary, albeit more forthright in some aspects. The anonymity allowed him to vent certain feelings that he could neither confide to his diary nor express to his family. Unlike the journal article, the monograph, on which I base my reading, came with the dedication: “Einem Weibe Elfride [sic!] zugeeignet.”79 The prelude also featured two lengthy poems entitled An Dein Gewissen and Schauung. An Dein Gewissen, which was written shortly after the fallout with Elfriede, brims with self-pity and a theme of Love’s Labour’s Lost. The next poem, Schauung, includes the following lines: 77  “[…] es war mir: ich sass nicht, an die Wand gelehnt, im Völkerschlachtdenkmal und lauschte den Stimmen des Leipziger Kirchenchores. Nein! Ich lehnte […] in irgend einer dunklen, stillen Ecke am Abend des Versöhnungstages in einem Hause des jüdischen Gottes und lauschte den Tönen des Kol-nidre-Gebetes.” Tausk, Diary Entry, August 16, 1918. Reel 2. 78  First part here: Anonymous, “Aus den Aufzeichnungen eines jungen Buddhisten,” Der Pfad—Eine kleine buddhistische Vierteljahrsschrift 2 (1921), 23–28. Second part: Anonymous, “Aus den Aufzeichnungen eines jungen Buddhisten (Fortsetzung und Schluß),” Der Pfad— Eine kleine buddhistische Vierteljahrsschrift 3/4 (1922), 48–60. 79  Anonymous, Aus den Aufzeichnungen eines jungen Buddhisten (München-Neubiberg: Oskar Schloss Verlag, 1924).

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I looked at you, who had once opened The way to knowledge about Buddha.80

This corroborates our previous finding that the breakup with Elfriede pushed Tausk toward fully embracing Buddhism. More interesting, however, are three epigraphs: the first by the Buddha, as conveyed by the Dhammapada; a second by Rabbi Nachman; and a third by Henrik Ibsen. The quote from Rabbi Nachman is of particular importance for our purposes, as it raises the issue underlying the text—namely that of the connection between interreligious marriage, Judaism, and Buddhism: All words of blasphemy and all grudges of hostility toward the true and the taciturn are the stones thrown at them—out of them, they build a house.81

This quotation, again emphasizing the pride Tausk took in his outsiderism, originates from Martin Buber’s Die Geschichten des Rabbi Nachman. At first glance, it might appear odd for Tausk to quote from Buber’s neo-­ Romantic adaptation, especially since it not only stands for a Jewish mysticism but also runs contrary to the rationality that attracted Tausk to Buddhism. Besides the message’s obvious appeal of resistance and independence, what could Tausk have seen in this quote? Buber’s Hasidic tales, at least in the early phase to which Die Geschichten des Rabbi Nachman belongs, emphasized a religious experience that transcends its historical setting.82 Buber found in the Hasidic communities of Eastern Europe a most genuine expression of religious mysticism that he understood as appealing to human impulses beyond the constraints of religious affiliation. Legalistic aspects are neglected in favor of a religious attitude, which opened an avenue to Eastern spirituality as most discernible not in Buber himself, but rather in his disciples and epigones. The point in question goes beyond the rational/irrational divide, and is more about style,  Dich sah ich an, die einst zum Buddha-Wissen Den Weg mir hatte unbewußt erschlossen Anonymous, Aus den Aufzeichnungen eines jungen Buddhisten, 6. 81  “Alle Worte des Lästerns und aller Groll der Feindschaft wider den Echten und Schweigsamen sind die Steine, die gegen ihn geworfen werden—und er baut aus ihnen ein Haus.” Anonymous, Aus den Aufzeichnungen eines jungen Buddhisten, 7. 82  David Groiser, “Einleitung,” in Martin-Buber-Werkausgabe, 2.1 Mythos und Mystik— Frühe religionswissenschaftliche Schriften (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2013), 42. 80

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which, in Buber’s case, is a style of simplicity and lucidity. The various dreams we encounter in Tausk’s writings resemble Buber’s proclivity for simple language. Yet this simple language, in contrast to philosophical treatises such as Georg Grimm’s work on Buddhism, strives to reveal the profundity of the everyday. These characteristics of Buber’s interpretation of Hasidic mysticism laid the groundwork for what appealed to Tausk, namely the kernel of an unio mystica that could also be found in other religious traditions. While he still held on to the rational notion of Buddhism, the sudden appearance is an important stepping stone on the path to the integration of a more mystically inclined Buddhism that would eventually prevail during the 1920s. A secondary implication was that Tausk allowed for the possibility of an affinity between certain strands of Judaism and Buddhism. Therefore, there are some notable features within what is, to my knowledge, the only instance in which Tausk mentions a genuinely Jewish author. First of all, it offered a picture of wholeness that was almost detached from its Jewish roots. It was not the Jewish aspects of Rabbi Nachman’s piety that attracted Tausk, but rather its decoupling of religion from formalism and ritualism. In this regard, it became an adumbration of what Tausk’s Aufzeichnungen tried to convey: the shift from the perceived particularism of Judaism to universality. Furthermore, the decoupling of religious experience from a more ritualistic or legalistic interpretation of Judaism opened up the question as to what might be an alternative basis of Jewishness. Buber was also one of the pioneers of the renaissance in Jewishness during this period, which went hand in hand with the (re-)conceptualization of Jewishness as an ethnic identity.83 As discussed in Chap. 4, Buber’s idea of Jewishness is defined by self-orientalization and against Indian and Buddhist ideas. But one should point out that Buber considered the pursuit of unity as fundamental for Jews. For Buber, the Jewish desire for unity is born out of the Urzweiheit that the Jews must overcome. As such, it follows that, as Ritchie Robertson has put it: “Ethical universalism, messianism, and its secularized descendant, Socialism, are all versions of the search for unity.”84 Thus, following 83  Ritchie Robertson, The “Jewish Question” in German Literature 1749–1939: Emancipation and its Discontents (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 388. 84  Robertson, The “Jewish Question” in German Literature 1749–1939, 389. Cf. “Drei Reden über das Judentum,” in Frühe Jüdische Schriften 1900–1922. Martin Buber Werkausgabe 3, edited by Barbara Schäfer-Siems (Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 2007), 219–256 (235).

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Buber, we can argue that, for Tausk, at least at this stage of his life, his rejection of Judaism in favor of Buddhism was for him also an expression of this Jewish search for unity. Tausk’s views on the First World War and the role it played in his turn toward Buddhism have now been amply discussed. However, all of these aspects have so far been internal, as he seemed unconcerned with any societal dimension. That this dimension does in fact exist, even if only as a counterpart to his advocacy of a radical individualism, becomes apparent in Tausk’s short novella Olaf Höris Tod—Skizze zu einer Vollmondphantasie. While published in 1924, the book’s theme as well as its intellectual background certainly belongs to the time of the First World War and Tausk’s experiences on the battlefield. Tausk certainly took pride in the novella and from his diaries, we learn that even several years after the original publication, he continued to send out copies of “my Olaf Hoeri” to writers, newspapers, and libraries85 The local radio station and newspaper reviewed the work, negatively for the most part. In 1929, Tausk sent it to Erich Maria Remarque and Alfred Döblin, receiving praise from the latter.86 Even though Olaf Höris Tod constitutes only a small part of Tausk’s oeuvre, it can help us to fill in some of the gaps that exist on account of the loss of most of his diaries from the first half of the 1920s. The plot focuses on the protagonist, Olaf Höri, a Kriegskrüppel (war cripple) who was badly injured and became handicapped as a soldier in the First World War. Impaired in his ability to move and unable to care for himself, he is confined to a small room in a home for the handicapped that is part of a Benedictine monastery. Through flashbacks, we learn about his life, while simultaneously his health rapidly declines. The plot ends with his entrance into nirvana. 85  Walter Tausk, Diary Entry, March 10, 1929. Reel 3. Ryszard Kincel reports that Tausk extended Olaf Höris Tod into a full-fledged novel. I have not been able to corroborate this claim. Cf. Kincel, “Vorwort,” 8ff. 86  Walter Tausk, Diary Entry. Reel 2. I suppose that this was the original novella from 1924, and not a longer novel of the same title, since no other publication by Walter Tausk is recorded. However, this was not for want of trying, as Tausk wrote several novels that were never published, the manuscripts of which appear to be lost. These include the novel Werner Baron, written in 1925–1926, and the unfinished novel Ella Jende and Ruth Baruch, written during the 1930s. The aforementioned novel Elfriede, as well as the short story “Ludger Agatz,” is also lost. Most of his smaller pieces, that is, poems and articles, seem to have been published in Buddhist journals. Cf. Kincel, “Vorwort,” 8ff. See Walter Tausk, Diary Entry, April 5, 1926. Reel 2. Walter Tausk, Diary Entry, March 5, 1927. Reel 2.

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Tausk supported a biographical reading of the novella in his foreword, which he wrote in October 1922, after staying in the small village of Gaienhofen next to Lake Constance (Bodensee). The profound connection of the novella to this region is underlined by the fact that the protagonist is named after the Höri peninsula on which Gaienhofen is situated (his fiancée’s surname is Gottlieben, after a small village on the Swiss shore of Lake Constance). The description of the monastery that houses the home for the handicapped in which Olaf Höri spends his final days matches the real Benedictine monastery on the nearby Reichenau Island. In German Buddhism, this location had an illustrious history. A couple of years before, Hermann Hesse had lived there, and it is where Jakob Wassermann paid him a visit in 1905.87 However, when Tausk stayed in Gaienhofen, Hesse had already moved to Montagnola in the Ticino canton of Switzerland. While Hesse was not the first to seek a Romantic hermitage there, he accelerated the rush of urban bohemians into the area. Painters were especially attracted to the natural setting and a rurality that offered a middle ground between the peasant and the bohemian life.88 There is another connection between Tausk’s novella and the peninsula. In the 1930s, the Höri Peninsula became the refuge for Otto Dix, who, together with George Grosz, had shocked the German public after the First World War with his depiction of Kriegskrüppel. Not that these war cripples were unheard of; on the contrary, they were ubiquitous. Estimates range from 1.5 million to 2.7 million war invalids of some form, both physically and psychologically, in Germany alone.89 Around 80,000 soldiers had at least one limb amputated.90 Yet, unlike in France, where they were considered war heroes, in Germany and Austria-Hungary these “living war memorials,” as Joseph Roth called them, were seen as a reminder of the agonizing defeat.91 Just as the soldier’s body had been stunted, so too had the Volkskörper. The Treaty of Versailles, the Schmachfriede, was seen as an effort to amputate 87  Ursula Apel (ed.), Hermann Hesse: Personen und Schlüsselfiguren in seinem Leben, Bd II. J-Z (München: K.G. Saur, 1989), 997. 88  Gunnar Decker, Der Zauber des Anfangs—Das kleine Hesse-Lexikon (Berlin: Aufbau, 2007), 83f. See also Joseph Milleck, Hermann Hesse: Life and Art (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 42. 89  Sabine Kienitz, Beschädigte Helden. Kriegsinvalidität und Körperbilder 1914–1923 (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh Verlag, 2008), 16. 90  Mia Fineman, “Ecce Homo Prostheticus,” New German Critique 76 (1999), 88. 91   “lebende Kriegsdenkmäler” Kienitz, Beschädigte Helden. Kriegsinvalidität und Körperbilder 1914–1923, 22.

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German territory and to cripple the German nation, its power, and its h ­ onor.92 The Minister of Propaganda in Nazi Germany, Joseph Goebbels, later characterized the treaty as “an open, bleeding, life-threatening wound on the Körper of the German Volk.”93 While during the war and shortly after, injured soldiers returning from the front were widely respected, this changed as it dawned on the public that the outcome of the war was deeply disadvantageous to Germany.94 In the public perception, it was not an honorable defeat, but a national humiliation on the world stage. The change in perception also extended to the Kriegskrüppel, who were subsequently scapegoated and were suspected of defeatism and sabotage. They became symbols of Germany’s military failure and yet were encountered in daily life. However, as symbols of a national trauma, their memory was repressed, forgotten, and marginalized. They often lived in dire economic circumstances and many took to the streets to beg or sell gewgaws. A new generation of artists drew attention to the repression of the war invalids: Otto Dix (e.g., in his Die Kriegskrüppel and Streichholzverkäufer, both from 1920) and George Grosz (Musketier Helmhake auf dem Felde der Ehre gefallen from 1920) gave expression to something that most people wished to avoid.95 The Kriegskrüppel was also a reminder of the profound sea change brought about by the First World War. Not only was the sheer number of war invalids unprecedented, so too were the manner of injuries. The technological leap in warfare, the widespread use of weapons of mass destruction, and the unparalleled firepower in the cauldron battles (Kesselschlachten) pushed the numbers of dead and injured through the roof. On the other hand, new medical techniques were introduced during the course of the war, such as blood transfusion, which saved many lives but left survivors handicapped. 92  Vanessa Conze, “Unverheilte Brandwunden in der Außenhaut des Volkskörpers—Der deutsche Grenz-Diskurs der Zwischenkriegszeit (1919–1939),” in Ordnungen in der Krise: zur politischen Kulturgeschichte Deutschlands 1900–1933, edited by Wolfgang Hardtwig (München: Oldenbourg, 2007), 26. 93  Joseph Goebbels, “Gegen die Young-Sklaverei,” Der Angriff, September 23, 1929, 120. Quoted in: Boaz Neumann, “The Phenomenology of the German People’s Body (Volkskörper) and the Extermination of the Jewish Body,” New German Critique 106 (2009), 158. 94  Kienitz, Beschädigte Helden. Kriegsinvalidität und Körperbilder 1914–1923, 47. 95  Dietrich Schubert, “Krüppeldarstellungen im Werk von Otto Dix nach 1920: Zynismus oder Sarkasmus?,” in Krieg und Utopie: Kunst, Literatur und Politik im Rheinland nach dem Ersten Weltkrieg, edited by Gertrude Cepl-Kaufmann, Gerd Krumeich, and Ulla Sommers (Essen: Klartext-Verlag, 2006), 294f.

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The crises of conventions, identities, and ideals triggered by the war prompted widespread reflection and examination of the human creature in all its shades. Prostitutes, beggars, Kriegskrüppel, and other figures relegated to the fringes of society and culture were now ubiquitous both on the streets and in the cultural sphere. In the theological as in the philosophical realm, the discourse moved from the notion of transcendence to existence. The human being, in all its manifest creaturely imperfections, as a creation in this world, and not just an abstract being, was now a topic of philosophical and theological concern. The Kriegskrüppel were therefore at the interstices between the residues of the Prussian soldierly ideal and the Kreatur, the vulnerable creature that lurked behind that ideal.96 Tausk directly challenged the idea of the perfection of man or more specifically the chauvinist conception of the German soldier as the pride of creation: a living accusation against the war, as the opening paragraph of Tausk’s novella already clarifies: Olaf Höri was one of many who gave blood and lifeforce for the German home soil, only to be forgotten. He was one of the first who, filled with love for the fatherland, stormed France—but he was also one of the first who was crippled by a grenade.97

As previously noted, the existence of the handicapped creature of the Kriegskrüppel was a living, physical accusation against both the state and the church, and militarism and religion. This is especially noteworthy in light of Tausk’s strained relationship with both religion and patriotism. While German patriotism, Christianity, and, obviously, Buddhism feature prominently in Olaf Höris Tod, Judaism appears to be absent. Yet, I would argue that the novella, like Jakob Wassermann’s Christian Wahnschaffe, also deals with a Jewish theme: namely the story of Job. The narrative parallels between Olaf Höri and the biblical Job are discernible throughout the plot. Höri starts out as the descendant of a wealthy family, but after a financial crash and his father’s subsequent suicide (on Olaf’s 96  Helmut Lethen, Verhaltenslehren der Kälte—Lebensversuche zwischen den Kriegen (Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp, 1994), 245f. 97  “Olaf Höri war einer von den vielen, die für deutschen Heimatboden Blut und Lebenskraft hingegeben hatten, um vergessen zu werden. Er war einer der ersten, die, erfüllt von Vaterlandsliebe, nach Frankreich hineinstürmten—aber er war auch einer der ersten, die von Granaten zu Krüppeln gemacht wurden.” Walter Tausk, Olaf Höris Tod—Skizze zu einer Vollmondphantasie (München-Neubiberg: Oskar Schloss Verlag, 1924), 8.

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birthday), he faces a life of poverty. Because he excelled at school, he manages to enroll in the university, where he soon becomes engaged to a woman from a well-off family. But then, the tide turns again. He is drafted at the beginning of the war and sent off to the front, where he soon becomes stunted. His fiancée has volunteered in the sick bay where Höris is hospitalized, and this is where she contracts a bacterial infection and dies shortly thereafter. Olaf Höri has to spend the rest of his life alone in a home for the handicapped until his story of suffering and desperation finds its ultimate resolution through nirvana. Of course, the preoccupation with the story of Job, or its basic theme, is not confined to Jewish writers. Christian writers have also been puzzled and affected by the story.98 However, given Tausk’s ambiguous relationship with his Jewishness, which had to be renegotiated every day in his personal contact with his family, one can legitimately draw the following connection: By framing the story of Olaf Höri, the Kriegskrüppel, along the lines of the story of Job, Tausk attested to the parallels between the societal status of the Kriegskrüppel and German Jews after the First World War. Both the Kriegskrüppel and German Jews became scapegoats for the defeat of the German Army. While the Kriegskrüppel were subject to the swift and abrupt redefinition from heroic soldier to national embarrassment, German Jews not only experienced a continuation of centuries-old antisemitism but also were suspected throughout the war campaign of undermining the German race to victory. This included the antisemitic Judenzählung, which was proposed to determine the number of Jewish war shirkers and draft dodgers, and found its egregious climax in the Dolchstoßlegende, which more often than not targeted Jews for their supposed lack of patriotism and, subsequently, Germany’s defeat, the revolution, and the breakdown of the traditional order. René Girard proposed reading the biblical book of Job along the lines of his theories concerning mimetic rivalry and scapegoating. Job is the innocent scapegoat that faces the hatred of the majority.99 As Girard has pointed out, scapegoating can also be seen as a fundamental principle in modern societies. Scapegoating marginalized groups, like Jews and Kriegskrüppel, enabled a stabilization of societal cohesion 98  Cf. this article on how (mostly Christian writers) tried to find the origins of the Job story in India: D.J.A. Clines, “In Search of the Indian Job,” Vetus Testamentum 33 (1983), 398ff. 99  René Girard, Job, the Victim of his People (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1987), 4f.

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during times of great uncertainty. Following this line of thought, we can see the German attitude toward Jews and Kriegskrüppel after the First World War as a result of what Girard has called “mimetic rivalry.”100 Growing societal tensions after the abdication of Kaiser Wilhelm II, the revolution, economic hardship, the humiliation suffered at Versailles, and so forth provoked a “mimetic desire” to be a victorious nation like France.101 The outlet for this desire is to blame the scapegoats, a mechanism that rests on four premises: (1) a crisis (the defeat during the war and the ensuing societal upheaval); (2) a crime that caused the crisis (undermining a war that the majority of the German public enthusiastically supported and were convinced of winning); (3) a culprit (the Kriegskrüppel who failed to defend their homeland and the draft-dodging German Jews who undermined the war effort); and (4) “a violence frequently attributed to a sacred character.”102 It was previously noted how the war was sanctioned by priests and rabbis and how Tausk was appalled by this. The theological justification of the war, the religious language applied to it, and the apocalyptic imagery that slowly unfolded even for the home front gave a sacred cover to the bellicose violence. By framing Olaf Höris Tod along the lines of the story, it provides a rebuke to all four premises of the scapegoating mechanism through the Buddhist conviction of its protagonist. Another episode in Olaf Höris Tod illuminates the intersection between violence and sacredness and how their volatile relationship becomes charged by a society in crisis. Walter Tausk attempted to honor the Kriegskrüppel as war heroes, and at times these attempts clash with the overall message, namely that those who sacrificed themselves for Germany were treated ungratefully and neglected. This point is repeated over and over again, and Tausk explained in the foreword that an article on the neglect of the war invalids was the main inspiration for his novella.103 Tausk offered two visions of tribute to the war invalids. The first focuses on the worldly aspect: On the way from the front to the home of the handicapped, Höri and other war invalids are suddenly surrounded by mass demonstrations for the imminent revolution. They are forced to par Cf. Girard, Job, the Victim of his People, 53f.  Girard, Job, the Victim of his People, 65f. 102  Cf. Richard Kearney, “Myths and Scapegoats: The Case of René Girard,” Theory, Culture & Society 12 (1995), 3. Kearney also offers a thorough critique of some of the implicit assertions of Girard’s theory. 103  Tausk, Olaf Höris Tod—Skizze zu einer Vollmondphantasie, 5. 100 101

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take in the demonstration as an accusation against the old regime and as “the vanguard of peace.”104 Faced with an impending confrontation with the military, Höri and the other war invalids are placed at the front of the crowd to discourage any shooting. Höri and the Major of the arriving military forces recognize each other as old war pals, and a confrontation between the protesters and the military is averted. The Major breaks out in tears over the stunted body of the Kriegskrüppel and the crumbling regime. In the moment of the German Empire’s downfall, Höri receives his recognition as a war hero. The second vision occurs in the religious realm: Arriving at the home for the handicapped, Höri is greeted by a procession of Benedictine monks paying tribute to the war hero. At the entrance to the monastery, he encounters a quotation from the Gospel of John (16:33)—“I have overcome the world” (Sehet, ich habe die Welt überwunden)—and he addresses the attendant monks: “Greetings, venerable brothers! Pathfinders are you. Behold, I too have overcome the world.”105 Not only does this passage suggest an affinity, or even a common core, between Buddhism and Christianity, at least in its Benedictine persuasion (as is argued in much of the Buddha-Jesus literature discussed in Chap. 3), it also contradicts many of Tausk’s earlier claims made in his diaries. The wistful descriptions of the honors that Höri receives from both the army and the church are so overstated that they lend themselves easily to a biographical interpretation. While the honors can be considered wishful projections, Tausk, as Höri, found solace not in receiving honors but in recognizing the futility of suffering. Reading Olaf Höri as a modern Job further allows us to emphasize the pervasiveness of alienation within the plot. Höri is repeatedly defined by his expulsion from the strata of society. First, he is expelled from the upper class when the family loses its fortune, then he is torn from his newly settled civilian life when he is drafted into the army, and, finally, he, the Kriegskrüppel, is “left and forgotten by his contemporaries.”106 Expulsion, as a running theme in this mere 30-page plot, establishes Olaf Höri as the epitome of the outsider, a role he ultimately embraces as his Buddhism alienates him further from the Benedictines taking care of him. Tausk,  Tausk, Olaf Höris Tod—Skizze zu einer Vollmondphantasie, 25.  “Seid gegrüßt, ehrwürdige Brüder! Pfadsucher seid ihr. Sehet, auch ich habe die Welt überwunden.” Tausk, Olaf Höris Tod—Skizze zu einer Vollmondphantasie, 29. 106  Tausk, Olaf Höris Tod—Skizze zu einer Vollmondphantasie, 5. “von der Mitwelt verlassen und vergessen.” 104 105

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who narrowly escaped the destiny of a Kriegskrüppel (as described in his Die Schipper in der Hölle von Ornes) and who tried vigorously to distance himself from his Jewishness, not only describes a process compatible with Girard’s theory but also offers a way out of the role of the scapegoat of society: through Buddhism. Besides their mutual scapegoat status, the novella offers another parallel between the Kriegskrüppel and the Jew. In times when the soldier remained the epitome of masculinity, the Kriegskrüppel was perceived as a failed man.107 In Olaf Höris Tod, this notion is captured in the sudden death of Höri’s fiancée, Gudrun; he is unaffected: “Olaf hardly thinks about it; what would Gudrun have found in him, the cripple, after all.”108 Several layers overlap in this short quotation. For one, the Kriegskrüppel is considered effeminate, underserving of a woman, potentially repulsive, and incapable of sexually satisfying her. The parallels with the prevalent stereotype of the feminized Jew are patently obvious.109 In fact, the image of the feminized Jew and the perception of German Jews as unsoldierly and as draft dodgers are intermingled. When being a soldier became the litmus test of one’s manhood, both the “failed” Kriegskrüppel and the draft-dodging Jews were seen as outsiders in the face of hegemonic masculinities. Höri’s unfazed response to the death of his fiancée already suggests his embrace of Buddhism later in the plot. His indifference is still situational, but it will soon be constitutional for his approach to life. Unaffected by the fate of his fiancée, the destiny of a Kriegskrüppel guides him toward Buddhism. In Olaf Höris Tod, Tausk is more positive about Christianity than at any other time. But it is also evident that only Buddhism can provide freedom from Olaf Höri’s parlous situation. Höri rejects the rituals and sacraments, which the monks intend to perform on him, and which stand in opposition to Buddhist teachings. Instead, he seeks refuge in reciting from the Pali Canon. The story itself oscillates between a rather favorable depiction of the Benedictine monks and the realization of the futility of their efforts. 107  Schubert, “Krüppeldarstellungen im Werk von Otto Dix nach 1920: Zynismus oder Sarkasmus?,” 294. 108  “Olaf denkt kaum daran; was hätte Gudrun an ihm, dem Krüppel schließlich gefunden.” Tausk, Olaf Höris Tod—Skizze zu einer Vollmondphantasie, 39. 109  Ritchie Robertson, “Historicizing Weininger: The Nineteenth-Century Image of the Feminized Jew,” in Modernity, Culture and “the Jew”, edited by Bryan Cheyette and Laura Marcus (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1998), 23–39.

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Here, Christianity appears overly preoccupied with the body. Höri’s physical health deteriorates, but he gains mental strength. His steadfast belief in Buddhism provides him with the tools not only to deal with bodily pain but also to embrace the dawning of death. The last two pages offer a mystical vision of the journey of the “life force formerly known as Olaf Höri” into nirvana.110 After the separation of the body from the life force, a kaleidoscopic vision of the universe is sketched out, which culminates in a disintegration of the senses and the final dissolution into nothing.

Methodological Interlude: Contradictions in Everyday Life The aforementioned contradictions between the Weltanschauung Tausk offered in his public writings and in his private writings raise some methodological questions. Before further exploring these questions, I would like to add a historical-epistemological caveat. Even though a superficial analysis of the aforementioned passages suggests a contradiction between what we know about Tausk and his apparent attitude toward Christianity from his personal writings and from his novella, we cannot be completely sure of the extent of this contradiction, or even if it exists at all. The importance of the novella lies in its role as a fill-in, a substitute, for the missing diaries between 1919 and 1925. It might be perfectly conceivable that, during this gap, Tausk held more favorable views of Christianity for a short time, which he later, during the time covered by the existing diaries, abandoned once more. After all, he repeatedly changed his mind about the compatibility of Buddhism and Judaism. However, such a scenario appears rather unlikely—first, because he continued to advocate Olaf Höris Tod even after allegedly reassuming his anti-Christian attitude, and second, because nothing in his biography suggests or justifies an embrace of Christianity. Nevertheless, there remains some uncertainty as to Tausk’s attitude during these years, but if we assume that the contradiction does in fact exist, we are charged with the task of incorporating it into the biographical arc of our investigation. This also means resisting the urge to explain away this contradiction, via a dialectical process, for example, and instead embracing it as part of Tausk’s intellectual world. Thus, the most obvious answer to this conundrum is that Tausk held separate private and 110  Tausk, Olaf Höris Tod—Skizze zu einer Vollmondphantasie, 30. “die Lebenskraft, ‘Olaf Höri’ genannt.”

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public viewpoints. While his private views were clearly critical of Christianity, he thought it unwise to advocate such views publicly. Perhaps he did not want to cause a backlash from Christian circles or jeopardize his literary career. Yet, many others, even Jewish writers, in the Weimar Republic criticized Christianity, or religion, in general, and were able to launch successful careers. Furthermore, while he could have skipped or ignored the topic, Tausk clearly inserted himself into the debate, which in 1924 appeared rather moot, over the connection between Buddha and Jesus, or Buddhism and Christianity. These two aspects could have been significant for Tausk, even though during the First World War and in its aftermath, the attraction of Buddhism rather lay in its complete hostility toward established religions. Of course, when reading Olaf Höris Tod we should, as always, avoid the traps of biographism, that is, the tendency to read the oeuvre of a writer only through biographical features, and vice versa.111 To avoid this trap, of course, entails admitting that I cannot provide a definitive solution to the task of inserting this aspect faultlessly into Tausk’s intellectual development. Yet, the form of this chapter, a microbiography, is advantageous insofar as it allows for contradictions. Unlike the Procrustean bed of macrohistory, contradictions are the fertile soil in which the microhistorical narrative thrives. The inherent contradictions in the interaction of the forces of modernity and religion that shaped Tausk’s thinking can be seen through the magnifying glass of microhistory. These contradictions should not be judged as paradoxical views held by our protagonist, but rather as a reminder that the subject of this chapter was a living being who struggled to align his ideas with his life. The publications of other figures mentioned in Chap. 4 resided entirely in the realm of ideas. The ideas of Buddhism, idealized pictures, can be harmonious and consistent because they never have to clash with the messy reality of the everyday. Tausk, on the other hand, had to find ways to reconcile his ideas of Buddhism with the encounters and contradictions that arise out of the pandemonium that constitutes daily life at times. As it turns out, unlike in earlier chapters, where it seemed pertinent to skim a thinker’s work for consistencies in their approach to Buddhism, here it appears more conducive to concentrate on inconsistencies and contradictions.

111   Hans-Martin Kruckis, “Positivismus/Biographismus,” in Methodengeschichte der Germanistik, edited by Jost Schneider (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2009), 577.

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Tausk on Antisemitism and the Ostjuden Unfortunately, Tausk’s diaries from 1919 to 1925 are lost. But from other sources, and from his later entries, we can infer a few basic developments. In the meantime, Tausk had moved back to Breslau and was living with his parents and two sisters, Hertha and Ilse. In 1920, he had joined his father’s sales agency for furniture, office appliances, and textiles.112 Discontented with his work and entangled in constant strife with his sisters, the early 1920s again appear to have been a time of crisis for Tausk. Inflation was soaring and the effect was palpable in the family business. His private life was, once again, in a dire state. Apparently, a second amorous episode (following the disaster with Elfriede) failed too. Tausk’s stance toward Judaism hardened as he slid deeper into Buddhist circles. In the 1920s, Breslau had become a central hub of the German-Buddhist movement.113 The establishment of the local section of the Bund für Buddhistisches Leben by Arno Müller seems to have had a particularly invigorating effect on Tausk’s intellectual, social, and spiritual life. By 1925, when we are again able to witness his life, a few things have changed. Walter’s father died in 1925, and his relationship with his mother, and especially his sisters, had subsequently turned sour. For Tausk, they became the epitome of Judaism, and so he developed a vicious hatred of anything Jewish. During the 1920s, Tausk launched vicious attacks, laden with antisemitism, on his family members and acquaintances. The only consolation he could find was in the safe haven of the small but close-knit community of Buddhists. For a short while, Tausk was an esteemed member of the social circle of Buddhists in Breslau and a published author whose writings were generally well received (even though his readership was still limited to the small community of German Buddhists). Judaism played no further role in his life, and Yom Kippur in the Völkerschlachtdenkmal was forgotten. Furthermore, his Buddhism had become more ritualistic, and he had even started celebrating Buddhist holidays such as Vesak. After the death of Paul Dahlke in 1928, Tausk was apparently even considering a move to Berlin with Oskar Schloss to lead the Buddhist house there.114 The position was, however, honorary, and Tausk had to decline due to his financial woes.  Kincel, “Vorwort,” 6.  Baumann, Helmut Klar—Zeitzeuge zur Geschichte des Buddhismus in Deutschland, 30. 114  Tausk, Diary entry, May 3, 1928. Reel 2. 112 113

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The economic turmoil of this period affected the Jews in Breslau disproportionately. Many were self-employed because they were effectively excluded from state employment, which made them especially vulnerable to inflation.115 Even throughout the years of stability between 1924 and 1929, Tausk’s business languished. As has often occurred in European history, the Jewish community was scapegoated for economic hardship, and antisemitism was prevalent. Tausk reinforced this notion when he blamed his monetary troubles on the Jews themselves. When his sister Ilse brought to public attention an antisemitic incident at her workplace, Walter chastised her for stirring up trouble. His cavalier attitude toward antisemitism appears to be rooted in his attempt to put as much distance as possible between himself and his own Jewishness. Tausk identified two culprits of antisemitism: on the one hand, the nationalists who called for revanche for the First World War and blamed the German defeat on the Jews, and, on the other, the Jews themselves, who refused to assimilate. His main targets were Ostjuden, whom he saw as an epitome of everything that is wrong with the Jewish people. Tausk took umbrage at their physical appearance, clothes, walk, and beards when he encountered them on the streets.116 This trope of the chance street encounter with Ostjuden that would cause shock and even disgust had a long history in Germany; indeed, it appeared in the writings of liberal Jews as well as those of Hitler, who described such an episode in Mein Kampf.117 Both assimilated Jews and antisemites connected with the image of the Ostjude an assemblage of negative attributes: backwardness, superstition, filth, and sickness. For assimilated Jews like Tausk, Ostjuden served as a constant reminder of a distant ghetto past. On the one hand, they were a walking reproach for having abandoned Jewish tradition, while, on the other, they were feared as providing ammunition to antisemites, and association with them was anathema to any German Jew who had left their descendants’ faith behind. Tausk was no exception:

  Till van Rahden, Juden und andere Breslauer. Die Beziehungen zwischen Juden, Protestanten und Katholiken in einer deutschen Großstadt von 1860 bis 1925 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), 63ff. u. 318f. 116  Walter Tausk, Diary Entry, November 20, 1928. Reel 2. 117  See Aschheim, Brothers and Strangers: The East European Jew in German and GermanJewish Consciousness, 1800–1923, 58f. 115

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If Buddha Gautama had known these German and foreign Eastern Jews […], he would have classified them as ‘things to be avoided.’ It was lucky for him that back then, there were no Jews in India.118

In his negative attitude toward the Ostjuden, Tausk was in line with many assimilated Jews. However, his dissimilation followed when Tausk realized that antisemitism would target not only the Ostjuden but also assimilated Jews like himself.119 In her seminal article, Shulamit Volkov has described the dynamics of dissimilation—that is, recognition of a strong unique Jewish identity—as the outcome of two forces: “[T]he hostility and exclusiveness of the host society, and the inner dynamics of assimilation itself.”120 As she points out, due to antisemitism, the need arose for a parallel Jewish infrastructure, thus preserving and enhancing a distinctively Jewish identity among otherwise assimilated individuals. Dissimilation was therefore also a result of assimilation and social mobility, as many German Jews felt the same discontent with modern society that was so prevalent among the German bourgeoisie of the fin de siècle.121 In Walter Tausk’s story, the two forces are also at work, but in quite a different fashion, as described by Volkov. His turn toward Buddhism during the First World War was in fact an act of assimilation, a rejection of Judaism, and the embrace of one of the many esoteric movements, quite typical of this period, which shook the narrow confines of German society. The disproportionally high number of Jews in these non-denominational movements points to the successful assimilation of many German middle-class Jews. Others, who would fall into Volkov’s categorization of dissimilating Jews, chose a path set out by thinkers of a Jewish renaissance like Martin Buber and Franz Rosenzweig.122 However, Tausk’s dissimilation would also come at a time when Jewish life in Germany was most under threat. His re-embrace of his Jewishness, something he had denied for most of his life, since 1915, was based on the fragile Jewish infrastructure that persisted during the 1930s. 118  “Wenn Buddha Gautama diese deutschen und fremdländischen Ostjuden gekannt hätte […], er hätte sie unter ‘die zu meidenen Dinge’ eingereiht. Zum Glück für ihn gab es damals in Indien noch keine Juden überhaupt.” Walter Tausk, Diary Entry, August 3, 1925. Reel 2. Tausk alludes here to the list of Buddhist precepts that provide rules of conduct. 119  Volkov, “The Dynamics of Dissimilation,” 202f. 120  Volkov, “The Dynamics of Dissimilation,” 197. 121  Volkov, “The Dynamics of Dissimilation,” 199. 122  See Michael Brenner, The Renaissance of Jewish Culture in Weimar Germany (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996), 3ff.

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A Jewish Buddhist in the Third Reich The appointment of Adolf Hitler as Chancellor on January 30, 1933—the Machtergreifung (seizure of power) in Nazi jargon—in addition to changing the course of the whole world, had dire consequences for Walter Tausk. Even though for the previous ten years or so, he had tried to sever any connections to Judaism and considered himself a Buddhist, the racial ideology of the NSDAP, now the largest party in the country, regarded him as a Jew. Tausk was immediately aware of the historical significance of Hitler’s seizure of power, and two days later he began a new diary titled Im Dritten Reich (In the Third Reich), predicting a “decline into chaos, barbarism and the middle ages.”123 In his new role as an annalist of this decline, Tausk’s diaries now became, to a large extent, a chronicle of Jewish life under the Nazi regime. Already in January 1931 Tausk had called Hitler, perhaps in reference to Leo Lania’s famous book, “the gravedigger of Germany.”124 While Tausk was prescient in respect of the horrendous consequences of Hitler’s seizure of power and his antisemitic politics toward German Jewry, he somehow saw himself as immune to this threat. In 1933, he remained of the “[…] conviction, not to die as a Jew […]. I hate this rotten spirit [i.e. Judaism], and in my life the Buddha has prevailed.”125 While it took more time for Tausk to come to terms with his Jewishness, which was by now mostly defined by National Socialist antisemitism, his political affiliations were now clearly pronounced. On the occasion of the federal elections on March 5, 1933, he records in his diary his vote for the Social  Tausk, Diary no. 19, front page. Reel 2.  Walter Tausk, Diary Entry, January 18, 1931. Reel 2 “und hitler ist in Wahrheit der Totengräber Deutschlands.” This could be a reference to Leo Lania’s book Die Totengräber Deutschlands—Das Urteil im Hitlerprozeß from 1924. Leo Lania, Die Totengräber Deutschlands—Das Urteil im Hitlerprozeß (Berlin: Neuer Deutscher Verlag, 1924). Lania, born as Lazar Herman in Charkow, was a Jewish journalist who mingled with socialist and communist circles (including with Bertholt Brecht). In the mid-1920s he published several sensationalist reportages from the fascist milieu in which he warned of the imminent threat that Hitler and his ilk posed to Germany. In 1934, he left Germany and, after several adventures, including internment in France, settled in the US. In the 1950s, Lania returned to Germany, and shortly before his death in 1960, he helped the German Chancellor Willy Brandt record his autobiography. Lania is a fascinating figure who has been so far neglected by historians. See the entry “Leo Lania” in: Renate Heuer (ed.), Lexikon deutsch-jüdischer Autoren. Band 15 (München: Saur, 2007), 159–167. 125  Walter Tausk, Diary no. 19, 70. Reel 2. 123 124

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Democratic Party (SPD), even though he did not consider himself a Social Democrat: Today, I had to choose socialism, which I still think the SPD embodies best—even though I am by no means a social democrat. This party has as much claim to patriotic sentiments as many of Hitler and Seldte’s [head of Stahlhelm] ‘war children battalions.’ And then, today, I have once again professed myself an SPD voter, because the party is being accused in the shabbiest way of things that are not their fault or that they even wished to prevent.126

His support for the Social Democrats is, at least partly, grounded in the same reasoning that led to his later embrace of his Jewishness, namely defiance of wrongful scapegoating and a claim to German patriotism. Tausk, the veteran of the First World War, was himself, qua his life path, the counterargument against the allegation by national-conservative circles and the Nazi regime that Jews and Socialists could not be true German patriots. Structural parallels aside, his embrace of socialism is at this point still detached from any positive relationship to his Jewishness. His astuteness regarding the political undertones and consequences of the Nazi regime is often accompanied by an obliviousness in relation to political connotations in the religious realm. This is certainly true in the case of Judaism, which Tausk continued to attack in vicious antisemitic terms, while being appalled by the antisemitic legislation of Hitler’s government. This is also true in the case of Buddhism, as Tausk responded to attempts to embed Buddhism within Nazi ideology with either myopic ignorance or silence. The day after the Enabling Act (Ermächtigungsgesetz) had passed, Tausk wrote enthusiastically in his diary: “once again back to Buddhism!”127 The reason for this rekindling of interest in Buddhism, which had been pushed aside by the political upheaval over the recent months, was the publication of a new Buddhist journal named Wiedergeburt und Wirken. The journal was founded by the physician Wolfgang Schumacher (1908–1961), 126  “Ich habe mich heute für den Sozialismus entscheiden müssen, den ich—obwohl noch lange kein Sozialdemokrat—doch am besten in der SPD verkörpert sehe. Diese Partei hat hat ebensoviel Anspruch auf vaterländische Gesinnung wie die vielen ‘Kriegskinderbataillone’ bei Hitler und Seldte [head of Stahlhelm]. Und dann habe ich mich auch heute wieder zur SPD als Wähler bekannt, weil ihr in hundsgemeiner Weise Dinge vorgeworfen werden, für die sie gar nichts kann, die sie sogar vermeiden wollte.” Kincel, Walter Tausk—Breslauer Tagebuch 1933–1940, 131. 127  “wieder beim Buddhismus!” Walter Tausk, Diary Entry, March 25, 1933. Reel 2.

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who in the 1920s had belonged to the circle around Paul Dahlke. The journal Wiedergeburt und Wirken attempted to reconcile Buddhism with National Socialism. Against attempts by the antisemitic group Deutsche Christen to establish Protestantism as the most suitable religion for the new Germany, Schumacher preferred to see Buddhism take up this role.128 However, Schumacher’s journal was soon discontinued.129 While the Nazis did not pay particular attention to the small Buddhist community, their activities were met with suspicion and consequently curbed by the authorities. During the 1930s, some German Buddhists immigrated, often to South Asia, while others shied away from being further associated with Buddhist “pacifism.”130 Among these emigrants was Siegmund Feniger, who headed toward British Ceylon in 1936. In contrast, some German Buddhists, like Schuhmacher, exhibited a sincere enthusiasm for National Socialism, with or without abandoning their Buddhism. The association of Buddhism with Aryanism throughout the nineteenth century made it easily adaptable to the National Socialist race ideology, and whether out of genuine conviction or opportunism, many German Buddhists embraced National Socialism. The Eastern occultism at the fringes of the NS-Movement would prove attractive to many Buddhists. Of course, the rise of fascism triggered a debate in the German-­Buddhist community, especially as terminology and symbols were usurped by rightwing parties. The swastika, a popular symbol among German Buddhists and sympathizers, had been a site of contestation since it was first adopted by the racist elements within the political discourse. The nascent rift in the German-Buddhist community is also visible quite early on among the figures discussed here: In 1920, the Bund für Buddhistisches Leben, of which Tausk was a member, abandoned the use of the swastika, while in the same year Paul Cohen-Portheim still illustrated his Asien als Erzieher with a swastika.131 The liking that many Nazi grandees, especially Heinrich Himmler, took to occultism and Tibet (the supposed Urland of the Aryans) provided a possible connection to those Buddhists who had a fondness for more  Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 207.  Schumacher fell out of grace with the Nazi regime when he published an article in the English-language Peace, which was read as an endorsement of pacifism. He was nevertheless allowed to continue publishing. See Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 208. 130  Baumann, Deutsche Buddhisten—Geschichte und Gemeinschaften, 67. 131  Zeitschrift für Buddhismus 2 (1920), 242. See also: Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 205. 128 129

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mystical aspects, even though German Buddhists had previously shunned Tibetan Buddhism. For those who either genuinely subscribed to the national socialist ideology or were opportunistic enough, the new regime offered a range of opportunities, provided they fitted into the right racial category. The policies of the new regime caused an overthrow of the hierarchies of the German-Buddhist communities, and while old players retreated into privacy or emigrated, others entered the scene, like the aforementioned Wolfgang Schumacher.132 In 1938–1939, the German Tibet expedition, with institutional support from the SS and Heinrich Himmler, sought residues of Aryan heritage among the indigenous population of Tibet.133 The head of the expedition, Ernst Schäfer, used the swastika both in Germany and in Tibet as proof of the bond between the two people and also to curry favor with the respective leaders.134 Another aspect of Buddhism in the Third Reich came in the form of the political and cultural relations between Germany and Japan. In previous decades, Zen Buddhism had not played such a prominent role among those who were interested in Eastern wisdom, nor had Shintoism.135 However, Japanese culture grew increasingly influential, particularly after the RussoJapanese War in 1905. The journal Die Buddhistische Welt published a call for donations for Japanese prisoners of war who were being transferred from Russia back to their homeland via Bremerhaven, Germany.136 While still lacking influence over German Buddhists, Japan managed to make inroads into the German political terrain. The political rapprochement accelerated during the 1930s and culminated in the Anti-­Comintern Pact in 1936, the German-Japanese Cultural Agreement in 1938, and the German-Japanese-Italian Tripartite Pact in 1940.137 The reasons are manifold, but for our purposes two aspects are worthy of note: For one, Japanese  Zotz, Auf den glückseligen Inseln: Buddhismus in der deutschen Kultur, 205.  Peter Mierau, Nationalsozialistische Expeditionspolitik: Deutsche Asien-Expeditionen 1933–1945 (München: Herbert Utz Verlag, München, 2006), 329ff. 134  Mierau, Nationalsozialistische Expeditionspolitik: Deutsche Asien-Expeditionen 1933–1945, 355f. 135  Hans-Joachim Bieber, SS und Samurai: Deutsch-japanische Kulturbeziehungen 1933–1945 (München: Iudicium Verlag, 2014), 134. 136  See Die Buddhistische Welt—Publikations-Organ des Buddhistischen Missions-Vereins in Deutschland 1 (1905/06), 57. 137  See Christian Spang, “The German East Asiatic Society (OAG) during the Nazi Era,” in Transnational Encounters between Germany and Japan: Perceptions of Partnership in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, edited by Joanne Miyang Cho, Lee M. Roberts, and Christian Spang (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016), 131. 132 133

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society offered an image of a homogeneous society, a healthy Volkskörper, guided by one Führer, the Tennoˉ. Unsurprisingly, this appealed to many National Socialists, who could find reference for this in their own canon: Hitler had already, in Mein Kampf, pointed out that the Japanese nation was particularly resilient against infiltration by Jews, which made Japan one of the main bulwarks, alongside Germany, against the threat from world Jewry.138 Second, the image of the Samurai warrior, ready to die for honor and homeland, also reverberated with the militaristic attitude of German society. Unlike Theravada Buddhism, whose association with pacifism contributed to its propagation within war-weary segments of society after the First World War, the Samurai could neatly combine Eastern wisdom with militarism.139 The detente between Zen and National Socialism after 1933 is best illuminated by the life path of Eugen Herrigel. Born near Kehl at the German-French border in 1884, he attended the University of Heidelberg, where he first came under the influence of his teacher Wilhelm Windelband and other members of the South-West school of neo-Kantianism.140 Conversant in both philosophy and theology, Herrigel was already familiar with Zen Buddhism before he became a lecturer in Japan in 1924, where he encountered archery. In an article from 1936 and in a subsequent slim book, titled Zen in der Kunst des Bogenschießens, Herrigel described his experience as a student of archery in Japan.141 The book became immensely popular and influential in Western literature on Zen Buddhism, especially during the 1960s craze for Eastern spirituality, yet an important aspect of Herrigel’s life was passed over. Only in 1961 did Gershom Scholem bring  Christian Spang, “Wer waren Hitlers Ostasienexperten? Teil I,” OAG Notizen 4 (2003), 11.  Despite all these signs, the relationship between National Socialism and Zen Buddhism has caused much controversy among scholars of Buddhism. While the role of the German, that is, the National Socialist side, is quite clear, the questions of affinities between Zen Buddhism and militarism have received heightened scrutiny since Brian Victoria has shed light on the entanglement of Zen Buddhism with Japanese nationalism and militarism. See Brian Victoria, Zen at War (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2006). Victoria highlights the personal relationships between Graf Dürckheim, Eugen Herrigel, and D.T. Suzuki in another article, as well as Herrigel’s inaccurate depiction of Zen Buddhism. See also Brian Victoria, “A Zen Nazi in Wartime Japan: Count Dürkheim, and his Sources-D.T. Suzuki, Yasutani Haku’un and Eugen Herrigel,” The Asia-Pacific Journal 12 (2014), 1–51. 140  For a biographical overview, see Christian Tilitzki, Die deutsche Universitätsphilosophie in der Weimarer Republik und im Dritten Reich, Teil 1 (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag 2002), 281f. 141  Eugen Herrigel, Zen in der Kunst des Bogenschießens (München-Planegg: Otto Wilhelm Barth-Verlag, 1948). 138

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this to light in a published letter to the editors in a literary magazine, which alleged that Herrigel was a committed Nazi, who “was known to have stuck it out to the bitter end.”142 Despite this ideological overlap between National Socialism and German Buddhism, Buddhist communities in Germany were generally met with suspicion under the Nazi regime for another reason. Their understanding of Buddhism, still influenced by the experience of the First World War, reeked of pacifism. Buddhist clubs that did not conform to the new zeitgeist were closed down. German Buddhists who were categorized as Jewish by the Nazi ideology faced the same persecution as non-­Buddhist Jews. In the eyes of the Nazi ideology, Tausk was deemed suspicious both as a Jew and as a peace-loving Buddhist. Few members of the original Breslau circles continued to participate in the Buddhist gatherings that were now held in secret. Eventually these gatherings stopped altogether. One after another, most of the Buddhist journals that were founded in the previous decades eventually ceased publication. While Tausk retained his Buddhist convictions, during the 1930s they shifted from public to private. No outlets for Tausk’s articles were left, and after 1932 no more public intervention is recorded. It also appears that after 1932 Buddhism became far less prominent in his diary. While from time to time affirming his continuing belief in the teachings of the Buddha, the practical ramifications of these affirmations were almost nonexistent. At the same time, Tausk depended more and more on Jewish institutions because he was barred from those accessible to “Aryans.” Since non-­ Jewish Germans were prohibited from conducting business with Jewish Germans, and increasing numbers of Jews left Germany, the state of his business deteriorated. From 1935 onward, Tausk appealed to Jewish institutions in Germany and abroad for assistance with emigration, work, or alms. Ultimately, it was through the antisemitic politics of the Nazi regime that Tausk was confronted with the suppressed layers of his identity. Yet, he continued to disparage Judaism, even blaming the Ostjuden and their unwillingness to assimilate as the reason why the Nazis had such an easy 142  Gershom Scholem [Letter to the Editors] “Zen-Nazism?,” Encounter 16 (1961), 96. The letter has the heading “Zen-Nazism.” It seems that the heading was added by the editors, though one cannot confirm this. For a discussion of Herrigel’s support of the NS-Regime and the silence surrounding it, see Shoji Yamada, Shots in the Dark: Japan, Zen, and the West (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005), esp. chapter 4.

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time.143 A watershed moment came with the Nuremberg Laws, which prohibited “interracial marriage” and stripped those who were considered “un-German” of their citizenship. On November 14, 1935, a decree was issued defining who was to be considered Jewish. A few days later, Tausk wrote in his diary: I myself also am, from 15.11.1935 on, racially speaking, according to this ideology of implementation rules, a ‘Jew,’ even if Jews have not become any more likeable in my eyes.144

Trying to reconcile Buddhist teachings with his daily experience of persecution, Tausk became convinced that he was not connected to the Jewish people through blood or race (whatever the Nazis might say), nor by religion or family. What tied him to the Jewish people was “mass karma.” His bond to the Jewish people was metaphysical, which at the same time allowed for karmic retribution in the next life. The diary of this period is titled Samsaro, after the Buddhist teaching of the eternal circle of death and rebirth. This metaphysical connection to the Jewish people is, in a certain way, not just an acceptance of a Jewish community of fate, it also marks a reconciliation between his conflicting identities. Another instance of this rapprochement with the Jewish people happened after the anti-Jewish pogroms of November 9 and 10, 1938, dubbed the Reichskristallnacht. Jewish shops were looted and synagogues burned down; people were shot and beaten to death on the streets. Taken aback by the barbaric violence, Tausk identified with the Jewish people. Realizing that he was the only one among his Jewish acquaintances yet to be arrested, Tausk started to think of his recordings as a written monument to them, writing: “I owe this to them.” Not since the exodus from Egypt have “we” seen similar events, and when the time comes, “we will give a new Haggadah to the descendants,” one that does not include “fairy tales.” “Everybody will do this, no matter what one actually believes in.”145 While still affirming his Buddhism, Tausk now saw himself as a part of Jewish history and his diary as a contribution to the new Haggadah.  Tausk, Diary no. 19, 70. Reel 2.  “Ich selbst bin also ab 15.11.1935 auch, rein rassisch gesehen, nach dieser Ideologie der Ausführungsbestimmungen, ein “Jude,” aber die Juden sind mir damit in keiner Weise sympathischer geworden.” Kincel, Walter Tausk—Breslauer Tagebuch 1933–1940, 131. 145  Ibid. 143 144

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Reluctantly at first, Tausk became aware that since he was defined by racial laws as Jewish, he could not escape his descent, and could only embrace it for his own benefit. Bitter as it was, it took the rise of a violent antisemitism to prompt Tausk, who had shown signs of antisemitism and Jewish self-hatred over the decade of his life we have followed, to return to his Jewishness. This does not mean that he suddenly spoke positively about Judaism; indeed, he continued to repudiate the religious truth of Judaism even as late as 1940, and he remained committed to Buddhism. However, in the late 1930s, Tausk had started to work for the Jewish community and accepted the Jewish people as the community of destiny to which he was irreversibly bound. Especially after the outbreak of the Second World War, he embraced his Jewishness as a survival strategy due to his financial reliance on the Jewish community. This is, of course, a different kind of dissimilation than that described by Volkov, and also an incomplete one. In the end, he was forced to admit that his attempted distancing from his descent had failed. However, without antisemitic persecution, Tausk might never have returned to the Jewish community. But these were perilous times, and he tried desperately to make the best of his fractured identity, still seeking the opportunity to emigrate to either Palestine or India. In the end, both options failed to materialize. While his exact fate is unknown, it is most likely that he was arrested with his mother and sister on November 21, 1941, with many other Jews from Breslau.146 On November 25, those arrested were deported to the Kovno Ghetto—in modern-day Lithuania. As with many others, Walter Tausk, the veteran of the First World War, the German Jew, the Buddhist apostate, was shot dead upon arrival.

In Lieu of a Conclusion In his Jewish home Tausk was an outsider because of Buddhism, while in Buddhist circles he was an outsider because of his socio-economic background. His decision to reject Judaism clearly caused him to feel more at home (if not necessarily at ease) in the Buddhist circles than with his family, who retained their Jewish faith. For Tausk, who had not gone to university, Buddhism gained him entry into circles of poets and intellectuals.

 Kincel, Walter Tausk—Breslauer Tagebuch 1933–1940, 17.

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Subsequently, soon after his first encounter with Buddhism, Tausk himself started to publish Buddhist-inspired texts, thus emulating the university-­ educated grandees of German Buddhism. Again, he often eagerly sought the approval of scholars and writers and referenced them with admiration in disputes with his family. His diaries express a desire to join the ranks of those he considered superior, the real intellectuals, the “great men” who did not need to occupy themselves with the murky ordeals of everyday life (or so he thought, at least).147 While this does not entirely explain the appeal of Buddhism, we should not neglect this aspect of Tausk’s choices, which is very visible in his private writings. Buddhism was a tool of social distinction; it signaled him leaving behind the intellectual confines and mediocrity of his Jewish home. Tausk’s parting from Judaism was facilitated by the abundance of religious ideas, which were now more accessible than ever before. Tausk approached the marketplace of religious ideas with a pragmatic attitude: Shuffling through the scattered pieces he found in the varied literature on Buddhism, mysticism, and occultism, he judged them according to their utility and their capacity to ameliorate his ailments: Those were the things that people once sought and imagined, that one touched only to set them aside again; things that were ‘forbidden’ because a so-called moral code and religion proclaimed them so.148

While Tausk had previously claimed that he was repelled by Judaism’s genuinely religious content—namely the prayers and rituals—it was in fact its prohibition of idolatry that he disliked most. What exactly did Tausk find so objectionable? In a landmark study on idolatry, Moshe Halbertal and Avishai Margalit set out three modern categories of idolatry: replacement, inversion, and extension.149 At times Tausk’s rejection of Judaism could be based on any of these three categories, but ultimately, his rejection of idolatry was one of extension. Let me explain. 147  Cf. Jürgen Schlumbohn, “Mikrogeschichte—Makrogeschichte: Zur Eröffnung einer Debatte,” in Mikrogeschichte Makrogeschichte—komplementär oder inkommensurabel? (Göttingen: Wallstein Verlag, 1998), 21. 148  “Das waren Dinge, die man früher suchte und ahnte, die man anfaßte, um sie wieder zur Seite legen zu müssen; Dinge, die “verboten” waren, weil es eine sogenannte Moral und Religion haben wollte.” Anonymous, Aus den Aufzeichnungen eines jungen Buddhisten, 10. 149  Moshe Halbertal and Avishai Margalit, Idolatry (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), 242ff.

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For Halbertal and Margalit, replacement entails elevating an idol at the expense of the true God, which in Tausk’s case would be the Buddha. Even though he was not adverse to all manner of religious practice and for a short period even celebrated Vesak, there is little else to suggest that Tausk found any appeal in the idea of replacing the Jewish God with a new object of reverence; the prohibition of idolatrous replacements was not what rebuffed him. With the category of inversion, Halbertal and Margalit refer to the maintenance of the opposition between pagan and non-pagan while arguing for the superiority of the latter. While this seems closer to Tausk’s predicament, I would argue that this categorization misses the point. On the face of it, Tausk affirmed the opposition between Judaism and Buddhism. One is irrational and the other is not, and the rational one is therefore superior. However, as I have shown, this is largely a pretextual argument, as he would also eagerly embrace the irrational elements of Buddhism. The supposedly inherent opposition is often fragile, the reasons for which lay in the diverse schools of thought, on both the Jewish and the Buddhist side. If Tausk had shopped longer on the marketplace of religion, he might have bought into a religion of reason like that of Hermann Cohen or become more receptive to esoteric Buddhism. Tausk found Judaism’s monotheism (despite having little truck with the Jewish God) to be less objectionable than its supposed inelasticity. For Tausk, the prohibition on what Halbertal and Margalit call extension was the main reason for his dissatisfaction with Judaism. Idolatry as extension entails “granting ultimate value” to someone or something aside from the truly divine that is not worthy of such devotion.150 Judaism did not leave room for the new doctrines that Tausk found so valuable. Judaism’s flaw was that it stymied his access to the marketplace of religious ideas. As such, its incompatibility with other creeds lay at the foundation of Tausk’s disillusion with Judaism. This brings us to the question of networks. Jewish networks played a crucial role for Tausk in the 1930s, as did Buddhist networks in the 1920s. As discussed earlier, in the 1920s more and more networks started to develop among the German-Buddhist centers in Berlin, Leipzig, and Breslau. The Asian roots of Buddhism made the networks and their transmission of knowledge to Europe inevitably transnational and, unsurprisingly, German networks extended beyond Berlin, Leipzig, and Breslau, to reach Asia and North America. Yet, at the same time, the Buddhist infra Halbertal and Margalit, Idolatry, 245.

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structure in Germany could not rival the considerably vaster spiritual and economic resources associated with Christianity and Judaism. Tausk’s description of Vesak with a couple of close friends could be contrasted with Rosenzweig’s descriptions of Yom Kippur service, which leads him back to Judaism, and his consequent emphasis on religious community. Tausk could have never described the Buddhist community as a vehicle of redemption as Rosenzweig did, because this community was for the most part lacking. This became even more the case after 1933 when the political upheaval shattered organized Buddhism in Germany, with the exception, of course, of its ostentatious National Socialist variety. However, even before that, as far as we can judge from his diaries, Tausk’s Buddhist community, if one can call it that, was at the most abstract and mainly manifested itself in articles for Buddhist journals. As we can infer from the representation in his diaries, even the interaction with his closest Buddhist companion, Oskar Schloss, was more profound (and cordial) in epistolary exchanges than in real life. Tausk seems to have been a lonely Buddhist. His friend from the army, Paul Eberhardt, had died in 1923, and attempts to find a wife had failed. The mid-1920s brought a short relief, as Tausk had successfully managed to become a valuable member of the Buddhist circles in Breslau; however, this small social sphere soon subsided. The checkered and eventful history of interwar institutional Buddhism in Germany, including all its infighting, did not provide a stable ground for Tausk, himself a meandering personality. While he remained in contact with some figures from the Buddhist scene even during the 1930s, it does not seem that he was integrated into a group after their apparent falling apart in August 1927, when he lamented the dissolution of the Deutsche Buddhistische Gesellschaft.151 From his diary we can deduce that he maintained some correspondences, but his personal encounters in Breslau 151  “Traurige Gewissheit ist bei alle dem, dass sich die ‘Deutsche Buddh. Gesellschaft’ aufgelöst hat: kein Geld. Stänkerei, Idolenz. Das ist der Schluss einer hervorragenden Idee, der einzig lebenswerten!!!,” Walter Tausk, Diary Entry, August 2, 1927, Reel 2. Cf. Baumann, Helmut Klar—Zeitzeuge zur Geschichte des Buddhismus in Deutschland, 30. It is not entirely clear which Buddhist society (“Deutsche Buddh. Gesellschaft”) he is referring to, since the Deutsche Buddhistische Gesellschaft was only founded in 1955. Perhaps he is referring to the Bund of Buddhistisches Leben, in which Oskar Schloss was active and which Tausk described early on as his spiritual home. In the secondary literature, however, the end of the Bund is dated to 1928: Hellmuth Hecker, Buddhismus in Deutschland: Eine Chronik—Zweite erweiterte Auflage (Hamburg: Deutsche Buddhistische Union, 1978), 37. See also: Chronik des Buddhismus in Deutschland (Plochingen: Deutsche Buddhistische Union, 1985), 27.

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seemed to have been very limited. As before, most people he encountered on a daily basis were not Buddhist, but Jewish. As much as he ranted against his family (“Ungeziefer!”), they and their mostly Jewish acquaintances comprised the closest thing he had to a consistent social circle.152 As explained previously, Tausk’s ideas about Buddhism were fostered by the various publications that he read, the most influential of which were the Buddha’s speeches from the Pali Canon in Neumann’s translation. Tausk is therefore emblematic and typical of European encounters with Buddhism. From its “discovery,” Buddhism in Europe was mostly based on textual construction through the words of its founder.153 The lived ritualistic traditions were often thought to be later interpolations into the pure message of the Buddha, and Tausk fell in line with this idea. Aside from the aforementioned short period when the group in Breslau, which would soon dissolve, tried to emulate South Asian rituals, Tausk was only interested in supposedly pure ideas. Buddhism was a mindset, not an activity. Ultimately, a congregation was not needed; a free mind was all one needed. The basis was the text, not revelation. In fact, the one incident that could be categorized as a personal religious experience, namely Yom Kippur 1918 at the Völkerschlachtdenkmal, in fact caused Tausk to reapproach Judaism, a religion he associated with revelation and rituals. When critics of Buddhism charged that it was fundamentally individualistic, Tausk could have served as evidence. Indeed, he himself might have agreed, even enthusiastically so. To what extent, then, was Tausk a Buddhist in the first place? He surely considered himself a Buddhist, as he often reiterated in his diaries, and he tried to follow the Buddha’s precepts as he understood them from his readings. His strong emphasis on Karma and Samsara, however, give his own private Buddhism an other-worldly tendency. For an impartial observer without access to Tausk’s mindset (or diaries), it might have been difficult to distinguish him from his Jewish petite-bourgeois environment. His Buddhism was not private in the sense that it was only performed in a non-public setting; rather, it was hardly performed at all. The absence of a rabbi or a priest who could provide ethical, ritual, or scriptural guidance left a vacuum that resulted in Tausk’s haphazard application of Buddhist ideas to occurrences in his life. His assertion that antisemitic persecution in the 1930s was karmic retribution for heinous acts of  Walter Tausk, Diary Entry, June 8, 1931. Reel 2.  Masuzawa, The Invention of World Religions, 126.

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the Jewish people in their previous existence is only the most outrageous instance of many. Buddhism offered Tausk the possibility of making sense of the twists of fate because the only religious authority was his own textual interpretation. The flexibility of his interpretation of Buddhism excluded any crisis of faith a priori and thus did more to reinforce his worldview than to challenge its assumptions. In a world of crisis, which characterized much of the period during Tausk’s adult life, this flexibility offered a protective shield. In his Aus den Aufzeichnungen eines Deutschen Buddhisten, Tausk himself presents this idea: For the last few weeks, I have been permeated by an incredible sense of calm, a feeling of being untouchable by opinions and views of my fellow citizens. At the same time, as I am delving deeper into Buddha’s teachings, my own self is becoming ever clearer to me. I am beginning to understand that my life so far could never have been any different, that everything had a purpose, even the difficult struggles of the soul—because I am a seeker by birth.154

Here, the therapeutic aspects of his choice are apparent. It contextualizes the wounds of the past and immunizes the self against future pains. Buddhism was the finding of a seeker that was flexible enough to accommodate the fluid, contested identities of Walter Tausk.

154  “Seit den letzten Wochen liegt eine direkt unbeschreibliche Ruhe auf mir, ein Gefühl der Unantastbarkeit durch Meinungen und Ansichten der Mitmenschen. Dabei wird mir, wie ich mich mit der Buddhalehre zu beschäftigen anfange, mein eigenes Wesen immer klarer, und ich fange zu begreifen an, daß mein bisheriges Leben nicht anders sein konnte, daß alles seine Bestimmung hatte, auch die schweren seelischen Kämpfe: denn ich bin von Geburt aus ein Suchender.” Anonymous, Aus den Aufzeichnungen eines jungen Buddhisten, 24.

CHAPTER 6

Conclusion: Toward the Study of Jewish-­Buddhist Relations

I have shown in this study how Jewish writers’ views on Buddhism were linked to what it meant for them to be German Jews. Their engagement with Buddhism can only be properly understood as a simultaneous negotiation of their Jewishness. I have distinguished between three different reactions: rejection, appropriation, and adoption. After a theoretical discussion of Orientalism, its assets, and limits as an explanatory model for the German-Jewish reception of Buddhism and the ensuing questions, I have inquired into the grounds on which Jewish thinkers rejected Buddhism. Originating in the debate around the Buddha-Jesus literature, a discourse developed that portrayed Buddhism as a rival to Judaism and Christianity. Taking up this debate, Jewish rabbis and philosophers rejected Buddhism as inferior to Judaism. In these views, Judaism and Buddhism came to form an antagonistic pairing that incorporated oppositional elements. For example, if Judaism was optimistic, then Buddhism was pessimistic. I then went on to discuss the phenomenon of the bridgebuilders, that is, Jewish writers who saw Judaism or the Jewish people as a link to the Eastern wisdom of Buddhism. This appropriation of Buddhism by Jewish writers resulted in an Orientalization of Judaism. The Jewish people were seen as a bridge, a mediator, a connector between Germany, Europe, or the West, and the covetable traits of Buddhism. The third reaction—namely the adoption of Buddhism—was exactly what the Rabbis Krauss, David, Eschelbacher, and Bergmann (see Chap. 4) had warned against: a Jewish apostate who found refuge in Buddhism. In focusing on © The Author(s) 2019 S. Musch, Jewish Encounters with Buddhism in German Culture, Palgrave Series in Asian German Studies, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-27469-6_6

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one individual case, Walter Tausk, I not only paid due attention to the small number of German Jews who chose that route, but also focused on the myriad forces that generate such a reaction on a personal level. In the microbiography of Tausk, I excavated the religious, ideological, and very personal reasons that prompted him to turn to Buddhism. I would like to further point out that the special case of Tausk also defies generalization or application to a wider framework. This study does not suggest that there exists a unique affinity between Judaism and Buddhism. This was the view taken by many of those discussed in these pages (especially in Chap. 4). For them, their Jewishness afforded them special access to the teachings of the Buddha. The burgeoning literature on the JuBu phenomenon, especially in North America, often offers similar suggestions. Is the existence of such a wide corpus of works from different genres and ages not a strong indication of a special relationship between Buddhism and Judaism? This question points to another: Is the supposed affinity confined to the German-Jewish experience, or does it cut across all historical contexts? Are Judaism and Buddhism connected across time? Again, if one had asked the protagonists of Chap. 4, they would have answered in the affirmative. And they are not the only ones: Personal accounts in the North American context of the twentieth century suggest the same.1 While I do take these personal convictions seriously, I am more hesitant to argue along that line. This study, despite its appearance, is not designed to bolster claims of an innate compatibility between Judaism and Buddhism. I maintain that deducing such an affinity, beyond the specific context of this study, seems to be overreaching. My study neither affirms nor negates these claims, simply because such questions are beyond the scope of this project. Nevertheless, I want to offer a brief indication of what this study might contribute in attempting to answer that question. In the North American context, Jews’ fondness for Buddhism might actually be based on sociological reasons, rather than on theological, ­doctrinal, or philosophical similarities or compatibilities.2 The same is true of the German context. 1  See, for example, this extremely interesting (and moving) account about meetings with German Jews, among them Nyanaponika (Siegmund Feniger), in Sri Lanka: Nathan Katz, “From JUBU to OJ,” in Beside Still Waters: Jews, Christians, and the Way of the Buddha, edited by Harold Kasimow et al. (Boston: Wisdom Publications, 2003), 31ff. The classical account of the JuBu phenomenon is: Roger Kamenetz, The Jew in the Lotus: A Poet’s Rediscovery of Jewish Identity in Buddhist India (New York: HarperCollins, 1994). 2  Cf.: Sigalow, American JuBu: Jews, Buddhists, and Religious Change. See further: Judith Linzer, Torah and Dharma: Jewish Seekers in Eastern Religions (New Jersey: Jason Aronson, 1996).

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With the exception of Tausk, for whom different reasons apply, the interest of Jewish literati in Buddhism was culturally confined to the intellectual bohemian milieu and socio-economically confined to the (upper-) middle class. As I have explained, the dissatisfaction with rationalism and positivism that had prompted their interest in Buddhism was limited to this class, while the working class held on to its ideals. For German Jews who were fascinated by the Buddha, he became what I have called a prosthetic device to fill a spiritual void brought about by their ascent to the middle class and ensuing secularization. They were not alone in this. Christian Germans shared their interest in Buddhism. Michael Löwy has argued for an elective affinity between Jewish messianism and libertarian utopia, and the possibility of a reciprocal influence at the beginning of the twentieth century in Central Europe.3 Even as I myself have argued in Chap. 3, if the figure of the Buddha was categorized along the lines of a Jewish Messiah (or Jesus Christ), it is too simplistic to argue for a mere substitution. The Buddha was not just the hip messianic alternative that Germans opted for since they found no utopian solace in their own religious tradition. Confronted with Buddhism’s otherness, they chose familiar paths and often gave the Buddha a messianic glow. However, what led them to Buddhism in the first place were new questions that arose within a changing society. If we look at statements about the societal status of this period, what we see across the board is bewilderment at the sheer novelty, singularity, and uniqueness with which they were faced. As Jacob Katz noted in 1935, “Jews have not assimilated into the German people, but into a certain layer of it, the newly emerged middle class.”4 The Jewish interest in Buddhism was, in its origin and scope, mostly the interest of the German middle class in Buddhism. And yet, there is something genuinely Jewish about the reactions to Buddhism, in a way that could not have been shown by Christians. This is ultimately a trivial ­statement. The whole premise of this study, after all, was that these reactions to Buddhism were connected to one’s Jewishness. However, behind that lurks a greater insight, which is not trivial at all: What united the different responses was the common inescapability of Judaism. For assimilated Jews like Wassermann and Feuchtwanger, for those like Tausk who scorned Judaism, even for those like Hasenclever who became Jewish by 3  See Michael Löwy, Redemption and Utopia: Jewish Libertarian Thought in Central Europe. A Study in Elective Affinity (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1992), esp. chapter 2. 4  Quoted in: Marion A. Kaplan, The Making of the Jewish Middle Class: Women, Family, and Identity in Imperial Germany (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 231.

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external ascription, their Buddhism, which arose out of an attempt to dispel Judaism (just as the Buddha-Jesus literature did), told us about their self-­ascribed Jewish identity. As Wassermann lamented, he could not not be a Jew. Walter Tausk had the same experience. As a devout Buddhist, he was continually subjected to antisemitic abuse. Indeed, in the end, he was murdered because of his Jewish descent. With this I do not want to suggest, in the vein of Jean-Paul Sartre, that antisemitism, “the hostility and disdain of the societies that surround them,” alone created the German Jews and their futile flight to Buddhism.5 However, in the reactions to Buddhism, its intertwining with Jewish identity, the trammeling effects of antisemitism are clearly palpable. Covering the period from the Buddha-Jesus literature in the 1890s until the murder of Walter Tausk in 1941, the story I wanted to tell in this study would have been unimaginable without the rampant antisemitism of German society. This fact was acutely evident to German-Jewish people. The rejection of Buddhism in favor of Judaism and the self-Orientalization by way of appropriating Buddhism were always also reactions to experiences of continuous defamation. Before I return, briefly, to the discussion around the relationship between Judaism and Buddhism, I want to emphasize two further aspects: Buddhism in racial discourse on the one hand, and Buddhism in Jewish minority culture on the other. Some readers might note the overall absence of race in this study. This is, however, not an oversight, but rather a deliberate choice. The reason lies not only in an attempt to prevent the topic from becoming unwieldy, but also in the very nature of the topic itself. Race theories have occasionally been mentioned, and racist antisemitism featured prominently in Chaps. 4 and 6, but Buddhism was of limited applicability to race science. As a result, the similar discourse on the Aryan race, which shared some aspects with German Buddhism, was only seldom mentioned. Buddhism entered the European imagination through the figure of the Buddha as a founder of religion or, depending on one’s viewpoint, as an idol. Thus, it was considered through the paradigms that were applied to religions. Through the checkered history of Buddhism in Germany, racial 5  Jean-Paul Sartre, Anti-Semite and Jew, translated by George J.  Becker (New York: Schocken and Grove Press, 1948), 89. I owe much to the insightful essay “Between Existentialism and Zionism: A Non-Philippic Credo” by Paul Mendes-Flohr, in: Paul MendesFlohr, Divided Passions: Jewish Intellectuals and the Experience of Modernity, 424–433.

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categories were sometimes applied, especially after the rise of the Aryan ideology at the beginning of the twentieth century. However, as I tried to make clear in Chap. 5, this discourse was built on different roots than the kind of discourses around antisemitism and race science. Even when outrightly antisemitic and racist, as some of the commentators on the Buddha-­ Jesus literature were, the discussion rarely slipped into the ghoulish territory of race science. The reason for this lies in Buddhism, or rather, knowledge about Buddhism. For the pseudo-science of race theory, Buddhism was a terra incognita. Its perception as a religion did not fit squarely with the prevalent notion of race. When the National Socialist regime sent race scientists to Tibet, their aim was to find a racial link between the Tibetan and the German people, and through such a link to validate the theory of an Aryan race. Buddhism, with its huge geographical expansion, did not lend itself to the construction of a Buddhist race that was analogous to the Aryan or Jewish race. So, while German Buddhists were too often antisemitic and too often pursued the same aims as antisemitic race scientists, their categories largely remained in the religious realm. That said, this does not mean that Buddhism is immune to racism or that German Buddhists were less racist, but rather that in the German context, for the most part, Buddhism swam in different waters than racial ideology. Jonathan Skolnik has argued, in his erudite book Jewish Pasts, German Fictions, that German-Jewish authors, firstly, asserted their own unique identity through their own interpretation of the past (in the case of Skolnik’s book, the Sephardic past), and, secondly, through this effort, created a minority culture.6 To what extent is this assessment pertinent for us? While I do believe that the first aspect holds true for our discussion generally, I would argue that the second aspect is only relevant for the phenomenon described in Chap. 5, “The Bridgebuilders.” Why so? In all three cases discussed here—the rejection, appropriation, and adoption of Buddhism— the reactions were rooted in their own German-Jewish identity. It was, of course, as much a German reaction as a Jewish one, but at the same time, it was a reaction that a non-Jewish German could not have shown. However, these reactions did not always amount to the expression of a minority culture. As explained previously, Tausk, while emblematic in his blend of Judaism and Buddhism, was too much of an outlier. The few other cases of 6  Jonathan Skolnik, Jewish Pasts, German Fictions: History, Memory, and Minority Culture in Germany, 1824–1955 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2014), 2f.

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German Jews who adopted Buddhism as a religion were mostly too scattered to warrant the establishment of a minority culture, which presupposes some kind of exchange, (informal) network, or interaction. The rejection of Buddhism was so variegated and contradictory that any coherent understanding of culture is almost unattainable from the outset. Jewish writers would occasionally look to other writers’ judgments on Buddhism, but they consulted works that were designated as Buddhist over those by explicitly Jewish or Christian authors. The critique of Buddhism was certainly not a genuine expression of Jewish minority culture, nor could it develop under these circumstances. Furthermore, the critic of Buddhism was mostly a sideshow in the respective thinker’s mind, having little significance beyond its narrow goal of denigrating Buddhism. When it comes to the appropriation of Buddhism by the bridgebuilders, one could speak of a genuine expression of a minority culture. What I mean by this is that several key aspects—a common set of founding texts (Neumann’s translations, for example), reciprocal references to one another’s works, a publishing infrastructure, similar arguments, and, crucially, a common goal—resulted in multilayered yet collective expressions from a minority culture. Because Skolnik has particularly emphasized the importance of historical imagination (and historical fiction) for the creation of a Jewish minority culture, it is no coincidence that the overlap between the bridgebuilders (including those not treated here) and Jewish authors of historical fiction is considerable.7 Putting the Jewish people between Asia and Europe was, in the complex dynamics between assimilation and dissimilation, an attempt to offer an explanatory model that could provide both solace and a vision in tumultuous times. The redemptive traces that we can find in the writings of Feuchtwanger, Wassermann, and Cohen-Portheim were also the expression of a minority that yearned for equality and recognition of their universal desires. Let us address the question raised at the beginning of this study: Was the German-Jewish perception of Buddhism between 1890 and 1940 a form of Jewish Orientalism? Apprehending the full scope of the inherent ambivalence, I am inclined to answer ambivalently myself: Yes, but. Surely, German-Jewish writers in discussing Buddhism reproduced Orientalist clichés. Othering Buddhism was a tool both in its rejection and in its appropriation. Exoticism abounded. Yet, as I have tried to underscore in my theoretical musings in Chap. 3, this reaction was both German and Jewish 7

 Skolnik, Jewish Pasts, German Fictions, 4f.

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in nature. The ways Orientalist notions were deployed by Jewish writers at times differed from their Christian counterparts, mostly because they would defend Judaism against Christian attacks. However, the manner in which they defended Judaism was based on ideas that proliferated through German Orientalism. At the same time, the Oriental gaze, in many cases, also turned inward. The self-Orientalization of German Jews is, in the same spirit, a Jewish and a German phenomenon. (In Aryan race theory, antisemitic, right-wing circles had their own concept of self-­Orientalization.) Jewish Orientalism gives expression to the ambivalence of the GermanJewish reception of Buddhism, and as such it became a tool with which to upgrade Judaism and to challenge the common conception, both affirming the Orientalist gaze and undermining its application to German Jewry. Jewish Orientalism, to recall the work of Homi Bhabha, contained both mimicry and menace. I wish to end this book with a call for Jewish-Buddhist studies. Jewish-­ Buddhist studies have received little scholarly attention. The reason for this is similar to what caused the combination of curiosity, bewilderment, and the scrambling for answers among German Jews when confronted with the influx of Buddhism into German culture: the perceived lack of overlap. It is a bromide that Buddhism and Judaism do not share such a complex history in the way that Judaism and Christianity or Judaism and Islam do. For most Jews, throughout the majority of history, Buddhism was not an issue, and material or written records of encounters or intellectual confrontations between the two are rare. This disequilibrium is reciprocal. While Islam and Christianity did, in their holy scriptures, wrestle with the place of Judaism in their respective worlds, the textual basis of Buddhism, with its different traditions, was silent on Judaism. Jews were featured prominently in the New Testament as well as in the Quran, but the Pali Canon made no mention of them. However, this does not mean that there is no historical basis for the study of Jewish-Buddhist relationships. Quite the contrary: Jewish communities have lived in India since ancient times, with the Bene Israel community claiming to have arrived there in 175 BCE.8 Jewish merchants started going to China during the first centuries of the Common Era, and the Kaifeng Jews were granted

8  See Gabriele Shenar, “Bene Israel Transnational Space and the Aesthetics of Community Identity,” in Between Mumbai and Manila: Judaism in Asia since the Founding of the State of Israel, edited by Manfred Hutter (Bonn: Bonn University Press, 2013), 24.

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permission to build a synagogue in 1163.9 Small Jewish communities have mushroomed in other East and South Asian countries over the last few centuries. During the 1940s, China and especially Shanghai became safe havens for many European Jews. This development also worked the other way around. Buddhists from South and East Asia have migrated increasingly to North America, Israel, and Europe, where they came into contact with Jewish culture. These examples are just the tip of the iceberg, with many more contact points awaiting scrutiny. As such, there is no doubt that the long and complex history of Jewish-Buddhist relationships is under-researched, particularly when compared with neighboring fields. Sino-Judaic studies and Indo-Judaic studies contrariwise have garnered much attention. Both fields have developed a sophisticated research infrastructure with journals (the Journal of Indo-Judaic Studies is the most prominent example) devoted to their topics and research institutes (institutes for Jewish studies have sprouted rapidly in China in recent decades).10 The study of Jewish-Buddhist relationships, on the other hand, lags behind. I do not delve into the potential reasons for this, but I merely suggest that this is bound to change. Nowadays, Jews and Buddhists interact to an unprecedented degree.11 It is in the end also a result of globalization, migration, and the subsequent increased circulation of ideas that both Judaism and Buddhism are becoming more knowledgeable about one another. In particular, the West’s enchantment with Buddhism since the 1960s has raised many questions about the relationship between Judaism and Buddhism. However, until recently the available literature was limited to mostly personal accounts, recollections, and guidebooks.12 It is high 9  German Jewish historian Heinrich Graetz maintained that Jews arrived in China in 213. That claim stands on shaky ground. The exact date remains speculation. See Xin Xu, The Jews of Kaifeng, China: History, Culture, and Religion (Jersey City: Ktav Publishing House, 2003), 18f and 144. 10  See Yulia Egorova, Jews and India: Perceptions and Image (London: Routledge, 2006). See also: M.  Avrum Ehrlich (ed.), The Jewish-Chinese Nexus: A Meeting of Civilizations (London: Routledge, 2008). 11  See for more on the influence on academia: Vanessa R.  Sasson, “A Call for JewishBuddhist Studies,” The Journal of Indo-Judaic Studies 12 (2012), 7. 12  See the multiple accounts in Harold Kasimow et  al. (eds.), Beside Still Waters: Jews, Christians, and the Way of the Buddha (Boston: Wisdom Publications, 2003). The most popular publications, besides the aforementioned book by Kamenetz, are: Sylvia Boorstein, That’s Funny, You Don’t Look Buddhist: On Being a faithful Jew and a Passionate Buddhist (New York: HarperCollins, 1997). Alan Lew, One God Clapping: The Spiritual Path of a Zen Rabbi (Woodstock: Jewish Lights Publishing, 2001).

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time that academia caught up with the reality that Jews and Buddhist have been debating for decades, if not centuries. I hope that this study will make a meaningful contribution to this end. However, as I have emphasized, it is not a complete survey of the reactions of German Jews to Buddhism. Many questions remain to be posed, and many more answers are yet to be uncovered. I hope to have inaugurated the idea that Buddhism was a force to be reckoned with in German culture and that German Jews seriously engaged with it. In the larger undertaking of Jewish-Buddhist studies, I hope to have shown that its material can be found in rather unexpected places. While the Jewish engagement with Buddhism in Germany has been noted in individual cases, no study as yet has attempted to explore it in a broader fashion. My goal here has been to provide an access point for further inquiries. Many more individual cases can be the focus of future studies, some of which I have mentioned, but many more go unmentioned. As noted, the nascent field of Jewish-Buddhist studies will blossom in the future. Let this study stand as an example that besides the more accessible fields of contemporary Jewish-Buddhist encounters, history too has many unexplored and untold stories.

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Index1

A Adorno, Theodor W., 34, 34n45–47 Al-Andalus, 33, 37 Alexander the Great, 47 America, 87n144, 90, 91, 130, 184, 241, 246, 252 Anarchism, 125, 154, 178, 178n214 Ancient Greece, 33, 74, 77 Anthroposophy, 69, 113 Antisemitism, 8, 29n28, 51, 52n32, 118, 154, 169, 207, 211–212, 229–232 Aristotle, 92 Arnold, Edwin, 101, 101–102n2, 148n122 Aryan Race, 41n1, 49, 49n23, 51, 52, 132n82, 212, 235, 248, 249, 251 Aschheim, Steven, 29, 29n30, 29n31, 30, 114n36, 230n117

Assimilation, 7, 8, 10, 28, 30, 32, 34, 38, 103, 119, 141, 154, 167, 169, 184, 184n228, 189–244, 247, 250 Atheism, 49, 50, 75–77, 143, 212 B Baeck, Leo, 2, 2n1, 7, 41, 63, 65n65, 82–85, 83n124, 83n125, 83n127–130, 87n141, 87n143, 88n146 Baron, Salo, 16, 16n26, 88n146, 219n86 Bartels, Adolf, 163, 163n164–167, 164, 165n171 Beckh, Hermann, 68, 69, 69n77, 71, 71n84 Benjamin, Walter, 65n65, 79n113, 105, 105n14, 143n108, 178

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

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282 

INDEX

Benzmann, Hans, 164, 164n169, 164n170 Bergmann, Hugo, 154 Bergmann, Julius, 61–63, 61n57–60, 62n62, 245 Bergson, Henri, 118 Berman, Russell, 37 Bhabha, Homi, 25, 25n15, 26, 26n17–19, 34, 34n44, 81, 82n120, 251 Bhagavad Gita, 203 Bin Gorion, Micha Josef, 160, 160n155, 161, 161n156, 161n157, 161n159 Bleibtreu, Karl, 48, 48n21 Boeckh, August, 45 Böhme, Jakob, 58 Bourdieu, Pierre, 103, 103n5 Brahmanism, 45, 74, 82, 143 Bratke, Eduard, 49, 50n26 Braudel, Fernand, 108, 108n19, 108n20 Brecht, Bertolt, 4, 126n65, 145, 232n124 Breslau, 49, 189, 190, 194, 210, 211, 214, 229, 230, 237, 239, 241, 243 British Ceylon (Sri Lanka), 1, 2, 10, 175, 176, 234, 246n1 Brod, Max, 154 Brunner, Constantin, 120n53 Buber, Martin, 2, 7, 24n11, 36, 40n56, 41, 54, 63, 83n127, 84–99, 84n130, 85n131, 85n132, 85n134, 86n135–138, 86n139, 86n140, 87n141–144, 97n174, 98n175, 106, 120n53, 124, 125, 125n63, 154, 156, 157, 178, 217–219, 217n82, 218n84, 231 Buddha-Jesus Literature, 33, 34, 41–44, 41n1, 49, 52–54, 53n34, 57, 61, 63, 66, 69, 71, 72, 82, 99, 105, 212, 225, 245, 248, 249

Buddhistische Gesellschaft in Deutschland, 9 Buddhistischer Missionsverein in Deutschland, 3, 211n61, 212, 213 Bund für Buddhistisches Leben, 9n11, 213, 234 C Canetti, Elias, 19, 20, 20n2 Catholicism, 17, 45, 52, 60, 83, 87n144, 134n85, 179, 196, 206, 212–214 China, 7, 17, 17n27, 20, 26n20, 71, 71n85, 74, 78, 80, 85, 85n132, 91, 149, 251, 252n9 Clark, Christopher, 108, 108n19 Cohen-Portheim, Paul, 2, 7, 30, 39, 84, 102, 105, 107, 109–125, 110n23, 110n24, 111n25–27, 112n27–29, 114n38, 114n39, 115n40, 115n41, 116n42, 116n43, 117n44, 118n45–48, 119n49–51, 120n52, 120n53, 121n54, 121n55, 122n56, 123n57, 124n59, 124n60, 125n62, 155, 191, 234, 250 Colonialism, 17, 19, 20, 22, 23, 26, 27, 35, 36, 146 Confucianism, 68n76, 73, 74, 74n98, 82, 85, 86, 91, 92, 176 Creuzer, Friedrich, 44–46, 45n11 D Dahlke, Paul, 5n8, 48n19, 137n95, 138n98, 210, 211, 216, 229, 234 Daoism, 73, 74, 82, 85, 86, 126n65 David, Elieser, 15, 16n26, 28, 58–60, 59n50, 59n51, 60n54, 60n56, 66n68, 86n138, 106n16, 107n17, 181n222, 217n82, 245

 INDEX 

Der Buddhist (journal), 9 Diaspora, 38, 98, 118 Die Buddhistische Welt (journal), 235, 235n136 Dissimilation, 7, 8, 10, 189–244, 250 Dix, Otto, 220, 221, 221n95, 226n107 Döblin, Alfred, 4, 39, 107, 129, 142, 191, 195, 219 E Eberhardt, Paul, 200, 203, 203n36, 203n37, 204, 214, 215, 242 Efron, John, 32, 32n41, 32n42, 33, 33n43, 58n49, 166 Ehrenberg, Rudolf, 71 Ehrenstein, Albert, 18, 18n31 Eliade, Mircea, 11, 11n16, 12 Eschelbacher, Max, 58, 58n47, 245 Esoteric Buddhism, 69, 72, 77, 212, 241 Expressionism, 114, 162, 164, 165, 165n171, 178, 178n214, 179, 181, 207 F Farhi, Joseph Shabbetai, 161, 161n157 Feniger, Siegmund, 2, 2n1, 10, 234, 246n1 See also Nyanaponika Feuchtwanger, Lion, 2, 5, 7, 39, 84, 101, 101n1, 102, 105, 107–109, 107n18, 108n19, 108n21, 125–133, 126n65, 127n66–69, 128n71, 128n72, 129n73, 130n74–77, 131n78–80, 133n83, 136–152, 137n95, 138n98, 138–102n99, 140n103, 140n104, 141n105, 141n106, 145n114, 145n115,

283

146n116–119, 147n119, 148n122, 175, 186, 186n235, 191, 193, 247, 250 Fichte, Johann Gottlieb, 135 Finkenstein, Kurt, 207, 207n45, 207n46, 207n48, 208, 208n50–52 Finklenburg, Julius, 50 First World War, 2, 4, 7, 9n11, 14, 24, 30n34, 81, 101, 105, 107, 108, 110, 117, 125, 127, 131, 146, 158, 173, 189–191, 193–195, 214, 219–221, 223, 224, 228, 230, 231, 233, 236, 237, 239 Foucault, Michel, 19, 22, 29 France, 21, 126, 163, 167, 168, 184, 184n228, 186n235, 190, 220, 222, 224, 232n124 Franzos, Karl Emil, 30, 30n33 Freud, Siegmund, 36, 88, 88n147 Fritsch, Theodor, 51, 52, 52n32 G Ganghofer, Ludwig, 137, 137n97, 138n98, 139 Gautama, Siddhartha, 15, 42, 209, 209n56, 210, 214, 231, 231n118 George, Stefan, 5, 29, 180n219, 181, 220, 248n5 German-Jewish symbiosis, 10, 153, 153n132 Gilroy, Paul, 38, 38n54, 38n55 Girard, René, 223, 223n99, 224, 224n100–102, 226 Gjellerup, Karl, 5, 68, 71, 72, 72n89 Goebbels, Joseph, 89, 146, 221, 221n93 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 21, 28, 134n85, 163, 163n163, 178, 183–185, 203 Goldberg. Isaac, 164, 164n167, 164n168

284 

INDEX

Görres, Joseph, 45 Grimm, Georg, 173, 174, 174n200, 204, 209–211, 210n57, 218 Grosz, George, 220, 221 Gueth, Anton (Nyanatiloka), 15 H Haas, Hans, 43, 43n4, 43n6, 48n22, 68 Halbertal, Moshe, 240, 240n149, 241, 241n150 Halevi, Jehuda, 166 Hamilton, Alexander, 21, 133 Harden, Maximilian, 97 Harnack, Adolf von, 24n11, 42, 42n2, 42n3, 49, 56, 56n44, 57, 57n45, 82, 82n122, 84 Hasenclever, Walter, 7, 14, 18n30, 37–39, 84, 102–103, 105, 110, 162–187, 163n161–164, 164n167–170, 165n172–175, 166n177, 166n178, 167n179–182, 168n183, 168n184, 169n186, 170n187, 170n189, 171n190–193, 172n194–196, 173n197–199, 174n202, 176n205, 176n206, 177n208, 177n209, 178n213, 178n214, 179n217, 180n218, 181n220, 182n223, 182n224, 183n225, 183–229n227, 185n230–233, 186n234–236, 187n237, 191, 193, 247 Hasidism, 32, 58, 86, 98, 106, 217, 218 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 17, 17n27, 46, 66, 75, 81, 102, 108 Heidegger, Martin, 107 Heizer, Donna, 31 Herder, Johann Gottfried, 27 Herrigel, Eugen, 236, 236n139, 236n141, 237, 237n142

Hertwig, Paul, 209 Heschel, Susannah, 28, 28n27, 32, 32n39, 32n40, 41n1, 49n23 Hesse, Hermann, 4, 36, 171n190, 220, 220n87, 220n88 Hiller, Kurt, 88n147, 162 Himmler, Heinrich, 234, 235 Hindenburg, Paul von, 89 Historicism, 16, 104–106, 104n8, 109, 130 Hitler, Adolf, 89, 131, 144–146, 148, 151, 152, 166, 230, 232, 232n124, 233, 233n126, 236 Hoeflich, Eugen, 124, 124n61 Humboldt, Wilhelm von, 45 Husserl, Edmund, 5, 5n9, 88, 88n148, 90, 155n141, 155n142 I Ibsen, Henrik, 217 Idolatry, 50, 76, 115, 175, 240 India, 2, 3n4, 7, 12, 13, 15, 17, 20, 21, 28n24, 37, 43, 43n5, 43n7, 45, 48n19, 62, 71, 74, 78, 92, 103, 122, 126n65, 127, 134n85, 143, 149, 223n98, 231, 239, 246n1, 251, 252n10 Individualism, 60, 122, 123, 147, 152, 155, 164, 219 Internal Orientalism, 26, 26n20, 27, 30, 36 Islam, 16, 20, 21n6, 29n28, 31, 31n37, 33, 34, 57, 67, 73, 187, 251 J Jaeckel, Willy, 111n27, 114, 115n40, 115n41, 116n42 Japan, 20, 115, 235, 235n137, 236n139, 237n142 Jaspers, Karl, 92, 92n159, 142, 143n108

 INDEX 

Jerusalem, 81, 120, 139n100, 161n157 Jesus, 6, 8, 11, 15, 28n27, 33, 41–50, 41n1, 43n5, 48n20, 49n23, 52, 53n34, 54, 57, 61, 63, 66, 69–72, 82, 86, 99, 105, 176, 176n207, 186, 196, 228, 245, 247–249 Job (Hiob), 59, 62, 222, 223, 223n98, 223n99, 224n100, 224n101, 225 JuBu phenomenon, 10, 10n13, 246n1 K Kafka, Franz, 24n11, 36 Kahler, Erich, 154 Kandy, 1, 2n2, 68 Kant, Immanuel, 46, 102 Karma, 59, 60, 159, 182, 191, 207, 208, 216, 238, 243 Katz, Jacob, 247 Kerr, Alfred, 128 Keyserling, Hermann von, 68, 68n76, 83, 83n126 Klabund, 18n30 Klages, Ludwig, 88, 89n150 Knackfuß, Hermann, 149–151, 151n130 Kohn, Hans, 154 Kracauer, Siegfried, 192, 192n3 Kramer, Martin, 31, 31n37, 32, 32n38 Krauss, Samuel, 54–58, 54n36–38, 55n39–41, 56n43, 57n45, 245 Kreutzberger, Max, 2, 2n1, 10 Kriegskrüppel, 219–226 Kubin, Alfred, 5 L Landauer, Gustav, 178 Lania, Leo, 232 Lasker-Schüler, Else, 31 Lebensreform, 114, 210

285

Leipzig, 3n5, 43n4, 43n6, 48n19, 48n21, 67n71, 68, 86n139, 87n142, 90n153, 97n174, 106, 111n27, 122n56, 127n67, 154n136, 160n155, 163n165, 190, 197, 205, 207, 208, 211, 211n61, 212, 212n62, 214, 215, 215n73, 241 Lessing, Theodor, 7, 41, 63, 84–99, 88n145–148, 89n149, 89n150, 90n153, 91n155–158, 92n159–161, 93n163, 93n165, 94n166, 95n168, 96n169, 96n170, 96n171, 97n173, 144 Lewis, Bernhard, 31, 31n37 Liszt, Franz, 47 Loomba, Ania, 29 Lorenz, Felix, 153n132, 209 Lublinski, Samuel, 89 Lukács, Georg, 101, 101n2, 102, 148, 148n121, 152, 152n131 Luther, Martin, 5, 15, 167 M Mahabodi-Gesellschaft, 213 Mann, Thomas, 4, 5, 24n11, 51n31, 89, 102n3, 110, 112, 113, 113n32, 126, 126n64, 129, 138n98 Marchand, Suzanne, 3n5, 12n17, 13, 13n19–21, 22–25, 22n8, 23n9, 24n12, 25n13, 27, 28n24, 41n1, 45n10, 46n13, 47n14, 47n15, 68n76, 83n126, 133n84, 136n94 Margalit, Avishai, 240, 240n149, 241, 241n150 Mauthner, Fritz, 4 Meinecke, Friedrich, 104, 104n10, 104n11, 105n12, 105n13, 106, 106n15

286 

INDEX

Mendes-Flohr, Paul, 10, 10n14, 11n15, 28n25, 29, 29n32, 30, 49, 49n24, 65n65, 81n119, 98n175, 103n7, 248n5 Messiah, 181, 197, 247 Messianism, 32, 107, 162, 178, 181, 182, 218, 247 Michaelis, Johann David, 28 Mischehe, 169n185 Misogyny, 60, 209 Mohl, Julius, 13 Moses, 61–63, 61n57–60, 62n62, 70, 70n80, 134n85, 176, 176n207, 196 Mosse, George, 29 Munich, 126, 211 Musil, Robert, 102, 102n3 Mysticism, 14, 69, 85–87, 98, 112, 113, 116, 165, 173–176, 178, 210, 211, 217, 218, 240 N Nachman, Rabbi, 217, 218 Nationalism, 14, 112, 117, 119–121, 125, 140, 146, 215, 216, 236n139 National Socialism, 5, 89, 131, 145, 149, 152, 163, 168, 169, 183, 234 Neo-Kantianism, 106, 210, 236 Neumann, Karl Eugen, 5, 5n9, 14, 17, 18, 18n30, 18n31, 39, 72, 88n148, 126n65, 133, 155, 155n141, 157, 173, 174, 174n201, 193, 221n93, 243, 250 New Testament, 54, 60, 61, 139, 179, 180, 251 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 3, 4, 13, 46–48, 69, 96n171, 102, 108, 109, 114, 114n36, 127, 139, 142–146,

142n107, 143n108–112, 143n112, 144n113, 156, 171, 172 Nihilism, 49, 50, 109, 143, 202 Nirvana, 17, 52n34, 72, 75, 76, 76n103, 96, 139n100, 171, 171n193, 172, 172n195, 208, 211, 219, 223, 227 Nordau, Max, 15, 15n23, 52–53n34 Nyanaponika, 1, 2, 2n2, 6 See also Feniger, Siegmund O Occultism, 69, 113, 176, 178, 210, 234, 240 Oldenberg, Hermann, 47, 47n15 Old Testament, 134, 139, 166, 169, 179 Oppenheimer, Joseph Süß, 137, 138, 140, 141, 147 Ossendowski, Ferdynand, 175 Ostjuden, 28n25, 29–31, 29n32, 58, 103, 103n7, 229–231, 231n118, 237 Oxford, 104n8, 161n156, 163n160, 171, 218n83, 247n4 P Pacificism, 196, 197 Pacifism, 164, 173, 234, 234n129, 236, 237 Palestine, 1, 2, 30, 37, 37n52, 119, 121, 184, 185, 239 Pali Canon, 5, 157, 173, 193, 226, 243, 251 Parsi, 90, 93 Patriotism, 101, 153, 212, 222, 223, 233 Pessimism, 8, 42, 83, 171, 172, 202 Philosophia perennis, 113, 116, 177

 INDEX 

Pinthus, Kurt, 165n175, 170, 170n189, 171, 173n199, 178n213, 182 Plato, 92, 115 Positivism, 13, 14, 16, 23, 102, 104, 131, 165, 247 Present-age particularism, 103, 107, 114, 119 Protestantism, 16, 42, 45, 54, 64, 65, 82, 84, 163, 179, 196, 212, 234 Prussia, 3, 36, 88n148, 110, 150, 151, 222 R Rand, Calvin, 104, 104n10, 104n11, 105, 105n12 Rathenau, Walter, 103, 103n6, 141, 141n105, 142 Raz-Krakotzkin, Amnon, 30n34, 32 Relativism, 38, 64, 104–107, 109, 130 Remarque, Erich Maria, 219 Rilke, Rainer Maria, 4, 5n9 Ritter, Carl, 46 Rosenstock, Eugen, 64–67, 64n63, 64n64, 65n65, 65n67, 69, 71, 71n85, 71n86, 72, 72n87, 72n90, 106 Rosenzweig, Franz, 2, 7, 24, 41, 54, 63–85, 64n63, 64n64, 65n65–67, 68n76, 69n77, 71n85, 71n86, 72n87, 72n90, 72n91, 73n92–94, 74n95, 74n97, 74n98, 75n99–101, 76n103, 76n104, 77n105–108, 78n109–111, 79n112–114, 80n115, 80n117, 80n118, 81n119, 82n121, 82n122, 94, 106, 165, 165n176, 166, 178, 179, 179n215, 179n216, 197, 231, 242 Roth, Joseph, 220

287

S Said, Edward, 19–22, 19n1, 20n3, 21n5, 21n6, 25–29, 25n14, 27n21, 27n22, 31, 32, 34, 36, 95, 97n172, 129 Sanskrit, 11, 14, 21, 23, 43, 44, 126, 127, 132, 133, 134n86, 135, 136, 136n93, 142 Sartre, Jean-Paul, 248 Satire, 149, 149n123, 150, 150n127 Schäfer, Ernst, 218n84, 235 Schiller, Friedrich, 28, 44 Schlegel, August, 133 Schlegel, Friedrich, 12, 12n18, 21, 28, 44–46, 132–137, 132n82, 134n85, 136n92, 136n93 Schleiermacher, Friedrich, 46 Schloss, Oskar, 216, 216n79, 222n97, 229, 242, 242n151 Schmidt, Isaac Jakob, 48n20, 160, 160n154, 160n155, 161, 161n159 Scholem, Gershom, 10, 10n14, 107, 107n17, 153, 153n132, 178, 236, 237n142 Schopenhauer, Arthur, 3, 3n4, 11–13, 15, 46, 47, 53n34, 69, 75, 102, 115, 116, 124, 171–173, 208, 208n51 Schroeder, Leopold von, 3, 3n5, 47 Schultze, Theodor, 3, 14, 48, 48n19 Schumacher, Wolfgang, 233–235, 234n129 Secularism, 16, 43, 54, 106, 120, 126, 128 Seidenstücker, Karl, 212, 213 Self-Orientalization, 18, 248, 251 Sephardic Jews, 32, 32n42, 33, 33n43, 58n49, 110, 161, 161n157, 166, 249 Shakespeare, William, 5, 155 Shanghai, 252

288 

INDEX

Shaw, George Bernhard, 5 Skolnik, Jonathan, 249, 249n6, 250, 250n7 Socrates, 86, 92 Spengler, Oswald, 122 Spiritualism, 112 Steiner, Rudolf, 69–72, 69n78, 69n79, 70n80 Strauss, David Friedrich, 15 Substitutive Buddhism, 13, 14, 191 Sudraka, 107, 107n18, 127 Supplementary Buddhism, 14, 191 Susman, Margarete, 154 Swastika, 5, 234, 235 Swedenborg, Emanuel, 166, 173, 176–179, 176n206, 176–177n207, 177n208, 178n210–212, 181 T Tagore, Rabindranath, 24, 24n11, 91, 91n155, 107, 107n18, 142, 203 Tausk, Walter, 2, 7, 8, 9n11, 10, 187, 189–244, 190n1, 195n9, 196n10–12, 197n13–17, 198n18–20, 199n21, 199n22, 200n24–29, 201n30–32, 202n33, 203n35, 204n39, 204n40, 204n41, 206n43, 206n44, 207n45–49, 208n50, 208n51, 208n53, 209n54, 209n56, 214n72, 216n77, 219n85, 219n86, 222n97, 224n103, 225n104, 225n105, 225n106, 226n108, 227n110, 229n114, 230n116, 231n118, 232n123–125, 233n126, 238n143, 238n144, 239n146, 242n151, 243n152, 246–249 Tautz, Elfriede, 206 Theosophy, 3, 58, 72, 113, 114, 176, 211–213

Theravada Buddhism, 1, 15, 176, 202, 236 Thomassin, Carl von, 48, 48n22 Tibet, 91, 115, 132, 160, 160n154, 175, 176, 235, 249 Toller, Ernst, 181, 181n221 Tolstoy, 186 Trebitsch, Arthur, 97 Troeltsch, Ernst, 104, 104n10, 104n11, 105n12, 106, 106n15 Tucholsky, Kurt, 149, 149n123, 163, 164n166 U Übermensch, 96, 102n2, 143, 156, 158, 159, 161 Unio mystica, 87, 218 Universalism, 119, 122, 123, 131, 147, 218 Upanishads, 11, 86, 203, 203n36 Ur-Buddhismus, 202, 202n33 Ursprache, 71n85, 134n86, 136, 155 V Verdun, 64, 190, 198, 205 Vesak, 214, 229, 241, 242 Vienna, 10, 35n49, 36, 54, 58, 168 Voß, Johann Heinrich, 46 Völkerschlachtdenkmal, 214, 214n73, 215, 215n76, 229 Volkov, Shulamit, 8n10, 231, 231n119–121, 239 W Wagner, Richard, 3, 17, 17n28, 46, 47, 170, 170n188 Wassermann, Jakob, 2, 5, 5n9, 7, 38, 39, 84, 102, 105, 110, 153–162, 153n133, 153n134, 154n135–138, 155n140–142,

 INDEX 

156n143–145, 157n146–148, 158n149, 158n150, 159n153, 161n158, 193, 220, 247, 248, 250 Wegener, Paul, 173, 175 Weininger, Otto, 97, 226n109 Weis-Ulmenried, Anton, 48, 48n22 Wellesz, Egon, 161, 161n158 Werfel, Franz, 4, 31, 31n35 Wiedergeburt und Wirken (journal), 233 Wilhelm II, Kaiser, 137, 150, 150n125, 212, 224 Wolfskehl, Karl, 154 Wundt, Wilhelm, 64–69, 65n66, 65–66n67, 66n68, 67n71, 67n73, 68n75, 75, 77 Y Yellow Peril, 52, 150, 151, 212

289

Yiddish, 32 Yom Kippur, 65n65, 214–216, 229, 242, 243 Young, Robert J.C., 26, 95 Z Zarathustra, 69, 70, 176, 176n207 Zen Buddhism, 15, 202, 235, 236, 236n139, 236n141, 237n142, 252n12 Zevi, Sabbatai, 154 Zionism, 30, 31, 88, 88n146, 89n150, 90n151, 90n152, 92, 93n162, 94, 98, 119, 120n53, 121, 124, 124n61, 125, 169, 248n5 Zoroastrianism, 71, 93, 203 Zweig, Arnold, 148, 154 Zweig, Stefan, 4, 18n30, 24n11, 39, 148n122