Hope, Peace of Mind, and The Kind of Literature The World Needs

I was born without peace of mind. At least that's what it felt like, but what I know for a fact is that a huge part of it was taken from me when I was four and a half. The next fifty years was a struggle, but the terror inside was probably why I had to develop a sense of humor.

I've never needed medication for my anxieties. White wine was my medication. So was living in my imagination and unlocking secrets from the stars, but the last ten years I've almost become a grounded human being. Internally, my life has never been better than now and I'm actually grateful for the struggles I've had. I would have been a human disaster if I'd gotten everything I wanted when I was thirty-three.

The awareness I have now will change my writing in the future. Most of the fourteen novels I´ve written I wouldn't write today. The Tsar's Dwarf and Flødeskumsfronten, my World War II novel, have been my biggest successes and I'm proud of them, but they are too dark for me now. And my early novels from the nineties are probably too shallow. From now on I want to lift people's spirit but whether it will happen as a novelist, a screenwriter, a spiritual speaker, a poet, or just by being the village idiot I don't know.

When I was keynote speaker at the Book Forum in Lviv, Ukraine in 2017, I told the audience that the age of thrillers and intellectual masturbation will come to an end soon. In the future we're going to need a literature that speaks to the heart because we're heading toward troubled times with a lot of uncertainty around us.

Hope must never become a four-letter world, but in the world of literature and "serious" film it often is. We seem to be addicted to misery which is understandable since it's much easier to write and has more readers. Killing people on the page is a breeze. Making them breathe is a great deal harder. Perhaps the same goes for life, but a lot of people are waking up to the fact that every word we put out there is important.

Do we want to be human sewers trolling everybody we disagree with? Or is it possible to be agents of positive change without writing spiritual dross?

By positive change I don't mean we should go in Disney mode. We still need dramas, tragedies, and edgy thrillers. Nobody in their right mind would want to "outlaw" zombies or police detectives, but the trick is writing them so we can learn something about the human condition instead of increasing the collective anxieties in our volatile world.

I can only talk for myself, but why would I consciously rob others of their peace of mind when I know how dreadful it is to live without it?

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New Spiritual Novel Out In Denmark September 1, 2017 (Atheists and Agnostics Are Welcome, Too)

1.
I have a new novel coming out in Denmark September 1, 2017. It's my fourteenth so I might be getting a hang of this art form ...

The book is a serious farce about a Danish-American businessman's attempt at reaching Enlightenment in a surreal Indian ashram where his faith comes and goes every times something goes "wrong." And as we all know, things go wrong in life quite often, even when you're in a community where everybody believes in the same guru as you do.

The novel is loosely based on some experiences I've had with three Indian gurus but the protagonist isn't me. Nick's adventures are much more outrageous than mine and his background is totally different, even though he's a Dane living in America as well. However, the theme is something I wholeheartedly believe in: Spirituality is for everybody. The idea that you need to belong to a specific religion, sect or cult to be 'saved" is ludicrous and anti-spiritual. The last thing this world needs is more dogmatic priests, gurus, clairvoyants, imams. So breaking News: Atheists don't go to hell. They're as loved as Barabbas and Brahmins.

I should finish the English version late this fall so hopefully my agent Britt B. Tippins from Storyscout will sell it to an English language publisher with exquisite taste, and to a lot of other countries. I've spent the last eight years writing on both versions, so right now I'm happy and relieved that the Danish incarnation is seeing the light of day soon.

2.
The Danish title of the novel is Det store glidefald which is a play on words. It means something like The Great Prostration or The Great Surrender. The English title will be totally different and the two versions are not alike. I can't just sit and translate my own work like a zombie. That would be tedious, boring, and bad for my health. The voice is a little different in the English version, which I worked on the longest, not just because I'm writing it in my second language but because I constantly had dreams pointing me in new directions.

But that's how muses work.  At one point, I was told to change the ending in a vivid dream. Then I dreamed the novel was too long which was totally true. So if there's one thing I've learned it's this, don't ever argue with your muse. Accept that somebody is writing with you or through you if you take your art seriously. 

And yes, rational writers have muses, too. We all work with worlds we don't know exist. None of us have an inkling of what's going on in this matrix or the next, so let's try to be humble and belly laugh at the human condition.

3.
Later, I'll write more about Det store glidefald on this blog and show gorgeous pictures from India. Actually, I've dedicated the novel to "the most fascinating and infuriating country on earth" - a place I've been about eight times - and as most other visitors, I've developed a love-hate relationship to this addictive sub-continent. Actually, I started writing on the English version back in Varanasi in 2009 (see picture above), then I started on the Danish version in 2011, returned to India in 2012 because I was lucky to get a five week grant to the international writers' residency Sangam House outside Bangalore, so this has been an exhausting and thrilling journey.

Wish me luck September 1st. I'm so excited and hopefully my Danish readers will be as well.

Det store glidefald by Peter H. Fogtdal, Turbine forlag, 333 pages, 299 Danish kroner. Design, Peter Stoltze.

You can pre-order the book by scrolling down on this page from book seller SAXO.DK

Presenting My Novel 'The Egyptian Heart' - Magical Realism for the Spiritually Inclined (And It Doesn't Hurt If You Have a Sense of Humor)

1.
After five years of hard work, my novel Det egyptiske hjerte (The Egyptian Heart) finally came out in Denmark in late October. Man, it's been a long journey. Since 2009 I've been writing on two novels at the same time going back between Danish and English, tearing the hair out of my skull every morning. Also, I went on research trips to Luxor, Egypt and my favorite city in the world, Venezia, Venice, Venedig (take your pick). I even got diarrhea but there's no limit to what a writer will do for his reader.

Det egyptiske hjerte is written in this strange tongue called Danish.  It's a sweeping, often humorous and love-affirming novel about reincarnation, eternal love and the stories we tell to make sense of our existence. It's an accessible and lively book for those who love history, spirituality, and thought-provoking storytelling about the inner connectedness of our relationships.

2.
There are three storylines in the novel that intertwine: One in 12^th century Italy about the Venetian Doge, Pietro Polano  (1130-1148) and one in contemporary Copenhagen with Zia, a historian who is writing a thesis about an Egyptian explorer, Frederik Norden. Zia and Pietro Polani are both emotional, impulsive, and zany characters who have had experiences with sexual abuse, mysticism, and fire. None of them is comfortable with dogmatic systems but have a strange fascination with Egypt and the Pyramids. Is Zia an incarnation of Pietro?  And is Frederik Norden Zia's guardian angel on her voyage into her past and herself?  The reader will have fun following the clues.

A lot of foreign publishers showed interest in The Egyptian Heart at the Frankfurt book fair so hopefully it'll be sold to a lot of countries within the next few months. If you're a publisher you can get a two-chapter translation in English by Mark Kline by mailing People's Press Foreign Rights Manager, Louise Langhoff Koch at lolk@artpeople.dk

 

3.
A few days ago I got a review to die for in Denmark's most important paper, Politiken. "I'm totally hooked," senior editor Bjørn Bredal writes. "The Egyptian Heart is one of the most charming, humorous, and clever books I've read in a long time. Peter H. Fogtdal isn't just knowledgeable, he's witty, has bite, and leaves the Dan Browns of the world in the dust." (I'd rather leave Jonathan Franzen in the dust but okay, I can live with that compliment)
 

Here is a great quote in Danish about the quality of my prose: "Man sejler igennem det hele, lystigt vuggende i Fogtdals sproglige gondol, som ikke giver en eneste mislyd i lagunen. Han kan skrive, kan han, og han har noget på hjerte om det store, det små og det onde i historien – verdens og romanens."  ("You cruise through the novel, gently bopping in Fogtdal's linguistic gondola ... He can write, can he and he has something important to say about the big and small issues and cruelty through the ages.")

For some reason the review isn't online at http://politiken.dk/kultur/boger/ yet but should be soon. Not that I'm complaining about much right now ...

Signing books at Politiken boghandel November 4. I'll be at the Copenhagen Book Fair, BogForum Sunday November 8 at 1.30 PM and at Tranquebar boghandel, Borgergade 14 in Copenhagen, November 26 at 7 PM.  Cover, 50 DKK.

++++++++

A Course In Political Miracles: Marianne Williamson May Be High on Tofu But She Still Makes More Sense Than the Politicians on the Hill

1.

Marianne Williamson is running for Congress in California's District 33. 

If you have no idea who she is, it's probably because you need A Course in Political Miracles. Marianne wrote A Return to Love and is one of America's finest spiritual writers and teachers. One of her many homes is The New York Times bestseller list where she often stays for months. She is also Oprah's advisor in matters of the soul --- and surely you have heard of Oprah?

During a short trip to Southern California I went to a meeting for Marianne's many volunteers. (By the way, I'm allowed to call Marianne by her first name. Even her own website does: MarianneForCongress.com)

The volunteer meet-up took place in The Source, a beautiful spiritual center on Rose Avenue in Venice --- the kind of area where hippies wear Armani and order pizza with vegan crust. When I walked in, I was delighted to see mandalas, smiling Buddhas, and about 150 levitating volunteers who wanted to help Marianne get elected. I doubt Mitt Romney's headquarters looked like this. Romney never seemed like a man who would get Yogis excited about anything.

The Source is an old historical church with a saintly and serene atmosphere. (In America any structure built before 1980 is considered historical). Normally it's used for meditations, sacred chanting, and all those things that make Shirley Maclaine excited. The Source seemed like the perfect venue for a woman who is staring a movement that's based on the best four letter word of all, love. MONEY OUT, PEOPLE IN, as it said on a hand-out. Which downward dog wouldn't agree with that? 

2.

Since I'm a Dane from Portland who isn't allowed to vote in the U.S. (except for American Idol) I didn't know where to sit in the crowded church. All around me people were holding up signs, Santa Monica, South Bay, Marina del Rey etc, so I decided I belonged to Venice since I got drunk on their boardwalk once. Luckily I was graciously accepted into Venice's circle of volunteers, all of them sweet and enthusiastic.

When Marianne Williamson appeared, she impressed me. She was honest, passionate and didn't sound like any other politician. Instead of repeating the usual "Washington is broken" mantra, she talked about how WE are broken inside and how that affects the society we are part of. 

She also had a stern warning: "The American government is constantly chipping away at our democratic freedoms---one capitulation to moneyed interests at a time, one new gerrymandered district at a time, one government surveillance program at a time, one limiting of our voting rights at a time, one intimidation of journalists at the time, one Patriot Act at a time ... So at what point do we stand up to our own government and say, "hey, guys. Whose side are you on?"

This quote could easily have been used on Human Rights Day, December 10 when 562 writers from 83 countries (including Nobel prize winners like Umberto Eco, J.M. Coetzee, Orhan Pamuk, and little me) signed a petition called Writers Against Mass Surveillance that was printed in newspapers around the world, including The Guardian, Frankfurter Allgemeine, El Pais, La Repubblica, and Politiken. 

But Marianne Williamson went further at the meet-up in California. She promised to run an outer and an inner campaign, trying to raise consciousness everywhere, since we can't demand change from Washington if we don't change ourselves.

So from a spiritual  perspective we shouldn't just be angry with our government. We should see it as a frightened part of ourselves, obsessed with the fear of terrorism and love of control.

3.

Well, almost everything Williamson said that evening made sense to a spiritual airhead like me. She did NOT come across as if she had overdosed on soy milk. She was NOT a new age caricature but argued well. And thank God, she doesn't run for the Democrats but as an independent who wants love and dignity for everybody "instead of a sociopathic economic system that operates without a heart."

"I would be the happy if all my readers would donate as little as $5 to this campaign. In that case we would have more than enough money," Marianne said, finishing the evening with the kind of prayer you won't hear in Congress too often.

4.

But why should I go on about Williamson's Gandhi-like campaign? Go to her own website MarianneForCongress.com and see for yourself. Marianne Williamson is just one of many visionaries who knows that it's last call for humankind. Something has to be done about our fading democracy where money has such an obscene influence on what happens in Washington. Passing a decent law here and there isn't enough. We need a series of earthquakes to jolt us out of our self-absorbed empathy - you don't have to be Mamas & Papas to see that.

The question is actually simple: What is going to win in the end?  Love and trust, or fear and surveillance?  Most of the media and the establishment will definitely laugh at Marianne Williamson. But no matter what you think of a movement like hers, independent candidates are on the rise. How could they not be when Congress and Obama are fighting like toddlers? 

But perhaps Marianne Williamson could lead the way in America. Now that would be A Course In Political Miracles indeed.

....

Supertramp's Roger Hodgson in Concert at the Oregon Zoo: Even The Giraffes Got So Excited They Tried To Headbutt This Musical Genius

Sometimes I can't stand all the beauty in the world.

Nine days ago was one of those days.

Roger Hodgson, the lead singer from Supertramp, had the audacity of visiting Portland, where he played some of the classics he wrote in the Seventies and Eighties. If you don't know what songs I'm talking about, let me just mention Give A Little Bit, Breakfast in America, The Logical Song, Dreamer, It's Raining Again, and Take The Long Way Home

The concert took place at the Oregon Zoo in front of orangutangs, leopards, and an enthusiastic crowd of aging hippies. The giraffes got so excited they tried to run up to the stage and headbutt Roger Hodgson, but he was probably protected by Babaji and a hundred other saints.

Goddammit, I don't want to admit how much I was moved by that concert. Not just because Roger Hodgsons songs were the soundtrack to my pimples, but because he is one of the most spiritual singers around.

Listening to Roger is like being in the company of an archangel of music. Like all truly great artists, Hodgson downloads songs from Heaven. I was crying when the old hippie played Hide In Your Shell, one of the most beautiful songs ever written. Equally great was Lord Is It Mine, a modern psalm. Johann Sebastian Bach probably gave it to Hodgson in a dream, and I don't think Bach regrets that!

So, Roger Hodson, I'm very impressed with you. But don't you dare come back to Portland, Oregon! Frankly, I'm not sure the giraffes and I can stand that much beauty.

                                                                                     Guitar photo of Roger Hodgson by Gregory Weinkauf

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There Is Nothing More Powerful Than Yoga (Unless You Hate It, Of Course)

1.
I absolutely adore yoga. It's like having sex with yourself - a spiritual cleansing, a divine form of masturbation that has been passed down from Indian saints who didn't know how to keep warm in the Himalayas. I totally believe you can become enlightened by mastering your body - I'm just not sure I have one.

Yes, you guessed it, I only like yoga in theory. When my body sees a yoga mat it wants to run away and munch on a pork sandwich. It doesn't want to breathe through migraines; it doesn't find any joy in "allowing" the pain from a cracked collarbone. My body wants greasy tacos, sex in phone booths, and long bike rides around nuclear plants.

So why do I keep on torturing myself with the Downward Dog and other unhealthy yoga positions? I've done yoga on Greek islands and dengue at a health spa in Thailand. That's right, dengue at a health spa. God is trying to tell me something. "Stay away from yoga," God shouts with that booming voice of His that worked so well for Charlton Heston.

2.
Right now I'm sitting at Kalani Oceanside Retreat in the rainforest on Big Island, Hawaii, and it's so serene it gets on my nerves. Alcohol isn't allowed, but anal sex is, so it's not all dull.

Actually, people are absolutely warm and beautiful. In my group you find a Latvian healer, a musician from L.A. with a gift for Zin Wine, a chocolate sales executive who despises chocolate, and an ex-con from the Oakland ghetto. The food is so healthy and tasty you want to scream, and unfortunately our yoga teacher Will is absolutely great. He even has a sense of humor, something I thought was strictly forbidden on the spiritual pathway. And hey, there's a reclining Buddha overseeing my declining body when I go snorkeling in the pool. With a life guard like that, how can you drown?

So yes, you could refer to this lush rain forest as Paradise, but damn it, there's nothing at Kalani to keep me on my toes. When I visited ashrams in India and Thailand you had to watch out for snakes and monkeys jumping on your back. On Big Island nothing can kill you. You may see a dolphin or hear a whale, but even though this is a spiritual place whales tend to keep to the sea - they're not much for doing The Plow.

3.
By the way, I love mediation much better than the medieval torture that passes for Kundalini yoga. I'm also pretty good at breathing. Without bragging I can say I've done that successfully for half a century.

A few days ago I almost reached Enlightenment. I suddenly found myself fondling the most beautiful woman in the studio which happened to be my girlfriend. And I felt like fondling a few others as well, since I believe it's very important to share your wealth, but unfortunately my guardian spirit told me to stop.

4.
But excuse me, I have to leave you now. There's an Ecstatic Dance taking place in the Rainbow Room here at Kalani. You're supposed to chant and rub your chakras against the other yogis while you chant something incredibly deep in Sanskrit. You just can't go wrong with that, now can you?

Link to the gorgeous Kalani Oceanside Retreat where egos go to die (some more than others)




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How To Milk a Danish Cash Cow (A Holy Scam In Varanasi, India)

1.
I'm in love with India. I've been here about eight times. I love the deep spirituality of this great country. And when I get tired of God, there are always the strong colors, the gorgeous scent of urine, and the palak paneer they serve in the small guest houses.

India is full of surprises, too. Yesterday I ran into three holy cows and Goldie Hawn. And I was head butted by all four. Yes, I'm truly blessed.

This time I'm here to do research on my next novel. It takes place in Varanasi, the holiest of all cities in India. Varanasi (Benares) is the famous place where you wash away your sins in Mother Ganges. And cremate your loved ones at the same time. You could argue that Ganges is the biggest funeral parlor in the world. Or the most impressive sewer in history.

Varanasi is India at its best and worst. It's colorful, charismatic, loud, polluted, dirty, generous, kind, obnoxious, spiritual, beautiful, and a haven for scam artists, con men, and monks with an advanced degree in pick pocketing. Everybody wants something from you. Sometimes it's your soul, but mostly it's just your damn rupees.

I ran into a delightful scam the other day. Since I know how to navigate in India, it didn't take me totally by surprise. But sometimes I'm not as cynical as I like to think, so let's say I was mildly disappointed. While roaring with laughter at the same time.




2.
I was walking down the atmospheric alleys of the old city avoiding the cow dung, the one-armed beggars, and the scrawny cows feasting on filthy plastic bags.

A man came up to me and started to talk. His English was fine, so we chatted for a while. At one point he asked whether I wanted to see the burning ghats - the place where the dead are cremated before their ashes are spread over Mother Ganges.

I said, sure, and we went to a house that supposedly was a hospice for the poor. Here people come from all over India to die and are taken care of for free. I was greeted by a little old lady in a dirty sari.

"This is The Mother Teresa of Varanasi" I was told, and then I was introduced to a guru in a dhoti and two volunteers. A "pious" looking gentleman lead me up to the roof of the patient-free hospice, so I could get a good view of the cremations at the nearby ghat.




"You have to understand, we're not asking for money. We're all volunteers at this hospice," my guide said.

I nodded, knowing that when a con man says he doesn't want money, things are going to get very expensive. But I went along for the ride for the simple reason I wasn't 100% sure whether this was a scam or not. Yet.

From the roof top there was a nice view of the Ganges and the three platforms where the dead are burned: One for the upper cast (business class?), one for the middle cast (coach), and one for the lower cast. The fire that was used for the cremation was lit thousands of years ago and had never gone out, my guide told me while meditating on my pin codes.

I started to cough because of the heavy smoke. I've always been sensitive to inhaling the deceased, especially Brahmins.

My guide stared at me through the fumes with that pious look he had practiced in front of the mirror, "Look around, Sir. Look at all the people carrying the dead bodies. Do you see any women?"

"No."

"Women are not allowed to attend because they cry. Crying holds back the soul. It's very selfish to show emotion, Sir."

"Well, sometimes men are emotional, too," I said.

"Yes, but men are not women," the Pious One answered with surprising contempt. Then he told a story about a widow who threw herself on the fire to be with her dead husband. This unfortunate incident happened ten years ago and meant that women had been banished from the cremations ever since.

After ten minutes of watching I'd had enough. Even though there was something sad but beautiful about the cremations, there was a limit to how much of a voyeur I wanted to be. When I got downstairs, the guru was ready to bless me as a token "for the large donation I was going to give to the poor".

"The small donation," I added quickly.

The guru in the dhoti asked me to kneel and put a warm hand on my head and started praying. I liked looking into his eyes, and I clearly felt good karma was coming my way, even though I was aware that one of the 32 million Hindu gods probably would cut my head off if I was stingy.

When that was done, my guide stepped forward and asked me to give a donation of 2000 rupees (about fifty US-dollars) which would cover the expenses of a cremation for two people.

"I'll donate 200 rupees," I said immediately.

My guide looked at me with horror. "No, that's not possible," he said, once more putting a hand on his heart as pious people do when they're asking for justice in this cruel world. "A 1000 rupee donation is the smallest we can accept."

Now suddenly I was crowded by six people. A young volunteer from Europe said he was sick and tired of "tourists who'd only give the equivalent of 5 euros when they are filthy rich."

The atmosphere was getting ugly, but now I got stubborn. If these people were who they pretended to be, they wouldn't pressure me. So I stood my ground 100% convinced that this indeed wasan ugly but hilarious scam.

When it finally dawned on everybody, I wasn't going to give more than 200 lousy rupees (a weekly wage for most in India), one of them shouted, "Give at least something to Mother Teresa."

Suddenly, the frail old lady stood by my side and looked up at me with her big compassionate eyes. I sighed and handed her a 50 rupee bill, just to end things on a civilized note.

The next second I'll never forget as long as I live.

"Mother Teresa of Varanasi", this pious woman who had dedicated her life to the poor; this modern-day saint who had renounced luxury to do God's work on earth, stared at the 50 rupee bill I'd given her with a baffled look on her face - a look that I best can describe as "you gotta be fucking kidding me." Then the look slowly turned into contempt and then to anger. For a short second I thought this angel was going to attack me and rip me to pieces.

When I walked out of the hospice I heard the sound of people spitting after me, and when I continued down one of the narrow alleys, I felt how the good karma I'd been promised slowly evaporated and gave way to ancient curses from the "spiritual" people at this divine "hospice".




3.
The first minutes afterward I was a little more shaken than I wanted to admit. Had I been too harsh? Could I be so sure that it was a scam? But of course it was. And I wouldn't have been without all this. 250 rupees to experience something as wonderfully absurd as a hospice tour was a damn bargain.

And hey, I got to take some good pictures, too.

A few days later I left Varanasi.

It was difficult to say goodbye to this gorgeous mess of a place. Varanasi is the kind of city you never forget. It shows humanity at its best and worst: Beggars dying in the streets, horny monks rubbing against women, child prostitution, devout Hindus full of beautiful faith, nuns helping the poor, gorgeous processions with elephants, sun sets coloring the roof tops and the fishing boats, beautiful kids asking for one rupee...

When I entered Varanasi's small airport I saw a sign saying YOU'RE BEING WATCHED.

At first I felt intimidated. Was God at the check-in counter, too? But then I simply decided it was good news for us narcissists.






Rewritten blog entry from the fall of 2009

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Hi, Hermann Hesse, I'm Right Outside Your House. Why Don't You Come Out And Play?

1.
I'm visiting the great novelist and poet Hermann Hesse.

Frankly, I haven't been invited, but I don't really care, and Hermann probably doesn't, either. I'm in his house in Montagnola in the Italian speaking part of Switzerland. Hermann Hesse lived here from 1919 until his death in 1962, and I can't say I blame him. The area is absolutely gorgeous, overlooking Lago di Lugano and the majestic Alps. If I'd lived here I would have written Siddharta, too.

Right now I'm walking around the first house Hesse lived in. It's called Torre Camuzzi and is a museum for the great German/Swiss writer who won the Nobel Prize in 1946. One Nobel prize is too little if you ask me. The man should have won two! I mean, have you ever read Demian and Siddharta? Hesse wasn't just a great writer, he was also a mystic, a philosopher, a pacifist, and a humanitarian who stood up against the Kaiser, Hitler, and the nationalism of the day.

When I read Demian the first time I was totally blown away because the novel is a spiritual manifesto and a visionary masterpiece that easily could have been written today. I mean, can you mention any writer in the world who had such insight, such language, and used spiritual symbolism in a way that would have made Confucius, Krishnamurti, and Jung proud? Actually, Hermann Hesse was inspired by Jung as well.

2.
I have a lot in common with Hermann Hesse, except for the small fact that I'm not a genius.

I'm as heavily influenced by Indian mysticism as he was. I'm in love with Francis of Assisi, and I'm a nomad and pacifist as well. So Hermann Hesse holds up a mirror for me. All great artists do. When a reader loves a writer it's never only the writing he or she connects to; it's something deeper - a vision shared, a voice in the wind, a sense that we were downloaded from the same celestial sphere.

Hermann Hesse even had a younger partner as I do, and he loved traveling in Italy - a country that always has been a great inspiration for me as a novelist and soul. Funnily enough I never knew anything about Hesse's personal life until a few months ago. In 2001 I read Siddharta and loved the prose and the wisdom, but it's only this summer I've started to read the rest of Hesse's books, and what a great journey I'm on. Narcissus and Goldmund is another gem dealing with the struggle between the spiritual life and the earthly pleasures.

It's also quite a journey walking around Hesse's home, admiring his straw-hat, the glasses he wore, the ancient typewriter he wrote on with the uneven keys - not forgetting the private pictures of the novelist/poet/painter sunbathing in the nude. (Yes, Hermann was German after all and Germans like to take off their clothes). I almost feel as if I'm stalking a ghost, but that's okay because I love stalking, and I enjoy every minute I spend in the small, quaint museum.

3.
The last thing I do is sit by Hermann Hesse's tomb a kilometer away from his house in a beautiful cemetery, surrounded by cypresses and bird song. His gravestone is simple and humble contrary to most of the others. A small Buddha is sitting on top, and Hesse's third wife is lying next to him. After all, he was just another soul passing through, guided by forces so much greater than him, and it's in that knowledge true humility is born.

I'm very moved by the stillness and the presence at the small cemetery. However, I know that Hermann Hesse wasn't a saint during his life. His work was everything to him; he often suffered from depressions and felt like a misfit in this dualistic world, but I'm extremely grateful for the art and the insights the weird German Steppenwolf gave to the world and me.

So danke, grazie, thank you, Hermann. I enjoyed stalking you, and I'll continue reading your novels, your poetry, and your fairy tales until there are no more left.  Why wouldn't I because sometimes, for a second or two,  I sense you around me, even though that's most likely my imagination.

Writing at Lake Lugano the day after I visited the museum in Montagnola.

Milking a Cash Cow in India (The Joys of Bad Karma?)

1.
I love India.

I've been here about eight times. I love the spirituality of this great country. And when I get tired of that, there are always the strong colors, the humorous people, and the best spicy food in the world.

India is full of surprises, too. Yesterday I ran into three holy cows and Goldie Hawn. And I was head butted by all four. I'm truly blessed.

This time I'm here to do research on my next novel. It takes place in Varanasi, the holiest of all cities. Varanasi (Benares) is the famous place where you wash away your sins in Mother Ganges. And cremate your loved ones at the same time. You could argue that Ganges is the biggest funeral parlor in the world.

Varanasi is India at its best and worst. It's colorful, charismatic, loud, polluted, dirty, generous, kind, obnoxious, spiritual, and deeply criminal. Everybody wants something from you. Sometimes it's your soul, most of the time, it's just your money.

I ran into a wonderful scam the other day. Since I know how to navigate in India, it didn't take me totally by surprise. But sometimes I'm not as cynical as I like to think, so let's say I was mildly disappointed.




2.
I was walking down the colorful alleys of the old city avoiding the cow dung, the beggars, and the scrawny cows feasting on plastic bags.

A man came up to me and started to talk. His English was good, so we chatted for a while. At one point he asked whether I wanted to see the burning ghats - the place where the dead are cremated before their ashes are spread over Mother Ganges.

I said, sure, and we went to a house that supposedly was a hospice for the poor. Here people come from all over India to die and are taken care of for free. I was greeted by a little old lady in a dirty sari.

"This is The Mother Teresa of Varanasi" I was told, and then I was introduced to a guru in a dhoti and two volunteers. A "pious" looking gentleman lead me up to the roof of the patient-free hospice, so I could get a good view of the cremations at the nearby ghat.




"You have to understand, we're not asking for money. We're all volunteers at this hospice," my guide said.

I nodded, knowing that when a con man says he doesn't want money, things are going to get very expensive. But I went along for the ride for the simple reason I wasn't totally sure whether this was a scam or not. Yet.

From the roof top there was a nice view of the Ganges and the three platforms where the dead are burned: One for the upper cast (business class?), one for the middle cast (coach), and one for the lower cast (freight?). The fire that was used for the cremation was lit thousands of years ago and had never gone out.

I started to cough. I've always been sensitive to inhaling the deceased.

My guide looked at me with that pious look he had practiced in front of the mirror, "Look around, Sir. Look at all the people bringing the bodies. Do you see any women?"

"No."

"Women are not allowed to attend because they cry. Crying holds back the soul. It's very selfish to show emotion, Sir."

"Well, sometimes men are emotional, too," I said.

"Yes, but men are not women," my guide answered with surprising contempt. Then he told a story about a widow who threw herself on the fire to be with her dead husband. This unfortunate incident happened ten years ago and meant that women had been banished from the cremations ever since.

After ten minutes of watching I'd had enough. Even though there was something sad but beautiful about the cremations, there was a limit to how much of a voyeur I wanted to be.

When I got downstairs, the guru was ready to bless me as a token "for the large donation I was going to give to the poor".

"The small donation," I added quickly.

The guru asked me to kneel and put a warm hand on my head and started praying. I liked looking into his eyes, and I clearly felt good karma was coming my way.

When that was done, my guide stepped forward and asked me to give a donation of 2000 rupees which would cover the expenses of a cremation for two people.

"I'll donate 200 rupees," I said immediately.

My guide looked at me with horror. "No, that's not possible," he said, once more putting a hand on his heart as pious people do when they've asked God for cash. "A 1000 rupee donation is the smallest we can accept."

Now suddenly I was crowded by six people. A young volunteer from Europe said he was sick and tired of "tourists who'd only give the equivalent of 5 euros when they are filthy rich."

The atmosphere was getting ugly, but now I got stubborn. If these people were who they pretended to be, they wouldn't pressure me. So I stood my ground, convinced that this was a scam.

When it finally dawned on everybody, I wasn't going to give more than 200 lousy rupees (a weekly wage for most in India), one of them shouted, "give at least a something to Mother Teresa."

Suddenly, the frail old lady stood by my side and looked up at me with her big compassionate eyes. I sighed and handed her a 50 rupee bill, just to end things on a civilized note.

The next second I'll never forget as long as I live.

"Mother Teresa of Varanasi", this pious woman who had dedicated her life to the poor; this modern-day saint who had renounced luxury to do God's work on earth, stared at the 50 rupee bill I'd given her with a baffled look on her face - a look that I best can describe as "you gotta be fucking kidding me." Then the look slowly turned into contempt and then to anger. For a short second I thought this angel was going to attack me and rip me to pieces.

When I walked out of the hospice I heard the sound of people spitting after me, and when I continued down one of the narrow alleys, I felt how the good karma I'd been promised slowly evaporated and gave way to ancient curses from the "spiritual" people at the patient-free hospice.




3.
The first minutes afterward I was shaken. Had I been too harsh? Could I be so sure that it was a scam? Maybe the Western volunteer was right in his criticism. Why didn't we tourists give more money to the poor when we easily could afford it?

But then I remembered the sinister atmosphere, the intimidation, and the spitting when these people didn't get what they wanted. And the more I thought about it, the more I knew that my money never would end where it was supposed to.

So I was happy with the outcome. 250 rupees to experience something as wonderfully absurd as this was a damn bargain.





4.
By the way, it's important for me to say I have the deepest respect for the Hindu religion, so if any one finds the above disrespectful, I apologize. But I reserve the right to be facetious when spirituality is being abused. And spirituality often is, in India and everywhere else.

But needless to say, scams are a small part of India. The country is so picturesque it's impossible to take a bad picture.

This time I enjoyed my aimless walks along the Ganges and in the alleys of Varanasi - one of the most incredible places I've ever been. I enjoyed the masala dosas at the local grease joint, I enjoyed my talks with Mr. Namit Agnihotri, the general manager at The Gateway, one of the finest hotels in Varanasi (I recommend it highly). And hey, I did run into several holy cows and Goldie Hawn - the latter actually stayed at my hotel, but she "disappointed" me greatly by not asking for a signed copy of The Tsar's Dwarf.


5.
When I left Varanasi I saw a great sign in the airport. YOU'RE BEING WATCHED, it said.

That's good news for us narcissists.





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Is Christopher Hitchens a Messenger From God?

I just read God Is Not Great: How Religion Poisons Everything by Christopher Hitchens.

Since I'm a believer I didn't expect to like this onslaught on religion, but I actually loved the book. It's well written, funny, provocative, and humanistic to the bone. Christopher Hitchens shows that atheists often are more "religious" (moral) than believers - and more tolerant than the people who claim they've found the "Truth". Hey, at least atheist don't condemn others to Hell, they don't cut off your clitoris (at least, not for religious reasons), and they're happy to put their teeth into a good pork chop, right?

However, make no mistake about it, Hitchens is as dogmatic himself as the religions he criticizes. His absolute "Truth" is that religion poisons everything. He also seems to overlook that the world is full of people who carry their God within. They shouldn't be blamed for the mess the religions have made. It's not every Christian who uses the Bible as a baseball bat. And it's not all Muslims, Jews, Buddhists or Hindus who want to show others the "right" way. A lot of believers just live their values - their faith gives them inner strength and make them better people. So the problem is not God at all, it's organized religion.

However, Christopher Hitchen's book is an extremely important work. And it's definitely much more honest than Bill Maher's mockumentary Religulous that used all believers as a punching bag for his wit.

But the world does need to be reminded how much damage religions still do today - how most wars are caused by people who think their "Truth" is superior. So no, God Is Not Great ain't a work of the Devil. It's more likely a work of God.

Yes, I see it now: While Christopher Hitchens was sitting in his study, God descended on him, angels whispered in his ears, saints led his pen. Who knows, maybe God even supplied Hitchens with his Scotch to calm him down (and with cigarettes to soothe his nerves) because they knew that the world of faith needed a provocative slap in the face.

So without realizing it, Christopher Hitchens, the rationalist, has written a spiritual manifest. It's not only a Bible for people of the Atheist faith, it's also a work for the millions of believers who are suspicious of organized religion.

Most often God and religion have very little to do with each other. It's this point that the angry, but brilliant Christopher Hitchens doesn't seem to get.

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