Mainländer’s Maelstrom

About a philosophical message in a bottle and the man who

sent it
A Kaiser receives a letter from a philosopher. The Kaiser’s busy. The empire is young, the enemy of the
fatherland has been utterly defeated, the economy is flourishing. There is also no lack of good advice to
go around. A Kaiser can not afford to read everything sent his way. One has to take the work off him –
especially with philosopher.
The request, written in the engraved handwriting of a middle-tier bank clerk, is thus opened by the ones
authorities responsible on such matters, scanned by the office bearer: “Your Imperial Majesty will most
graciously forgive you, if the most dutiful of dignitaries dares to reverently present to him the
following request...” The man attaches a note of endorsement to it, signs off, allows himself a touch of
dismissal unlike the start of contemplation, and in his gentle pillow passes it on to the Ministry of War.
The Ministry of War examines the entry, as it’s done in such cases, acts benevolently, and arranges an
appointment. The philosopher at hand arrives on time. On the second of May of 1874, Philipp
Mainländer appears before a Berlin District-Replacement-Committee. The members of the committee
are all overwhelmed; One, Mainländer later recalls, “was searching in my face as if seeking to find
traces of mental disorder; another old gentleman put down his quill and mumbled, in a tone that I can
not reflect abstractly: “Look at that! Look at it””.
This ineptitude would soon prove to be contagious. First of all, Philipp Mainländer did not even go by
Wienerberg that name at that time, he was still called Philipp Batz. Secondly, he had not published a
single line that would have justified him being called a philosopher. He had not published anything at
all, which, one might suppose in retrospect, was pressing since his penultimate year of life was just
about to begin. Thirdly, neither Philipp Barz or Philipp Mainländer can be found today in popular
stories of philosophy. And fourthly and finally, before the District-Replacement-Committee, he was
concerned with something completely different than “love of wisdom”, namely, the love of the
Commissar, the “sensible ideas, inaccessible to those of fanatical inclination”, the anti-Prussian feeling
that plagued Mainländer like a series of malaria attacks, and at thirty-two years of age made him
volunteers with any sort of external coercion.
The Committee members, “who had to listen almost exclusively to requests of relief from the burden of
military service all day long,” had never seen such an example of patriotism. They shook their heads
uncomprehendingly behind Mainländer’s back. And others resorted to this same neck muscle exercise:
the “distressed” doctor who testified that Mainländer was fit for difficult horse-riding service, the
district police officers that did not conceal their “colossal surprise”, who issued a certificate of good
conduct, his comrades and superiors at the 7th Magdeburg Cuirassier Regiment, his neighbors in
Halberstadt, who were amused by the weirdo who was still always cleaning, preening and wearing a
helmet and a cuirass.
These are, of course, all understandable human reactions, because people were, after all, confused.
Only the so-called anger management professionals lacked meekness. After all, the Army allowed
Mainländer, whose motivation they did not grasp, “to take a sip from the foaming cup of a horse-rider’s
life”, which is to say, “delicious”. “Clean the stable, carry straw around, carry water and care for the
horse”. It’s safe to say that I feel so well, but I can’t engage myself cognitively, intellectually, mentally,
let me say: