From West To East and Back Again

FROM WEST TO EAST AND BACK AGAIN
EDUCATIONAL FUTURES
RETHINKING THEORY AND PRACTICE
Volume 51
Series Editors
Michael A. Peters
University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, USA
Editorial Board
Michael Apple, University of Wisconsin-Madison, USA

Miriam David, Institute of Education, London University, UK
Cushla Kapitzke, Queensland University of Technology, Australia
Simon Marginson, University of Melbourne, Australia
Mark Olssen, University of Surrey, UK
Fazal Rizvi, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, USA
Linda Tuahwai Smith, University of Waikato, New Zealand
Susan Robertson, University of Bristol, UK
Scope
This series maps the emergent field of educational futures. It will commission
books on the futures of education in relation to the question of globalisation and
knowledge economy. It seeks authors who can demonstrate their understanding of
discourses of the knowledge and learning economies. It aspires to build a
consistent approach to educational futures in terms of traditional methods,
including scenario planning and foresight, as well as imaginative narratives, and it
will examine examples of futures research in education, pedagogical experiments,
new utopian thinking, and educational policy futures with a strong accent on actual
policies and examples.
From West to East and
Back Again
An Educational Reading of Hermann Hesse’s Later Work
By
Peter Roberts
University of Canterbury, Christchurch, New Zealand
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CONTENTS
Introduction:
Reading Hermann Hesse’s Later Novels from an Educational Point
of View 1
Chapter 1:
From West to East and Back Again 9
Chapter 2:
Mystery, Ritual and Education 25
Chapter 3:
More Than a Metaphor 41
Chapter 4:
Education, Society and the Individual 55
Chapter 5:
Life, Death and Transformation 65
Chapter 6:
Education, Incompleteness and Immortality 75
References 93
Acknowledgements 99
About the Author 101
v
INTRODUCTION
READING HERMANN HESSE’S LATER NOVELS

FROM AN EDUCATIONAL POINT OF VIEW
Over the last two decades, a number of philosophers of education have considered
the potential value of literature in addressing ethical, epistemological and
ontological questions (e.g., Barrow, 2004; Carr, 2005; Katz, 1997; Jollimore &
Barrios, 2006; Roberts, 2008a, 2008b; Sichel, 1992; Zigler, 1994). It has long been
recognised that novels and other literary works can play a distinctive role in moral
development (Cunningham, 2001; Nussbaum, 1990; Palmer, 1992; Weston, 2001)
and the education of the emotions (Gribble, 1983; Hepburn, 1972; Solomon, 1986).
The contribution of literature to the enhancement of reason, within both public and
private domains, has also been acknowledged (Novitz, 1987; Nussbaum, 1995;
Siegel, 1997).
For Nussbaum (1990), reading literary works is one of the ways we constitute
ourselves as moral and fully human beings. Interpreting a novel involves ‘a kind of
sympathetic reasoning that is highly characteristic of morality; for we ask
ourselves, as we try to enter into the plot, why the characters do what they do, and
we are put off if our inquiries lead to nothing but mystery and arbitrariness’
(Nussbaum, 1990, p. 346). Literature allows us to develop a form of ethical
understanding ‘that involves emotional as well as intellectual activity and gives a
certain type of priority to the perception of particular people and situations, rather
than to abstract rules’ (p. ix). As Jollimore and Barrios (2006) put it, ‘[t]he great
advantage of literature, as a tool for the cultivation of virtue, is precisely that it
allows for the complexities of moral reality to be depicted and investigated’
(p. 381). This point finds further elaboration in the work of Katz (1997), who
observes that in good novels, we find not abstract moral agents but three-
dimensional, complex characters in ‘dense, richly contextualized human situations,
situations that lend themselves to multiple interpretations’ (p. 8).
Given this philosophical and educational interest in literature, it is, I want to
suggest, timely to revisit the work of the German Nobel laureate, Hermann Hesse.
Hesse was born in Calw in 1877 and died in 1962. His family had strong
theological commitments, and it was expected that Hermann would follow in their
footsteps. Hesse was an exceptionally bright student, but he rebelled against
authority and did not have happy memories of his time in school. He rejected the
plans others had for him, having vowed from his thirteenth year to become ‘a poet
or nothing at all’ (Helt, 1996). He worked for periods as a mechanic and bookseller
before devoting himself completely to writing.
1
INTRODUCTION
A staunch opponent of the Nazi regime, Hesse spent much of his life in
Switzerland. There he composed many of the books for which he has become best
known: Siddhartha (Hesse, 2000a), Steppenwolf (Hesse, 1965), Narcissus and
Goldmund (Hesse, 1968a), and The Glass Bead Game (Hesse, 2000b). Hesse was
also a prolific reviewer, essayist and short story writer (Hesse, 1973a, 1973b,
1974a, 1974b, 1978, 1982, 1995). He commented critically and at length on the
world wars of the first half of the twentieth century (Hesse, 1974c) and was an
accomplished poet and artist (see Hesse, 1970, 1985).
A number of Hesse’s novels and stories address educational themes. Beneath the
Wheel (Hesse, 1968b), for example, focuses on the distressing school and
examination experiences of a young scholar; Demian (Hesse, 1999) explores the
relationship between Emil Sinclair and a fellow student, Max Demian; Siddhartha
(Hesse, 2000a) depicts a process of learning and spiritual growth through the
central character’s different modes of life; and The Glass Bead Game (Hesse,
2000b) is set in Castalia, a ‘pedagogical province’ of the future.
It is thus a matter for some surprise that so little attention has been paid to
Hesse’s work by educationists. There are rare exceptions (e.g., Nelson, 2008;
Papastephanou, 2008; Peters, 1996; Sears, 1992), but on the whole Hesse seems to
have been largely ignored. There was intense interest in his work in the United
States and other English speaking countries in the late 1960s and 1970s,
particularly among younger readers, alternative lifestylers and counter cultural
thinkers (Gropper, 1970, 1972; Schwarz, 1970; Timpe, 1969). In more recent
years, with the rise of the Internet, artificial intelligence systems, and other digital
technologies there has been a renewed appreciation of Hesse’s prophetic thinking
in The Glass Bead Game (Leary, 1986; Peters, 1996; Roberts, 2009; Roberts &
Peters, 2011; Wands, 1999).
Flavia Arzeni (2009) has published an engaging and insightful book on Hesse
and a fellow Nobel laureate, the Indian writer Rabindranath Tagore, under the title
An Education in Happiness. Arzeni’s academic background is in modern German
literature. Her book provides a wide ranging discussion of aspects of Hesse’s
biography and selected published works. The Journey to the East and The Glass
Bead Game are mentioned briefly in her study but do not figure prominently in the
discussion. The present volume makes these later works the principal focus for
educational analysis.
Hesse’s relevance for educationists lies not just in his overt focus on schooling
and other forms of institutional education but in his broader investigation, through
his literary work, of processes of human growth and development. Hesse can be
seen as one of the key figures in the evolution of the German Bildungsroman.
Bildung as a form of individual self-realisation occupies a central place in the
German literary and philosophical tradition. Goethe, Schiller and Humboldt,
among others, were concerned to counter what they saw as a worrying trend
toward narrowness and specialisation. The genesis of the Bildungsroman lies in the
changing historical circumstances of late 18th century Germany and represents a
humanistic response to the growth of science and materialism.
2
INTRODUCTION
Swales (1978, p. 12) notes that the term Bildungsroman was first coined by Karl
Morgenstern in the early 1820s. For Morgenstern, the Bildungsroman both
portrayed the Bildung of the novel’s central character and enhanced the Bildung of
the reader (to a significantly greater extent than any other kind of novel). It was
Wilhelm Dilthey’s approach in the late 19th century, however, that has been most
influential. Dilthey depicted the Bildungsroman in this manner:
A regulated development within the life of the individual is observed, each of
its stages has its own intrinsic value and is at the same time the basis for a
higher stage. The dissonances and conflicts of life appear as the necessary
growth points through which the individual must pass on his way to maturity
and harmony. (cited in Swales, 1978, p. 3)
Swales points to some of the limits of this definition (and other analyses premised
on it), drawing attention to the danger that the Bildungsroman can come to be seen
as little more than a vehicle for conveying the author’s ideas about personal growth
– a ‘discursive essay in the aesthetic mode, whereby the plot, the events chronicled,
are relegated to the level of contingent illustrative material’ (p. 4). This denies the
complexity and significance of human experience. As Swales (1978) points out, the
major novels of the Bildungsroman tradition are not merely allegories of inner life:
Practical reality continues to impinge on the cherished inwardness of the
hero, and precisely this process is the source of the irony, the obliqueness, the
uncertainty which so many commentators have noticed. It is, moreover, the
same process that makes the “learning from life” which the hero undergoes
such a tentative progression. Over and over again, the novels themselves pose
the question of whether the hero has achieved any kind of worthwhile goal or
insight. The notion of organic growth, of a maturing process that somehow
eludes even conceptual terms, is a difficult one to pinpoint in terms of
unequivocal narrative realization. Perhaps we are essentially concerned with
an article of faith that seeks to assert the reconcilability of human wholeness
on the one hand and the facts of limited and limiting social experience on the
other. (Swales, 1978, p. 30)
Swales observes that while a certain scepticism about the law of linear experience
is characteristic of the Bildungsroman genre, the best authors in this tradition
nonetheless remain true to the novel form and do not confuse their art with the
writing of philosophical treatises. Part of the role of the Bildungsroman is to
remind us that we have all have a story to tell, and that while we can question and
wrestle with what life throws at us, we cannot halt the flow of experience. It is, as
Swales puts it, ‘the story which binds together contingencies into the weighty
sequence of a human destiny’ (1978, p. 33). The Bildungsroman allows the novel
to consider experience not as something fixed and final. The meaning of growth –
of formation and development – depicted in exemplary works in this tradition lies
not so much in the goals set by the central characters as in the process through
which such goals are pursued:
3
INTRODUCTION
The grasping for clarity and losing it, the alteration of certainty of purpose
with a sense of the overriding randomness of living, these are seen to be the
very stuff of human experience and such meaning and distinction as men are
able to attain. The Bildungsroman, then, is written for the sake of the journey,
and not for the sake of the happy ending toward which that journey points.
(Swales, 1978, p. 34)
Swales argues that the best Bildungsromanae occupy ‘the awkward middle ground
between wholeness and constriction, between possibility and actuality’. This
tension is an expression of the ‘moral and spiritual uncertainties at the heart of
bourgeois society, of an allegiance to practical reality and to that creative
transcendence vouchsafed by the individual’s inwardness’ (1978, p. 158).
Swales’ comments provide an ideal backdrop against which to consider Hesse’s
penultimate novel, The Journey to the East (Hesse, 1956). For in this short literary
work can be found, in germinal form, many of the features of the Bildungsroman
described by Swales: the idea of an inner or spiritual journey, the tension between
the possible and the actual, and the importance of context in character formation.
First published in 1932, The Journey to the East is Hermann Hesse’s most deeply
personal novel. This enigmatic work, with its deceptively simple narrative
structure, lends itself well to multiple interpretations and has much to offer
educationists. The Journey to the East provides the main focus for the two chapters
of this book.
In chapter 1 I suggest that Hesse, while very much a man of the West, was
nonetheless strongly attracted to the idea of ‘the East’. In The Journey to the East,
the main character, H.H., lives in despair following the apparent dissolution of a
League of Journeyers to the East. He seeks to overcome his despair, and learns the
League is alive and well, through the character of Leo. At the end of the book
H.H., having confessed his ‘sins’ and faced both his League brothers and himself,
believes he has found the answer to his troubles. I argue that this solution is
illusory. H.H. relies too heavily on faith and abandons reason too quickly in
seeking to become ‘absorbed’ into the Other he regards as his higher self. An
answer to H.H.’s existential angst can be found in Hesse’s final novel, The Glass
Bead Game (Hesse, 2000b), where educational growth through the development of
an inquiring, questioning attitude is a central theme.
Chapter 2 delves deeper into The Journey to the East, beginning with an
examination of the autobiographical and dream-like features of the novel. I follow
this with a detailed analysis of the ritual of confession undertaken by H.H.
Extending the analysis undertaken in chapter 1, I argue that H.H., in failing to
grasp the importance of education and critique for self-understanding, will be
unable to make the most of the knowledge available to him through the League
archives, and his reflections on himself, Leo and the purpose of his existence will
have only limited lucidity. He will, I suggest, have a considerable distance still to
travel on his journey to ‘the East’.
The remaining chapters address The Glass Bead Game. Those who have
examined this great novel from an educational perspective have tended to
4
INTRODUCTION
concentrate on the Glass Bead Game as metaphor, relying heavily on narrator’s

account of the Game in the first part of the book. Martin Anderson sees a parallel
between the Glass Bead Game and the forms of intellectual game playing typical of
contemporary academics; Michael Peters relates the idea of the Glass Bead Game
to the modernist dream of a universal language and the university in cyberspace;
and James Sears depicts the field of curriculum studies as a form of Glass Bead
Game in operation.
While acknowledging the value of these contributions, I suggest that if the fuller
educational significance of the novel is to be grasped we must go beyond the Glass
Bead Game as metaphor and examine the life of the central character, Joseph
Knecht. In chapter 3, I show that as the book progresses, a profound process of
educational transformation becomes evident. Knecht’s thoughts, actions and
relationships with others allow a more complex picture of the pedagogical province
to emerge. Knecht’s life prompts us to question the portrait of Castalian ideals
painted by the narrator in his introduction and to critique both the intellectual game
playing discussed by Anderson and Sears and the universalising modernist
discourse problematised by Peters.
Chapter 4 analyses the relationship between the individual and society in
Hesse’s work. I note that although Hesse was in many ways a supreme
individualist, he was also keenly aware of the role played by social structures and
cultural traditions in shaping us as human beings. Paying particular attention to The
Glass Bead Game, I argue (i) that for Hesse ‘self’ and ‘society’ are dynamically
intertwined and (ii) that education plays a key role in linking the two together.
Chapter 5 analyses Joseph Knecht’s development in the light of Paulo Freire’s
theory of education. Over time, Knecht develops a critical consciousness,
becoming less certain of his certainties, more aware of his own incompleteness,
and increasingly convinced of the importance of teaching. Dialogue plays a pivotal
role in his critical awakening and his understanding of himself and his vocation as
a human being. The chapter discusses the relationship between conscientisation
and contemplation, considers the significance of death as a theme in the novel, and
reflects on some of the broader educational implications arising from Hesse’s
work.
The main part of The Glass Bead Game ends with Knecht’s sudden death in an
icy mountain lake. The final chapter in this book considers the educational
significance of this event. I argue that this pivotal moment in the book tells us a
great deal about the process of educational transformation. Close attention is paid
to the theme of incompleteness as a key to understanding The Glass Bead Game in
educational terms. The chapter concludes with a discussion of the role played by
education in serving as a bridge between death and life.1
NOTES
1
There is no space in the present text to do justice to the full corpus of Hesse’s published writings. As
mentioned above, this book concentrates on Hesse’s later novels, The Journey to the East and The
5
INTRODUCTION
Glass Bead Game, and considers their value in understanding the process of educational
transformation. A companion volume with a stronger focus on Hesse’s pre-1932 works is planned.
6
Teachers are more essential than anything else …
– Hesse, 200b, p. 342
CHAPTER 1
INTRODUCTION
This chapter considers Hesse’s penultimate novel, The Journey to the East (Hesse,
1956), from an educational point of view. The first section provides a brief
summary of the book and discusses the meaning of ‘the East’ in Hesse’s work.
Hesse, it will be suggested, was a man of the West who turned to the idea of the
‘the East’ in seeking to understand himself and his society. Hesse was strongly
opposed to elements of Western modernism, yet he also contributed to the
development of the modernist novel and wrote prophetically about modernist – and
postmodernist – intellectual and cultural futures. In pondering the future of
humanity, he drew inspiration from the work of Nietzsche and Dostoevsky, and the
influence of both of these thinkers is evident in his fiction.
The second section turns to more specifically educational concerns and
addresses the last part of The Journey to the East in some detail. I take the position
that if The Journey to the East is to be understood, it must be read alongside The
Glass Bead Game (Hesse, 2000b). The Glass Bead Game, when read in
conjunction with The Journey to the East, provides further evidence of Hesse’s
distinctive contribution to the German tradition of the Bildungsroman. The Glass
Bead Game, through the life of its main character, Joseph Knecht, takes further
those elements of the Bildungsroman that matter most for Hesse – striving,
uncertainty, complexity, and transformation – and makes their significance for
educational theory more overt.
The Journey to the East poses an existential problem for which an educational
‘answer’ is to be found in The Glass Bead Game. The Journey to the East leaves
the central character, H.H., believing he has re-discovered the purpose of his
existence. I argue that he has not – at least not in the fullest sense Hesse came to
see was possible. H.H.’s resolution to his despair relies on faith and uncritical
‘absorption’ into the ‘Other’ he comes to see as his higher self. H.H. abandons
reason too quickly and fails to appreciate the importance of education in human
development and understanding. The Journey to the East does not adequately
address the importance of questioning, dialogue and doubt in spiritual striving.
These are key features of Joseph Knecht’s educational formation and growth as a
human being. Hesse thus provides, in The Glass Bead Game, an effective critique
of his earlier novel.
9
CHAPTER 1
EAST AND WEST IN HESSE’S WORK
The Journey to the East (Hesse, 1956) serves as an important bridging work in
Hesse’s corpus of published writings. It builds on the philosophical foundation laid
by novels such as Siddhartha (Hesse, 2000a) and Steppenwolf (Hesse, 1965) while
hinting at ideas that were later to find fuller expression in The Glass Bead Game
(Hesse, 2000b). Middleton (1957) sees the book as a turning point in Hesse’s work.
In The Journey to the East Hesse recreates and integrates themes and figures from
his earlier novels and thereby provides ‘a concise verbal representation of the
essentials of his own mental history’ (p. 309).
At a little over 100 pages, The Journey to the East (Die Morgenlandfahrt) is
Hesse’s shortest novel. The book has a deceptively simple narrative structure.
Much of the first half of the novel is taken up with the dream-like reflections of
H.H., the narrator and main character, who looks back on his time with a group of
Journeyers to the East. The goals, composition and itinerary of the group remain
somewhat vague, but it is made clear that they travelled widely, not just in space
but in time. The group is but one among many in the League of Journeyers. H.H.
regards his time with the group as the high point of his life and he wishes to write a
history of the League. He struggles to get to grips with this task, however, having
fallen into despair following the dissolution of his group. The trigger for the
group’s disintegration, it turns out, was the disappearance of a servant, Leo. With
this seemingly innocuous event, the group loses its cohesion, lapsing into petty
squabbles and exaggerated anxiousness over the apparent loss of small personal
articles.
The action in the second half of the book is centred more on the present. H.H.
visits Lukas, an old friend, and discusses his difficulties with him. Lukas is himself
scarred psychologically from the war (World War I) but tells H.H. that writing
became for him a necessity in dealing with his troubled memories. Lukas comes to
see that Leo is a ‘problem’ for H.H. and that the solution to his difficulties lies in
confronting this and ridding himself of him. Lukas and H.H. discover a Leo in the
city directory, and H.H. seeks him out. Eventually H.H. speaks with Leo, the latter
not recognising him. After their strange encounter, Leo calls on H.H. and takes him
via a labyrinthine path to a large building, where H.H. undergoes an elaborate
confession.
H.H. learns that the League, far from having disappeared, is as strong as ever
and that Leo is its President. He comes to see that it was he who deserted the
League, not the League that had abandoned him. He admits to his failings, in front
of a large gathering of League members, and is required to read the files held about
him in the archives of the building. This proves to be a pivotal moment in the book.
H.H. finds little written information; instead, there is a small two-part figure,
joined at the back. One part of the figure, H.H. believes, is intended to represent
himself, the other part Leo. The H.H. half is ailing, while the Leo half is strong and
healthy. H.H. concludes that over time the substance from one image will flow into
the other and only one will remain; he must disappear, while the Leo half must
grow.
10
Despite its title, the book is, in some respects, a step away from the East – or at
least the East as this had been represented in Siddhartha (Hesse, 2000a). With The
Journey to the East Hesse arguably takes a step back towards the West. The West
to which Hesse is returning is more multilayered and complex than the version
depicted in some of his earlier works, but he does not quite reach this in The
Journey to the East. It is in The Glass Bead Game, published more than a decade
after The Journey to the East, that Hesse’s most reflexive and mature
representation of the West can be found. There, ‘the West’, with its possibilities as
well as limitations, finds fuller exploration with the establishment of Castalia – an
intellectual community of the future – in the wake of a Europe left in ruins by the
wars of the first half of the 20th century. The Glass Bead Game is, to be sure,
dedicated to ‘The Journeyers to the East’, but ‘the East’ here must, I think, be
interpreted more as a symbolic ideal than a place or set of places.
This view of ‘the East’ is already present, but in more vaguely developed form,
in The Journey to the East. H.H. notes early on in his narration that shortly after
being admitted to the League, one of its secrets immediately became clear to him:
I realized that I had joined a pilgrimage to the East, seemingly a definite and
single pilgrimage – but in reality, in its broadest sense, this expedition to the
East was not only mine and now; this procession of believers and disciples
had always and incessantly been moving towards the East, towards the Home
of Light. Throughout the centuries it had been on the way, towards light and
wonder, and each member, each group, indeed our whole host and its great
pilgrimage, was only a wave in the eternal stream of human beings, of the
eternal strivings of the human spirit towards the East, towards Home. (pp. 12-
13)
‘The East’, then, is home. In the book, the words of the poet Novalis (an important
influence on Hesse’s work) are quoted directly: ‘Where are we really going?’ asks
Novalis; ‘Always home!’ (p. 13).
But ‘home’ for Hesse was, in one sense at least, the West. Hesse was a
Westerner by birth and, while he did make his own pilgrimage to the East (with a
trip to India in 1911), he remained a Westerner throughout his life. After leaving a
Germany ravaged by what he saw a kind of social and cultural madness, he sought
refuge in Switzerland. There, in comparatively peaceful surroundings, he was able
to compose the books that would later bring him international attention. These
included the novels that would have an overt focus on ‘the East’. Hesse was
influenced in his childhood years by his family’s experiences of the East (his father
and one of his grandfathers served as Protestant missionaries in India), but he
attended Western schools, spoke a Western language, and became as steeped in
Western culture and traditions as other talented boys of his age.
For Hesse, ‘the East’ can be seen as the end toward which we all strive. Thus
conceived, the East becomes a universal human destination: a vocation, if you
like, to be pursued in different ways by various individuals and groups who
are nonetheless united by the very fact that they seek something more – something
higher or better – for themselves. It is the quest itself – the process of seeking –
11
CHAPTER 1
that is universal, even if the ways in which this is followed will differ. Hesse’s
personal quest was inevitably shaped by his immersion in the ways of the
West, even as he railed against elements of this at different points throughout his
life.
Hesse found himself very much at odds with the new German reality in the
years following the first World War. Believing the decline of the West was ‘fated,
irreversible, and complete’ (Antosik, 1978, p. 63), Hesse saw an emerging age of
catastrophes and nihilism. Soon, he felt, ‘all Western Europe would succumb to
wars, revolutions, and moral insanity’ (p. 63).
Proclaiming himself an enemy of the modern world, he became one of the
fiercest anti-modernists of the decade. Whatever belonged to modernity,
whether it was the automobile, modern architecture, mass-production, or the
prosperity of the 1920’s, received short shrift in his writings. Europe, he said,
was on the threshold of a dehumanized “machine-culture” that could benefit
only the masses who were too stupid to see how cheap and ugly modern life
really was. Both present and future could, on this view, offer mankind
nothing but a collectivized existence devoid of spirit. And the prospect filled
Hesse with such rage that at times he wished to see modern Europe
annihilated by machines run amuck or in a second world war. (p. 65)
Hesse’s disgust with contemporary Western civilization, and specifically with post
First World War Germany, led him to turn, on the one hand, to the East and, on the
other, to the Europe of the Middle Ages.
Antosik argues that Hesse supported the emergence of an elite ‘secret
priesthood’ of artists and intellectuals who would be ‘oblivious to the pressures of
society and devoted to the preservation of European culture’ (pp. 66-67). In
the years from 1916 to 1922, Hesse’s cultural elitism took an anti-European
and demonic form, as expressed in works such as Demian (Hesse, 1999). By
the end of the 1920s, however, Hesse had returned to ‘what he regarded as his true
home within himself and the European tradition’ (Antosik, 1978, p. 63). He
remained an anti-modernist throughout, but his manner of expressing this shifted
over time.
Anti-modernist tendencies of a certain kind are clearly evident in The Journey to
the East. H.H. notes that his group of Journeyers ‘lived like pilgrims and made no
use of those contrivances which spring into existence in a world deluded by
money, number and time, and which drain life of its content; mechanical
contrivances such as railways, watches and the like came chiefly into this category’
(Hesse, 1956, pp. 13-14). The Glass Bead Game, despite being set in the 23rd
century, has very little to say about new technological developments (Roberts,
2009). There are occasional references to the use of radios, loudspeakers, and other
devices in Castalia, but there is nothing that might resemble the futuristic portraits
of everyday life found in many utopian or dystopian works of science fiction. Even
automobiles barely warrant a mention, and most Castalians seem to prefer to travel
by foot. Hesse’s aversion to modern technologies is evident in a number of his
12
short stories as well (see Hesse, 1974b), with machines sometimes occupying a
central place in nightmarish scenarios.
Yet, as Norton (1968) points out, Hesse’s concern lay not so much with the
machines and gadgets themselves as with the dehumanising consequences of
relying too heavily on them. Antosik is right, I think, to cast Hesse as anti-
modernist in his attitude toward machinic culture, but Hesse was still shaped by his
age and to some extent complicit in its successes and failures. Hesse looked
backwards to pre-modern periods in human history for literary, philosophical and
spiritual inspiration. In The Journey to the East, there are references to thinkers
from antiquity to the Middle Ages, and in The Glass Bead Game the origins of the
Game itself are said to lie deep within human history. Hesse attempted to recover
what he saw as noble and worthwhile in the culture and thought of the past, but he
did so wearing modern lenses.
The form of some of Hesse’s novels owes much to modernism (cf. Peters,
1996). Hesse can be seen as an innovator within the romantic tradition of the
modern novel, and he has been compared with other modernist writers such as
James Joyce. Spivey (1970), for example, notes that ‘[b]oth Joyce and Hesse have
for too long been seen by older critics as artists who present visions of the modern
fragmentation of life’ (p. 50). It is true, Spivey concedes, that novels such as
Ulysses (Joyce, 1990) and Steppenwolf (Hesse, 1965) ‘present profound visions of
the break-up of modern life, of the gradual fragmenting of all social forms and of
the dissolution of the soul’ (Spivey, 1970, p. 50). The fragmented modern world,
however, ‘is but the scene, the wasteland setting, for the journey of a quester who
seeks a new life, and who, because of his quest is shown moving toward new life’
(p. 50).
Hesse may have looked to the past for answers to what he saw as some of the
deepest problems facing human beings in the 20th century, but both The Journey to
the East and The Glass Bead Game point, prophetically, to changes that lie ahead
(cf. Peters, 1996; Wilde, 1999). Hesse’s contribution does not lie in the
sophistication of his imaginary portraits of new machines, biological technologies,
transport systems, or monitoring devices. Rather, it is his clarity in detecting the
cultural and intellectual shifts that would give rise to these technological
developments that marks him out as a man ahead of his time. He was not alone in
this, of course. Two of the writers and thinkers Hesse admired most were
Dostoevsky1 and Nietzsche2 (see Hesse, 1978), and in their work he could see the
foreshadowing of what he regarded as a frightening future.
The Journey to the East poses searching questions about the nature of truth,
appearing at first glance to answer them with modernist or pre-modernist certainty
(e.g., in the form of universalist, if mysterious, League goals), yet also leaving
some room for doubt. Through the very construction of a narrative of almost
exaggerated certainty in the League’s rituals and requirements for faith, Hesse
invites readers to question, to read against what is represented by Leo and the
League.
In some parts of the novel, this invitation becomes somewhat more explicit.
Near the end of the lengthy first chapter, for instance, H.H. reflects on the
13
CHAPTER 1
challenge facing any historian seeking to record, honestly and accurately, the
events of a period. ‘Where’, he asks, ‘is the center of events, the common
standpoint around which they revolve and which gives them cohesion?’ (p. 47). To
create some kind of cohesion, causality, and meaning the historian ‘must invent
units, a hero, a nation, an idea, and he must allow to happen to this invented unit
what has in reality happened to the nameless’ (p. 47). Connecting events and
relaying them to others is made even more difficult in H.H.’s case, ‘for everything
becomes questionable as soon as I consider it closely, everything slips away and
dissolves, just as our community, the strongest in the world, has been able to
dissolve’ (pp. 47-48). ‘There is’, he concludes, ‘no unit, no center, no point around
which the wheel revolves’ (p. 48).
While this does not amount, in itself, to a sophisticated critique of modernist
certainty, it does prefigure some of the concerns that would later preoccupy
postmodernists: the idea that ‘truth’ might be contested, the elusive character of
meaning, and the loss of a ‘centre’ around which everything else (e.g., moral
prescriptions, truth claims, a purpose for life) might revolve.
The book places considerable emphasis, explicit and implicit, on the
significance of ideas – or, to be more precise, on the importance of the realm of
ideas. Plato is listed as one of the brothers in the long history of the League (p. 55),
and there are echoes of Platonism throughout the book. Plato’s theory of Forms, in
particular, seems to serve as an invisible foundation on which much of the
philosophical discussion in the book (such as it is) proceeds. It is, the book seems
to suggest, ideas that matter more than the physical manifestations of those ideas.
There is a realm of ideas that transcends the particulars of context and
circumstance. Those who think, who create, are merely participants in this
universal realm. As H.H. notes in the penultimate paragraph of the novel, the
creations of poetry can be seen as ‘more vivid and real than the poets themselves’
(p. 118). H.H., to carry the comparison with Plato further, might be seen as moving
forwards towards the light, but by the end of the novel he still has some way to go
before reaching the front of the cave (cf. Plato, 1974).3
H.H.’s journey to the East is a journey not so much in space, or even in time as
conceived in the everyday (‘tick tock’) sense, but in consciousness. Crenshaw and
Lawson (1972) see The Journey to the East as a kind of ‘fairy tale’, noting that this
literary form allows for unusual changes and permutations in time. They observe
that just as actual and fictitious places are mixed in The Journey to the East, so too
is the element of time neither real nor unreal. ‘The transcending of chronological
time and the compromising – if not ignoring – of logic’, Crenshaw and Lawson
suggest, ‘may well be a more successful technique for describing existence than is
the use of logical consequence. It would, accordingly, seem well adapted to the
subtle and effective expression of a philosophy’ (p. 54).
The East, for H.H. and for Hesse himself, is an idea toward which seekers travel
in their own distinctive ways. The East, as ‘the Home of Light’ (Hesse, 1956, p.
13), is where we are all headed and H.H.’s journey in consciousness is in this
direction, even if he is unaware of it during the long years following the dissolution
of his group in the League. At least, this is what seems to be suggested by the end
14
of the novel. There is a resolution of sorts in the final part of the book, and H.H.
appears to believe he has solved the riddle to understanding himself. I want to
suggest that he has not. H.H.’s revelation relies on faith. What is needed, I shall
argue, is a more overtly educational approach to addressing his despair and to
seeking self-understanding: a resolution that values rather than rejects questioning
and uncertainty.
FAITH, DOUBT AND EDUCATION
Hesse was not a follower of any one religion or philosophical tradition. He did not
see himself as a disciple of any guru. He wished to uphold the integrity of the
individual and was suspicious of any movement that demanded a complete
surrendering of the ‘self’ to others or to a cause. The Journey to the East comes
close, however, to allowing exactly this to happen. H.H. speaks of being willing to
sacrifice his life for the League: ‘if today or tomorrow I had to appear before a
court-martial and was given the option of dying or divulging the secret of the
League, I would joyously seal my vow to the League with death’ (p. 5). We might
grant H.H. the benefit of the doubt here and insist that this is a form of principled,
reflective commitment, rather than blind adherence to League dogma. Yet, much of
what happens later in the book diminishes H.H.’s ability to think critically and
independently about his relationship with others in the League. H.H. has to bow
down before Leo and the many others who have assembled to hear his confession,
humiliate himself in front of them, and obey a series of commands if he wishes to
be accepted back into the brotherhood. His absorption into Leo, symbolically, at
the end of the novel seems to complete the picture of a gradual surrendering of that
part of himself that had entertained doubts and uncertainties.4
The Journey to the East, more than any other book in Hesse’s corpus, places
great weight on the notion of faith. H.H. wants to believe in the existence of the
League and in the greatness of its mission. He experiences his years in an
existential wilderness following the dissolution of his group as a crisis of faith, and
seeks to regain this in reacquainting himself with Leo. The book is very clear on
the limits it wishes to place on reason. After recalling the tensions and arguments
that emerged following Leo’s apparent disappearance, H.H. resolves to persist in
his task of recording his story of the League no matter what. If necessary, he says
to himself, he will begin his task a hundred times, and if he continues to arrive at
the same cul-de-sac and cannot ‘assemble the pictures into a significant whole
again’, he will ‘present each single fragment as faithfully as possible’ (p. 52). He
continues: ‘And as far as is now still possible, I will be mindful of the first
principle of our great period, never to rely on and let myself be disconcerted by
reason, always to know that faith is stronger than so-called reality’ (p. 52).
This passage seems to confuse ‘reason’ with ‘reality’ and in this sense leaves
considerable scope for varying interpretations. It does appear, at the very least, that
an incredulity toward conventional concepts of reality is evident here, reinforcing
the Platonic metaphysical principles that are espoused, albeit only indirectly,
elsewhere. H.H. remains ambiguous as to what he means by ‘reality’, but he seems
15
CHAPTER 1
to suggest there is something more to it than the physical world and the world of
everyday experience. The physical world is the world of mere appearances and in
this sense is ‘so-called’ reality only. There is, H.H. hints, a ‘truer’, higher reality to
be found elsewhere. The League, he believes, sets us on the path to finding this
higher reality, and reason alone will be an insufficient guide on our journey. His
claim is, in fact, even stronger than this: faith, he wants to say, must override
reason as a guiding principle on the journey.
This is where H.H.’s failure to recognise the importance of education becomes
most evident. It is, I would maintain, the very qualities H.H. seeks to give up to
which he should cling. The first half of the book emphasises H.H.’s doubts, his
uncertainties, his willingness to question. Much of the second half of the book is
concerned with the gradual replacement of these doubts with greater certainty,
engendered through H.H.’s renewal of a link with Leo and, with this, the reviving
of an opportunity to rejoin the fold – to regain his faith and his ability to participate
again as a loyal, able brother in the Journey to the East. This represents success in
one sense: H.H. finds a certain peace in confessing his ‘sins’ and confronting his
past – and ultimately himself – through the archives. But it can also be seen as a
form of failure – an educational failure. H.H. is willing to abandon reason and
critical thought in the service of the brotherhood. In so doing, he gives up a portion
of himself, the individual integrity and self-will Hesse held so dear (see, for
example, Hesse, 1974c, pp. 71-76), believing the answer lies in his absorption into
something higher signified by Leo.
It is as if Hesse, in this most autobiographical of his novels, is pushing himself
to return to something he has lost. This is a mission that is doomed to failure. Faith,
of all human qualities, is arguably the least amenable to wilful, determined
encouragement. Faith cannot be recovered by force – by an effort of will – let
alone by fiat or a decree issued by others. Hesse’s searching, curious, questioning
mind cannot be suddenly ‘switched off’. This, it might be said, is one of the risks
of education. Once a critical mode of being has been developed, one is changed for
life. There is no going back. The nagging voice of doubt and the gentle prompting
of an inquisitive, inquiring mind intrude whether they are wanted or not.
Hesse, it must be remembered, had spent much of his literary career creating
characters who were, in one way or another, rebels: from Hans Giebenrath in
Beneath the Wheel (Hesse, 1968b), to Demian in the book of that name (Hesse,
1999), to Harry Haller in Steppenwolf (Hesse, 1965). Siddhartha even questions the
original Buddha, and is unwilling to surrender himself fully, as his friend Govinda
does, to the teachings of Gotama or any other single guide (see Hesse, 2000a).
These characters and others in Hesse’s corpus do not simply accept the rules, the
ideas, the structures, the conventions prescribed by others: they resist, sometimes
with tragic consequences, but often with a certain dignity and the promise of
fulfilling a higher calling. The Journey to the East seems to want to impose a
model of character development on H.H. that is at odds with this – and with
Hesse’s own inclinations.
Nietzsche’s (1974) point in The Gay Science that ‘[f]aith is always coveted most
and needed most urgently where will is lacking’ (p. 289) is instructive here.
16
Nietzsche argues that will is ‘the decisive sign of sovereignty and strength’ (p.
289). The less one knows how to command, Nietzsche maintains, ‘the more
urgently one covets someone who commands, who commands severely – a god,
prince, class, physician, father confessor, dogma, or party conscience’ (p. 289). A
person who becomes convinced he or she must be commanded becomes a believer.
Religions such as Christianity and Buddhism, Nietzsche asserts, rely on an
exhaustion of the will – on a hypnotic swaying of the senses and intellect – in
favour of ‘a single point of view and feeling that henceforth becomes dominant –
which the Christian calls his faith’ (p. 289). Against this reliance on faith,
Nietzsche poses an alternative:
[O]ne could conceive of such a pleasure and power of self-determination,
such a freedom of the will that the spirit would take leave of all faith and
every wish for certainty, being practiced in maintaining himself on
insubstantial ropes and possibilities and dancing even near abysses. Such a
spirit would be the free spirit par excellence. (pp. 289-290)
In Daybreak, Nietzsche contests the Protestant view that what really matters is
faith and that from faith works must necessarily proceed. For Nietzsche, faith
cannot provide the strength required for a deed. To set an idea into action,
Nietzsche says, it must be: ‘Works, first and foremost! That is to say, doing,
doing, doing! The “faith” that goes with it will soon put in an appearance – you
can be sure of that!’ (p. 24).
H.H. exemplifies that ‘diseased’ state Nietzsche describes. He seeks in Leo a
kind of father figure who will ‘stand in’ for his lack of will and his loss of
confidence in his own reasoning intellect. H.H. seeks a certainty, a safeness, a
commanding presence that will not allow him to take the risks associated with a
self-determining form of willing. Far from ‘doing, doing, doing’, H.H. has become,
in effect, paralysed: he is unable to act, unable to complete his history, and remains
trapped in a state of insecurity, guilt and fear. Through the process of ritualistic
confession he comes to believe that once he has regained his faith, all else –
including his work on the history of the League – will follow. He does not realise
that a new kind of ‘faith’ – faith in himself and his own abilities – will develop
with persistent application to his task.
H.H. is afraid, it might be said, of the struggle that Kierkegaard (1989) sees as
characteristic of faith. Faith, Kierkegaard argues, struggles – ‘insanely’ (p. 69) –
for possibility. For Kierkegaard, ‘only possibility saves’ (p. 69). Without it we
‘cannot draw breath’ (p. 69); we despair and go under. And yet, Kierkegaard adds,
humanly speaking, nothing could be more certain than our undoing. This is why
having faith is, for Kierkegaard, a dialectical process. We can be certain of our
undoing, but possibility can remain: faith resolves this contradiction (p. 70). H.H.
falls into deep despair, and looks back nostalgically and desperately upon his days
with his group in the League to try and give his life meaning and coherence. He
grasps at the sense of possibility Leo seems to provide, but appears to believe that
this will somehow end, or significantly reduce, the process of inner struggle. For
H.H., faith lacks the dialectical character Kierkegaard ascribes to it. Faith, as H.H.
17
CHAPTER 1
understands it, becomes not merely a necessary but a sufficient condition for
liberation from struggle. What H.H. fails to appreciate is that the very process of
struggle itself is where hope – possibility, in Kierkegaard’s terms – for his
liberation lies.
There is a sharp contrast between The Journey to the East and The Glass Bead
Game on the relationship between faith and reason. Castalia certainly places a
premium on adherence to the principles of hierarchy. The individual, the narrator
makes clear from the beginning of the book, is very much secondary to the Order.
But Joseph Knecht, the central character, does not simply accept this; he questions
the very foundations on which Castalian society is based. He loves the Glass Bead
Game and devotes his life to it, but he also sees limits in the Game and the social
system that supports it. Knecht, while in many senses a loyal citizen of Castalia
and one of its most distinguished representatives, does not merely follow the
dictates of the hierarchy. He reaches the very summit of that hierarchy, attaining
the position of Magister Ludi (Master of the Glass Bead Game), but comes to
realise that his task later in life lies elsewhere. He sees that Castalia is already in
decay. Members of the Castalian elite have little respect for history and fail to see
that just as Castalia was created through the actions of real human beings in the
past so too could it disappear in the future.
Knecht does not abandon reason in favour of faith; he embraces it (as is clearly
evident from the quality of his argument in his Circular Letter to the Board of
Educators, in which he seeks approval for his decision to leave the Order) while
also recognising its limits. Knecht’s education is, in part, a process of coming to
accept – indeed, to celebrate – uncertainty. Castalia’s excessive certainty about its
superiority over other forms of social organisation constitutes a form of unhealthy
smugness which will, Knecht comes to see, lead to its ultimate demise.
Knecht’s educational growth is prompted by his dialogical relationships with
two other characters, Plinio Designori and Father Jacobus. Joseph meets Plinio
during his school days and the two enter into a series of spirited debates about the
strengths and weaknesses of Castalian society. Plinio is an outsider who has been
sent by his family to study in the pedagogical province for a period in his youth.
Plinio and Joseph meet up again at different points in their lives, and when Knecht
decides to leave Castalia it is to tutor Plinio’s son, Tito. Knecht forms an
intellectual friendship with Father Jacobus when he (Knecht) is sent by the
Castalian authorities on a mission to a Benedictine monastery in Mariafels. Father
Jacobus is one of the monastery’s most accomplished members and is an
important figure in world Catholic affairs. Knecht’s role is ostensibly to teach the
Mariafels monks and novices about the Glass Bead Game, but he later learns that
the real goal was to strengthen ties between the pedagogical province and the
Roman Catholic Church. Knecht succeeds in this, but for him the benefits of his
time at Mariafels go beyond those intended by his Castalian Masters. From Father
Jacobus he learns the value of history. He learns to think about himself and his
society in a new light. He learns, as he did with Plinio, to question cherished
Castalian assumptions. Knecht also teaches in his relationship with Father Jacobus,
allowing the latter to soften his rather jaundiced view of the pedagogical province
18
and appreciate more deeply the beauty of the Glass Bead Game and Castalian
culture.
H.H. has an opportunity to learn in a similar way but he does not make the most
of this. The third chapter of the novel focuses on H.H.’s discussions with Lukas, a
friend from his youth who is now a newspaper editor. Lukas had taken part in the
World War and had published a book about this. H.H. has two lengthy
conversations with Lukas. H.H. shares his views on the League and while Lukas
adopts the posture of what H.H. sees as ‘a well-meaning sceptic’, he is willing to
listen carefully and reflectively. Lukas feels he can relate very strongly to aspects
of H.H.’s account, and in particular to the difficulties the latter is having in
developing his history. Lukas notes that while he had thought his war experiences
were vivid and clear, when he came to write about them they were ‘all
immeasurably remote, only a dream, were not related to anything and could not
really be conceived’ (p. 56). When H.H. asks him how he was able to write the
book despite these difficulties, Lukas replies: ‘It was only possible for me to do it
… because it was necessary. I either had to write the book or be reduced to despair;
it was the only means of saving me from nothingness, chaos and suicide’ (p. 57).5
In their second conversation, Lukas issues a warning about H.H.’s apparent
fixation on Leo. Lukas and H.H. discover that someone with the surname Leo is
living not too far away. Lukas urges H.H. to go and see this Leo, in the hope that
H.H. may learn something about the Leo he once knew. Lukas has, however,
already said to H.H.: ‘Listen, you continually come back to the episode with the
servant Leo. I do not like it; it seems to be an obstacle in your way. Free yourself,
throw Leo overboard; he seems to be becoming a fixed idea’ (pp. 58-59). H.H.’s
response, to himself (at the end of the chapter), is emphatic: ‘I could just as much
throw my head or my stomach overboard to get rid of them!’ (p. 62). ‘Dear God’,
he pleads, ‘help me a little’ (p. 62). H.H. fails to heed Lukas’ warning here. By the
end of the book, ‘Leo’ – both as a person and as an idea – still retains his grip on
H.H. ‘Leo’ is the ideal, and it is the Leo half of the little double figure described at
the end of the book that H.H. believes must dominate.
But for the ‘Leo’ part of H.H.’s self to grow, the ‘I’ that must disappear (p. 118)
is an ‘I’ open to doubt. Martin Buber’s (1958) discussion of ‘I-Thou’ and ‘I-It’
relations is helpful in elaborating on this point. For Buber, where the ‘I’ in an ‘I-It’
relation appears as individuality and becomes conscious of itself as a subject, the
‘I’ in an ‘I-Thou’ relations appears as a person and becomes conscious of itself as
subjectivity (p. 85). Individuality emerges by differentiation from other
individualities; a person, by contrast, makes his or her appearance by entering into
relations with other persons. In entering such relations we share in a reality, in a
being that neither merely belongs to us not merely lies outside us. ‘All reality’,
Buber says, ‘is an activity in which I share without being able to appropriate for
myself. Where there is no sharing, there is no reality’ (pp. 85-86). To become a
person, then, is to become conscious of oneself as ‘sharing in being, as co-existing,
and thus as being’ (p. 86).
Note, however, that this does not mean a person gives up his or her special
being; it implies only that this being is not his or her observation-point. The special
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CHAPTER 1
being – that is, the idea of the person as ‘being different’ – is ‘simply there, the
necessary and significant conception of being’ (p. 87).
Individuality, on the other hand, revels in its special being or, rather, mostly
in the fiction of its special being which it has made up for itself. For to know
itself means basically for it (for the most part) to establish an authoritative
apparent self, capable of deceiving it ever more and more fundamentally, and
to procure for itself, in looking to and honouring this apparent self, the
semblance of knowledge of its own being as it really is. Real knowledge of
its being would lead it to self-destruction – to rebirth. (p. 87)
Buber argues that no human being is either pure ‘person’ or pure ‘individuality’.
Every human being lives in the twofold ‘I’. Nonetheless, there are humans who are
‘so defined by person that they may be called persons’ and others ‘so defined by
individuality that they may be called individuals’. ‘True history’, Buber maintains,
‘is decided in the field between these two poles’ (p. 88).
H.H. provides a fascinating case-study in the light of Buber’s theoretical
framework. On the one hand, it might seem as if he wishes to surrender his
individuality in favour of becoming, in Buber’s terms, a person. He appears to wish
to enter into a relation with Leo and thereby to develop an awareness of his own
subjectivity. Yet, the relation into which he wishes to enter is one with a reified
‘Leo’. It is Leo as represented in the wax figure; Leo as an idea – or, almost, Leo
as an ‘It’. H.H., despite seeking absorption into the image or idea of Leo, retains a
certain attachment to the notion that only by doing this will his individuality be
assured. His relationship with Leo is not one of two persons seeking
through dialogue to advance themselves spiritually and affirm their humanity.
There is a fundamental tension between Leo as authority figure and H.H. as
(ultimately) compliant subject that is never resolved in the novel. H.H. lacks the
educational development necessary to see beyond the idea of Leo as a means to an
end.
Buber, in Between Man and Man, argues that ‘[t]he relation in education is one
of pure dialogue’ (1961, p. 125). Leo becomes a kind of release valve; a means
through which H.H. can relieve himself of pressures and uncertainties, rather than a
person with whom he can enter into a genuinely dialogical relationship. H.H., in
his eagerness to find a solution to his existential crisis, does abandon what Buber
would call his ‘special being’ – his way of ‘being different’ – in the interests of
addressing a quite specific problem of being. An educational response demands
that he examine himself in relation to others and the world, but he cannot take this
step.
Leo, it seems to me, while admirable in many respects (and I am speaking here
of both the person Leo, as depicted in the book, and the idea of Leo), is a little too
certain of his certainties. He lacks some of the warmth and vulnerability that gives
other characters in Hesse’s literary worlds a distinctively human strength. Leo, the
reader feels, could never form the sort of friendship with H.H. that Govinda is able
to forge with Siddhartha (in Hesse, 2000a). The connection between Narcissus and
Goldmund (in Hesse, 1968a) provides another example. Narcissus and Goldmund
20
are very different, yet there is an underlying bond of mutual respect that does not
seem to be present in H.H.’s relationship with Leo. There is perhaps potential for a
relationship of this kind to develop between H.H. and Lukas, but this is not allowed
to grow. H.H. is committed, in a peculiarly uncritical way, to his reintegration with
the League. He is too ‘self-centred’, despite his humiliation in front of the crowd of
officials, and this restricts his ability to come to know himself in other ways. He
does not see that knowing himself might require the growth of critical, dialogical
friendships with others and a certain decentering of the self he seeks to become
(‘Leo’).
The Glass Bead Game (Hesse, 2000b) again provides an insightful point of
contrast. Knecht has a deep respect for the Game and the traditions associated with
it. Yet he is also able to reflect critically on this – to love the Game while
simultaneously struggling with it, as Freire might have put it (Freire and Shor,
1987). Knecht’s willingness to question is evident even when he meets and
interacts with others he admires, such as Father Jacobus and the Music Master. In
his younger life, Joseph reveres the Music Master, but as he progresses through the
Castalian education system he develops questions that demand answers. He does
not simply accept what his elderly mentor has to say, but seeks to inquire of him
and learn from him.
H.H. lacks the crucial educative development that we see in Joseph Knecht, and
this is why his belief that he has found the answer to his existential angst is flawed.
Leo becomes, in Tusken’s words, a ‘father figure’ for H.H. and while Hesse’s
message may have been that Leo is a guide who serves ‘only until his follower is
mature’ (Tusken, 1992, p. 632), H.H.’s excessive reliance on faith shows how
much further he has to go on his educational journey before reaching the level of
maturity to which Tusken refers.
CONCLUDING COMMENTS
Hermann Hesse was a man of the West who also looked to the East for spiritual
and intellectual guidance. For Hesse, as for H.H., the East was much more than a
geographical location. It was an ideal toward which all who seek to know
themselves must travel, each in their own way. H.H.’s path in The Journey to the
East involves the overcoming of despair through confession and absorption into the
higher self represented by the figure of Leo. H.H., I have argued, does not follow
his journey as far Hesse came to believe we could. The missing element in the
resolution of his crisis is a well developed awareness of the importance of
education.
It was not until his final novel, The Glass Bead Game, that Hesse was able to
convey in a convincing and well rounded manner his position on the significance
of education for all journeyers to the East. This involved a critical return to his
Western cultural roots and a probing reconsideration of some of the elitist and
egocentric assumptions underpinning journeys of the kind undertaken by H.H. in
The Journey to the East. The lessons to be learned from The Glass Bead Game –
those pertaining to the intertwining of self with society, the need for questioning
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CHAPTER 1
and critique, the value of dialogue, the acceptance of uncertainty, and the
necessarily lifelong process of education – are as relevant today as they were in
Hesse’s time. There is much to be gained from those lessons as we reflect, now and
in the future, on how best to travel to ‘the East’, wherever that may be.
NOTES
1
Dostoevsky’s portrait of a new ‘Russian man’ in The Brothers Karamazov (Dostoevsky, 1991) and
The Idiot (Dostoevsky, 2001) was, Hesse believed, already beginning to influence German youth. In
Antosik’s words, Dostoevsky’s characters were ‘all dangerous, amoral, and half-mad’ and ‘erased
every distinction between the values necessary for the well-being of the individual and society’
(Antosik, 1978, p. 63). Hesse saw in Dostoevsky the interplay of opposites that would reappear, in
new ways, in his own work: love and hate, reason and faith, joy and despair, compassion and
cruelty. In the twentieth century these themes would be played out not just within and between
individuals but across whole nations. Dostoevsky, through what Bakhtin (1984) calls the
‘polyphonic’ structure of his novels, allowed the struggles between old and new values to come to
life more vividly than any other nineteenth century literary figure (see also, Roberts, 2005).
2
Nietzsche’s influence can be detected in several of Hesse’s books. While some of Hesse’s novels,
such as Demian (Hesse, 1999), echo the heroic, self-overcoming tendencies in Nietzsche’s thought,
others pay tribute to the tragic nature of Nietzsche’s prophetic mind. The narrator in the first part of
Steppenwolf, for example, observes: ‘A nature such as Nietzsche’s had to suffer our present ills more
than a generation in advance. What he had to go through alone and misunderstood, thousands suffer
today’ (Hesse, 1965, p. 28). Nietzsche’s presence can also be felt in The Journey to the East and
The Glass Bead Game. Of particular interest is the character of Fritz Tegularius in The Glass Bead
Game. Tegularius, whom Hesse based on Nietzsche, emerges as a nervous, socially inept but
brilliant figure – a representative of what Hesse saw as possible for a closed, intellectually oriented
social system of the future. In Fritz, readers can see both the strengths and the weaknesses of a
utopian community like Castalia. Castalia provides safe soil for the cultivation of a rich intellectual
and aesthetic life, but, by separating itself from the rest of the world, it remains brittle – in decay and
ready to fall apart at any time.
3
The comparison between Hesse and Plato on this theme – the ‘East’ as the home of light – warrants
more detailed exploration than space in this chapter will allow. In particular, we might consider the
connections between the light in Hesse’s work and the notion of truth in Plato’s philosophy. In what
ways is the light similar to, or different from, the light discussed by Plato in his simile of the cave
(Plato, 1974, pp. 316-325)? What is the relationship between the light, truth and justice? What
bearing might an understanding of the light have on the construction of political ideals? And, what
role does education play in the path towards the light, for both Hesse and Plato?
4
This is consistent with the pattern of ‘induction’ frequently employed in cults, often with dangerous
consequences. As Umberto Eco shows in his novel Foucault’s Pendulum (Eco, 1989), it does not
matter, in some ways, whether the views shared by members of a secret society or brotherhood are
true; what matters is that those views be passed on, adhered to with conviction, and protected
through the ages. Reason of a kind, Eco demonstrates, can co-exist with a certain form of madness.
Those who step outside the circle of reasoning that gives the lives of members in such societies their
meaning can suffer severe punishment and even death.
5
These thoughts mirror those Hesse himself had at different moments of his writing career. He
endured periods of despair, and had to struggle to complete some of his books. The first part of
Siddhartha was composed relatively quickly and easily but progress then came to abrupt halt. Hesse
was deeply despondent, convinced he had to set the novel aside until he had experienced personally
what he wanted to depict in fictional form. More than two years would pass before he was able to
complete the novel (Morris, 2000, pp. xv-xvii). The writing of The Glass Bead Game was even more
tortured, emerging in fits and starts over a period of more than ten years (Field, 1968; Mileck, 1970).
22
Writing for Hesse was necessary – in enabling him to clarify his ideas, to follow his path on the
journey to the East, and to mitigate some of the effects of psychological distress – but it was not
sufficient in providing a lasting solution to his despair and he continued to struggle with this for
much of his life.
23
CHAPTER 2
MYSTERY, RITUAL AND EDUCATION
INTRODUCTION
Many of Hermann Hesse’s novels have an autobiographical flavour. The pressures

experienced by a gifted young scholar in Beneath the Wheel (Hesse, 1968b) were
shared by Hesse. The alienating effects of commitment to the artist’s life, portrayed
with gentle sadness in Rosshalde (Hesse, 1972), were also felt by Hesse. Harry
Haller goes through a mid-life crisis in Steppenwolf (Hesse, 1965), just as Hesse
did. The Journey to the East (Hesse, 1956), is, however, perhaps the most deeply
confessional of his books. Indeed, Hesse wondered at one point if he ‘wasn’t a
little too personal in this piece of writing’, putting too many of his own private
thoughts into the novel (cited in Tusken, 2002, p. 500). The central character’s full
name is never revealed, but his initials are H.H. and his inner struggles mirror those
experienced by Hesse throughout his life. The book is overtly self-referential, with
a blurring of boundaries between ‘fact’ and ‘fiction’. As such, it can, as Middleton
(1957) points out, be read as a chronicle, albeit not an ordered or systematic one, of
Hesse’s own intellectual history.
Stanley Antosik observes that The Journey to the East has ‘a well-deserved
reputation for ambiguity’ (1978, p. 63). This is a novel that, despite its apparently
simple narrative structure, can be read on multiple levels. Some of the key events
in the book were discussed in the previous chapter but it will be helpful to recall
them again here. The book begins with H.H. looking back on his time with a group
of ‘Journeyers to the East’ who were members of a mysterious League. H.H.’s
hazy reflections on the past in the lengthy opening chapter give way to a series of
events more grounded in the present in the chapters that make up the second half of
the book. H.H., believing the League has disappeared, falls into despair. The
turning point, it seems, had been the disappearance of the servant Leo. With Leo
gone, H.H.’s group lose their cohesion, begin arguing with each other, and
dissolve. With many years having passed, H.H. wishes to write a history of
League, but struggles to do so. He speaks with an old friend, Lukas, about his
difficulties and together they discover that Leo may still be alive. H.H. eventually
meets up with Leo and discovers the League still exists. Leo turns out to be
President of the League and, after taking H.H. on a long and confusing journey
through city streets, arrives at a building where other members gather for an
elaborate ritual. H.H. confesses that it was he who had abandoned the League and
its principles, not the League that had abandoned him. He commits to the faith
again, is acquitted of his sins of egoism and neglect, and is accepted back into the
25
CHAPTER 2
fold of League brothers. Judgment having been passed, H.H. is required to confront
the information held about him in the League archives. This culminates in the
discovery not of something written but of a strange double-sided figure. H.H.
comes to realise that the figure represents himself and Leo, one part weak and
decaying, the other strong and alive, and that eventually the two will become one.
On this mysterious, deeply symbolic note, the book ends.
This chapter deepens the analysis of The Journey to the East from an
educational perspective. The first section discusses the autobiographical and
dream-like qualities of the novel. Particular attention is paid to the unusual
treatment of time, space and character relationships in the book. This is followed
by a detailed examination of H.H.’s confession. The third section provides a
critical reading of H.H.’s experience in the light of esoteric ideas on knowledge
and dreaming. The last part of the chapter extends these ideas, and builds on the
foundation laid in the previous chapter, by comparing H.H.’s development with
that of Joseph Knecht. It is argued that H.H., unlike Knecht, fails to develop a
critical understanding of himself, Leo and the League. He does not grasp, as
Knecht does, the significance of education in his further development as a human
being. This being the case, he will not be able to make the most of the archives
available to him in his quest for knowledge, and his reflections will have only
limited lucidity. He will, it is concluded, have a long way to go on his journey to
‘the East’.
A DREAM? HESSE’S JOURNEY TO THE EAST
What are we to make of this enigmatic novel? What kind of book is The Journey
to the East? And what can it tell us about Hesse himself? The Journey to the East
is autobiographical in multiple senses. It conveys aspects of Hesse’s philosophy
(e.g., on the limits of reason, the dangers of a certain kind of modernist
development, and the nature of reality). In the character of H.H., readers find many
of the qualities Hesse himself exhibited in his long life, with emotions ranging
from joy to despair. H.H.’s quest, his desire to make his life meaningful and
worthwhile, was also Hermann Hesse’s lifelong commitment. As if to remove any
doubt that this is Hesse’s journey as much as H.H.’s, The Journey to the East is
populated with characters from Hesse’s other novels. Some are even quoted as
authorities. In the first chapter, for example, in making a point about the difficulty
of expressing thoughts through words, H.H. appeals to Siddhartha as a wise friend
from the East. Klingsor, the artist from Hesse’s story ‘Klingsor’s Last Summer’
(Hesse, 1973a) appears several times, and occasional references are made to other
Hesse characters.
This should not be taken to imply that events, thoughts and relationships in The
Journey to the East map directly on to Hesse’s life. Such a reading would be naïve
and misleading. H.H.’s life differs from Hesse’s in some important respects. There
is, for example, no evidence that Hesse went through a confessional ritual of the
kind experienced by H.H. It might be said that Hesse underwent a form of
confession when he subjected himself to psychoanalysis. Yet, this differed
26
substantially from the organised, hierarchical, group-based ritual described in The

Journey to the East. The point of stressing the autobiographical qualities of the
novel is that in H.H.’s striving, we can see the beginnings of what could be an
educational process – a process Hesse saw unfolding within himself. The story
holds out the promise of education, but H.H. does not realise this – at least not as
clearly and fully as he could. H.H., like Hesse, yearns to know more about himself
and his purpose in life. He seeks, as Hesse did, to learn – but unlike Hesse, he does
so, as we shall see later in this chapter, in a strictly limited way. Hesse, however,
can teach us, in part by drawing on what he had learned through his own inner
struggles. In The Journey to the East, Hesse captures, evocatively and effectively,
the nature of a certain kind of despair, while also granting us the opportunity to
reflect critically on H.H.’s response to this. In this sense, among others, the book
can be educational, even if it does not contain a fully developed theory of
education.
It is not just Hesse’s own literary creations who come to life in the novel. Don
Quixote and Sancho Panza are treated almost as real people, with actions and ideas
and influence on a par with the other characters in the novel. This is doubly
interesting, as Cervantes himself allows for a similar blurring of boundaries in Don
Quixote. In the second part of that great novel, composed a number of years after
the first part had been written, Cervantes has his characters reflect on Don Quixote
the book. The publication of what has become known as the ‘false Quixote’, the
author of which has never been identified, complicates matters further. The ‘false
Quixote’ appeared in 1614. Cervantes became aware of this while he was writing
the second part of the novel, which was to appear one year later. (See Cervantes,
2005, pp. 472-473, p. 453 note 2.) H.H. recalls riding with Sancho (p. 27), and
Don Quixote is listed along with Plato, Lao Tse, Xenophon and Pythagoras as a co-
founder and brother of the League (p. 55). Among those brothers, H.H. also
includes literary creations such as Tristram Shandy and literary creators such as
Novalis.
The Journey to the East reads much like a series of reflections written down
after a long and affecting dream. The dream in this case, however, is, in certain
respects, Hesse’s life: a literary life, a life of ‘sins’ and lapses in faith, but also one
of ongoing commitment to a certain form of spiritual striving. The dream-like
quality of The Journey to the East pervades the book as a whole, but is particularly
evident in the lengthy first chapter. This part of the book provides a nostalgic
recollection of fragments of past experience. What H.H. conveys, however, is more
a form of inner experience than anything else.
The experience for the reader (or at least for this reader) is similar to that in
encountering Kafka’s work and particularly his book The Castle (Kafka, 1998).
(Kafka, as is well known, never completed any of the three novels that survive him,
and these would never have seen the light of day had his friend Max Brod not
chosen to ignore his request to destroy his draft manuscripts.) The Trial (Kafka,
1988) also has the effect of being slightly out of sync with reality, of not quite
being in focus, but this effect is more marked in The Castle.
27
CHAPTER 2
In a different era and context altogether, Ben Okri’s The Famished Road (Okri,
1991), in weaving spirit-child Azaro’s visions with the often mundane, sometimes
violent, events of everyday life, has a similar effect. The interpenetration of
different moments in history is also conveyed through Gabriel García Márques’
One Hundred Years of Solitude (Márques, 1972), with its account of the lives of
succeeding generations, the boundaries between them becoming all the more
blurred by the repeated use of the same names from one generation to the next.
The Journey to the East speaks to this blurring of boundaries – this hazy
movement between different levels of reality and experience – in the text itself.
H.H. admits at one point, in his conversation with Lukas, that he is having
difficulty approaching his subject – his history of the League (or at least his section
within the League) – not because of a lack of literary ability but because the reality
he once experienced exists no longer. H.H. continues:
… [A]lthough its memories are the most precious and vivid ones that I
possess, they seem so far away, they are composed of such a different kind of
fabric, that it seems as if they originated on other stars in other millennia, or
as if they were hallucinations. (p. 56)
There is, then, a self-conscious recognition of the other-worldliness created by the
narrative within the novel, and this is given added weight by the structure of the
book. For while the first part of The Journey to the East is the most dream-like in
character, the other sections of the book also seem to move uncertainly between
different times and places, leaving the reader without a firm set of coordinates in
seeking to understand H.H.’s experiences. Much must be drawn by inference, and
even where places are named and periods of time are mentioned (we learn, for
example, that approximately ten years have passed since the dissolution of H.H.’s
group within the League), the reader is never quite sure how much stock to place
on these comments. H.H., moreover, makes abundantly clear that he has doubts
about his memories and is suffering from a certain kind of despair.
Hesse’s use of the first person narrative only adds to the sense of ambivalence
and uncertainty here. For this is a story told by H.H., and when other narrative
viewpoints are allowed to intrude – even if only briefly – they cast events in a
rather different light. Near the end of the book, H.H. discovers other accounts in
the League archives that provide quite different interpretations of what went wrong
when Leo disappeared from H.H.’s group of journeyers to the East. There is,
throughout the novel, a residual ambiguity about whether the story is really being
constructed in the past or present tense. This too finds comment in the text itself.
H.H. says that his tale becomes ‘even more difficult because we not only wandered
through Space, but also through Time’ (p. 26).
We moved towards the East, but we also traveled into the Middle Ages and
the Golden Age; we roamed through Italy or Switzerland, but at times we
also spent the night in the 10th century and dwelt with the patriarchs or the
fairies. During the times I remained alone, I often found again places and
people of my own past. (p. 26)
28
So, is The Journey to the East an example of a novel in the magical realist
tradition? Perhaps, but this categorisation, for me, does not capture adequately the
purpose of the book. For although the narrative appears to move between past and
present and have its characters do things we normally conceive as impossible, these
features of the book are very much in the service of something else. They work,
collectively, to create a portrait of H.H.’s developing awareness of himself. This, I
shall argue, does not advance as far as H.H. believes it does by the end of the book.
The crucial missing ingredient in H.H.’s journey of self-understanding, it will be
suggested, is education.
A RITUAL OF CONFESSION
What kind of journey does H.H. undergo in The Journey to the East? The
narrative, to be sure, does describe travels to places that appear to have a material
reality, and the events following H.H.’s meeting with Lukas – his seeking out of
Leo’s residence, and his subsequent trial and confession in the assembly of League
members – seem to take place within definite periods of time. But closer
examination of the text reveals that even on these points, features of physical
geography and the flow of time are not in themselves as important as the journey in
consciousness being undertaken by H.H. By adopting what Crenshaw and Lawson
(1972) call a ‘fairy-tale form’ in The Journey to the East, Hesse is able to transcend
chronological time:
The fairy-tale form is especially conducive to changes and permutations of
time. If by being set in a mythical or vague locale, the fairy tale achieves a
kind of universality, then this universality is reinforced by a parallel
vagueness of time: “einmal,” “once upon a time.” Such formulas do not
eliminate time; rather, they allow enough temporal detail to effect a balance
between alienation and understanding on the part of the listener or the reader.
(p. 54)
The climax of H.H.’s journey in consciousness is his confession. This is depicted
as an elaborate ritual in the last part of the book, and is similar in many respects to
the forms of religious confession practised within some traditions of Christian
worship. Upon his rediscovery of the League, H.H. is named as a ‘self-accuser’,
and he is required to purge himself of his ‘sins’ – to humiliate himself in front of
others – before finding redemption.
Time in the last and most dramatic part of the book is compressed, with a series
of pivotal events occurring in quick succession, whereas the period leading up to
H.H.’s eventual reconnection with Leo is rather vaguely defined. H.H. notes that
after learning of the existence of a resident named Leo in Seilergraben, he visits the
house ‘frequently, twenty times or more’, finally succeeding in meeting Leo ‘the
day before yesterday’ (p. 63). The path H.H. is required to take in following Leo to
appear before the assembled officials and the High Throne is a labyrinthine route,
with multiple detours and two stops for Leo to pray; it is a walk that takes all
morning but which ‘could easily have been done in a quarter of an hour’ (p. 84).
29
CHAPTER 2
Here geography seems to intrude a little more overtly, with the mention not only of
a church (or two churches: the narrative is unclear on this point) and the Town
Hall. But these are the only two landmarks, in an entire morning of walking, that
H.H. notices or considers worth mentioning. The building for the confession is
described as immense, with passages, stairs and antechambers; it looks like ‘an
extended Council building or a museum’ (p. 84).
Features of physical geography are described with just sufficient detail to
provide the appropriate symbolic effect. The maze-like journey taken in the
morning symbolises the confusion H.H. is experiencing (to which he admits at one
point: p. 84), but the path, while constructed through a series of zigzags, is a path
all the same. His arrival at his physical destination is, symbolically, an arrival at the
moment of truth in fulfilling the destiny to which he refers at the very beginning of
the book (‘It was my destiny to join in a great experience’: p. 3). In reaching the
imposing, eerily silent museum-like building, he is approaching what he regards as
a defining moment in his development as a human being. Before beginning the
long morning walk with Leo, H.H. says to himself:
The League had summoned me, I was awaited by the High Throne,
everything was at stake for me; the whole of my future life would be decided,
the whole of my past life would now either retain or completely lose its
meaning – I trembled with expectation, pleasure, anxiety and suppressed fear.
(pp. 83-84)
With his arrival at the building everything looms large: the immensity of the
physical structure is matched by the enormity of the occasion for H.H. in his
journey. This sense of importance is heightened by the number of people who fill
the hall and by the characters H.H. identifies in the crowd. He sees, for example,
‘the ferryman Vasudeva’ (p. 87), the significance of which becomes clear if one
has read Siddhartha (Hesse, 2000a). Vasudeva in that novel is a man of great
wisdom and quiet inner strength from whom Siddhartha learns a great deal. To
have Vasudeva sitting now among those who will look on and judge him places
tremendous moral pressure on H.H., who is perhaps more obviously Hermann
Hesse at this point than at any other point in the novel.
At the head of the assembly is Leo, who can now finally be revealed as
President of the League. Entering in a robe sparkling with gold, Leo climbs
through rows of officials to sit upon a Throne ‘like a Pope’ (p. 98). H.H. becomes
aware that he has lost his League ring, and, more regretfully still, admits that he
had not missed it until that day. Leo begins to speak and after a series of
pronouncements and questions, declares that H.H. has been acquitted and is now
able to begin his second novitiate. With this, he returns the ring H.H. long believed
had been lost. H.H. experiences further remorse when he realises he has forgotten
the four basic precepts of the vow symbolised by the four stones on the ring. He
feels the words are still within him, but he cannot bring them to the surface: ‘I had
forgotten the wording. I had forgotten the rules; for many years I had not repeated
them, for many years I had not observed them and held them sacred – and yet I had
considered myself a loyal League brother’ (p. 107). Filled with ‘dismay and deep
30
shame’, H.H. is then advised by Leo that if he wishes to enter the ranks of the
League officials he will have to pass a test of faith and obedience.
This process is not straightforward, for H.H. is at first unable to accept the
challenges issued to him by Leo. He is asked whether he is willing to tame a wild
dog as a test of his faith, and, recoiling in horror, says ‘No, I could not do it’ (p.
108). The Speaker then asks H.H. whether he is prepared to burn the League’s
archives on command, and proceeds to demonstrate what is required by burning a
portion of them before H.H.’s eyes. Again H.H.’s reaction is one of horror and
again he refuses. It is only at this point that he grasps that each succeeding task will
require greater faith, and in response to the third request – that he consult the
archives about himself – he finally accepts. This is the beginning of the
culminating moment in the novel: the point at which H.H. faces himself, full of
trepidation, in a manner that has been impossible for all the years in his existential
wilderness away from the League. Fearful but also curious, he is drawn to one
poorly filed memorandum standing out from the others. On this he finds just two
words: ‘Morbio Inferiore’. In these two words, H.H. finds the key to his crisis and
his redemption. It was in Morbio Gorge that Leo had apparently disappeared from
H.H.’s group of the League, after which the group quickly fell apart. H.H.
discovers alternative accounts of the events of that time from other members of the
disbanded group, both of whom interpret the situation rather differently.
Unable to wait any longer, H.H. finally locates the section of the archives with
his own name. He finds nothing written; instead, there is a figure, old and worn,
made from wood or wax. The figure is really two figures attached by a common
back. At first disappointed, H.H. notices a candlestick fixed to the wall by the two-
part figure. Lighting the candle, the double figure becomes brightly illuminated and
then, slowly, H.H. comes to perceive what this is intended to represent:
It represented a figure which was myself, and this likeness of myself was
unpleasantly weak and half-real; it had blurred features, and in its whole
expression there was something unstable, weak, dying or wishing to die, and
looked rather like a piece of sculpture which could be called “Transitoriness”
or “Decay”, or something similar. (p. 117).
At the same time, the other figure joined to this one ‘was strong in color and form’.
H.H. begins to understand that this other figure resembles Leo and at this point
discovers a second candle on the wall. In lighting this, his revelation becomes
complete:
I now saw the double figure representing Leo and myself, not only becoming
clearer and each image more alike, but I also saw that the surface of the
figures was transparent and that one could look inside as one can look
through the glass of a bottle or vase. Inside the figures I saw something
moving, slowly, extremely slowly, in the same way that a snake moves which
has fallen asleep. Something was taking place there, something like a very
slow, smooth but continuous flowing or melting; indeed, something melted or
poured across from my image to that of Leo’s. I perceived that my image was
31
CHAPTER 2
in the process of adding to and flowing into Leo’s, nourishing and

strengthening it. It seemed that, in time, all the substance from one image
would flow into the other and only one would remain: Leo. He must grow, I
must disappear. (pp. 117-118)
ESOTERIC CONNECTIONS
Hesse’s apparent resolution of H.H.’s crisis warrants careful contemplation. H.H.

himself recognises something deeply symbolic at work in the construction of the
two figures, and Hermann Hesse as author invites us to take this further. What is it
that is slowly flowing from one half of the figure to the other? The most obvious
answer is that it is ‘the self’ – but what kind of self does Hesse have in mind here?
The comparison with a snake moving is of interest given the title of the book,
for the image of a snake coiled upwards is an Eastern symbol for the ‘secret’ of
kundalini – the form of energy believed by Hindu mystics to be present, even if
only in latent form, in all human beings. And in fact kundalini is mentioned early
in the book. Near the beginning of the first chapter H.H. recalls that different
members of the League had set a range of goals for themselves – goals, he says, he
respected but could not understand (p. 9). One member had set himself the task of
‘capturing a certain snake to which he attributed magical powers and which he
called Kundalini’ (p. 10). Kundalini awakenings, as understood in some mystical
traditions, can be sudden and dramatic (see, for example, Krishna, 1996), or they
can occur in more gradual and controlled ways.
Kundalini energy can be aroused by meditation and other forms of spiritual
practice, or it can be awakened with little warning by traumatic events. H.H.’s
experience in The Journey to the East seems to combine both elements. On the one
hand, his trial in front of Leo and the other League officials constitutes a moment
of great drama in his life. This final part of the book releases, climatically, a certain
tension that has been building throughout the novel. On the other hand, his own
reflections in the closing moments of the narrative suggest he is just beginning a
more gradual process of development. Having confessed his ‘sins’, more to himself
than to anyone else, he is ready to face himself and the tasks that lie ahead.
Yet, his own answer to the problem of facing himself is to see the self he is
confronting as the poorer complement to Leo. Leo is H.H.’s higher self, and he
expects himself to dissolve into this. ‘I must disappear’, he says, begging the
question of who the ‘I’ is – and indeed, of who or what Leo is meant to be.
Addressing the question of who Leo might be is arguably one of the keys to
understanding not merely H.H. but the purpose of the novel as a whole. Hesse
seems to me to provide us with at least two possibilities here. On the one hand, Leo
appears to exist in the novel as a flesh and blood human being. H.H. recounts his
(Leo’s) work as a servant and bag carrier in earlier years and he meets up with him
again later in life. But Leo can also be conceived as something more than this.
Reference has already been made to the dream-like quality of the book’s lengthy
first chapter. It is possible, however, to see the entire novel as resembling a kind of
dream. The movement between ‘fiction’ and ‘fact’, the mixing of past with present,
32
the flitting about one from one place to another: all of this is consistent with
conscious experience in dreams.
There are more clues that lend weight to this interpretation, and suggest,
moreover, a likeness to a particular type of dream. As has been noted, when H.H. is
taken into the museum-like building where his trial is to be held and his confession
is to be made, he eventually arrives at the League archives: these are so vast they
stretch for ‘many hundreds of yards’ (p. 85). ‘It seemed to me’, H.H. says, ‘as if
the whole world, including the starry heavens, was governed or at least recorded
and observed from there’ (p. 85). When these ‘immense treasure-chambers’ (p. 89)
are placed at H.H.’s disposal for his work in writing a history of the journey
undertaken by his group of Journeyers to the East, he is filled with hope that he
will finally be able to complete his task – a task he now regards as greater and
more worthwhile than ever. He quickly realises, however, that the work he had
completed to date will be worthless and resolves to begin afresh.
These ‘inexhaustible archives’ (p. 90) bear a resemblance to the idea of
‘Akashic records’ embraced by some esoteric traditions. Such records are said to
hold the entire store of human knowledge – to be a repository not only of all
recorded information but of all human events and thoughts. Among the more well
known adherents to this notion are theosophists, who, as it happens, are mentioned
in the novel (p. 53).
Rudolf Steiner, who committed himself to theosophy for a period before going
on to found his own, related, philosophical system of anthroposophy, also
subscribed to the idea that such records exist and can be accessed by initiates with
knowledge of higher worlds (cf. Steiner, 1994a, 1994b, 1997). The event that
prompted Steiner’s break with theosophy was the anointing of Jiddu Krishnamurti,
then only a boy, by Charles Leadbeater as a future educational and spiritual leader.
Leadbeater was a key figure in the Theosophical Society at the time and, together
with Annie Besant, played an important role in shaping the young Krishnamurti’s
upbringing in his teenage years. Krishnamurti himself went on to break with the
new order founded by the theosophists (the Order of the Star of the East),
developing his own comprehensive approach to philosophical and educational
questions. (On Krishnamurti’s significance for education, see Thapan, 2001.)
The views of theosophists are not endorsed in The Journey to the East or in
Hesse’s other novels, but it is significant that they feature at all. (Hesse’s novel
Gertrude also includes reference to theosophy: see Hesse, 1974d.) Hesse found
something worth considering in theosophical ideas, even if a theosophical
worldview was ultimately not for him.
H.H.’s ‘dream’ is very much like what is known as a lucid dream, where the
dreamer becomes aware that he or she is dreaming and, as a result of this, gains
some control over the events in the dream (see LaBerge, 1985; LaBerge &
DeGracia, 2000; LaBerge & Rheingold, 1990; Purcell, Mullington, Moffit,
Hoffmann & Pigeau, 1986). Only expert lucid dreamers can retain such control for
sustained periods of time (although the sense of time too can become distorted
within the dream); there is sometimes a slipping in and out of different states of
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CHAPTER 2
conscious control and a definite effort often needs to be made to retain the memory
of the dream.
H.H.’s experience in the novel conforms to this pattern, with varying degrees of
clarity and control throughout. Lucid dreams, in some esoteric traditions, provide
(for those who are at the appropriate level in their path of development) one means
through which to access the Akashic records. H.H. accesses the archives of the
League with apparent full awareness of what he is doing, and yet he has already
warned readers of the unreliability of his memory and of his despair. He has just
undergone an emotionally exhausting confession and, as the novel closes, feels
‘overcome by an infinite weariness and desire to sleep’ (p. 118). This completes
the metaphor. Symbolically, H.H. is already asleep. (The Russian mystic Gurdjieff
argued that we exist in a perpetual state of sleep in our ordinary lives, from which
we can only awaken with systematic ‘work’. See Smoley and Kinney, 1999.) H.H.
recalls the past in only hazy detail. As the narrative progresses, he has moments of
greater lucidity (including his conversations with Lukas and his contemplation of
the double-sided figure in the archives). Through these lucid moments he seeks to
gain greater knowledge of himself and the world. But these moments do not last for
long and soon sleep is needed again.
EDUCATIONAL POSSIBILITIES
The point of the analysis thus far is not to suggest that The Journey to the East
should be conceived as literally a lucid dream (or a series of such dreams). Rather,
what matters is that H.H.’s experience is analogous to this, and this has important
implications for an educational reading of the book. To understand why this is so,
brief attention needs to be paid to Hesse’s final novel, The Glass Bead Game
(Hesse, 2000b).
The Glass Bead Game, as noted in the previous chapter, centres on the life of
Joseph Knecht, who grows up in Castalia, an intellectual community of the future.
The key intellectual achievement of Castalia is the Glass Bead Game, a kind of
universal language, a means for reproducing the content and values of a culture,
and for linking different arts and disciplines. Knecht, it will be recalled, rises
through the elite Castalian schooling system and becomes an expert in the Glass
Bead Game, eventually reaching the exalted position of Magister Ludi (Master of
the Game). Along the way, however, in part through his dialogical relationships
with two other characters (Plinio Designori and Father Jacobus), he develops an
increasingly critical view of the Castalian way of life and decides to resign his
prestigious position as Magister Ludi in favour of a quiet life as a private tutor.
Several features of The Glass Bead Game are of interest in the light of the
argument in the preceding sections. The idea of gaining access to vast archives of
knowledge, introduced near the end of The Journey to the East, is extended and
reworked in The Glass Bead Game. The latter novel posits the idea of unlimited
access to knowledge, and in this sense has an even closer connection than The
Journey to the East with the esoteric concept of Akashic records. Theoretically, the
narrator informs us, the Game is capable of reproducing the ‘entire intellectual
34
content of the universe’ (p. 7). While the origins of the Glass Bead Game date back
thousands of years, with antecedents in both the East and the West, the Game in its
contemporary form arose from the ruins of the Feuilleton Age. The Feuilleton Age
was Hesse’s age: the first half of the twentieth century, with its World Wars and
bourgeois individualism (Wilde, 1999). As Antosik (1978) points out, Hesse felt
disgust at the changes occurring during this period and sought to provide an
alternative way of thinking about the meaning and purpose of human life. He
turned to the writers and sages of earlier ages for inspiration in seeking a new
direction for human growth and understanding. The Journey to the East, with its
League of journeyers, is consistent with this. The Glass Bead Game, while taking
the vision of an alternative community further, also challenges some of the
assumptions underpinning The Journey to the East.
The emphasis in the fictional world of Castalia, it is worth noting, is on
knowledge and works of art and culture that have already been created. Castalians
do not devote themselves principally to the development of new knowledge and art.
Their goal is to ‘play’ in a sophisticated way with what is already there, and
through this to engender a certain mode of being. In seeking this, the meditative
element of the Game is crucial. Contemplation, the narrator tells us, was the final
element introduced to the Glass Bead Game, and it allowed participants to
concentrate in a deeper way on the meaning and significance of the symbols
employed.
Yet, neither contemplation nor any of the other practices associated with the
Glass Bead Game is sufficient to lead all participants on to the form of critical,
questioning understanding Hesse came, in the later part of his life, to see as
necessary for human beings. Meditation in Castalia serves, for most, more as a
kind of therapy – a self-administered ‘pill’ to be taken as a calming influence in
times of potential distress (Durrani, 1982). What is lacking, Hesse wants to show
us, is a probing, searching, restless attempt to know – a lifelong, ‘everything at
stake’ effort to develop a deeper, more robust understanding of oneself and one’s
society.
H.H. begins this journey, but comes to believe, in a manner at odds with Hesse’s
orientation to life, that the answer lies in faithful obedience to the dictates of Leo
and the League. Neither his dream-like recollections of his days with his group of
Journeyers to the East nor his revelation in the archives of the League reach the
form of critical understanding displayed by the mature Joseph Knecht in The Glass
Bead Game.
Knecht, as has been observed previously, has doubts and questions that demand
investigation. Plinio Designori helps in pushing Knecht to reconsider his
comfortable assumptions about the superiority of the Castalian way of life; and
Father Jacobus teaches Knecht the value of history and helps him to place Castalia
and the Glass Bead Game in a broader social context. Knecht’s doubts about
Castalia remain throughout his years as Magister Ludi. Knecht comes to see
education as fundamentally important and regards Castalia’s inability to look
outwards, to establish contact and build understanding with outsiders through
teaching, as one of its most fatal flaws. Knecht wants not only to teach but to learn
35
CHAPTER 2
from those who have had different life experiences from his own. Knecht comes to
realise that Castalia, by not placing proper value on education, has already sown
the seeds of its own destruction and will one day disappear.
H.H. believes he has found what is necessary for his completion in the person
and figure of Leo, but his solution lacks the appreciation of education – its value
and significance for human life – that is evident in the mature Joseph Knecht. The
philosophy of the Brazilian educationist Paulo Freire is helpful in elaborating on
these ideas. A detailed analysis of Hesse’s work in the light of Freirean theory can
be found in chapter 5. In that chapter, the focus is principally on Knecht and The
Glass Bead Game; here, I shall also address the experiences of H.H. in The
Journey to the East.
‘Education’, for Freire, is intimately connected with the process of humanisation
(Freire, 1972a). While humanisation is, Freire believes, a universal ethical ideal,
different people pursue this ideal in different ways depending on their
circumstances. Education as a humanising process blends rational, emotional and
active elements (Roberts, 2010). Freire identifies a number of dispositions
characteristic of those engaged in humanising education. These include curiosity,
openness, tolerance, humility, an investigative spirit, and a willingness to question
(Freire, 1985, 1998a). Freire also emphasises the importance of love and hope in
education (Freire, 1997). We must, he maintains, come to love the process of
seeking to know and to learn, and those who teach need to care deeply for the
students with whom they work. Hope is crucial, even in times of despair; in fact,
this is when it matters most. For no matter how difficult our circumstances may be,
there is, from a Freirean perspective, always hope that our situation could be
otherwise (Freire, 2004, 2007).
Education, for Freire, is a process of both knowing and being. As conscious
beings, Freire points out, we have the capacity to reflect critically on reality. We
can, on the basis of this reflection, change the world – and ourselves. This entails
not abstract, isolated, individual cognition, but the synthesis of reflection with
action in praxis. The process of education is practical as well as intellectual, and
social rather than individualistic. We can never, Freire stresses, know, learn or be
alone; we are beings of communication and dialogue is fundamental for our growth
and development, through education, as human beings. Dialogue in Freirean theory
is not mere idle conversation; rather, it has a definite structure and strong sense of
direction and purpose (Freire & Shor, 1987; Horton & Freire, 1990; Roberts,
2000).
In seeking to educate ourselves, with others, we must, Freire believes, face the
object of our study with a searching, probing, inquisitive attitude. We must be open
to both being challenged and to challenging what we find through our educational
efforts. Addressing educational problems demands that we place them in their
broader historical, social and cultural contexts. Education is a profoundly
unsettling process; it is meant to be uncomfortable, and it is necessarily lifelong.
We can never, from a Freirean point of view, ‘rest easy’, assuming we know all
that is worth knowing. We must learn to live with uncertainty; indeed, uncertainty
should be celebrated as the basis from which investigation, knowing and education
36
can proceed. There will always be more educational ‘work’ to do, and ongoing
critical reflection will always be required.
H.H. exhibits some of the characteristics described by Freire as part of the
educational process. He is curious to know more about the League and, after
meeting with Lukas, he adopts an investigative posture in seeking out Leo. In his
confession, he has to humble himself in front of the assembled group of League
members. His discovery of the little double-sided figure prompts a certain kind of
self-reflection, but there are limits to this. In his desire to become more like Leo, he
loses sight of his own capacity for humanising praxis. The process of reflection he
engages in following his confession lacks the probing, critical depth Freire sees as
necessary for a full educational life. H.H. fails to make the most of the opportunity
for extended dialogue with Lukas, and his encounter with Leo in the ritual of
confession has an anti-dialogical character.
Leo does not adopt an aggressively arrogant stance in his relationship with H.H.,
but in the confession episode he sits like a king on a throne and, in effect, ‘talks
down’ to his fellow journeyer. H.H. reaches conclusions about himself too quickly
in examining the little figure. He does not test his views in the dialogical company
of others, and he does not examine the ritual of his confession critically. He is
respectful of Leo, as Freire believes we should be when seeking to learn with
others, but he fails to ask searching questions of him. He is challenged by Leo, but,
given the intimidating nature of the ritual he undergoes, does not have the
confidence or the means to issue a similar challenge of his own. Leo is almost
idolised. He is set up as a kind of guru, something Freire always resisted (see
Roberts, 2000).
The confession is a deeply emotional process for H.H., as Freire says education
should be, but the rational element of an educational process cannot be ignored.
H.H. dampens this in favour of commitment through faith and humbles himself in
front of the assembled crowd. He lets go of his critical capacities and gives himself
over to the power of the ritual and the commanding presence of Leo. This being the
case, the potential of the confession to become a humanising educational process
(in Freirean terms) is reduced.
Knecht in The Glass Bead Game is much closer to the educational ideal
advanced by Freire. Knecht is a restless being, seeking throughout his life to
always know more. While humble and open-minded, he is not a passive being. He
has a sharp, critical consciousness of himself and his social surroundings. He is not
satisfied with the answers provided by the Castalian authorities, and asks difficult
questions of the Masters, both as a student and as Magister Ludi. He develops
strong dialogical relationships with Father Jacobus and Plinio Designori, and
continues to learn from these relationships until near his death.
Knecht sees education very much as a lifelong process, giving up the privileges
of his position and everything he has known to pursue further learning, to
experience more of what life has to offer, and to contribute to the well being of
others in new ways. He adopts a critical but balanced and fair minded view of
Castalia. He is an emotional being, caring for his colleagues and for those he
teaches, but he does not ‘switch off’ his rational faculties in doing so. He is able to
37
CHAPTER 2
consider himself and others in the light of broader social, cultural and historical
changes.
Knecht is not without his flaws, but is willing to continue reflecting and working
with others in seeking self-understanding and transformation. His attempt to know
is also a striving to be – to become more fully human, realising the potential he
believes has been stifled in Castalia. Within the protected confines of Castalia, he
has achieved a great deal, but he realises his journey is incomplete. He is
comfortable with the discomfort posed by his quest for education and self-
knowledge, and embraces his somewhat uncertain future with vigour and
enthusiasm.
The expansive archives are open to H.H., but his ability to make something of
this vast store of knowledge will be limited by his as yet immature and still
egotistical understanding of himself. He need not ‘throw Leo overboard’ (as Lukas
advises him to do), but it will be necessary for him to appreciate that uncritical
acceptance of Leo as a model for his own development will provide at best only a
partial knowledge of himself and the meaning of the League.
As noted in this chapter and the previous one, H.H. relies too heavily on faith –
faith in Leo as a kind of father figure (Tusken, 1992) and in the goals and methods
of the League – and abandons reason too quickly. Faith, he indicates earlier in his
narrative, should have primacy over reason and ‘so-called reality’ (Hesse, 1956,
p. 52). H.H.’s dialogue with Lukas provides a warning about the dangers of
acquiescence to Leo, but H.H. does not heed this. At the end of the novel, H.H.
believes, or implies that he believes, he has solved the riddle of his existence. This
moment of apparent clarity is, however, but a step along the way in his ongoing
path of development. There is still a dream-like quality to his sense of purpose and
his conception of himself relative to others. So, like a lucid dream, H.H. will slip in
and out of focus, and can – contrary to his implied expectations – look forward to a
long, complicated and difficult path in his journey to the mythical ‘East’.
There has been much debate over the meaning of the ‘East’ in The Journey to
the East, but rather less attention has been paid to the other key word in the title.
One of the keys to understanding this enigmatic novel, I think, lies in the word
‘journey’. The fact that it is a journey and not, for example, an arrival, is itself of
significance – especially from an educational point of view. For the idea of a
journey suggests the possibility of learning – and in this case, of lifelong learning.
For Hesse, this journey never ends. We never quite reach the point at which we can
declare, comfortably and permanently, ‘I am now home; there is nothing more for
me to do’. Hesse himself, even while living in self-imposed relative seclusion,
never believed he reached this point and remained a restless being until his death.
This was not contrary to his mature conception of spiritual fulfilment and self-
understanding but, as The Glass Bead Game shows, utterly consistent with it. It
will, Hesse believed, always be necessary to keep reflecting and learning, and
doubts, questions and critique are fundamentally important in this educational
process.
38
CONCLUSION
This chapter has suggested that The Journey to the East depicts the inner striving
of not just H.H. but Hermann Hesse as well. By the time The Glass Bead Game
had been published, however, Hesse had travelled some way from the position
occupied by H.H. in The Journey to the East. The Glass Bead Game remains an
ideal; one closely connected with the opening up of vast stores of knowledge for
the betterment of humankind. But the central character in The Glass Bead Game,
Joseph Knecht, comes to see that limiting oneself to ‘playing’ with knowledge, no
matter how expansive the archives may be, will leave one in a dream-like state,
disconnected from the messy, complex, vital realities and struggles of everyday
life. H.H. lacks a critical understanding of himself, Leo and the League, in part
because he has failed to appreciate the importance of dialogue and education in the
quest for human fulfilment. The Glass Bead Game thus provides an effective
critique of The Journey to the East and holds some important lessons for all
educationists. We have much to learn from H.H., from Knecht and from Hermann
Hesse himself as we continue on our own educational journeys, East and West.
39
CHAPTER 3
MORE THAN A METAPHOR
INTRODUCTION
More than half a century has passed since the publication in English of The Glass
Bead Game. Composed over a period of more than a decade, Das Glasperlenspiel
was first published in 1943. The book has been available in English translation
(initially under the title Magister Ludi) since 1949. Thomas Mann, Hesse’s
countryman, fellow Nobel laureate and friend, has described The Glass Bead Game
as Hesse’s ‘great novel of education’ (Mann, 1999, p. x). It is not difficult to see
why Mann might have regarded the novel in this light, for questions about
teaching, learning, knowledge, and intellectual life are central to the book. The
Glass Bead Game (Hesse, 2000b) is set in Castalia, a ‘pedagogical province’ of the
future, and it depicts the schooling and higher educational experiences of Joseph
Knecht. Education figures prominently as a theme not just in the main part of the
book but in the poems and fictional autobiographies that follow the story of
Knecht’s life.
The Glass Bead Game has a somewhat unusual structure. The book carries the
sub-title ‘A tentative sketch of the life of Magister Ludi Joseph Knecht together
with Knecht’s posthumous writings edited by Hermann Hesse’. By assigning
himself the role of ‘editor’ Hesse removes himself one step from narrative, but
there is more than one narrative voice in the book. The book comprises three parts:
a first section of approximately 40 pages entitled ‘The Glass Bead Game: A
General Introduction to its History for the Layman’; the main part of the book in
which the story of Joseph Knecht’s life is told (a little under 400 pages); and a
collection of thirteen poems and three fictional autobiographies (a little over 100
pages).
We learn in the main part of the book that the poems and autobiographies were
constructed by Knecht during his student years and these are appended as his
posthumous writings. While a single narrator is employed for most of the General
Introduction and the main part of the book, other voices (associates of Knecht,
historians and writers) appear at different points. The last chapter prior to the
poems and autobiographies, designated ‘The Legend’, is presented as the probable
construction of several of Knecht’s favourite students. One of the three fictional
autobiographies describes the life of a rainmaker in a matriarchal society of the
distant past; another depicts the life of middle aged Christian ascetic in fourth
century Gaza; the third focuses on the experiences of an Indian prince.
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CHAPTER 3
At the heart of Castalian society is the Glass Bead Game. In the first part of the
book, the narrator informs us that the Glass Bead Game is a kind of universal
language: a way of establishing relationships between disciplines and of playing
with the total contents of our culture. Developed over centuries, the Game
combines intellectual and contemplative elements, and enables unlimited
combinations of themes and ideas. An exponent of the Game plays on the vast
body of knowledge and values, to which all arts and sciences have contributed,
much as an organist plays on an organ. Theoretically, the narrator tells us, the
Game can reproduce ‘the entire intellectual content of the universe’ (Hesse, 2000b,
p. 7). Those who play the Game strive to achieve a form of pure being, and those
who are expert at it attain almost God-like status (p. 34).
The main part of the book is set in a Castalia of about 2200 AD, while the
narrator writes from a vantage point of approximately two centuries later (Mileck,
1978, p. 258). Joseph grows up in the pedagogical province, progresses through his
early education to the elite schools of Eschholz and Waldzell, joins the Order of the
Glass Bead Game, and is eventually appointed to the most prestigious position in
the Castalian hierarchy: the role of Magister Ludi (Master of the Game). While
deeply appreciative of the intellectual integrity and aesthetic achievements of the
Glass Bead Game, Knecht grows increasingly critical of the separation of Castalia
from the outside world. He comes to see Castalia as a society in decay, too inward
looking in its outlook, too rigid in its hierarchy, and too destructive of individuality
to survive. He reaches the view that the real mission of Castalia lies in teaching.
Knecht makes the extraordinary decision to resign his post as Magister Ludi and to
leave the Order. He sets out on a new life as a tutor of Tito, the son of a friend he
has known from his youth. This new pedagogical journey is cut short in dramatic
fashion with Knecht’s sudden drowning in a mountain lake, leaving the reader who
has reached the end of the main part of the book to wonder what might have been.
As I noted in the Introduction, The Glass Bead Game has attracted surprisingly
little attention from educationists. Among the exceptions to this apparent lack of
interest are chapters in books by Martin Anderson (1996) and Michael Peters
(1996) and a journal article by James Sears (1992). Anderson sees parallels
between The Glass Bead Game and the intellectual games played by contemporary
academics; Peters considers the significance of the early part of Hesse’s book for
understanding the modernist dream of a universal language and the university in
cyberspace; and Sears analyses curriculum theorising as an example of a Glass
Bead Game in operation.
This chapter acknowledges the importance of these contributions while also
pointing to some of their limits. Anderson’s engagement with the book is minimal.
Peters and Sears both offer more substantial analyses, but they, like Anderson,
concentrate on the Glass Bead Game as a metaphor. I argue that if we are to
understand the fuller educational significance of Hesse’s magnum opus, we must
go beyond this metaphorical reading and focus on the tensions between the ideals
of Castalia and the life of Joseph Knecht. Read holistically, The Glass Bead Game
provides an important critique – not an unqualified endorsement – of the forms of
42
intellectual game playing identified by Anderson and Sears and the universalising
modernist discourse discussed by Peters.
THE GLASS BEAD GAME AS METAPHOR
Set in an elite, hierarchical society devoted to the pursuit of knowledge and the
preservation of a distinctive intellectual culture, it is not difficult to see how a
comparison between The Glass Bead Game and the institution of the university
might be drawn. One such example is provided by Martin Anderson in his book,
Impostors in the Temple. Anderson, a former advisor to Presidents Nixon and
Reagan, is highly critical of what he sees as declining intellectual and moral
standards in US institutions of higher education. He employs the metaphor of the
Glass Bead Game to describe academic life in contemporary American
universities, depicting the activities of current intellectuals as irrelevant game
playing. For academics in today’s world, Anderson claims, the markers of success
are not glass beads but ‘the number of articles published in academic journals and
the number of times those articles are cited in other articles written by their
colleagues’ (1996, p. 104). Anderson sees this process as a serious departure from
the ideals on which the academy should be founded. The game playing of
university researchers in recent decades has, he believes, led to a decline in the
quality of higher educational experience for students, a corruption of the spirit of
investigation, and the separation of academic discourse from other forms of human
communication.
In the ninth chapter of his Poststructuralism, Politics and Education (1996),
Michael Peters draws a parallel between the Glass Bead Game and the dream of a
universal language advanced by modernist philosophers such as Habermas. Peters
employs the Glass Bead Game as a metaphor to investigate the place of the
university in ‘the cultural history of symbolic logic, cybernetics and perhaps even
European formalism’ (p. 163) underpinning cyberspace. He sees developments
such as the Internet as aspects of late modernity and he regards theorisations of
postmodernity as modulations within modernity. He argues that Hesse’s Glass
Bead Game is ‘much closer to Habermas’ ideal speech community and the given,
stable, bourgeois subject than to Lyotard’s conception of the differend and
multiple, hybrid, cultural subject positions’ (pp. 163-164).
Peters also notes that The Glass Bead Game participates in a self-critical way in
the German tradition of the Bildungsroman. This tradition, he suggests, has left its
mark on Habermas and in particular ‘the ideal of the liberal university based on the
stability of the universal subject of communication – the hero of knowledge – and
the rational consensus of like minds’ (p. 164). Peters acknowledges the
‘extraordinary generative and allusive qualities’ (p. 164) of the Glass Bead Game,
and details some of the ways in which the Game presages the development of
cyberspace in late modernity. At the same time, however, the metaphor of the
Game ‘does not surpass the stability and transparency of the bourgeois humanistic
subject nor question the relation of language to the subject’ (p. 167). ‘It remains’,
Peters says, ‘within the tradition of the “apprenticeship novel” based on the model
43
CHAPTER 3
of the white, heterosexual, male individual of unique and exceptional character

who is committed to the inner life and the path of spiritual realization in the
transition from disciple to master’ (p. 167).
Sears’ focus, in an article published in Theory Into Practice (Sears, 1992), is on
curriculum studies and particularly developments in that field following the 1973
Rochester Conference on Curriculum Theory. The Rochester conference included
such luminaries as Maxine Greene, William Pinar and Michael Apple, and was
regarded as a watershed event. Curriculum studies was reawakened and
transformed from its moribund state into a ‘vibrant, intellectual field with diverse
voices’ (p. 210). This conference marked the beginning of a ‘reconceptualist’ turn
in the field. While there is no one way to characterise the reconceptualists, most
have been concerned to go beyond the technocratic and design oriented approaches
characteristic of curriculum work in the preceding decades. Reconceptualists have
drawn on a variety of critical traditions – Marxism, feminism, and deconstruction,
among others – to argue that curriculum matters are political and contested (or
contestable) in nature. They have discussed ‘hidden’ as well as overt curricula and
have analysed the ontological, epistemological, ethical, and cultural assumptions
underlying curriculum policies and practices. Yet, Sears contends, there is little
evidence that this ‘second wave’ of curriculum theorising has reached the everyday
world of school practice. Instead, a new intellectual orthodoxy has emerged,
impeding contemporary curriculum discourse by ‘polarizing potentially
complementary groups of curriculum scholars’ (p. 211).
Sears draws a comparison between the Glass Bead Game and the activities of
curriculum studies scholars in the reconceptualist period. It is, Sears says, ‘the
delight in, if not obsession for, constructing, combining and inventing theories,
concepts, and methods through the complex simplicity of the Game that is my
metaphor for understanding contemporary curriculum discourse’ (p. 212). Sears
argues that masters of the curriculum studies Glass Bead Game have few
incentives to devote time and energy to assisting new players to learn the game.
Curriculum studies theorists revel in the intellectual complexities of the field,
manipulating concepts, theories and methods, but with no apparent links to
educational practice. Educational practitioners, likewise, see little connection
between the Game and their everyday school lives and feel disinclined to enter the
Game as novices. Sears suggests that the appropriation of deconstructionist literary
theory by curriculum studies Game players has led to a level of abstraction that is
antithetical to the integration of theory with educational practice. Focusing on
theories, concepts and methods that are ‘unorthodox and enigmatic’, the Glass
Bead Game of curriculum theorising has become narcissistic and nihilistic (p. 214).
This is, to mirror the words of Father Jacobus (one of the characters in Hesse’s
book), like an approach to history that is ‘bloodless and lacking in reality’ (p. 214).
Through the 1980s, Sears maintains, theoretical eclecticism in curriculum
studies ‘bordered on intellectual dilettantism’. In the process, ‘clarity of thought
and insight into the practical were sacrificed on the Castalian Altar of the Glass
Bead Game. Conceptual elegance was prized; contextual relevance was disdained’
(p. 214). By the late 1980s, an increasing awareness of the contradictions between
44
playing the Game and engaging with everyday school practice had emerged.
Feminist scholars in particular challenged the lack of a dialectical synthesis
between theory and practice. Yet some of those theorists too have ended up
infusing the Game with a new orthodoxy. Under the influence of theorists such as
Ellsworth, this new orthodoxy ‘exploits the politics of silence and guilt, reduces the
complexities of power, ideology, and control into simple algorithms of political
correctness, and transforms curriculum theorizing into insular self-help affinity
groups for “oppressed” academics’ (Sears, 1992, p. 215). Sears acknowledges that
theorists such as Giroux have, in response to Ellsworth, stressed the need for a
multiplicity of curriculum voices and a shift from insularity to solidarity. Sears has
no reason to believe, however, that the Game will end. At best, he says, ‘a few
more voices will be heard in a Game that prizes curriculum discourse at the
expense of existential dialogue’ (p. 216). Sears concludes:
Despite rhetoric to the contrary, reconceptualist theorizing has never given
priority to grounding contemporary curriculum discourse to the art of the
practical. There have been heated intellectual debates about the lack of
relationship between curriculum theorizing and school practice (as evidenced
in the most recent controversy between critical theorists and feminist post-
structuralists). These debates, however, lack praxeological significance to K-
12 educators and, if anything, have merely contributed intellectual labyrinths
and new orthodoxies to the Game (p. 216).
These three authors all have somewhat different purposes in engaging Hesse’s
work. In Anderson’s book there is little discussion of the content of the novel. For
Anderson, The Glass Bead Game serves merely as a means to an end: as a
metaphor for all, or much, that is wrong in the world of higher education today.
Both Peters and Sears provide more extended and theoretically sophisticated
readings of the book. Peters’ analysis is perceptive, original and instructive in
reflecting on the ontological and epistemological traditions that have influenced the
development of the contemporary university. Yet there is also something missing
in his account. Peters deals with only the first part of The Glass Bead Game: the
‘General Introduction’ to the history of the Game provided by the narrator. While
going well beyond Anderson in his critical engagement with the text, Peters says
virtually nothing about the life of Joseph Knecht (the main part of the novel), or the
fictional autobiographies that follow. Arguably, however, these other parts of the
book have an important bearing on how we interpret the comments of the narrator
in the General Introduction. Sears, like Peters, provides an interesting and thought
provoking analysis. Again, however, the focus is on the Game itself – or, more
correctly, the metaphor of the Glass Bead Game – rather than Knecht or any of the
other characters. (Father Jacobus is mentioned but only because his words capture
an important idea.) Sears applies the metaphor to good effect in developing the
idea of an academic field as a kind of intellectual game, with its own rules (spoken
or unspoken), theories, methods, and concepts. Yet, there is perhaps also a missed
opportunity here, for the tensions and conflicts identified in Sears’ article might
profitably have been examined in the light of Castalian practice as well as the
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‘theory’ of the Glass Bead Game (as presented by the narrator in the first part of
the book). It is Knecht’s life, more than anything else, that provides the key critique
in the novel. The focus for both Peters and Sears, then, remains on The Glass Bead
Game as metaphor, and this, I shall argue, limits what can be said about the book
from an educational point of view. To develop such a case, it is first necessary to
outline, in some detail, key elements of Knecht’s educational transformation. This
is the task of the next section.
BEYOND METAPHOR: THE EDUCATION OF JOSEPH KNECHT
The education system described in The Glass Bead Game is deeply hierarchical.
There are several levels in the school system, from ‘ordinary’ schools in the
students’ home towns to the various ‘elite’ schools in Castalia. Knecht’s talents are
noticed early in his life and he is selected for the elite school of Eschholz. Prior to
this, he had distinguished himself from his fellow students and begun to be
accepted by his teachers more as a colleague than a student. Near the end of his
time at his earlier school, he had felt increasingly out of place. His fellow students
were no longer his equals, and this had attracted a mixture of admiration, envy and
distrust. At Eschholz, as his understanding of his own abilities grows, he
experiences moments of both quiet joy and suffering.
Knecht, in concluding his studies at Eschholz, is granted a vacation and during
this period takes a long journey by foot to spend some time with the Music Master,
his revered mentor. This sojourn, taken with one of his Eschholz classmates, forms
a crucial bridge for Knecht between his preparatory school years and his
immersion in Waldzell culture. The Music Master, himself burdened with an
exhausting schedule of commitments, finds his young admirer in a state of anxiety
over some of the most perplexing philosophical questions. His first intervention is
to immediately, despite his tiredness, provide Joseph with his first serious lesson in
the art of meditation. Meditation, the old Master stresses, is more important than
anything else Joseph will find as he enters a new phase in his Castalian life. ‘I want
you to learn it properly and well’, he says, ‘just as well as music, then everything
else will follow of its own accord’ (p. 68).
After a night of much needed sleep, occupied by a dream recalled later the next
day, Joseph quizzes the Master on the nature of the Glass Bead Game. Knecht is
both enlightened and puzzled by what he hears. At one point Joseph declares: ‘Oh,
if only it were possible to find understanding … If only there were a dogma to
believe in. Everything is contradictory, everything tangential; there are no
certainties anywhere’ (Hesse, 2000b, p. 73). Despairing that everything appears to
be open to opposing interpretations, the young student asks: ‘Isn’t there any truth?
Is there no real and valid doctrine?’ (p. 73). To this the Master responds:
There is truth, my boy. But the doctrine you desire, absolute, perfect dogma
that alone provides wisdom, does not exist. Nor should you long for a perfect
doctrine, my friend. Rather, you should long for perfection of yourself. The
deity is within you, not in ideas and books. Truth is lived, not taught. Be
46
prepared for conflicts, Joseph Knecht – I can see they have already begun
(p. 73).
The elite schools in Castalia place particular emphasis on intellectual pursuits. This
is especially true of the school at Waldzell, where Knecht is assigned after
excelling in his studies at Eschholz. Waldzell is for the most gifted of the elite
students. The town of Waldzell is also home of the Glass Bead Game. The Game
Hall, where public Glass Bead Game ceremonies are held, is located in Waldzell,
as are the Game Archives. The Magister Ludi (Master of the Game) also resides in
Waldzell. Waldzell, the narrator tells us, is distinguished from the other schools by
its focus on universality and its commitment to synthesising scholarship with the
arts. The highest symbol of this is the Glass Bead Game. While the Glass Bead
Game does not have the status of an official or compulsory subject in the school at
Waldzell, most students devote their private studies almost exclusively to it (Hesse,
2000b, p. 77).
It is at Waldzell that Knecht begins his enduring relationship with Plinio
Designori. Plinio is an outsider who has been sent by his father to spend some time
in Castalia but who will leave the pedagogical province after completing his
studies at Waldzell. Joseph and Plinio become protagonists in an extended debate
over the strengths and weaknesses of the Castalian system. Joseph remains a
supporter of Castalia and the Glass Bead Game, but as time passes and the dialogue
between the two youths deepens, he comes to respect Plinio’s position and question
assumptions he had hitherto taken for granted. Knecht and Plinio become leaders
among their fellow students. Their debates become legendary, and their friendship
grows. Plinio’s departure at the conclusion of his Waldzell stay leaves a
considerable gap in Knecht’s life.
Knecht is, we are told, around twenty four years old when he graduates from the
elite school at Waldzell and begins a period of free study. After being pushed into
prominence through his debates with Plinio during his Waldzell years, Joseph
relishes the opportunity for a quieter period of in-depth study and contemplation.
His understanding of the Glass Bead Game moves to a new level. He comes to
realise being an excellent player of the Game or even a competent Magister Ludi
does not guarantee that one will understand its real mystery and meaning. For the
‘dark interior’ of the Game, Knecht observes, ‘points down into the One and All,
into those depths where the eternal Atman eternally breathes in and out, sufficient
unto itself’ (p. 111).
Experiencing this deeper meaning of the Game within oneself, Knecht
concludes, would mean that one could no longer remain a player. The joy of
constructing new games would be lost, to be replaced by new raptures beyond the
world of multiplicity. Where for some students and players of the Game, and even
some of the teachers, the Glass Bead Game is merely an ‘interesting or amusing
speciality, an intellectual sport or an arena for ambition’ (p. 114), for Knecht it is
sacred. Knecht has doubts and questions that need to be answered. The Game had
become ‘the chief problem of his life, and he was by no means disposed to let well-
meaning spiritual guides ease his struggles or benignly smiling teachers dismiss
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them as trivial’ (p. 114). Knecht spends years analysing a single Game pattern. His
studies take him
... beyond the task of acquainting himself in the utmost detail with the
contents, principles, books, and systems contained in the Game plan, and
retracing as he went a way back through various cultures, sciences,
languages, arts, and centuries. He had also set himself the task that none of
his teachers even recognized, of employing these objects to check in detail
the systems and possibilities of expression in the art of the Glass Bead Game
(pp. 114-115).
The narrator reports that at the end of this quest, Knecht had found gaps and
inadequacies ‘here and there’ but that ‘on the whole our Glass Bead Game [had]
withstood his stringent reassessment’ (p. 115). Had this not been the case, the
narrator points out, Knecht would not have returned to the Game at the conclusion
of his research.
The narrator is, however, only telling part of the story here. For the seeds of
doubt sown through this period of deep contemplation and study, together with
those planted through his interactions with Plinio, never fully leave Joseph. Knecht
does return to the Game; indeed, he devotes his life to it and is eventually
appointed to the most important post associated with it, the position of Magister
Ludi. Yet, the uncertainties raised through these experiences continue to develop,
even as Knecht rises through the hierarchy of the Order of the Glass Bead Game.
Knecht’s encounter with Father Jacobus, a Benedictine monk, is pivotal in
enhancing his understanding of the importance of history.
Knecht is sent by the Board of Educators on what turns out to be a diplomatic
mission; an attempt to build bridges between Castalia and the Roman Catholic
church. Most Castalians have a disdain for history; they see their Order as the
pinnacle of cultural and intellectual achievement and set themselves apart from the
messy realities of outside political and economic life. They have no sense of
themselves as historical beings. They cannot see that their Order was created
through the actions of others in earlier times or imagine that one day it might either
change dramatically or disappear altogether. Their beloved Game is regarded as a
timeless creation: as something that transcends the fleeting impressions of
everyday activity. Knecht learns, over a period of many months, to subject these
Castalian assumptions to critical analysis. Father Jacobus too must overcome
certain prejudices, learning through his relationship with Joseph to appreciate some
of the deeper dimensions of the Game and the richness of Castalian intellectual
culture.
Knecht’s time at the Benedictine monastery proves enormously beneficial in
bringing the two Orders closer together. Knecht’s success is noted by the Castalian
hierarchy. Not noticed, at this stage, is the fact that he has undergone a process of
significant transformation. He has learned the value of dialogue, he has developed
an appreciation of the importance of history, and he now has a mature and more
critical understanding of Castalian society.
48
Plinio and Father Jacobus both play key roles in allowing Knecht to better
appreciate the relationship between Castalia and the outside world. But it is
Knecht’s experience at the very highest level – his work as Magister Ludi – that
proves decisive in highlighting some of the deep contradictions, tensions and
shortcomings in the Castalian way of life. At the very height of his administrative
powers, Knecht comes to realise that Castalia has already begun to decay; the
Order’s rigidity, hierarchy and separation from the outside world will inevitably
lead to its eventual destruction.
In his early days in office, Knecht devotes enormous energy to winning over the
tutors and other members of the hierarchy, not through words but through his
deeds. After this initial difficult and exhausting stage he settles into the job, quickly
placing his distinctive stamp on the post of Magister Ludi. With adroit
management skills he allows the enormously talented but brittle Fritz Tegularius to
work with him in creating a memorable new approach to the annual ceremonial
Game. The success of this endeavour is long remembered and provides
confirmation for the Board of their wisdom in appointing Knecht to the Magistry.
Joseph wears the magisterial robes with dignity, calmness and strength, deepening
the respect in which he is already held by his colleagues and revitalising the
perceptions of the Game by outsiders. After this celebrated festival, at ‘the brilliant
peak of his life’ (Hesse, 2000b, p. 249), Joseph comments enigmatically to
Tegularius:
We may be content … Yes, Castalia and the Glass Bead Game are wonderful
things; they come close to being perfect. Only perhaps they are too much so,
too beautiful. They are so beautiful that one can scarcely contemplate them
without fearing for them. It is not pleasant to think that some day they are
bound to pass away as everything else does. And yet one must think of that.
(pp. 248-249).
This statement serves as a turning point for the narrator, who notes that he is
now ‘forced to approach the most delicate and mysterious part of his task’ (p. 249).
While he would have preferred to have delayed this task, and to have dwelled a
little longer on Knecht’s exemplary conduct as Magister Ludi, it would be
misleading to avoid addressing the duality in Knecht’s life and character. From this
point on, the narrator says, it will be necessary to acknowledge this ‘dichotomy in
Knecht’s soul, or rather this ever-alternating polarity, as the central feature of his
nature, and to affirm it as such’ (p. 249). The narrator observes that it would not be
difficult to construct a hagiography of Knecht’s term as Magister Ludi, which,
apart from its last moments, could be accurately depicted as a glorious list of
achievements and successes. For the historian relying just on documented facts,
Knecht’s tenure in the Magistry is as ‘blameless and praiseworthy’ as any in
history (p. 249).
Nevertheless, Knecht’s period in office came to a most unusual, sensational,
and to the minds of many judges scandalous end, and this end was not mere
chance or misfortune but a wholly logical outcome of what went before. It is
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part of our task to show that it by no means contradicts the reverend Master’s
brilliant and laudable achievements. Knecht was a great, an exemplary
administrator, an honor to his high office, an irreproachable Glass Bead
Game Master. But he saw and felt the glory of Castalia, even as he devoted
himself to it, as an imperiled greatness that was on the wane. He did not
participate in its life thoughtlessly and unsuspectingly, as did the great
majority of his fellow Castalians, for he knew about its origins and history,
and was conscious of it as an historical entity, subject to time, washed and
undermined by time’s pitiless surges. (pp. 249-250)
In the penultimate chapter of the main part of the novel, Knecht presents a Circular
Letter to the Board of Educators seeking approval for his resignation from the
position of Magister Ludi and his departure from the Order. Having taken this
difficult but decisive step, Knecht reflects on how his understanding of awakening
had changed. Earlier in his life, Knecht had conceived of awakening as a ‘slow,
step-by-step penetration into the heart of the universe, into the core of truth; as
something in itself absolute, a continuous path or progression which nevertheless
had to be achieved gradually’ (Hesse, 2000b, p. 357). In his younger days, Knecht
had believed it important to acknowledge the outside world – represented by his
protagonist and friend Plinio – while also remaining aloof from it. Now, Knecht
has a different view:
“Awakening”, it seemed, was not so much concerned with truth and
cognition, but with experiencing and proving oneself in the real world. When
you had such an awakening, you did not penetrate any closer to the core of
things, to truth; you grasped, accomplished, or endured only the attitude of
your own ego to the momentary situation. You did not find laws, but came to
decisions; you did not thrust your way into the center of the world, but into
the center of your own individuality. That, too, was why the experience of
awakening was so difficult to convey, so curiously hard to formulate, so
remote from statement. Language did not seem designed to make
communications from this realm of life. (Hesse, 2000b, pp. 359-360)
And, significantly from an educational point of view, Knecht’s commitment to the
‘real world’ following his resignation from the post of Magister Ludi is through the
process of teaching. Knecht resolves to dedicate his life to tutoring Plinio’s son
Tito. This process, however, never fully comes into being, as Knecht drowns
suddenly after following Tito into a mountain lake.
The abrupt and tragic ending to the main part of the novel has baffled many
readers and attracted considerable debate in the scholarly literature on Hesse (see
Cohn, 1950; Bandy, 1972; Mileck, 1978). There is not space here to address this
part of the book in any detail. I take up Knecht’s death as the key theme in chapter
6. Briefly, however, it can be noted that one way of understanding Knecht’s death
is to see it as intimately connected with the autobiographies. In the three ‘Lives’
the idea of a cycle of life, learning and death is very much to the fore. The
autobiographies, as a number of commentators have pointed out (e.g., Boulby,
50
1966; Johnson, 1956; White and White, 1986; Ziolkowski, 1967), are significant in
understanding the nature and purpose of the book as a whole.
The poems and the Lives are explained in the text as works constructed by
Joseph Knecht. Students in the years of free study are required once a year to
prepare a fictional autobiography, imagining themselves in a different time and
place. Knecht’s autobiographies focus on processes of teaching and learning, with
different characters sacrificing themselves in various ways for the good of others.
In ‘The Rainmaker’, for example, the central character gives up his life for the
village, having already taught his son the ways of his craft. The Master and
apprentice model of education is dominant, but there are also other forms of
teaching and learning evident in the Lives. In the second autobiography, for
instance, the key character teaches others, and allows them to learn more about
themselves, through the quiet art of patient listening. And in the third
autobiography, the meditative wisdom of yogic learning is pivotal.
Hesse’s original concept for the book was the construction of a series of lives,
with the same character dying and being reborn at different moments in history
(see further, Field, 1968; Mileck, 1970; Remys, 1983). The story that became the
main part of the novel was intended to be just one of these lives, but, as the writing
progressed, it grew in scope and complexity and its relationship to other parts of
the book changed. By depicting the autobiographies as creations of Joseph Knecht
in his young adulthood, Hesse allows the idea of a continuous cycle of life,
learning and death to remain, while also showing how Knecht himself changes.
Knecht, through his fictional autobiographies, prefigures some of the defining
features of his later life – including, it can be argued, his own early death (which
Hesse saw as a form of pedagogical sacrifice: see Mileck, 1978, p. 304) – while
also growing in his capacity for reflective, imaginative thought. The end of the
main part of the book, then, is not the end of the book as a whole; Knecht’s death
is, in some senses, a new beginning, not only for Knecht himself (Cohn, 1950) but
for the further development of key themes in the novel.
CONCLUSION
Given the above account of Knecht’s educational transformation, what can now be
said about the analyses provided by Peters and Sears? By limiting his focus to the
first part of the novel, Peters must take the narrator at his word in describing
Castalia and the Glass Bead Game. But as the life of Knecht unfolds, the reader
becomes increasingly aware of the need for a certain form of incredulity when
reflecting back on the narrator’s account of Castalian society. The narrator is a
member of the Order and has an interest in preserving an ‘official’ portrait of the
Game and its achievements. While Knecht progresses steadily through the
Castalian hierarchy, eventually rising all the way to the pinnacle of the Order as
Magister Ludi, from his earliest days in Waldzell (and indeed during his time at
Eschholz as well) he raises questions and expresses doubts about the pedagogical
province and its relationship to the outside world. Knecht’s encounters with Plinio,
Father Jacobus and others allow him to form a much more nuanced and critical
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view of the Order of the Glass Bead Game than the narrator conveys in the General
Introduction. The life of Joseph Knecht does not conform to the model of
‘unproblematic development’ seen by Peters as characteristic of the early German
form of the Bildungsroman (Peters, 1996, p. 167). Knecht seems destined for
advancement and greatness within Castalia, yet his development is anything but
‘unproblematic’. The tensions Knecht experiences are lived both inwardly through
his struggles with his own thoughts and feelings and outwardly through his debates
and clashes with others. These conflicts, contradictions and uncertainties
eventually lead to his dramatic decision to resign his post as Magister Ludi and to
leave the Order.
The narrator’s account in the first part of the book is helpful in constructing the
Order of the Glass Bead Game as metaphor, and this is what Peters takes from the
book. But the Order as lived by Knecht is more complicated and equivocal than the
narrator’s General Introduction would suggest. Peters is right, I believe, to position
the book as part of the Bildungsroman tradition, but Hesse’s distinctive approach to
the tradition in The Glass Bead Game is worthy of further comment. It would be
inaccurate, I think, to see the novel as a kind of anti-Bildungsroman in the manner
of, say, Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure (see Giordano, 1972). But the book
gains its strength as part of the Bildungsroman tradition through its consciously
critical engagement with it. The Glass Bead Game encourages us to think again
about processes of human striving, social development and intellectual growth.
Swales (1978) – to whom, incidentally, Peters pays respectful homage –
summarises Hesse’s achievement well:
In this novel Hesse offers an affectionate, yet deeply critical, examination of
a familiar pattern in German thinking. The all-pervasive presence of the
Bildungsroman is the measure of the specificity of Hesse’s engagement with
the German tradition. The tensions that inform the novel suggest precisely his
uncertainties and misgivings. And these are also the tensions present in the
major Bildungsromanae. In its finest examples, this novel tradition is never
an unproblematic odyssey toward human wholeness. (p. 141)
In the General Introduction, the narrator hails the development, through the Game,
of a universal language capable of connecting all artistic values and intellectual
disciplines. Hesse’s own position on the question of universality, however, was
rather more complicated. In his message to the Nobel Prize Banquet celebrating his
award of the prize for literature in 1946 Hesse says:
[M]y ideal is not a cultural uniformity in which national characteristics are
blurred. By no means. I am all in favour of diversity, differentiation, and
gradation on our beloved earth! It is a wonderful thing that there should be
many races and nations, many languages, many variations in mentality and
outlook. If I hate and am irreconcilably opposed to war, conquests, and
annexations, it is in part because they destroy so much of the historically
determined individuality and differentiation of human culture. I am an enemy
52
of the “grand simplificateurs” and a lover of equality, of organic form, of the

inimitable. (Hesse, 1971, pp. 168-169)
Hesse, like Joseph Knecht, was profoundly ambivalent in his relationship to the
intellectual and social ideals promoted by Castalia. On the one hand, Hesse, like
Knecht, retained an abiding respect for the pursuit of knowledge, the exchange of
ideas and the quest for human fulfilment, all of which lay at the heart of the
Castalian vision. As we saw in chapters 1 and 2, Hesse admired the great musical,
literary and artistic achievements of the West as well as the East. But he could also
see limits and dangers in the drive to universality, to order and hierarchy,
characteristic of Western European societies – and most notably his native
Germany – in the first half of the twentieth century. Hesse was, from the
beginning, a strong opponent of Nazism, with its suppression of individuality, its
rigidity and conformity. Some of these negative social characteristics are evident in
Castalia (cf. Durrani, 1982), and The Glass Bead Game provides, through the life
of Joseph Knecht and the autobiographies, a trenchant critique of them.
Knecht’s relationships with other key characters – particularly the Music
Master, Plinio and Father Jacobus but also Tegularius, Elder Brother, and
Ferromonte – play a pivotal role in shaping his reflections and actions over the
course of his life. The tensions he experiences are crystallised in Knecht’s Circular
Letter to the Board of Educators, the culmination of his dramatic decision to resign
his post as Magister Ludi and leave the Order. Knecht’s interactions with Master
Alexander just prior to his departure from the Order demonstrate how far he has
moved in his thinking by comparison with his fellow senior Castalians. Alexander
discusses Knecht’s Letter with a certain coldness – and ‘official’ air – and
incomprehension. Knecht’s complex and critical appraisal of the Castalian way of
life contrasts sharply with Alexander’s more dogmatic support for the Order.
Alexander, unlike Knecht, is unable – or unwilling – to place Castalia in its broader
historical context.
These tensions and contradictions, which develop through the novel as a whole,
are analogous to those identified by Sears in the field of curriculum studies. By
concentrating on the Glass Bead Game as metaphor, Sears does not allow the
reader to see just how closely the tensions between ideals and lived reality in
Hesse’s novel mirror those found in the work of curriculum studies theorists. This
is somewhat ironic, given the emphasis Sears places on the need for a better link
between curriculum theory and the everyday lives of teachers. Knecht, in his
Circular Letter, conveys a position highly compatible with Sears’ stance on theory
and practice, stressing the need for Castalians to reach out – through teaching – to
others beyond the confines of the pedagogical province. ‘More and more’, he says,
‘we must recognize the humble, highly responsible service to the secular schools as
the chief and most honorable part of our mission’ (Hesse, 2000b, p. 342). The basis
for the cultural life of the country, Knecht maintains, is to be found not in Castalian
seminars or in the Glass Bead Game, but in the schoolrooms of working people.
Knecht, it must be remembered, gives away everything – his home, his position at
the summit of Castalian society, his status and security and friends in the Order –
to pursue the humble but vitally important task of educating one person. Education,
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Knecht comes to realise, is more than just a game, more than mere concepts.
Hesse’s message is unequivocal: teaching – as the means for connecting theory
with practice – matters, so much so that we should be prepared to sacrifice our
lives for it.
The Glass Bead Game is a book rich with educational tensions and possibilities.
It is through the educational life of Joseph Knecht that these tensions and
possibilities are played out. Through Knecht’s life and transformation, Hesse
invites us as readers to consider the narrator’s depiction of Castalian society and
the metaphor of the Glass Bead Game in a more complex and critical light. As
Swales puts it, ‘Knecht’s story is interesting precisely for those aspects which do
not easily fit with the Castalian ideology which the narrator so stridently affirmed
at the beginning of the novel’ (1978, p. 135). Hesse does not want us to reject
Castalian ideals outright; rather, he gives us the opportunity, as the book unfolds,
to ponder notions of universality, intellectual elitism, hierarchy and order in an
open-minded but questioning manner. The Glass Bead Game, when read
holistically, both explores and critiques modernist ideals of reason, social progress,
and human growth. In engaging the book rigorously and creatively, Peters and
Sears have made a significant contribution to educational scholarship. The task
now for other scholars is to build on their excellent work. The analysis in this
chapter suggests there is ample scope for further reflection on the educational
implications of this classic twentieth century novel.
54
CHAPTER 4
EDUCATION, SOCIETY AND THE INDIVIDUAL
INTRODUCTION
Hesse placed supreme importance on the value of the individual. From his youth he
had rebelled against the imposition of social authority on the individual, and he
continued this resistance throughout his adult life. The First World War had a
profound impact on his thinking and writing. He described this as a ‘cruel
awakening’ (Hesse, 1974c, p. 10) and in the years following the War he found
himself utterly at odds with the spirit of his times in his native Germany. He spent
much of his life in Switzerland. Hesse saw himself as an ‘unpolitical man’ and
even when writing about the War, he wanted to guide the reader ‘not into the world
theatre with its political problems but into his innermost being, before the
judgement seat of his very personal conscience’ (p. 11).
In Hesse’s novels and short stories, many of which have an educational focus,
the theme of individual spiritual striving is paramount. His early novel, Peter
Camenzind (Hesse, 1969), provides a fictionalised biographical account of the title
character’s life, from his early years in the mountains, through his time as a student
and his development as a writer, to his later life of devotion to a disabled friend and
his elderly father. Beneath the Wheel (Hesse, 1968b) details the traumatic school
experiences and tragic post-school life of a talented student. Siddhartha (Hesse,
2000a) takes the title character on a journey of self-discovery, with an exploration
of dramatically different modes of life: asceticism, the world of business, sexual
liberation, and oneness with nature, among others. Steppenwolf (Hesse, 1965)
focuses on the mid-life crises faced by Harry Haller, who bears a considerable
resemblance to Hesse himself.
In all of these novels, as in most others in Hesse’s corpus, questions of social
structure are addressed only implicitly. It is not that Hesse ignores the social realm
altogether. Social relationships, within and outside institutions, are important in
many of Hesse’s books. These are often explored through romantic longings, as in
Peter Camenzind (Hesse, 1969) and Gertrude (Hesse, 1974d), or through
friendships and relationships of admiration, as in Beneath the Wheel (Hesse,
1968b), Demian (Hesse, 1999), and Narcissus and Goldmund (Hesse, 1968a).
Beneath the Wheel (Hesse, 1968b) provides a sharp critique of one of our most
hallowed institutions: the school. Even the restrained Rosshalde (Hesse, 1972) can
be seen as a quiet questioning of the institution of marriage. Steppenwolf (Hesse,
1965) shows that Harry’s crises are, in part, a response to the hypocrisy and
shallowness of bourgeois social norms. In none of these cases, however, does
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Hesse make social systems or structures his principal concern. Rather, the focus is
more on the individual and how he or she responds to the challenges thrown up by
life.
The Glass Bead Game (Hesse, 2000b) is unique among Hesse’s novels in the
explicit and detailed attention it pays to a form of social organisation: the utopian
Castalia, a pedagogical province of the future. Like many of Hesse’s other books,
The Glass Bead Game details events in the life of an individual, Joseph Knecht, but
in many ways Knecht’s inner life as an individual remains ‘disguised’ by the form
of the narrative. The focus is as much, if not more, on the strengths and limitations
of Castalia as a social ideal. This shift in emphasis is foreshadowed in The Journey
to the East (Hesse, 1956), with its account of an esoteric League devoted to
spiritual enlightenment. In that work, however, the nature of the League itself
remains somewhat mysterious. In The Glass Bead Game the defining features of
Castalia as a social system emerge in full and overt detail. This is initially by way
of explanation – in a ‘General Introduction’ by the narrator – and then via
successive chapters detailing Knecht’s life in the pedagogical province.
This chapter considers the connections between the individual, society and
education in Hesse’s work. Particular but not exclusive attention will be paid to
The Glass Bead Game in investigating that relationship. It is argued that for the
mature Hesse, ‘self’ and ‘society’ are dynamically intertwined. Education, it will
be suggested, plays a pivotal role in linking the individual and society together.
The chapter is structured in three parts. The first section comments on the
importance of hierarchy and order in Hesse’s fictional world of Castalia. This is
followed by a more detailed examination of Knecht’s educational transformation.
Knecht comes to appreciate that ‘awakening’, as he calls it, is not merely a matter
of individual development but a process of reaching out – through education – to
the wider world. The final part of the chapter reflects briefly on the question of
Hesse’s alleged elitism and the bearing this has on his view of the relationship
between the individual and society. I draw a distinction between cultural elitism
and educational elitism, maintaining that Hesse subscribes to a version of the
former but not the latter.
HIERARCHY, ORDER AND INDIVIDUALITY IN CASTALIA
At the beginning of The Glass Bead Game, the narrator notes that one of the
longstanding principles of intellectual life in Castalia is ‘the obliteration of
individuality, the maximum integration of the individual into the hierarchy of the
educators and scholars’ (Hesse, 2000b, p. 3). So seriously is this principle taken
that it is always difficult and often impossible to obtain biographical and personal
information, or even names, for those who have given exemplary service to the
hierarchy. ‘The hierarchic organization’, the narrator says, ‘cherishes the ideal of
anonymity, and comes very close to the realization of that ideal’ (p. 3). There are
well defined roles for different citizens in Castalia, from the most novice of
students to the Masters of the various arts. There is an elitist schooling system,
with only the very best boys – and it is an all male hierarchy – making it through to
56
the highest levels. Among the different groupings in Castalian society, the Order of
the Glass Bead Game carries a special mystique. Important decisions are made by
a Board of Educators. There are clear rules and procedures, and questioning of the
Castalian system is rare. Individuals are expected to suppress any sense of self
importance in favour of the good of the wider Castalian community.
The idea of obliterating individuality is, however, only partly borne out in the
rest of the book. For the narrator makes it clear at numerous points that positions of
leadership in the hierarchy are held in great esteem. The Music Master is revered,
not just by Knecht, but by others who come into contact with him at different
points in the story (e.g., Petrus, who idolises the ageing Master). At the apex of the
Order of the Glass Bead Game is the position of Magister Ludi, and not only
Knecht but other Magisters are venerated. Magister Thomas von der Trave,
Knecht’s immediate predecessor, is spoken of in glowing terms, and Magister
Ludwig Wassermaler, who ‘reigned during the era of Waldzell’s most exuberant
passion for the Game’ (p. 249), is remembered to the present day as a figure of
legendary importance. Names, then, are not forgotten altogether and the deeds of
those named are acknowledged and accorded deep respect.
Individuality seems to want to push itself forward despite the narrator’s best
intentions. A clear portrait of Knecht’s distinctiveness as Magister Ludi emerges.
The narrator seems to make a special point, later in the book, of showing how
Knecht can be compared in greatness to Magister Wassermaler yet also be
distinguished from him. Knecht’s succession to the Magistry following the death of
Master Thomas von der Trave is described precisely in terms that demonstrate his
unusual individual strengths and the bearing these have on the shape and character
of his term in office. Individuals, then, do not disappear altogether and the
hierarchy not only remembers but cherishes the names and people behind them that
have made Castalia what it is.
At the same time, it cannot be denied that certain forms of individuality are
suppressed – sometimes brutally so. Knecht’s friend Tegularius (a character Hesse
modelled on Friedrich Nietzsche) lives, as it were, ‘on the edge’ throughout the
novel. He is described or portrayed at various points as oversensitive, over bred,
morose, socially inept, sickly, and arrogant. His brilliant intellect is recognised but
he is regarded as utterly unsuitable for higher office and leads a precarious,
cloistered existence within a closed Castalian world. Knecht’s excellence in the
role of Magister Ludi is demonstrated, in part, by his ability to draw out the best
from Tegularius – harnessing the latter’s intellect for the development of a new and
memorable approach to the Game shortly after taking office – while taking care not
to place him in positions for which he is manifestly unsuited. Later, concerned at
the impact his decision to leave the Order will have on Tegularius, Knecht has
Tegularius undertake some background research for his Circular Letter to the
Board of Educators. Tegularius, with his instinctive tendency toward
rebelliousness, relishes the opportunity to uncover evidence and develop arguments
against the Castalian hierarchy. Tegularius survives – but only just.
Another individual, Bertram, is not so fortunate. Bertram is Magister Thomas
van der Trave’s ‘Shadow’ (Deputy). When Thomas falls ill, Bertram is, in keeping
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with Castalian tradition, not considered as a candidate for the Magistry. The
Shadow, the narrator informs us, is expected to stand in for the Master when
necessary and is thus an important person in the hierarchy. But on becoming the
Shadow, a member of the elite gives up any further ambition and allows others to
stand ahead of him when a replacement in the Magistry is required. Bertram is
treated with almost sadistic coldness by the other members of the elite. He is
despised for his shortcomings in organising the annual Game festival. Following
the festival, he is, in effect, forced to take a vacation and never returns to the Order.
He is found dead in the mountains, the enmity of the Castalian elite having been so
intense that his fatal fall ‘strikes the reader as nothing short of an execution’
(Friedrichsmeyer, 1974, p. 284).
So, how are we to understand the relationship between the individual and
society in Castalia? On the face of it, Castalian society is, as Durrani (1982) points
out, hostile to expressions of individuality. The most loyal members of the
hierarchy – Thomas, Alexander, Dubois – are, in Durrani’s words, also the ‘least
admirable personalities’ (p. 667). Those who demonstrate individual self-will –
Bruder, Tegularius, Petrus, Bertram and Knecht himself – ultimately becomes
victims of the system. Despite this suppression – or perhaps because of it – the
authenticity of the individual never disappears.
A clue to understanding this lies in Hesse’s own words. Hesse claimed that he
was at odds with ‘political thinkers of all trends’. ‘I shall always’, he said,
‘incorrigibly, recognize in man, in the individual man and his soul, the existence of
realms to which political impulses and forms do not extend’ (Hesse, 1974c, p. 11).
Hesse appeared to be an example of what The Glass Bead Game conveys in
fictional form. He was an individualist who rebelled against an authoritarian
German regime. Despite being ostracised for his beliefs he went on to speak out,
repeatedly, against the destructive impact of Nazi policies, attitudes and practices.
In one sense there were realms within Hesse to which the political impulses of his
time did not extend, and yet the very fact that he was able to assert his individuality
by resisting the social trends of his time was indicative of the influence of those
times on Hesse. Hesse was neither separable from those times nor reducible to
them. He was, as Paulo Freire would have put it (Freire, 2004), shaped but not
determined by his circumstances. This point can best be fleshed out by examining
the life of Joseph Knecht.
AWAKENING, EDUCATION AND THE WIDER WORLD
In his younger years, Knecht’s attitude toward the Order and those who teach in it
is one of reverence. As we have seen in previous chapters, his support for Castalian
ideals is called into question by Plinio in their youthful exchanges. But Joseph
lacks the maturity to live comfortably with the uncertainty engendered by these
debates. His responses to Plinio still have a somewhat reactionary and defensive
character and he appears, at times, to concentrate more on the art of verbal
contestation than the ideas themselves. He is still learning how to probe and
explore with the kind of open-minded, questioning, investigative spirit that will
58
come to characterise his later life. These qualities begin to develop through
Joseph’s years of private study following his graduation from the elite schools of
Castalia, and they are extended during his time with Father Jacobus. Through
Father Jacobus, Knecht learns how to put Castalia into broader historical and social
perspective. This proves pivotal in the formation of Knecht’s later critique of
Castalia. Castalians not only do not embrace an historical view of the world; they
emphatically reject it and consider themselves to be, in a sense, ‘beyond’ history.
Knecht’s questioning and discussion to this point had always been within a narrow
part of the Castalian environment. Taken outside this, albeit to another cloistered
world, he has the opportunity to participate first-hand in a way of life, in the
customs and practices, of another group of people. Knecht’s growing maturity in
this phase of his life becomes evident in the way he not only learns from Father
Jacobus but teaches him. There is much that Father Jacobus has to learn as well,
and Knecht’s relationship with him is more one of respect than reverence. Dialogue
and a spirit of mutual inquiry prevail.
Through his dialogical relationship with Father Jacobus, Knecht comes to see
that Castalia came into being through the decisions and actions of human beings, is
sustained by the ongoing work of others in the outside world, and will one day be
superseded by new social arrangements, as has always been the case throughout
human history. Senior figures in the Order of the Glass Bead Game venerate their
beloved Game above all else and see Castalia as the pinnacle of cultural and
intellectual achievement. They are, however, too complacent – too smug and
unreflective – in holding this view. They are, for the most part, unwilling to put it
to the test in active conversation with others from outside the pedagogical
province. They are, to use another Freirean expression, ‘too certain of their
certainties’ (Freire, 1997). Knecht’s appointment as Magister Ludi takes him to the
summit of the Glass Bead Game hierarchy; yet even during his moments of
greatest success in the Magisterial role Knecht has doubts. He comes to realise that
Castalia – with its rigidity, its hierarchy, its isolation – imposes limits on those who
take its ideals seriously and is already in decline.
I have argued earlier that as Knecht matures, he develops an increasingly
sophisticated understanding of his own transformation. This claim can be further
substantiated with reference to the central theme of this chapter: the connection
between the individual and society, and the role of education in linking the two. As
a youth, Joseph had been aware of the need to acknowledge the outside world,
represented by Plinio, yet he had also seen himself (as had most Castalians) as
separate from and superior to this. He had at one time been able to embrace a
simplistic idealism in his view of Castalia and its relationship to the rest of the
world. He had seen
… the Order and the Castalian spirit as equivalent to the divine and the
absolute, the Province of the world, Castalians as mankind, and the non-
Castalian sphere as a kind of children’s world, a threshold to the Province,
virgin soil still awaiting cultivation and ultimate redemption, a world still
looking reverently up to Castalia and every so often sending charming
visitors such as young Plinio. (p. 357)
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Knecht’s life had seemed to unfold in a progressive way, from his decision (despite
doubts) to commit himself to the Glass Bead Game to his eventual appointment as
Magister Ludi. On the surface, he had taken a series of steps on a seemingly
straight road – ‘and yet he now stood at the end of this road, by no means at the
heart of the universe and the innermost core of truth’ (p. 358). He had come to
realise that the present moment in his process of awakening – his sense of why he
had to leave the Order to take up a life of teaching – was, like all previous
moments, ‘no more than a brief opening of his eyes, a finding himself in a new
situation, a fitting into new constellations’ (p. 358). His path, he now saw, had
‘been a circle, or an ellipse or spiral or whatever, but certainly not straight; straight
lines evidently belonged only to geometry, not to nature and life’ (p. 358).
Prior to his departure from Castalia, Knecht meets with his colleague Master
Alexander. Joseph feels regret that Alexander cannot understand his reasons for
wanting to leave the Order. For Alexander, Knecht’s decision is an inappropriate
assertion of his (Joseph’s) individuality, an abandonment of the principle of
respecting the hierarchy and authority of the Order. He cannot see, as Knecht does,
‘that the apparent wilfulness of his present action was in reality service and
obedience, that he was moving not toward freedom, but toward new, strange, and
hitherto unknown ties’ (p. 359). Knecht sees himself ‘not a fugitive, but a man
responding to a summons; not headstrong, but obedient’ (p. 359). For Knecht, the
decision to leave is a commitment to serve others; it is a form of sacrifice, rather
than self indulgence. Alexander, bound more tightly to the Castalian way of life
and view of the world, cannot see this. After his meeting with Knecht, Alexander
finally breaks down some of the emotional barriers that had prevented him from
connecting in a human way with Knecht. He realises that he had come to love and
admire his colleague. But he does not convey these feelings to Knecht, and Joseph
leaves as planned.
Awakening, as Knecht understands it just prior to his departure from the Order,
is not merely a matter of individual development or of truth and cognition but of
becoming involved with the wider world. That Knecht dies before experiencing
anything other than a small fraction of what this new world has to offer may be his
destiny, but it is also an invitation to imagine what might have been. This is not
idle speculation, as Bandy (1972) suggests, but an interpretation and extension of
what is already there – already present in Knecht and his shifting consciousness of
himself, his purpose and his relationships with others (cf. Cohn, 1950). Bandy
emphasises the extent to which Knecht has been influenced by Castalia. Knecht has
lived in the pedagogical province most of his life, and the Castalian system has
played the dominant role in shaping him as a human being. But there is no one way
of being a Castalian, and Knecht’s individuality cannot avoid breaking through the
conformity and rigidity of the hierarchy. This, indeed, is the final mark of his
greatness: that he had the insight and the courage to recognise, in a reasoned and
balanced way, Castalia’s flaws and to leave behind the trappings of office for a
humble life as a tutor.
60
INDIVIDUALISM, CULTURAL ELITISM AND EDUCATION
One of Hesse’s interpreters, Stanley Antosik (1978), sees The Glass Bead Game as
a reflection of Hesse’s own inclinations as a cultural elitist:
Here a caste of patricians subsidizes a priestly elite that serves as the final
arbiter in all cultural and educational matters. However fantastic, this
medieval utopia was not intended merely to lengthen the list of ideal societies
conceived by people over the ages. Since the early 1930’s, Hesse believed
that a League of Journeyers to the East would help lay the groundwork for
the actual emergence of a Castalian elite. He even thought of himself as the
spokesman (Sprecher) for an existing League drawn from widely-scattered
and anonymous German youths, some of them his correspondents. That it
was a part of his private world and no one else’s failed to perturb Hesse. A
bold response was called for by the grave consequences of Hitler’s rise to
power, and this was Hesse’s way of making it. Besides, he was an old hand at
blurring the distinctions between the imaginary and the actual. (p. 67)
I think Antosik is only partially right here. I would want to draw a distinction
between a certain kind of cultural elitism and an alleged educational elitism.
Hesse, it seems to me, was a cultural elitist in the limited sense that he valued what
he saw as the greatest and most noble artistic, intellectual and spiritual
achievements of human beings down through the ages, within both Eastern and
Western traditions. The need to honour these achievements is clearly conveyed in a
number of his novels and non-fiction writings. The Glass Bead Game is unique in
its imaginative development of a social system specifically devoted to upholding
these traditions and their highest expression – in the future – through the Glass
Bead Game. But Hesse, in my view, was not an educational elitist. The Glass Bead
Game makes this point in the most dramatic and memorable terms: Joseph Knecht,
the central character in the novel, gives up everything – his prestigious post at the
summit of the Castalian hierarchy, his colleagues and friends in the Order, and the
way of life to which he had become accustomed – for the sake of educating a
single youth.
Knecht realises that much as he loves the Glass Bead Game and the traditions
associated with it, Castalia as a society is doomed to disappear. In his Circular
Letter to the Board of Educators, in which he requests approval for his decision to
leave the pedagogical province and outlines his reasons for doing so, he draws
attention to the fundamental importance of schools and of teaching:
A Board of Educators can function without a Magister Ludi. But although we
have almost forgotten it, “Magister Ludi” of course originally meant not the
office we have in mind when we use the word, but simply schoolmaster. And
the more endangered Castalia is, the more its treasures stale and crumble
away, the more our country will need its schoolmasters, its brave and good
schoolmasters. Teachers are more essential than anything else, men who can
give the young the ability to judge and distinguish, who serve them as
examples of the honoring of truth, obedience to the things of the spirit,
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respect for language. That holds not only for our elite schools, which will be
closed down sooner or later, but also and primarily for the secular schools on
the outside where the burghers and peasants, artisans and soldiers, politicians,
military officers, and rulers are educated and shaped while they are still
malleable children. That is where the basis for the cultural life of the country
is to be found, not in the seminars or in the Glass Bead Game. (Hesse, 2000b,
p. 342).
The views expressed in this Circular Letter, if we take them to be representative of
the mature Hesse and not merely Joseph Knecht, carry all the more weight when
considered against the background of Hesse’s own experiences with the education
system. Hesse felt severely repressed by his schooling and rebelled strongly,
creating a great deal of tension within himself and with his teachers and family.
There is every reason to believe Hesse wanted us to take Knecht’s position
seriously.
Hesse had laboured over The Glass Bead Game for more than a decade. He
thought deeply about the book and the philosophical questions posed by his
narrative. The book says a great deal about what Hesse himself came to believe,
even though The Glass Bead Game is not a didactic text. The closest it comes to
this is in the General Introduction provided by the narrator at the beginning of the
book. But as the reader progresses through the book, travelling with Joseph Knecht
on his educational journey, it becomes clear that much of the rest of the novel is
intended to trouble the picture of Castalia painted by the narrator. The narrator,
readers learn, is a representative of the Castalian elite assigned the role of writing a
‘biography’ of Joseph Knecht. As a member of the Castalian hierarchy, the narrator
has an interest in portraying the achievements of the pedagogical province in a
particular light. The narrator is steeped in Castalian culture and adopts the same
‘stiff’, official, strangely detached tone typical of many of Knecht’s colleagues in
the Order of the Glass Bead Game. Yet, even the narrator himself cannot avoid
being moved by the story of Joseph Knecht and it is apparent that as the main part
of the book progresses the narrator’s mode of expression becomes slightly less
stilted, more empathetic and human in character. The narrator himself, then,
despite being a staunch member of the hierarchy, begins to show a certain
individuality.
A comparison between The Journey to the East and The Glass Bead Game is
instructive in seeking to understand Hesse’s position on the relationship between
the self, society and education. The Journey to the East (Hesse, 1956), while
introducing a social element in the form of the League of journeyers, concentrates
on the self development of the central character, H.H. – and on the development of
his consciousness in particular. There is an implied view of education lurking in
the shadows of The Journey to the East but this remain underdeveloped in the
novel.
As discussed in previous chapters, H.H. lapses into despair following the
disbanding of his group of Journeyers to the East. This event was precipitated by
the disappearance of the servant Leo from H.H.’s group. H.H. constructs his
involvement with this group of journeyers as the only meaningful experience of his
62
life and spends much of the book living in a dream like world of memories
associated with his time in the League. His education, such as it is, consists in a
series of relatively abrupt revelations. Leo, he learns, is still alive. The League has
never disappeared; instead it is H.H. who has abandoned the League. Leo, it turns
out, is President of the League and H.H. must follow his lead – indeed, become him
– if he is to know and fulfil himself.
Education thus exemplified becomes a process of letting go: letting go of that
which troubles the self, of tensions and contradictions, of questions and doubts, in
order to be transformed into the Other by faith. In The Journey to the East the
Other is represented by Leo, who is seen as a kind of higher self for H.H. In The
Glass Bead Game, by contrast, education is portrayed as a process of more deeply
understanding the self and society by interacting with the Other. Blind acceptance
of social norms, while endorsed by some in the Castalian hierarchy, is contested by
Knecht as he progresses in his educational journey. Questions are not counter-
productive in this model of education; rather, they are essential to it. Doubt and
uncertainty are not shunned as disturbances of the soul but seen as vital for the
self’s good health and continuing growth. The self is shaped by others but not
reduced to them.
Norton (1973) draws attention to the combination in Hesse’s life and work
between, on the one hand, a certain kind of self-distancing from society and yet, on
the other, an intense concern with human problems. Hesse believed that human
transformation would require spiritual reorientation rather than blind reliance on
technological developments and political systems. This belief, in Hesse’s later
years at least, was not so much a reflection of an escape from reality as a pragmatic
and practical response to the shortcomings of ‘romantic individualism and political
ideologies run rampant’ (Norton, 1973, p. 137). Hesse wanted to hold on to the
best traditions of the past while also being prepared to consider what at first might
seem novel or even absurd in the future. In Norton’s words,
… although [Hesse] remained very much an “outsider”, he increasingly
became aware that he could not become so involved in his personal problems
that would lose sight of the central truth that the individual’s fate is in many
ways bound to that of society. (p. 137)
Hesse’s exploration of the relationship between the individual and society in The
Glass Bead Game has its roots in his wider belief system. Hesse, while
acknowledging his Christian background, was heavily influenced by Eastern
mysticism and sought to synthesise insights from a number of different spiritual
traditions. The ideal of Christian love was important to Hesse but this went beyond
the notion of treating others as we would like to be treated ourselves. As Seidlin
(1950) observes, ‘the Christian Hesse again and again substitutes for Christ’s
words, “Love Thy neighbor as Thyself” the Buddhist’s “… Love your neighbor for
he is yourself”’ (p. 342). There is much in The Glass Bead Game that recalls
Dostoevsky’s idea, expressed most tellingly and memorably in The Brothers
Karamazov (Dostoevsky, 1991), that we are responsible for all. For Hesse, or at
least the mature Hesse, the individual cannot be separated from society. To respect
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the integrity – the uniqueness – of one individual is simultaneously to respect the

integrity of all individuals.
Our thoughts and actions have consequences for others, some of which will be
self-evident, immediate or dramatic, others of which will be subtle and indirect but
long lasting. The Glass Bead Game shows, through both the main part of the book
and the three fictional autobiographies, how this process occurs. Joseph Knecht is
not only himself but also, in a certain sense, the Music Master, Plinio Designori,
Father Jacobus, Fritz Tegularius, and many others. These people have a deep
impact on Joseph’s life: they, in considerable part, make him the distinctive
Castalian that he is. Yet, he also has a significant influence on their lives. Plinio’s
youthful exchanges with Joseph, for example, provide the foundation for a lifelong
relationship with the pedagogical province. And Father Jacobus not only teaches
Knecht, developing within him a hitherto uncultivated appreciation for history, but
also learns from him, acquiring a less jaundiced and more open-minded view of
Castalia and its role in preserving intellectual culture.
CONCLUDING COMMENTS
It was no accident, I believe, that Hesse allowed the central character in The Glass
Bead Game, Joseph Knecht, to develop an increasingly critical view of the
pedagogical province and to see education as a key to overcoming the stagnation of
Castalian society. Knecht’s critical consciousness develops through dialogue with
others (principally but not exclusively Father Jacobus and Plinio Designori), and
allows him to examine not only Castalia but himself – and his life’s purpose – in a
new light. This is arguably the most important theme of the novel and it reflects the
process Hesse went through in pondering his own educational biography. Hesse
had an unhappy time at school, but he never rejected all educational ideals. Almost
all of Hesse’s novels are concerned in some way with a form of self education – or,
to put this more precisely, with the education of the self. The Glass Bead Game
shows, more clearly and fully than any of Hesse’s other books, how the education
of the self is necessarily intertwined with the education of others.
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CHAPTER 5
LIFE, DEATH AND TRANSFORMATION
INTRODUCTION
In previous chapters brief reference has been made to the work of Paulo Freire in
explaining the nature of Joseph Knecht’s transformation. This chapter applies
Freirean theory in a more extended way. It also comments on weaknesses in
Freire’s philosophy in the light of the ideas conveyed by Hesse in The Glass Bead
Game. I argue that Knecht develops a critical consciousness, becoming, over time,
less certain of his certainties, more aware of his own incompleteness, and
increasingly convinced of the importance of teaching. Dialogue, as previous
chapters have hinted, plays a key role in the development of Knecht’s critique of
Castalia and his understanding of himself and his vocation as a human being.
The chapter falls into three main parts. The first section provides an in-depth
analysis of the dialogical bond that develops between Knecht and the two other
characters that play such key roles in his educational development: Plinio
Designori and Father Jacobus. I then discuss the relationship between
conscientisation and contemplation for Knecht and others in Castalia. The final
part reflects on the significance of death as a theme in the novel and considers
some of the educational implications arising from this.
DIALOGUE, QUESTIONING AND TRANSFORMATION
As noted in chapter 2, at the heart of Freire’s work is the ideal of humanisation

(Freire, 1972a). Humanisation, for Freire, means becoming more fully human
through critical, dialogical praxis. From a Freirean point of view, this is a
necessarily incomplete process: we can only become more fully human, never fully
human. Freire sees humans as unfinished beings, always in a process of becoming.
Freire identified oppression as a pivotal theme in the twentieth century and saw
liberation as a fundamental task for all human beings. Liberation, his work
suggests, is not an endpoint to be reached by individuals but a multilayered, social
process of struggle (Freire, 1996, 1998b).
While education on its own cannot transform oppressive structures, policies and
practices, it can play an important role in this process. Liberating education
concentrates on the posing of problems rather than the giving of answers; it draws
upon, but does not rest with, students’ experience and existing knowledge; and it
fosters the development of a critical consciousness. In his earlier work (Freire,
1972a, 1972b, 1976), Freire used the term ‘conscientisation’ to describe the
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process of deepening one’s understanding of self and society through education.

Conscientisation allows students – and teachers – to place personal difficulties in
their larger social, cultural and historical contexts. Freire identified a number of
intellectual virtues in those seeking to know and transform the world: curiosity,
openness, humility, an inquiring and investigative spirit, a willingness to ask
questions, the ability to listen, and a commitment to dialogue (Freire, 1985, 1998a;
Freire & Faundez, 1989). Knowing, for Freire, is a process one participates in with
one’s whole being – with reason, emotion and action (Freire, 1997).
Freire argued against both authoritarian (banking) and ‘anything goes’
approaches to education. Freirean dialogue is purposeful and rigorous, with a
strong sense of structure and direction (Freire and Shor, 1987). Freire insisted that
he was a teacher and not merely a facilitator. He stressed the significance of the
responsibilities carried by the teacher and the need for sound preparation and a
deep understanding of both the subject matter and pedagogy. Learning, Freire
believed, was very much a lifelong process. As necessarily incomplete beings we
always have more educational work to do. Education allows us to live with –
indeed, embrace – uncertainty. Education encourages us to accept a certain kind of
restlessness; there will always be more searching to do, further problems to address
and questions to ask, fresh dialogues to enter into, and new actions that must be
taken to change the world (see further, Roberts, 2010).
Knecht’s development is consistent with many features of Freire’s educational
ideal. Knecht has an inquiring and investigative disposition; he loves the Glass
Bead Game and respects the traditions and rituals associated with it. But he is not
prepared to simply accept what others have to say about the Game and the
supremacy of the Castalian way of life. He seeks to truly know the Game,
immersing himself deeply in its inner mysteries. In doing so, however, he does not
lose sight of the larger context within which the Game occurs. Dialogue plays a
crucial role in the development of Knecht’s critical, questioning approach to
himself, his purpose in life, and the nature of Castalian society. Knecht, Jacobus
and Plinio are all transformed through their dialogical relationships with each
other.
This transformation does not, however, occur in a uniform or straightforward
way. Joseph and Plinio both have much to learn about life when they first meet
each other, and the ‘point scoring’ nature of some of their early exchanges provides
both a stimulus and an impediment for their further education and growth as human
beings. Their enthusiasm for a dialogical ‘battle’ is as much an assertion of wills as
an attempt to learn, and this inhibits their ability to gain as much as they could
from their relationship with each other. Sometimes it seems as if their desire is not
merely to know but also to win, and the calm, concentrated attention necessary to
more deeply understand an opposing point of view suffers as a result. But as their
relationship develops and matures, their ability to realise the fuller potential of
educational dialogue increases. Through their debates they sharpen their intellects,
hone their abilities in argument, and develop strong leadership qualities. They gain
considerable respect from their peers, paving the way for their later elevation to
positions of importance in their different worlds: Joseph as Magister Ludi within
66
the protected confines of Castalia, Plinio as a senior political figure in the outside
world.
Father Jacobus is older than Knecht and can draw on a broader range of life
experiences than his Castalian friend. Yet, he has also become, in some respects,
more ‘set in his ways’ than Joseph. He has greater depth in scholarly and practical
knowledge than Knecht, but his views of the pedagogical province have been
coloured by tensions between the Church and Castalia. Jacobus, for all his
experience, is still very much a man of his times, shaped by the prejudices of his
institution, with a somewhat caricatured picture of life of Castalia. Without the
benefit of his time with Knecht, there is every possibility his unreflective and
somewhat ill-informed indictment of Castalia, its inhabitants and the Glass Bead
Game would have become even more entrenched.
Knecht also learns a great deal from Father Jacobus. As a Castalian, he had been
encouraged to view history with suspicion; to regard earlier times and other worlds
as inferior to the intellectual and cultural environment created in the pedagogical
province. From Father Jacobus, Knecht comes to appreciate how Castalia had been
formed, how its privileges had been sustained by others, and why its disdain for
history is a potentially fatal weakness. The dialogical relationship between Joseph
and Father Jacobus – developed over a period of two years – plays a pivotal role in
changing not only Knecht and Jacobus themselves but also their respective Orders.
Father Jacobus is already a world leader in his Order, and it is clear that the gradual
but eventually significant shift in his view of the pedagogical province and its
inhabitants will impact directly on the future direction of the Church. The impact
on Castalia is not just in the improvement of relations with the Church (something
Knecht’s superiors had had in mind all along in sending him to Mariafels) but,
later, on the direction Knecht takes in the position of Magister Ludi.
Joseph Knecht, unlike other senior figures in the Order of the Glass Bead Game,
becomes, as Freire (1997) would say, less certain of his certainties as he grows
older. In this respect, he stands opposed to the spirit of Castalia. For the
pedagogical province is founded, at the time of Knecht’s departure, on a kind of
excessive certainty: an unreflective smugness about Castalia’s triumph over the
problems of the past. The narrator, a representative of Castalia, writes
disparagingly in his Introduction of what he sees as trivial amusements in the Age
of Feuilletonism (the period of bourgeois individualism in the first half of the
twentieth century). These include crossword puzzles and popular newspapers. Yet,
to outsiders, the subjects addressed by scholars in Castalia can appear to be equally
insignificant. Even the Game itself, the ultimate expression of Castalian intellectual
and aesthetic life, rests on fragile foundations.
At the end of the main part of the novel, Knecht remains an incomplete being,
and is aware of himself as such. This is, in part, what distinguishes him from many
of his Castalian colleagues; Knecht has a sense that he has more to offer than the
pedagogical province will allow. Castalia, with its closed, hierarchical, inward-
looking attitudes and structures, cannot provide what Knecht needs for his further
educational development. As Knecht has grown older, he has felt an increasingly
strong need to teach – to play a role in shaping and guiding young people, not just
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within but beyond the pedagogical province. This sets him apart from most of his
fellow Castalians, who see themselves as separate from and superior to the rest of
world. Knecht’s Circular Letter to the Board of Educators, in which he outlines his
reasons for seeking to leave the Order, is the culmination of the process of
transformation he has undergone. In his letter, Knecht shows that he has changed
even if Castalia has not. Knecht can no longer live within the limits imposed by
Castalian society and breaks away to commit himself to the new task of teaching.
Success in the Castalian system no longer matters to Knecht and he longs to taste
life outside. The rejection of Castalian authority is simultaneously an assertion of
Knecht’s authority: an expression of the self-will that Hesse regarded as so
important.
At the same time, Castalia continues to live through Knecht even while he is
arguing against it. Knecht has changed but he has changed under Castalian
circumstances. As such, he is, in many ways, ill prepared for the world outside and
for the vocation of teaching Tito. Knecht has not raised a family and he has
experienced little of political and economic life outside Castalia. But he is more
open minded than many of his Castalian colleagues and is willing to learn. While
Knecht’s growth as a human being can be seen as a process of transformation, this
is not to say that nothing has remained constant over the course of his life. There
are elements of his character – his dedication, his concentration, his relative
calmness, his ability to apply himself to intellectual tasks, and his reflectiveness –
that served him well in the Castalian education system, allowed him to flourish as a
Glass Bead Game player, and stood him in good stead as Magister Ludi. These
qualities also contributed to his decision to leave. These character traits may have
been present from the beginning (cf. Cohn, 1950), but the form they take at
different moments in his life is influenced by the people, events and challenges he
faces along the way.
CONSCIENTISATION, CONTEMPLATION AND AWAKENING
It has been noted in previous chapters that Knecht conceives of his own
transformation as a process of ‘awakening’. He reflects at different moments in his
life on what this process means to him. The concept of awakening Knecht comes to
embrace near the end of his life has much in common with the Freirean notion of
conscientisation (Roberts, 2007). Awakening, Knecht comes to believe, means
deepening one’s understanding of oneself, others and the world. This is not a
linear, finite process but an ongoing one, with multiple moments of awareness. It
demands ethical commitment, the acceptance of responsibility rather than escape
from it, and service to others (see Hesse, 2000b, pp. 357-358). In these respects and
others, awakening is virtually indistinguishable from conscientisation.
There are, however, elements in Knecht’s process of awakening that are not
addressed, at least not directly or in any detail, in Freire’s work. Knecht, like other
Castalians, is trained in the art of meditation. The meditation practised by
Castalians is closely allied with their intellectual culture. In his Introduction, the
68
narrator notes that contemplation was the final essential component added to the
Game:
What had formerly mattered was following the sequences of ideas and the
whole intellectual mosaic of a Game with rapid attentiveness, practiced
memory, and full understanding. But there now arose the demand for a
deeper and more spiritual approach. After each symbol conjured up by the
director of a Game, each player was required to perform silent, formal
meditation on the content, origin, and meaning of this symbol, to call to mind
intensively and organically its full purport. The members of the Order and of
the Game associations brought the technique and practice of contemplation
with them from their elite schools, where the art of contemplation and
meditation was nurtured with the greatest care. (Hesse, 2000b, pp. 29-30)
The importance of meditation is reinforced by the Music Master, Joseph’s revered
early mentor, when Knecht calls upon him during a difficult period. One of
Knecht’s first moves after learning he is to become Magister Ludi is to enter a
meditation room. Knecht also remembers fondly the contemplative atmosphere of
the bamboo grove where he visits Elder Brother, another quiet influence on his life.
When Knecht’s highly strung friend Tegularius is in an overwrought state and
makes an inappropriate outburst to a colleague, Knecht sends his meditation master
to him ‘to calm the troubled soul’ (p. 215). And Master Alexander turns to
meditation in the difficult conversations that follow Knecht’s request for support
from the Board of Educators for his decision to leave the Order.
Meditation, then, is an important part of Castalian life, and it allows Knecht to
reflect calmly and carefully on his past, present and future. At different moments in
his awakening, Knecht contemplates the path he has taken, the influences on his
thinking, and the possibilities that lie ahead of him. Meditation deepens his
knowledge and experience of the Glass Bead Game and it helps him in addressing
ethical and epistemological questions. Meditation also proves beneficial in dealing
with dilemmas arising from human relationships.
While Freire does not discuss meditation in his work, aspects of his
epistemology resonate with the Castalian art of contemplation. Freire describes a
process of ‘epistemological encircling’ that, to some extent, resembles the
contemplative nature of some forms of concentrative meditation. For Freire, in
contemplating an object of study, it is necessary to first gain a certain distance from
it. This does not mean isolating the object but rather seeking to understand it
rigorously and holistically – in its context and in relation to other objects,
phenomena and processes (cf. Freire, 1997, p. 92, 2004, p. 84).
Joseph Knecht can be distinguished from most of his Castalian colleagues in this
respect. His meditative activity, at times, includes a form of reflection in which he
seeks to understand a problem or situation in its wider context. Joseph, influenced
by his time with Father Jacobus, brings a sense of history to the art of
contemplation. His meditative reflections on his own history form an important
part of his developing critical consciousness as he grows older. For the majority of
Castalians, however, meditation is limited in its scope and substance. As Durrani
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(1982, p. 662) puts it, ‘[w]hat should serve as a means of achieving self-knowledge
is all too often abused as an easy way of disposing of crises and unwanted
emotions’. Alexander’s recourse to meditation as a kind of ‘fix’ during his strained
conversations with Knecht near the end of the main part of the book is perhaps the
clearest example of this. Meditation becomes a means for suppressing rather than
exploring feelings, a ‘substitute for experience’ – something to be administered
much as ‘another man might light a cigarette or pour himself a drink’ (p. 663).
Meditation of this kind becomes an escape from critical consciousness rather than
an integral part of it.
Meditation, for Knecht, works hand in hand with the development of other
ethical attributes. Knecht has the courage to question prevailing wisdom in Castalia
and the commitment to stand behind his convictions. These qualities are evident
right up to the moment of his death. Indeed, in Knecht’s decision to follow Tito
into the icy mountain lake and the tragic results of this act, there arguably lies the
germ of an entire pedagogical theory. Teaching, Hesse seems to suggest, is, at least
in part, a sacrificial process, and education is, ultimately, a preparation for death.
These ideas are developed further in the next section and in the final chapter of this
book.
EDUCATION, DEATH AND NEW LIFE
The final moment in the main part of The Glass Bead Game can be seen as both an
end and a beginning. It provides a crucial bridge between the ‘official’ account of
Knecht’s life furnished by the narrator and the rich inner dialogue – with all its
questioning and uncertainties – present and ever evolving in Joseph from early
adulthood. This thought process is evident in the imagined ‘Lives’ Knecht
constructs, where death is seen as a fundamental part of the teaching and learning
process. To die at such a young age can be seen as tragic, but Knecht’s death also
signals a new beginning for Tito.
Hesse, it seems to me, also wanted to convey a deeper pedagogical point here. If
our physical death can be seen as the culmination of a lifelong educational process,
devotion to the task of teaching (in any one of its many diverse forms) can be
conceived as a kind of preparation for death. Facing the fact that we will die, that
our lives as we presently know them will end at a certain point, encourages us (or
can encourage us) to confront the question of possibilities and limits in a lifetime.
It can prompt us to ask what really matters – in our lives, in the lives of others, and
in the world around us.
In Being and Time, Heidegger (1996) maintains that death is characteristically
discussed as a constantly occurring ‘case’: as something which strikes ‘the they’.
This ‘[e]ntangled, everyday being-toward-death’, he says, ‘is a constant flight from
death. Being toward the end has the mode of evading that end – reinterpreting it,
understanding it inauthentically, and veiling it’ (pp. 234-235). Ernest Becker
(1973), too, observed that ‘the idea of death, the fear of it, haunts the human animal
like nothing else; it is a mainspring of human activity – activity designed largely to
70
avoid the fatality of death, to overcome it by denying in some way that it is the
final destiny for man’ (p. xvii).
An educational process of the kind undergone by Joseph Knecht can allow us to
face death head on, with neither exaggerated boldness nor debilitating terror.
Reflection on our own mortality can itself be an educative process, leading to a
more mature, clearer and well reasoned sense of what we will commit to and why,
of how we will prioritise the limited time we have, and of how we might involve
ourselves in the lives of others. As Puolimatka and Solasaari (2006) put it:
Reflection on the reality of death and its unavoidability increases one’s
consciousness of life’s limitations. It reveals the unrealistic nature of many
expectations and forces people to understand that reality does not conform to
their desires and hopes. A truly experienced person understands that she
controls neither time nor the future. An experienced person has learned that
all plans are uncertain, because reality can be completely different from what
one expects. (p. 207)
Freire talks about educators undergoing ‘Easter experiences’, arguing that they
must ‘die as elitists so as to be resurrected on the side of the oppressed’ (Freire,
1985, pp. 122-123). This, for Freire, means a deep change in the consciousness of
teachers; a shift that goes beyond mere commemorative rhetoric to a genuinely
transformative, biophiliac (life-loving) process of educational resurrection. It
involves, among other things, the renunciation of myths often held dear by teachers
and others who work with oppressed groups: a belief in their own superiority, their
purity of soul and impartiality, and their role as saviours of the poor. The kind of
Easter experience Freire has in mind also entails a rejection of the lust to possess.
Freire sees this as symptomatic of a necrophiliac (death-loving) view of the world.
‘Why’, he says, ‘should I be interested in rebirth if I hold in my hands, as objects to
be possessed, the torn body and soul of the oppressed? I can only experience
rebirth at the side of the oppressed by being born again, with them, in the process
of liberation’ (p. 123).
Freire’s notion of an Easter experience is not without its problems. His earlier
accounts of this form of experience employ a language suggestive of a clear-cut,
binary division between oppressed and non-oppressed groups, downplaying the
multiple, often overlapping and conflicting layers at which oppression can operate.
(This was addressed to a considerable extent in later writings: see Mayo, 1999;
Roberts, 2000, 2010.) Freire also does not pay sufficient attention to the inner
complexities of a ‘rebirthing’ or resurrection experience. He recognises that old
ideas, attitudes and beliefs are seldom simply abandoned. The process of
transformation to which he refers is, moreover, based not on miraculous revelation
or shallow ‘quick fix’ solutions but on a complex, difficult and often lengthy
process of critical reflection, dialogue and social action. Yet, Freire does not fully
get to grips with the unconscious aspects of educational transformation and the
ways in which deeply ingrained habits of thought may continue to exert a ‘hidden’
influence on our understanding of, and conduct within, the world. The specifically
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Christian origins of the metaphor of an ‘Easter experience’ can also be off-putting

for those who do not share this religious orientation.
Nonetheless, Freire hints at something important for teachers: the idea that a
commitment to teaching necessitates a kind of symbolic death. In Knecht’s case the
death is, in the end, a literal physical death, but there are other deaths throughout
the main part of the novel and the autobiographies that are symbolic in nature. In
taking on the responsibilities of Magister Ludi, Knecht must allow the freedom he
experienced as a young Castalian student to die. Knecht’s decision to leave the
Order requires of him that he give up all he has ever known; he must, in effect, be
‘reborn’, not only as a private tutor but as a citizen of a new world.
The theme of sacrifice also figures prominently in the three fictional
autobiographies. In the first of the ‘Lives’ the Rainmaker sacrifices his life for the
sake of the wider village community. For Josephus (in the second autobiography)
to teach through the art of patient listening he must sacrifice a part of himself,
resisting the urge to speak while also being prepared to allow others draw renewed
strength from him. And the price for Dasa (in the third autobiography) to pay in
learning the lessons he will need to teach others, as the old yogin has taught him, is
the experience – real or imagined – of losing his son.
Teachers, it might be argued, have to make multiple sacrifices in fulfilling their
duties – giving up not only their time but a part of themselves to others and to the
pursuit of knowledge. Conceived in this way, education must, as Freire noted on
many occasions, be seen as a profoundly risky process; an unsettling, often
uncomfortable, form of experience that leaves a permanent mark on human lives.
This does not mean, of course, that teachers cannot and do not also gain, often
significantly, from the educational process. By committing oneself wholeheartedly
to the life of others, one also, from a Freirean (and Hessean) perspective, commits
to a form of self development. The sacrificial element of teaching need not be seen
as only or even primarily a form of loss. Hesse, I believe, chose the name ‘Knecht’
carefully. Knecht means ‘servant’, and this description could be applied, as the
next chapter shows, not only to Joseph but to key characters in the three ‘Lives’.
Serving others through teaching may mean giving up a part of oneself, but through
this process one becomes something more than one could have been without a
pedagogical relationship. The loss of something in the educational process implies
transformation: it is necessary to sometimes give up something in order to continue
growing – to continue, as Freire would put it, becoming more fully human.
CONCLUDING COMMENTS
The Glass Bead Game, as I have argued throughout this book, is a novel of
transformation. The principal focus in considering this from an educational point of
view is Knecht himself. Given the narrative structure of The Glass Bead Game,
readers must work hard to ‘find’ Joseph Knecht (Bandy, 1972), but the rewards in
seeking him are great. Through Joseph’s thoughts, feelings, actions, and
relationships with others, a rich, complex picture of educational change emerges.
This is, in part, what gives novels such as The Glass Bead Game their value. A
72
serious novel can show, in a way that is often not possible in theoretical work, the
nature and consequences of transformative processes for individual lives.
That said, The Glass Bead Game is not just about the life of Joseph Knecht; the
notion of transformation is also addressed in other ways. The transformation from
the Feuilleton Age (the first half of the twentieth century) to the Castalian era, as
described by the narrator in the General Introduction, is significant in framing
much of the subsequent discussion of the Glass Bead Game and other aspects of
Castalian life. Details of this process of transformation are, however, rather
sketchy.
In another sense, the significance of transformation is revealed by what does not
occur as much as by what does. Castalia, the book shows, fails to transform itself
and is thus doomed to disappear. It is the inwardness of Castalia, its inability to
change, that will lead to its inevitable decline. The novel teaches us that societies
and the systems of organisation within them need robust means for critically
reflecting on their own policies, practices, and ways of being in the world (cf.
Wilde, 1999). They need, the book shows, to look outwards as well as self-
critically inwards; to foster interaction, dialogue and debate; and to develop forms
of teaching and learning that are genuinely supportive of questioning and critique.
These ideas may not be new but they must, as Freire would have said, be
continuously relearned as educators face the distinctive challenges posed by their
own time, culture and social circumstances.
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EDUCATION, INCOMPLETENESS AND

IMMORTALITY
INTRODUCTION
The last section of the previous chapter introduced the theme of death as one
worthy of further educational investigation. This chapter takes up that challenge
and ponders, at some length, the educational significance of Knecht’s death. It is
argued that this pivotal moment in the book tells us a great deal about Knecht’s life
and the process of educational transformation he undergoes as a citizen of Castalia.
The chapter falls into three main parts. The first section sketches a number of
responses from critics to this part of the novel. Hesse himself, it will be noted, saw
the death as a moment of profound pedagogical importance. Others, however, have
provided alternative interpretations of Knecht’s character and premature demise.
For some, Knecht ‘outgrows’ the confines intended by Hesse and, with a less than
revealing narrator, lends himself to multiple readings. The second section focuses
on the theme of incompleteness as a key to understanding Knecht’s life and death
in educational terms. It is suggested that if the deeper meaning of Knecht’s death is
to be grasped, attention needs to be paid not just to the main part of the book but
also to the poems and fictional autobiographies that follow. The final section
considers the role of education in serving as a bridge between death and life. The
chapter concludes that The Glass Bead Game, when read holistically, has much to
offer those seeking to address questions of enduring philosophical and educational
importance.
THE DEATH OF JOSEPH KNECHT
What happens at the very end of the main part of the book? Let us add further
detail to the events already summarised in previous chapters. Having made the
momentous decision to resign his position as Magister Ludi and to leave the Order,
Knecht is reinvigorated and ready to take on the new task of educating Plinio’s son
Tito. He spends a short time with Plinio before meeting up with Tito at the
Designori’s cottage by a mountain lake. The next day, despite having felt unwell,
he follows Tito into the lake for an early morning swim. Tito is already well across
the lake when, in looking back, he finds the older man is no longer behind him. He
searches desperately but with his own strength beginning to ebb he is eventually
forced to return to land. Warming himself with the dressing gown Knecht had left
behind, he sits, stunned, staring at the icy water. He feels overwhelmed by
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perplexity, terror and deep sadness. In this moment, he reaches a new state of
awareness:
Oh! he thought in grief in horror, now I am guilty of his death. And only
now, when there was no longer need to save his pride or offer resistance, he
felt, in shock and sorrow, how dear this man had become to him. And since
in spite of all rational objections he felt responsible for the Master’s death,
there came over him, with a premonitory shudder of awe, a sense that this
guilt would utterly change him and his life, and would demand much greater
things of him than he had ever before demanded of himself. (Hesse, 2000b, p.
403)
With these words, the main part of the book closes. It is difficult for the reader
who has lived with Knecht through all his years of youthful education in the
schools of Eschholz and Waldzell, his time in the Benedictine monastery with
Father Jacobus, his tenure as Magister Ludi, and his difficult departure from
Castalia not to feel profoundly moved by this abrupt ending. This seems too
sudden, too violent a disruption to the life that was being told and the promise of
what lay ahead. It is a testament to the power of Hesse’s story that the reader
comes to feel a deep connection with Joseph Knecht, despite the ‘distancing’ effect
created by his Castalian biographer.
Yet, Knecht’s premature death can also be seen as a form of release – perhaps
even a form of liberation. It must be remembered that Hesse was heavily
influenced by Eastern philosophy. He took the Hindu notion of reincarnation and
the Buddhist concept of rebirth seriously. Hesse confessed that he was not sure
what lay beyond the death of the physical body, but he felt certain that death was
not the end. Death can be seen as a new beginning, a new form of life. There is, as
Walter Naumann puts it, no need for despair: ‘there will always be another human,
like Knecht, to transmit a sense of responsibility to the younger generation’ (cited
in Cohn, 1950, p. 353).
Hesse’s original plan for the book is significant here: he envisaged a work
depicting a series of lives, with the same man living at different moments in
history. With these points in mind, Knecht’s death can be seen as a fulfilment, not
a denial, of his destiny – something he had, in various ways, predicted or at least
prefigured from his days as a young Waldzell student.
Hesse does not give a definitive answer to the question of death, but death is
present throughout the book. We discover that Joseph’s parents may have died
while he was very young (the narrator remains uncertain about this); careful
attention is paid to the changes the Music Master undergoes in the months leading
up to his death; the brutal treatment of Bertram by his colleagues in the Order prior
to his rumoured death1 is described in some detail (Bertram served as deputy to
Knecht’s predecessor in the role of Magister Ludi); and in the autobiographies
death figures prominently as a theme. Joseph’s death is, however, arguably the
most important in the book.
Hilde Cohn sees Knecht’s death as a symbolic event of vital significance for
the work as a whole (Cohn, 1950, p. 353). She argues that the book is about a
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EDUCATION, INCOMPLETENESS AND IMMORTALITY
man ‘whose essential qualities are clearly present from the beginning and whose
main development consists in an increasing clarity and consciousness of himself’
(p. 348). Knecht’s death, she maintains, is the centre towards which Knecht has
wandered all his life. Knecht’s end is ‘at the same time a beginning, not only for
Tito, but for himself as well’ (p. 355):
In his last transformation Knecht enters new, unknown, and mysterious
bonds, not as one who flees, but as one who is called – called back to the
source of life. Only now is his state of isolation overcome; the spot in his
heart which had been dead and empty is called upon and can respond, whole
and young, to take him to new spheres – home. (p. 355)
A fruitful way to read the book, perhaps, is to see Knecht’s sudden death as an
invitation to reflect more deeply on the achievements of his life and on what might
have been. The ending of the main part of the book is, from this point of view,
meant to be troubling, unsettling. It is shocking and saddening but also hopeful and
uplifting. For we gain a sense of not just what might have been for Knecht, but
what could be for Tito. And we only gain this sense of what could be because of
what has come before. The symbolism in the final paragraph of Tito placing the
former Magister’s gown around himself, and the hint that he will emerge from his
immaturity and go on to greatness himself, can be taken seriously precisely
because of the life Knecht has lived right up to the moment of his death.
Knecht, even during the brief period during which Tito has known him, has
demonstrated humility, insight and commitment to the task of teaching his young
charge. The decision to swim after Tito was, as Hesse himself notes, of profound
pedagogical importance:
Despite his illness, Knecht could sagaciously and artfully have avoided his
leap into the mountain water. He leaps notwithstanding … because he cannot
disappoint this youngster who cannot be won over very easily. And he leaves
behind a Tito for whom this sacrifice of life on the part of a man far superior
to him represents lifelong admonition and guidance, and will educate him
more than all the sermons of the wise. (Cited in Mileck, 1978, p. 304)
Hesse was insistent that ‘Knecht’s resignation and departure were not rank
defection, but [a] commendable response to conscience and concern, and that his
icy plunge and death were not folly and failure, but sacrifice and success,
commitment fulfilled for Knecht and admonition and inspiration for Tito’ (Mileck,
1978, p. 304). Mileck reinforces this view:
As a symbol, Knecht’s strange death leaves much room for conjecture. Were
one to consider it an indication of Joseph’s inability to cope with real life, of
utter failure, then Castalia, of which he is one of the hardiest members, and
all it represents, must be deemed worthless. Such an explanation (the
discounting of Geist), totally at variance with Hesse’s attitude to life in his
later years, warrants no discussion. (Cited in Bandy, 1972, p. 300)
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Other scholars are not so sure. Bandy, for example, points out that if Hesse had
written no book other than The Glass Bead Game, we might have been left with
more questions than answers. He does not deny that Hesse himself saw Knecht’s
final actions and death in a positive light, but suggests that the evidence presented
in the book is inconsistent with this position. It is not, Bandy suggests, ‘that Hesse
did not know what he was about’ but rather that ‘the character of Knecht, once
bought to life, begins to perform beyond the conscious control of his creator’
(Bandy, 1972, p. 301). The spark of life in Knecht must, however, be detected and
understood by means other than those presented at a surface level by the narrator.
For the narrator, as a representative of Castalia, writes of Knecht in a manner that
is stilted and largely unsympathetic. It is as if there is a puppet show, with the
narrator manipulating Knecht’s strings, and the narrator in turn being manipulated
by Hesse. Where Knecht’s own words appear in the book, they are ‘too formal and
decorous to permit very much self-revelation’ (p. 302). We end up with a
‘perplexing personage’ constructed by several voices, and we cannot be sure which
of these voices (if any) is Knecht’s own (p. 302).
Bandy picks up on the notion of dualities, and in particular the dialectical
relationship between the contemplative (Apollonian) life and the active
(Dionysian) life, as a central theme in the book. He sees Knecht as a representative
of the former and Plinio as a representative of the latter. The tension in their
relationship is resolved by Knecht’s involvement with Plinio’s son Tito. Bandy
detects an element of parody in Hesse’s construction of the novel. The Glass Bead
Game, the heart of Castalia and the contemplative life, ‘is in reality a sham, a
singularly jejune academic exercise of as much significance as, say, the
reconstruction of the conjugations of hypothetical irregular Sanskrit verbs’
(p. 304).2 The Game is
… the apotheosis of the “scientific method,” which insists that education
consists in putting square pegs into square holes, round into round; of the
belief that all is calculable and knowable; in short, of the entire Socratic
tradition, which teaches that cognition exists in itself, without reference to
experience. Whether Hesse intended it so, the Spiel is, finally, a damning
indictment of the palace of art which is Castalia. (p. 305)
For Bandy, Knecht’s decision to leave the Order signals his desire to become more
Dionysian, but in his new role as a man of action Knecht’s deeds do not amount to
much. The sum of Knecht’s attempt to unite Castalia with the world is merely a
plan, never realised, of becoming a private tutor to a spoilt child. Any suggestion of
far-reaching consequences arising from his actions, including their impact on Tito
as a future leader, is nothing more than speculation.
Bandy points out that Knecht is not an automaton but a man driven by human
passions. Hesse may have wanted us to interpret Knecht’s actions as a form of
sacrifice, but they can also be read as a settling of old scores. There is a certain will
to power in Knecht, manifested among other ways by his competitive verbal
exchanges with Plinio in their student years. Knecht recognises the instinctive,
active, Dionysian life as the hallmark of the world Plinio moves in, and battles
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against this in defence of the Apollonian ideals of Castalia. Having failed to bring
the dialectic to a close (as he wrongly believed he had to) in his debates with
Plinio, Knecht sets out to master Plinio’s son. In this Knecht partially succeeds, his
death leaving Tito bound by ‘that most unmanning of emotions, guilt’ (p. 306).
Knecht, for all his admirable qualities, cannot avoid displaying the kind of
arrogant, elitist indifference typical of the Castalian hierarchy. Plinio has
experienced both Castalia and the world, but Knecht is at home only in the
pedagogical province. Knecht eventually decides to leave the Order, but it is too
late: he is by that stage too much the Castalian, and he is ill-prepared for the world.
His knowledge of life outside the pedagogical province is inadequate, just as his
physical capabilities are not up to the task of swimming across the icy cold lake.
This, from Bandy’s perspective, is where the tragic element of the book is to be
found. The book demonstrates that ‘[o]nce a path is chosen it cannot be retraced;
certain decisions are irrevocable’ (p. 309). Knecht may have reached a decision to
leave Castalia, but Castalia cannot leave him, and his attempt to bridge the gap to
another world is doomed.
THE IMPORTANCE OF INCOMPLETENESS
Bandy is right, in my view, to point to qualities often unnoticed in Knecht and

thereby to demystify him. Avoiding a romantic portrait of either Joseph as a man,
or Knecht’s tenure in the position of Magister Ludi, is of the utmost importance. I
also share with Bandy a strong sense that the character of Knecht lives, as it were,
beyond the confines prescribed for him by the narrator – and perhaps even by
Hesse. We come to care about Knecht in ways that could not have been anticipated
by his official Castalian biographer – in part, precisely because he is, despite his
exalted achievements in office, at the end of the day simply a fellow human being.
His death is shocking and saddening because we feel we would have liked to have
known more about him – more of his weaknesses as well as his hitherto
unrecognised or undeveloped strengths, more of his yearnings and desires, more of
his emotional as well as intellectual life.
But it seems to me that Bandy does not take seriously enough his own
exhortation to see the Hegelian dialectic as endless (p. 304), and, in particular, to
acknowledge the importance of incompleteness as a theme in the novel. Bandy
suggests that any question of whether Tito does go on to demand greater things of
himself because of Knecht’s death ‘is the subject for another book and no concern
of ours’ (p. 306). Yet, it is arguably only of no concern if we take the end of the
main part of the book to be the end of the book as a whole. Clearly, however, it is
not. If the different parts of the book are read in the order presented, more than one
hundred pages remain after the point at which Knecht’s death is described. Bandy
sees Knecht’s drowning as the conclusion of the book (p. 299), ignoring the fact
that the poems and autobiographies follow.
Hesse took great care in the construction of the book, agonising over the order,
structure and content of the different parts for more than a decade (see Field, 1968;
Mileck, 1970; Remys, 1983). It is undeniable that he regarded the poems and
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autobiographies not as superfluous filler but as essential to the unity and message
of the book as a whole. The importance of the three Lives has also been noted by a
number of Hesse’s interpreters (e.g., Boulby, 1966; Johnson, 1956; White &
White, 1986; Ziolkowski, 1967). Even if we disregard what we know of Hesse’s
process of composition and his stated intentions for the book, the novel as
published includes more than the main narrative and invites a more rounded
reading than Bandy wants to give it. By ignoring the poems and autobiographies,
Bandy brings not only the book but Joseph Knecht to a premature close. Bandy
stresses that Knecht lives (Bandy, 1972, p. 301), but he deals with only one part of
the life of Knecht conveyed through the novel.
If we take the autobiographies seriously as fictional portraits by Knecht himself
of how he might have lived in earlier times and other contexts, a much more
complex and nuanced picture of the key character of the novel emerges. The
autobiographies are important not just for the overall coherence and meaning of the
book but for the understanding we develop of Knecht’s character, sense of identity
and purpose, and destiny. For while we never find out what will happen to Tito
following Knecht’s death, the possibility of a profound process of transformation
and growth is presented and this is elaborated in some detail via other characters in
the autobiographies.
Johnson argues that the autobiographies have an intimate relationship with the
work as a whole and in particular to Knecht’s seemingly inexplicable death at the
end of the main part of the novel. For Johnson, education – conceived as the
process through which knowledge is transmitted – is a key theme that links the
three Lives with the fate of Knecht in the main part of the novel. The main part of
the book concentrates on learning by example, as exemplified by the relationship
between Knecht and the Music Master. Education is thus ‘an individual
pedagogical process for Joseph Knecht; the older man seeks to reach into the spirit
of his pupil and to awaken in him the powers which are latent’ (Johnson, 1956, p.
166). A similar process is depicted in the three autobiographies, but with the
emphasis more on the apprentice than the Master:
The rainmaker’s instruction to Josef and Josef’s instruction of his pupils, the
association of Josephus Famulus with the older hermit, Dion Pugil, and the
yearning of Dasa for tutelage from the older yogin all portray aspects of the
educational process. In all of these instances the younger man seeks out the
older, wiser man and proves in varying ways that he is suitable as pupil, and
it is always the individual relationship that is most important in Knecht’s
educational ideals. (p. 166)
There is, Johnson maintains, no suggestion that the teacher should attempt to
influence large numbers of people or that he or she should become a leader among
his or her fellow human beings. It is sufficient, from Hesse’s point of view, that the
teacher transmit his or her gifts to a single individual.
This puts Knecht’s achievements in the last part of his life in a different
perspective. Bandy asserts that a man of action is judged by his deeds and implies
that Knecht’s deeds following his departure from Castalia are hardly noteworthy
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(Bandy, 1972, p. 305). But the very act of committing oneself in a pedagogical
relationship to another is itself a deed of profound educational and ethical
importance. This, to my reading, is one of the key points Hesse wanted to make:
that one’s contribution as a human being need not be tied to the achievement of
great status, wealth or recognition. Knecht reaches the very summit of the
Castalian hierarchy – the position of Magister Ludi – but gives away all of the
trappings (and burdens) of high office to take on an educational responsibility of no
less significance: guiding the learning and development of one young person. He
does so with humility, courage and hope for the future.
It is not difficult to agree with Bandy that Knecht is, in some ways, ill-prepared
for this task. His grasp of the realities of the world outside Castalia is incomplete
and inadequate. He has no prior experience of working as a tutor in Tito’s world.
He has not raised children himself and, having not grown up with his own parents,
he has little understanding of the complexities of family life. But Knecht takes the
decision all the same, and as such his actions can be seen as a sacrifice not only of
the trappings of Castalian power but of all that was familiar to him. In so doing, he
lives out one of the most important educational virtues: the ability to take risks – to
make oneself uncomfortable, to go beyond one’s prior experiences and existing
understanding of the world. The act of diving into the lake can also be seen as a
manifestation of this willingness to take risks, but it is only a logical extension of
the attitude already displayed in making the decision to leave the Order.
Bandy is wary of speculating too much on what might lie ahead for Tito
following Knecht’s death. But if it is merely possible to read Knecht’s plunge into
the icy waters of the lake as a form of sacrifice for Tito (and for the good that
might flow from Tito’s subsequent development as a leader and human being), this
sacrificial role of the teacher is made quite explicit in the autobiographies. The
Rainmaker, for example, ends up losing his life in the service of his community,
teaching his young apprentice more through this act than any words could convey.
Josephus Famulus too, in the second of the three Lives, must sacrifice himself to
those who pour out their confessions to him, absorbing time and time again all of
their troubles with the quiet gift of patient listening. And Dasa, in the third
autobiography, must suffer greatly before learning the lesson from an old yogi in a
forest that physical life is illusory.
When the book is read as a whole, it becomes clear that Hesse saw teaching as a
vitally important form of service – service to others, to the preservation and
advancement of knowledge, and to the value of learning. The name Knecht is
highly significant here, for it means ‘servant’. Even in the most prestigious role
within the Castalian hierarchy – the position of Magister Ludi – it is clear that
Knecht becomes a servant for others. He learns that far from gaining greater
freedom to do as he wishes, in accepting the post of Magister Ludi he takes on a
host of new burdensome responsibilities. He sacrifices his freedom to serve the
greater good of the Castalian community.
The same theme is evident in the autobiographies, where the link between
Knecht living his life in Castalia and Knecht imagining an earlier life remains
obvious: the name ‘Knecht’ is retained for the central character in ‘The
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Rainmaker’; the first name ‘Josephus’ is used in the second autobiography; and
‘Dasa’ in the third autobiography also means ‘servant’ (Johnson, 1956, p. 164).
Hesse makes it clear, through both the main part of the book and the
autobiographies, that there is no one way to teach, but all forms of teaching involve
some form of sacrifice. Teaching, from this point of view, is a process of dying
(symbolically or literally) but also of giving birth to new learning and new life.
I concur with Cohn’s view that Knecht’s developing consciousness of himself is
a key motif in the novel (Cohn, 1950, p. 348). She, unlike Bandy (1972), pays
attention to the autobiographies and sees them as an extension of the theme of
death and rebirth introduced as the very end of the main part of the novel. But one
point in her argument raises problems of a similar kind to those noted in relation to
Bandy’s analysis. Cohn claims that Knecht’s nature has ‘not been basically
changed or molded by his education’ (Cohn, 1950, p. 348-349). Much may depend
here on what Cohn means by ‘education’ (she does not elaborate on this), but on
almost any definition of the term the claim is troubling. For while it is true that
Knecht seems destined for greatness in Castalia, and has from the beginning a
strong sense of his power and influence over others, the self that he comes to
understand as the events in the novel unfold is shaped in significant ways by his
educational relationships with others.
Joseph does have certain qualities that mark him out from others, and these are
noticed early on by his teachers and mentors, but the form these attributes take is
by no means predestined. His relationships with the Music Master, Plinio, Father
Jacobus and others play a crucial part in making him the man that he becomes and
they leave their imprint on his legacy as Magister Ludi. Through Plinio, Joseph
acquires some understanding of the outside world (as indirect and underdeveloped
as this may be) and a willingness to question and debate ideas; through Father
Jacobus, he develops a greater awareness of the importance of history; and through
the Music Master he learns the value of humility and dedication, among other
virtues. The most significant step Knecht takes in his life – his decision to leave the
Order – arguably could not have been taken without the influence of these people,
and others, on his character and understanding.
Hesse’s portrait of Knecht allows the reader to appreciate the significance of
incompleteness in human life. Knecht’s death is, in one sense, a return to the
centre, as Cohn suggests. His death can be seen as a fulfilment of all that he has
strived for, and seemed destined to strive for, throughout his life. Indeed, if the
autobiographies are taken seriously as products of the young Joseph’s emerging
consciousness of himself, it might be said that Knecht had a premonition of his
own death decades before his plunge into the lake. Death and the endless cycle of
life are key themes in the three Lives. These are, it must be remembered, lives
Joseph has been asked to imagine he may have lived. In the Lives, death is an
important part of a wider educational process. That process involves the passing on
of knowledge and experience from one generation to the next. There is in the three
autobiographies also a focus on the deepening of understanding within central
characters, the development of communicative and pedagogical relationships, and
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the idea of commitment to a community. Joseph, as the composer of these Lives,

prefigures the pattern his own life will take.
Yet, even if we might accept (with Cohn) that Knecht’s death is a process of
returning ‘home’, this does not mean his life is complete. Both Bandy and Cohn, it
seems to me, want to ‘round out’ Knecht’s life too quickly and neatly. Bandy does
not wish to speculate beyond what is presented to us in the main part of the story
and, by ignoring the autobiographies, he finds a Knecht who is perhaps more
unequivocally Castalian than the book as a whole suggests. Cohn, on the other
hand, by downplaying the significance of education in the formation of Knecht’s
character, paints a picture of a life with a clearer and more unswerving sense of
purpose and direction than is really the case. Knecht, like all of us, has more to do,
more to teach, more to learn. This process, as the third of the autobiographies
makes plain, is endless. We may have brief moments to pause and rest (and death,
as Hesse sees it, may be one of these), but then we must awaken again, engage
once more in the ‘wild, intoxicating, desperate dance of life’ (Hesse, 2000b,
p. 529), and go on.
EDUCATION: THE BRIDGE BETWEEN DEATH AND LIFE
The analysis above supports Hesse’s view that Knecht’s death in The Glass Bead
Game has important educational implications. I have argued that to understand
how and why this is so, attention needs to be paid not only to the main part of the
novel but also to the poems and autobiographies. I have suggested that one key to
grasping the educational significance of Knecht’s death lies in the notion of
incompleteness. Knecht, I have maintained, remains at the time of his death an
incomplete being. This, however, attests to rather than diminishes the value of
education in human life. Education, Hesse’s novel shows, allows us to
acknowledge our incompleteness, to see ourselves as beings in formation, and to
appreciate the need to pass on what we know to others. The moment of death is the
culmination of this educational process. Death is, or can be (as it is in Knecht’s
case), the point at which our own incompleteness comes most sharply into focus,
but it can also play a significant role in teaching others to appreciate their
unfinishedness and their responsibilities to themselves and others.
The connections between life, death and incompleteness are explored in a
number of the poems that follow the main part of The Glass Bead Game. The
poems, as Knecht’s own constructions, provide a glimpse of his developing
understanding of the nature of reality and the meaning of his own existence. The
opening words of the first poem, ‘Lament’ (Hesse, 2000b, p. 407), are these: ‘No
permanence is ours; we are a wave / That flows to fit whatever form it finds’. The
poem goes on to say that we crave ‘form that binds’, yet we fill ‘[m]old after mold’
and ‘never rest’. The poem closes with this verse:
To stiffen into stone, to persevere!

We long forever for the right to stay.
But all that ever stays with us is fear,
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And we shall never rest upon our way.
The poem suggests that our human lives are characterised by a restlessness that
is never satisfied. We seek permanence, a place where we can stand still, yet this
can never be found. Our lives, in this sense, remain incomplete. Even in an
apparently successful and full life, there is never a point at which the restless
tension to which this poem refers can be, as it were, ‘switched off’. We cannot ever
say, during the course of our lives, that we are ‘complete’ as human beings. If this
seems to imply that our lives will be ‘lacking’ in something, this need not be
regarded in a negative light. To the contrary, it is through the very process of
searching – of asking questions, exploring, seeking answers to life’s riddles – that
the meaning of our existence can be found. This is not an easy process; it involves
constant struggle.
One of Knecht’s other poems, ‘On Reading an Old Philosopher’, is illuminating
on this point. The poem speaks of acknowledging that ‘everything must wither, die,
and fall’, while at the same time adding:
Yet still above this vale of endless dying

Man’s spirit, struggling incorruptibly,
Painfully raises beacons, death defying,
And wins, by longing, immortality.
The process of struggle, then, can be life affirming. In a poem reflecting on the
work of Aquinas, reference is made to those who ‘seemed condemned to doubt and
irony’ and ‘longings for a better life’ (p. 419) enduring suffering and strife. In the
end, however, ‘those who trust ourselves the least / Who doubt and question most,
these, it may be, / Will make their mark upon eternity’ (p. 420). A time may come,
the poem notes, when a person who confesses self-doubts will be ‘ranked among
the blessed’ (p. 420).
As I noted in the Introduction, The Glass Bead Game, along with several of
Hesse’s other novels (e.g., Hesse, 1968b, 1969, 1999, 2000a), makes a significant
contribution to the German tradition of the Bildungsroman.3 Novels in this
tradition have a focus on the education of the central character, but ‘education’
here should be interpreted broadly to mean formation, growth or development. One
of the key aspects of this growth, in Hesse’s novels at least, is the development of
an awareness of – and acceptance of – our incompleteness.
Paulo Freire has recognised that it is our unfinishedness that gives our lives
their ethical character and makes education both possible and necessary.
Unfinishedness, Freire argues, is ‘essential to our human condition. Whenever
there is life, there is unfinishedness, though only among women and men is it
possible to speak of an awareness of unfinishedness’ (Freire, 1998b, p. 52).
Awareness that we remain incomplete beings does not, for Freire, signal a need for
despair but for celebration. ‘I like being human’, Freire says, ‘because in my
unfinishedness I know that I am conditioned. Yet conscious of such conditioning, I
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know that I can go beyond it, which is the essential difference between conditioned
and determined existence’ (p. 54). Freire continues:
It is in our incompleteness, of which we are aware, that education as a
permanent process is grounded. Women and men are capable of being
educated only to the extent that they are capable of recognizing themselves as
unfinished. Education does not make us educable. It is our awareness of
being unfinished that makes us educable. And the same awareness in which
we are inserted makes us eternal seekers. Eternal because of hope. Hope is
not just a question of grit or courage. It’s an ontological dimension of our
human condition. (p. 58)
Knecht’s growth as a human being is consistent with the Freirean view of
incompleteness. Knecht has been a seeker his whole life. He has, in Freirean terms,
been conditioned by Castalia but not determined by it. He has questioned and
probed, placing himself and his society under an increasingly critical microscope.
The feeling of hope he experiences after leaving the Order (‘Everything was new
again, mysterious, promising’: Hesse, 2000b, p. 385) is, to a considerable extent,
engendered by his recognition of his own incompleteness. Knecht is full of
anticipation in contemplating the educational task ahead. He thinks carefully about
how he will work with Tito, about the best pedagogical approach to adopt, given
Tito’s background and inclinations. Knecht’s sudden drowning may seem to bring
this process of teaching and learning to an abrupt halt, but the novel suggests
otherwise. As Knecht himself notes in one of his poems (Hesse, 2000b, p. 421),
Even the hour of our death may send

Us speeding on to fresh and newer spaces,
And life may summon us to newer races.
So be it, heart: bid farewell without end.
With these thoughts in mind, I want now to suggest that education can provide a
crucial bridge between death and life. Through teaching we can, as it were,
continue to ‘live on’ through the lives of others. In this section I elaborate on this
idea via the work of David Blacker (1998), who provides an insightful analysis of
education as a form of immortality (see also Blacker, 1997; Laird, 1998). Blacker
traces this notion back to the early Greeks, where two halves of a Socratic vision of
education as immortality can be found. On the one hand, there is the Platonic idea
of ‘doing’ philosophy as a preparation for death. On this view, if one has lived as a
lover of learning, leading a contemplative life, one has nothing to fear in death. The
more one can immerse oneself in the eternal world of Forms, and ultimately
identify with them, the less one has to lose when one dies. Teaching is of
secondary concern in this approach: ‘The other-as-pupil is to be engaged only to
the extent such pedagogical communion aids in deliverance to the world of Forms’
(p. 11). The other half of the Socratic vision, however, places teaching very much
to the fore: ‘one lives on by influencing other beings as a teacher, and then in the
influence they, in turn, have on still others, and so on ad infinitum’ (p. 11). This
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view, exemplified by the Sophists – or at least some of the Sophists – has a focus
on practical affairs and the preparation of young people for civic life. Blacker
summarises the differences between the two views in this way:
Classical Greece, then, presents us with two de facto separable foci around
which the ultimate purposes of education and, by extension, motivating
reasons for teaching, may be articulated. The one looks ‘upward’ to the star-
lit divine: the Platonic shedding of this-worldly distractions pursuant to an
epiphanous yet enduring identification with the logos, the articulation of truth
– a yearning for a kind of immortality whose passageway is a glimpse at the
structure and content of the cosmos. But the other ideal looks ‘downward’
toward earth, to an educated person who can flourish him or herself as well
as garner prosperity – material, political, cultural, ethical – within and for the
world of other human beings. This earthward-gazing sophistic ideal lives on
through people and their associations, not sublimated in a disembodied
reason. (p. 13)
These two views find expression in the contemporary world in different ways.
Blacker suggests that underlying scientific research in the West is a commitment to
investigation that transcends the particulars of the individual and his or her
historical circumstances. There is a form of Platonic skyward gazing that can find,
for example, such beauty in a mathematical proof that the investigator will be
moved to tears. Teaching remains worthwhile in this shared scientific enterprise
because it ‘continues and extends a noetic search for the logos. […] Every research
paper’s footnote becomes swept up in the quest’ (p. 16). This Platonic commitment
to advancing the frontiers of knowledge is, however, a world away from the
everyday realities of contemporary school teaching, where the sophistic form of
immortality prevails. The idea of reaching others, of having an influence on them,
no matter how many or how few, carries tremendous weight here. This is an
earthward call to connect with the other-as-human-being, to ‘make a difference’ in
someone else’s life. On this view, it is the human being who is very much at the
centre of educational endeavours, not (for example) economic growth or the
furthering of a political or religious agenda. The ways in which teachers influence
others are not always easy to measure (indeed, there are good reasons for not
wanting to try and measure them), and most of us are influenced in a myriad of
different ways by multiple people. No one, it might be said, is ‘self-taught’; we are
all subject to influences, past and present, direct and indirect, that may not be
detected or known but are there nonetheless.
Blacker argues for an equilibrium between the two halves of the Socratic vision.
There is a need to overcome the potential problem of egoism: the idea of a self-
centred teacher hunting for ‘victims’ in whom his or her influence might survive,
or worse, of seeking to produce ‘copies’ of him- or herself. It is also important that
the influence be an educative one. To avoid the dangers of both egoism and
manipulation, Blacker maintains, the sophistic commitment to influencing others
must also involve caring for the logos. A teacher cannot just want to influence
others, but must also have a commitment to seeking the truth, even where this runs
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counter to immediate self-interest. By retaining this more Platonic element of the

educative process, the teacher remains ‘dedicated above all to ushering the student
into some arena of human understanding’ (p. 22). At the same time, a different but
equally dangerous form of egoism – Blacker calls it the ‘egoism of obliviousness’
(p. 24) – must also be avoided. This is the idea that one can and ought to undertake
scientific research without regard for its potential human consequences. We have
responsibilities not only to our subject but to our fellow human beings.
Avoiding both forms of egoism and finding equilibrium is, Blacker admits, not
easy, but clues can be found in Plato’s early Socratic dialogues. In the Euthyphro
and the Meno, for example, Socrates allows us to learn at least the following: first,
‘though the search for truth is a noble one, requiring all sorts of attendant virtues,
[…] only a fool would ever claim to have it in final form;’ second, ‘one can only
take sincere aim at that ever-elusive truth via other similarly inquiring human
beings, through dialogue’ (p. 25). This must, Blacker adds, be a relationship
between people seeking to learn. In true dialogue, Blacker posits, ‘teacher and
learner are irrecoverably human, but somehow also more than human, driven along
as they are by an intertwining of skyward and earthward gazes’ (p. 26). The
teacher-as-immortal must learn to ‘vanish into wisdom for the sake of wisdom’s
pupil, as the pupil searches for his past and for his future’ (p. 26). The teacher, in
this sense, must die in order to live and this in turn helps teach the learner about the
death that is common to us all. The teacher-as-immortal, Blacker concludes, ‘is
neither “over here” nor “up there”, but is cross-stitched into a mindful fabric that
binds us, warms us from the cold and, eventually serves for all of us teacher-
learners as our burial shroud’ (p. 26).
Blacker’s analysis is helpful in understanding the distinctive educational
features of Knecht’s life. Castalia as a whole and the Glass Bead Game in
particular are much more closely aligned with the Platonic – ‘skyward’ – half of
the Socratic vision of immortality. It is the Game itself to which those in the Order
are most devoted. The Game, when played at the highest levels, transcends the
particulars of everyday life: it participates in an other-worldly realm akin to Plato’s
world of the Forms. Members of the Order of the Glass Bead Game have no desire
to dirty their hands with political and practical affairs, and have little or no
understanding of life outside the pedagogical province. Many look down upon the
concerns of ordinary people in the outside world as unworthy of them. Free from
the burden of having to earn a living or raise a family or deal with institutions and
bureaucracies, they can immerse themselves in their studies and devote themselves
almost wholly to the beauty of the Game. To be sure, some must hold positions of
administrative leadership, but they are the exception and those who win such high
office are expected to discharge their responsibilities with a sense of honour and
duty to the Order and the sanctity of Castalia.
Knecht grows up in this world and he comes to venerate the Game as others
have for generations before him. But his educational path is also distinctive. As he
progresses through the Castalian system he comes to more deeply appreciate the
transcendent beauty and inner logic of the beloved Game while at the same time
growing increasingly less certain about the society in which it is embedded. His
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studies take him further into the labyrinthine mysteries of the Game – its history
and underlying meaning – than any of his colleagues have ventured. He puts his
ideas about the Game to the test, not just in his debates with Plinio but in his
private studies after graduating from his elite school. He goes far beyond not only
his fellow students but most of the Masters in his thinking and probing, to such an
extent that even his revered mentor, the Music Master, finds it necessary to issue a
caution about his obsessive quest. Knecht loves the Game for its own sake and not
merely for the prestige or elements of performance and ritual associated with it.
But all forms of intellectual endeavour, Knecht comes to realise, occur in a social
context. The Game, along with other intellectual pursuits in Castalia, cannot be
seen as separate from human lives – or from the need to pass on knowledge from
one life to another. Knecht becomes aware that there is more to life than the Game
and that he still has much to learn.
As The Glass Bead Game unfolds, the educational importance of certain human
qualities or dispositions becomes clearer and clearer. These qualities include
openness, humility, an inquiring and questioning frame of mind, a dialogical and
collegial spirit, commitment to those we teach and with whom we work, and a
willingness to change while also appreciating and upholding what is worthwhile in
our traditions and cultures. These qualities develop and deepen through Knecht’s
life, and in the lives of the characters he creates in his fictional autobiographies, but
they become most apparent in the period immediately prior to and just after his
departure from the Order. It is in this period leading up to his death that Knecht
becomes most aware of his own incompleteness and of the dangers – exemplified
by the Castalian hierarchy – of not acknowledging incompleteness. Castalia,
Knecht comes to understand, is in decay not because the Game is somehow lacking
in aesthetic richness but because those who devote their lives to it – and to other
domains of knowledge within the pedagogical province – cannot see the need to
reinvent themselves.
For all their intellectual refinement, those in positions of power in Castalia,
along with the most advanced exponents of the Game, cannot see that their grasp of
education, knowledge and human flourishing is both limited and limiting. The
emphasis in Castalia is very much on the development of the cognitive and
aesthetic elements of human life. Even in this domain, however, their reach is
limited: Castalians study art and culture rather than creating it. Emotions as
sources of knowledge are largely ignored. Indeed, many Castalians appear to be, as
it were, emotionally stunted.4 Their language in communicating with each other,
particularly in the upper reaches of the Castalian hierarchy, has a formality that
appears to deny their existence as passionate beings. There is a certain coldness
among Castalian leaders such as Alexander, with whom Knecht converses after
requesting to leave the Order. Apart from the reverence felt by younger members
of the hierarchy toward some of the older Masters, it is not clear how love is
expressed and experienced.
This does not mean, of course, that love is altogether absent from the
pedagogical province. Indeed, it becomes evident that even Alexander, despite
acting with almost clinical reserve in his final difficult conversations with Knecht,
88
has deep feelings for the Magister Ludi. Weary after the events of the past few
days, Alexander reflects on ‘that incomprehensible man whom he had loved above
all others and who had inflicted this great grief upon him’ (Hesse, 2000b, p. 383).
But in the end Alexander is more firmly committed to the protocol of the Order
than to his personal relationship with Knecht. As he puts it, when speaking with
Knecht: ‘I do not speak for myself, but as President of the Order, and he is
responsible to the Board for every word’ (p. 381).
Castalia is, in many respects, closed in its whole orientation toward the world.
There is an assumption, conveyed by the narrator in his introduction to the Game at
the beginning of the book, that Castalia represents a high water mark in human
intellectual achievement, rising as it did from the ashes of 20th century
superficiality and debasement. This assumption is, however, largely untested
because the pedagogical province remains so cleanly separated from the rest of the
world. Dialogue, for the most part, stays within the physical confines of Castalia.
Knecht’s association with Father Jacobus represents an exception. Plinio may bring
an outside perspective, but he has to do so on Castalian soil, following Castalian
rules, and in an intellectual community where he constitutes very much the
minority. The form of education that sustains the Castalian sense of superiority
lacks the humility, the openness and the breadth of understanding necessary to not
only tolerate but positively embrace difference. When challenged, the Castalian
elite turn inwards, not outwards, clinging to their belief in the beauty of the Glass
Bead Game and the rightness of their social hierarchy.
Hesse’s intentions in depicting Castalia in this light warrant reflection. Thomas
Mann, in his Introduction to Hesse’s Demian, points out that ‘even as a poet he
[Hesse] likes the role of editor and archivist, the game of masquerade behind the
guise of one who “brings to light” other people’s papers’ (Mann, 1999, p. vii). In
reading The Glass Bead Game, Mann felt very strongly ‘how much the element of
parody, the fiction and persiflage of a biography based upon learned conjectures, in
short the verbal playfulness, help keep within limits this late work, with
dangerously advanced intellectuality, and contribute to its dramatic effectiveness’
(p.viii). A tension is established in the novel between the insular earnestness of the
Castalian hierarchy and a central character who respects this, lives and succeeds
within it, but also questions it.
The narrator occupies a very interesting position here. On the one hand, he is a
representative of the excessively serious, somewhat smug Castalian attitude and it
is largely through him that readers must construct a picture of the pedagogical
province and its inhabitants. Yet, subtle changes can be detected in the narrator as
the novel progresses, with the more distancing, official and celebratory tone of the
early part of the book becoming slightly less sure and more complex as the story of
Knecht unfolds. The narrator, then, grows as he tells Knecht’s story, and toward
the end of the main part of the book, shades of hitherto disguised emotion can be
detected (cf. Ziolkowski, 1969). Hesse’s narrative structure, with its gentle,
ambivalent parody, sharpens the sense that all is not well in Castalia while also
allowing the reader to develop a measure of sympathy for not only Knecht but also
the narrator and the ideals he represents. Hesse himself respected the contemplative
89
CHAPTER 6
life but could also see, with particular acuity in the years leading up to the second
World War, the need for something more than mere retreat to a palace of the
intellect when faced with pressing social and political problems.
Knecht’s distinctive perspective on the Game and on Castalian society has been
shaped, in considerable part – but in ways that could not be measured or quantified
– by his dialogues with Plinio and Father Jacobus, his friendship with Fritz, and the
guidance he has received (by example) from the Music Master. Along with these
positive influences, however, his views have also been shaped by the opposition he
encounters from the Castalian hierarchy. The rigidity, coldness and
incomprehension exhibited by Alexander and the Board of Educators in response
to his Circular Letter requesting his leave from the Order play an important role in
convincing him of some of the shortcomings of the Castalian system. These
influences, while in one sense ‘negative’, are nonetheless educational in Knecht’s
case: given the man he is, and the way his views and character have been shaped
by other (more ‘positive’) influences, Joseph is able to respond to this opposition
from the hierarchy calmly, with dignity and equanimity but also with a certain
quiet firmness and strength of resolve. Knecht learns from the Board and their
reaction to his proposal as much as he learns from the positive influences of Plinio,
Father Jacobus and the Music Master.
Recognising, implicitly, the significance of these influences on his own
character and thought, Knecht comes to see the supreme importance of education
for others. Knecht, unlike most of his Castalian colleagues, might be said to
embrace both halves of the Socratic vision discussed by Blacker. He realises that as
he plays the Game he is participating in something ‘bigger than himself’ –
something that is there to be known and loved, to which he and others can dedicate
an important part of their lives, and which will endure beyond the triumphs and
difficulties of any given epoch. At the same time, he can see the need to pass on
what is known by Castalians to others – and to learn from those others. Knecht
risks all in his commitment to this form of educational immortality, giving up the
security and prestige of his position in Castalia, facing the derision of his
colleagues, and entering a world largely unknown to him in the interests of making
a difference in one human life.
While Knecht dies suddenly and tragically, he is, it might be argued, still well
prepared for his own death. In completing his poems and fictional autobiographies,
he has already given careful thought to the meaning of death and its relationship,
through education, to life. He is, by the time he leaves the Order, accepting of his
own limits and uncertainties. In some senses he fulfils, as Bandy argues, only a
fraction of what he might have achieved in his post-Castalian life. He was, as he
recognised himself, very much an incomplete human being and was ready to learn
a great deal more. But while his contact with Tito is relatively brief, the mark he
leaves on his young charge – and, indeed, on many of his former colleagues in
Castalia – is a deep and permanent one, and it is clear that he will, in Blacker’s
terms, ‘live on’ beyond his death.
90
CONCLUDING COMMENTS
There is much more that might be said about The Glass Bead Game from an
educational point of view. While this chapter has concentrated on the educational
implications of Knecht’s death, the book also allows us to address many other
philosophical and pedagogical themes of enduring importance. These include the
meaning and purpose of education, the question of what constitutes a well lived
life, the nature of knowledge and the process of knowing, the need for a harmony
between reason and emotion, the potential educative value of striving and
suffering, the teacher-student relation, the role of dialogue in teaching and learning,
the tension between certainty and uncertainty, the strengths and limitations of
different forms of hierarchy and authority, and the relationship between the
individual and society, among others.
The Glass Bead Game is a rich, multilayered book, worthy of repeated readings.
Hesse may have agonised for years over the book but the effort, from an
educational perspective, was well worth it. Each generation must face new
challenges, and the process of (re)reading both the ‘word’ and the ‘world’ (Freire
& Macedo, 1987) is never complete. In acknowledging this incompleteness, in
questioning ourselves and the social structures of our time, and in continuing to
reflect on the ideas conveyed through novels such as The Glass Bead Game, we
follow a path consistent with the one already established by Joseph Knecht.
NOTES
1
The question of whether Bertram does in fact die does not receive a definitive answer in the book.
When Thomas von der Trave (Knecht’s predecessor in the position of Magister Ludi) falls ill,
Bertram, his deputy, assumes his responsibilities. He meets his obligations but with difficulty. A
number of Bertram’s colleagues in the hierarchy seek to undermine him and after annual Glass Bead
festival, he seeks leave in the mountains. The narrator notes that “Bertram did not return from his
outing in the mountains, and after a while the story went round that he had fallen to his death from a
cliff” (Hesse, 2000b, p. 202). Friedrichsmeyer’s (1974) in-depth analysis of the Bertram incident
certainly seems to suggest the death actually occurs. Whether this is a literal death or not, it is clear
that Bertram is at least symbolically dead to Castalia.
2
A similar view is expressed by Texter (2008), who sees the Game as a sophisticated joke.
3
As noted in the Introduction, Hesse was aware of some of the limitations of the form and
participated in the Bildungsroman tradition in a critical and innovative manner.
4
This lack of adequate attention to the development of the emotions has important implications for
the conception and practice of education. There is not space here to address this point, but for
excellent work relevant to this theme see Boler (1999), Nias (1996) and Zembylas (2002, 2003,
2007).
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author and publisher gratefully acknowledge permission to reproduce material

from the following sources:
Roberts, P. (2008). From West to East and back again: Faith, doubt and education
in Hermann Hesse’s later work. Journal of Philosophy of Education, 42(2), 249-
268. Copyright John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Oxford, UK.
Roberts, P. (2008). The dream of a journey to the East: Mystery, ritual and
education in Hermann Hesse’s penultimate novel. Paideusis: International Journal
in Philosophy of Education, 17(1), 45-58.
Roberts, P. (2008). More than a metaphor: The education of Joseph Knecht.

Pedagogy, Culture and Society, 16(2), 173-185. Copyright Taylor & Francis
Group, Abingdon, Oxfordshire, UK.
Roberts, P. (2008). Life, death and transformation: Education and incompleteness

in Hermann Hesse’s The Glass Bead Game. Canadian Journal of Education, 31(3),
667-696.
Roberts, P. (2009). Education, society and the individual: Reflections on the work
of Hermann Hesse. Journal of Educational Thought, 43(2), 93-108.
Roberts, P. (2009). Education, death and awakening: Hesse, Freire and the process
of transformation. International Journal of Lifelong Education, 28(1), 57-69.
Copyright Taylor & Francis Group, Abingdon, Oxfordshire, UK
99
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Peter Roberts is Professor of Education at the University of Canterbury in New

Zealand. Prior to taking up his current appointment in April 2008, he worked for
thirteen years at the University of Auckland and seven years at the University of
Waikato. His primary areas of scholarship are philosophy of education and
educational policy studies. His research interests include the ethics and politics of
education, literature and education, the pedagogy of Paulo Freire, and tertiary
education policy.
He has published widely in refereed academic periodicals. His work has appeared
in the Cambridge Journal of Education, the Oxford Review of Education, the
British Journal of Educational Studies, Educational Theory, the Journal of
Philosophy of Education, Studies in Philosophy and Education, Educational
Philosophy and Theory, the Journal of Moral Education, the Journal of
Educational Thought, Studies in Higher Education, the Journal of Transformative
Education, the International Review of Education, the International Journal of
Lifelong Education, and many other journals.
His books include Paulo Freire in the 21st Century: Education, Dialogue, and
Transformation (Boulder, CO, and London, UK, Paradigm Publishers, 2010),
Neoliberalism, Higher Education and Research (with Michael Peters, Rotterdam,
Sense Publishers, 2008), Digital Developments in Higher Education: Theory and
Practice (edited with Mark Chambers, Cambridge, UK, Taylor Graham Publishing,
2001), and Education, Literacy and Humanization (Westport, CT, Bergin and
Garvey, 2000), among others. Several works are forthcoming: Better Worlds:
Education, Art, and Utopia (with John Freeman-Moir, Lanham, MD, and Oxford,
UK, Lexington Books, 2013), Shifting Focus: Strangers and Strangeness in
Literature and Education (an edited collection, Abingdon, UK, Routledge, 2013; to
be published first as a special issue of Educational Philosophy and Theory, vol. 45,
2013), and The Virtues of Openness (with Michael Peters, Boulder, CO, and
London, UK, Paradigm Publishers, 2011).
Professor Roberts serves on the editorial panels of thirteen international journals,

and reviews for many others. He has chaired numerous committees and working
groups, held significant university leadership positions, and supervised several
dozen Doctoral and Masters theses and dissertations to completion. He is the
current Vice-President of the Philosophy of Education Society of Australasia
(PESA) and a past member of the national Council of the Humanities Society of
New Zealand. In 2008 he was made a Fellow of PESA in recognition of his
‘outstanding service to the Society and to the discipline of Philosophy of
Education’. In 2010 he was a Canterbury Fellow at the University of Oxford.
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From West To East and Back Again

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FROM WEST TO EAST AND BACK AGAIN

Michael Apple, University of Wisconsin-Madison, USA

ISBN 978-94-6091-587-1 (paperback)

Published by: Sense Publishers,

Printed on acid-free paper

All rights reserved © 2012 Sense Publishers

About the Author 101

READING HERMANN HESSE’S LATER NOVELS

concentrate on the Glass Bead Game as metaphor, relying heavily on narrator’s

FROM WEST TO EAST AND BACK AGAIN

EAST AND WEST IN HESSE’S WORK

FAITH, DOUBT AND EDUCATION

MYSTERY, RITUAL AND EDUCATION

Many of Hermann Hesse’s novels have an autobiographical flavour. The pressures

A DREAM? HESSE’S JOURNEY TO THE EAST

substantially from the organised, hierarchical, group-based ritual described in The

in the process of adding to and flowing into Leo’s, nourishing and

Hesse’s apparent resolution of H.H.’s crisis warrants careful contemplation. H.H.

MORE THAN A METAPHOR

THE GLASS BEAD GAME AS METAPHOR

of the white, heterosexual, male individual of unique and exceptional character

BEYOND METAPHOR: THE EDUCATION OF JOSEPH KNECHT

of the “grand simplificateurs” and a lover of equality, of organic form, of the

EDUCATION, SOCIETY AND THE INDIVIDUAL

HIERARCHY, ORDER AND INDIVIDUALITY IN CASTALIA

AWAKENING, EDUCATION AND THE WIDER WORLD

INDIVIDUALISM, CULTURAL ELITISM AND EDUCATION

the integrity – the uniqueness – of one individual is simultaneously to respect the

LIFE, DEATH AND TRANSFORMATION

DIALOGUE, QUESTIONING AND TRANSFORMATION

As noted in chapter 2, at the heart of Freire’s work is the ideal of humanisation

process of deepening one’s understanding of self and society through education.

CONSCIENTISATION, CONTEMPLATION AND AWAKENING

EDUCATION, DEATH AND NEW LIFE

Christian origins of the metaphor of an ‘Easter experience’ can also be off-putting

EDUCATION, INCOMPLETENESS AND

THE DEATH OF JOSEPH KNECHT

THE IMPORTANCE OF INCOMPLETENESS

Bandy is right, in my view, to point to qualities often unnoticed in Knecht and

the idea of commitment to a community. Joseph, as the composer of these Lives,

EDUCATION: THE BRIDGE BETWEEN DEATH AND LIFE

To stiffen into stone, to persevere!

And we shall never rest upon our way.

Yet still above this vale of endless dying

Even the hour of our death may send

counter to immediate self-interest. By retaining this more Platonic element of the

Freire, P. (2004). Pedagogy of indignation. Boulder, CO: Paradigm.

The author and publisher gratefully acknowledge permission to reproduce material

Roberts, P. (2008). More than a metaphor: The education of Joseph Knecht.

Roberts, P. (2008). Life, death and transformation: Education and incompleteness

Peter Roberts is Professor of Education at the University of Canterbury in New

Professor Roberts serves on the editorial panels of thirteen international journals,

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