A few more absurd occurrences befell me. For example, I once made a harmless observation about the famous poet Schiller, whereupon all the South German bowling clubs denounced me as a desecrator of the sacred relics of the fatherland. Now, however, for a number of years I have succeeded in not saying anything to desecrate relics or make people get red with rage. I consider this an improvement. Now since so-called reality plays no very important role for me, since the past often occupies me as if it were the present, and the present seems to me infinitely far away, for these reasons I cannot separate the future from the past as sharply as is usually done. I live a great deal in the future and so I need not end my biography with the present day but can let it go quietly on.


 II shall give a brief account of how my life completes its curve. In the years up to 1930 I wrote a few more books, only then to turn my back on that profession forever. The question whether or not I was really to be counted among the poets was investigated in two dissertations by diligent young people, but not answered.