Throwback Thursday: On Another World

August 2008

My daughter sent us an email sharing an unusual dream she'd had the other night about a purple bicycle that seemed alive, hunted people down and ran them over. It was like a horror movie, she said, but she found it "fun and scary at the same time."

What's interesting is that my wife noted how she does not dream in stories per se, but has more of a boring jumble of images, whereas I dream in the surreal story style that this dream epitomizes.

As early as seventh grade I found many of my dreams so interesting that I began keeping a journal of my dreams. In fact, I kept that up for six years and had hundreds of pages of details about my night life, which was far more interesting than school. (What I wouldn't give to put my hands on those documents today!) I could remember up to five dreams in detail.

Since that time I have occasionally recorded my dreams and sometimes turned them into short stories. Or, I simply share them as a form of thought provoking entertainment. Some have been quite unusual, each in its own way. Here is one such dream, recorded exactly as I dreamed it.

On Another World

In this dream I was being held captive on another planet. The people of this planet were in bondage to false ideas about God.

Early in the morning I was taken to a private meeting with the leader of this planet. We were alone in a large, circular unfurnished room. A single guard stood outside the open door.

By some means I had been paralyzed so that I could neither pray nor speak nor think straight. I was standing in the middle of the room in this strange, paralyzed state. I had no consciousness of the passage of time.

In the dream, Dr. Spock (of Star Trek fame) came to the door of the room and requested permission to enter. It is possible that I was captain of the Enterprise, though I do not know this for certain. I do know that I was from earth, as the following dialogue will attest. After obtaining permission, Spock entered the room carrying a bucket of what appeared to be a powdered cleanser. He stumbled and pretended to accidentally spill the cleanser on me. Immediately, I found myself released from my paralysis and I began praying, standing by a wash basin with my eyes closed. (It was one of those chrome sink basins that you find in painting studios at art school with multiple nozzles spraying water.) Upon seeing my fervent attempt to pray the leader of the planet was in stitches with laughter. He asked what I was doing.

I said I was praying to God.

"This is hysterical!" he said. "We would never pray to God like that," and he wanted to know how I got the notion that I could talk to God.

"God came to our planet once," I said.

"God came to your planet? What was God like?" The leader was suddenly interested in hearing this new thing. "What was God like?"

"He came to our planet as a human."

"A human? A weak, pitiful thing like that?" he sneered. "A human! God came to your planet as a human?"

"He took the form of a human, a man, actually, and lived on our world, on earth."

"And what happened?"

"We killed him," I said.

I woke.

Ibsen's Tale of the Button Molder in the Final Act of Peer Gynt

Henrik Ibsen

Sunday evening I listened to a lecture called Kierkegaard's Passion, from the Great Courses Series Philosophy as a Guide to Living. In this lecture Professor Stephen A. Erickson shared several keen insights from Kierkegaard. One of these had to do with boredom, which plays a bigger role in many of our lives than we realize. Kierkegaard viewed boredom as a symptom of existential despair, particularly in the "aesthetic" mode of existence, where individuals chase fleeting pleasures to avoid confronting life’s deeper questions. To illustrate this idea, Professor Erickson used the example of Peer Gynt's encounter with the Button Molder at the end of Ibsen's famous play.

Henrik Ibsen's Peer Gynt was a five act play based on a Norwegian fairy tale about a hunter. In Ibsen's play Peer is a self-absorbed dreamer who spends his life chasing fleeting ambitions. As a consequence he loses himself in the episodes of his life and never achieves authentic selfhood.

In Act V, after running over the world chasing adventures, the mysterious Button Molder appears as Peer’s life is unraveling, his grandiose illusions crumbling. A grim, almost bureaucratic character, the Button Molder explains that he’s been sent by a higher power (implied to be divine) to collect souls that have failed to fulfill their purpose. Peer, he says, has lived a life so lacking in authentic identity—neither truly good nor evil, just self-serving and scattered—that his soul qualifies for neither heaven nor hell. Instead, the Button Molder plans to melt Peer down in his ladle, like a defective button, to be remolded into something new, erasing his individuality entirely.

Peer, desperate to preserve himself, protests, arguing that his life’s adventures—his travels, schemes, and self-proclaimed greatness—prove he’s unique. The Button Molder counters that Peer has never truly been himself; he’s lived as a shapeshifter, adapting to please others or chase whims without committing to any higher purpose or moral core. 

To escape this fate, Peer must prove he’s been a distinct self, but his frantic attempts—seeking validation from others or clinging to past deeds—fail. The play ends ambiguously, with Peer facing the ladle’s threat, saved temporarily by the love of Solveig, a woman who represents the steadfast faith he’s squandered. The Button Molder warns he’ll return, leaving Peer’s ultimate fate unresolved.

Meaning for Us Today

The Button Molder’s encounter with Peer speaks powerfully to modern existential and societal concerns. At its core, the story is a warning about the dangers of living an inauthentic life—one driven by external validation, fleeting desires, or avoidance of responsibility. I'm reminded of the Aesop's Fable of the grasshopper and the ants. The ants spent the summer in preparation for winter, working to gather grain and other necessities. The grasshopper spent his summer fiddling and having fun. He was not ready for the coming winter, the moral being, "There's a time for work and a time for play."

The Button Molder represents a kind of existential reckoning, forcing us to confront whether our lives have meaning or if we’ve merely drifted, like Peer, through a series of roles without substance. Hence Kierkegaard's dismay that most people avoid thinking deeply about meaning, or as Gauguin put it, the title of his famous painting, "Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?"

In today’s world, the Button Molder’s message resonates in this age of digital personas, endless distractions, and societal pressure to “perform” identity. Social media, for instance, encourages us to curate idealized versions of ourselves, much like Peer’s chameleon-like existence, prioritizing likes and trends over authentic selfhood. 

The threat of being “melted down” mirrors the modern fear of insignificance—being reduced to a faceless cog in a system, whether it’s corporate, cultural, or algorithmic. 

The Button Molder’s ladle evokes the erasure of individuality in a world that often rewards conformity or superficial success, or as Dylan suggests in Idiot Wind, "You'll find out when you reach the top You're on the bottom."

Yet, the story also offers hope. The Button Molder give Peer a little more time, and there is a possibility of redemption suggested by the presence of Solveig, the woman who has dedicated her life to waiting for him. Solveig's enduring faith and patience serves as a counterpoint to Peer's self-absorbed journey. (In a similar fashion Hermann Hesse explores this duality in his novel Narcissus and Goldmund, with Goldmund being the  self-absorbed adventurer living from episode to episode whichever way the wind blows.) Solveig's presence suggests that love, faith, or commitment to something greater can anchor us, helping us forge a true self. 

 

The Button Molder challenges us to ask: Are we living as ourselves, or are we just buttons, shapeless and ready to be remolded by the world’s demands? 

* * * * * 

Norwegian playwright Henrik Johan Ibsen is considered one of the world's pre-eminent writers of the 19th century. His plays are among the most performed plays in the world, second only to Shakespeare. He is often referred to as "the father of modern drama."  

Trivia: Norwegian composer Edvard Grieg wrote two suites for Peer Gynt. Opus 23 premiered along with the play on 24 February 1876 in what is now Oslo. My father used o ilisten to this album when I was growing up.

Limbo Exercises: What They Were To Me

Self Portrait, 1981 (Acrylic on cardboard)

In the early 1980s, when I first embraced writing as a calling, I read On Becoming A Writer (1934) by Dorothea Brande. Ms. Brande was an American writer, editor, and writing instructor from Chicago. Her book, a treasure trove of practical advice on writing and personal development, is a classic on the creative process. In particular, two pieces of practical advice helped me immensely. The first: write every day. The second, however, was the game-changer. She said that it was imperative to learn how to write on command. 

In other words, don’t wait for “inspiration.” Don’t wait for the earth to move. Rather, write because it is your job (or decision) to do so. For me personally, she was saying, "Set aside a designated time to sit down and write."

 

I took this to heart. Every day after supper I would sit at my typewriter and fill a page with words. Some of it was stream of consciousness, some of it was preconceived ideas I’d organized in my head while apartment painting during the day, and some of it was poetic expression. Whether it took 10 minutes or 25 minutes was immaterial. Building the habit of producing words on paper was the aim.

 

The name I gave to these daily missives was Limbo Exercises. Just as we need to be physically active to keep our muscle tone and physical health, so it is that writing keeps us exercising our minds, which is good for our mental health.

 

What did I learn from these exercises? Discipline. In the process I also found that some of what I produced became seeds for stories, articles and poems. No Pulitzer Prize material, but a few little gemstones that could polished and shared to lift people's spirits or make people think.

 

I wrote the above as an explanation for any blog posts with the subtitle Limbo Exercise #2 or #17 or whatever.. The idea was resurrected by reading Kent Peterson’s substack, Tales from a Rolltop Desk. Kent writes the old-fashioned way, with that beautiful sound of clickety-clack emanating from his fingers on a typewriter. 

 

There are some who insist the best, and maybe only, way to write is with a pencil or pen on paper. My personal view is this: The right way is the way that works for you. 

 

Are you called to write? Then do it. 

Related

Limbo Exercise #41

Imaginary Interviews: Hermann Hesse's Restoration--Out of Crisis Comes Art

Herr Hesse

Early in my college career I discovered two writers who made a special impact on me: Hermann Hesse and Kurt Vonnegut. My first Vonnegut read was Cat's Cradle. My first Hesse was the novel Demian. In each case I read everything I could find by each. 

With regards to Hesse, I used to ponder how a German writer of the 1920s and 30s could speak so directly to American youth in the early 1970s. To answer this question I decided to examine his life by means of an imaginary interview.

Circa 2004 I was given the opportunity to interview Mr. Vonnegut for an article I was writing. More recently, by means of imagination, I have begun creating interviews with artists, writers and other interesting people from the past who are no longer with us but inspire us today. 

EN: Mr. Hesse, your marriage to Maria Bernoulli was marked by significant challenges, particularly due to her struggles with schizophrenia. How did navigating those difficulties shape your emotional and creative life, and what toll did it take on your sense of self?

Hermann Hesse: The years with Maria were a crucible, a tempest of love and sorrow that tore at the fabric of my soul. Her illness, schizophrenia, cast a shadow over our home, its unpredictable waves pulling us apart even as I clung to the hope of connection. I felt like a man adrift, tasked with anchoring a ship that was sinking under forces I could neither control nor fully comprehend. The practical burdens—caring for her, shielding our children—were heavy, but the emotional weight was heavier still. I questioned my capacity for love, for patience, for strength. Despair became a companion, whispering doubts about my worth as a husband, as a man.

Yet, in this crucible, my art found a voice. The chaos of our marriage forced me to look inward, to probe the depths of human suffering and resilience. My writing became a mirror, reflecting not just my pain but the universal struggle to find meaning amid brokenness. The toll on my sense of self was profound—I felt fragmented, inadequate—but it also pushed me toward a deeper understanding of the psyche’s complexity, which later found expression in my work. To create, I learned, is to wrestle with one’s own ruins and emerge with something whole.

EN: I can see why so many in my generation could relate to your work. As a father, you’ve spoken about feeling ill-suited to family life, torn between your need for solitude and the demands of raising your three children. Can you share how this tension affected your relationships with your sons and your own identity as a writer?

Hermann Hesse: Fatherhood, for me, was a paradox—a role I entered with earnestness but found myself wholly unprepared for. My sons, dear as they were, demanded a presence I struggled to give. My soul craved solitude, the quiet space where thoughts could unfold like petals, yet family life was a clamor of needs, a constant pull outward. I felt like a monk called from his cell to tend a bustling marketplace. This tension strained my bond with my boys; I fear they saw me as distant, a figure more absorbed in his own world than in theirs. I loved them, yet I faltered in showing it, my inadequacies as a father gnawing at me.
As a writer, this conflict was both curse and catalyst. The guilt of failing my sons deepened my exploration of alienation, a theme that pulses through my work. My need for solitude was not mere selfishness but a necessity for creation, for diving into the inner landscapes that became Siddhartha and Demian. Yet, I wrestled with my identity: was I a writer who failed as a father, or a father diminished by his art? In time, I learned that creation demands sacrifice, but the heart aches for what is left behind.
EN: The death of your father in 1916 seems to have stirred deep emotions, bringing unresolved childhood conflicts to the forefront. How did this loss, combined with the strict religious upbringing you rebelled against, influence the themes of alienation and self-discovery in your work?

The city of Basel, Switzerland, where he was educated,
became a touchstone throughout his life.

Hermann Hesse: My father’s death in 1916 was a wound reopened, a reckoning with a childhood I had long sought to escape. My parents, missionaries steeped in piety, raised me in a world of rigid faith, where the soul was to be tamed, not explored. I rebelled against this, feeling like a stranger in my own home, my spirit chafing against their certainties. When my father died, the grief was tangled with old resentments—his expectations, my defiance, the unspoken distance between us. It forced me to confront the boy I had been, alienated from a world that demanded conformity.

This shaped my writing profoundly. Alienation became the soil from which my stories grew—characters like Sinclair in Demian or Siddhartha, who seek their own path beyond dogma, echo my own rebellion. My father’s death, and the strictures of my youth, taught me that self-discovery is a journey through estrangement, a breaking free from inherited truths to find one’s own. My work, I hope, speaks to those who feel adrift, urging them to embrace their solitude as a path to wholeness.
EN: World War I was a profoundly disillusioning time for you, leading to your vocal pacifism and work aiding war prisoners. How did the nationalist fervor and the war’s grim realities challenge your humanitarian ideals, and what personal cost did this moral conflict exact?
Hermann Hesse: The war was a descent into madness, a betrayal of the human spirit. I watched Europe, drunk on nationalism, tear itself apart, and I could not reconcile this with my belief in our shared humanity. My pacifism was not mere sentiment but a cry against the absurdity of slaughter dressed in flags. In Switzerland, I worked for the German embassy, aiding war prisoners—small acts of mercy in a sea of cruelty. Yet, the letters I read, the stories of suffering, gnawed at my soul. My criticism of the war drew scorn in Germany, branding me a traitor, an outsider in my own land.
The personal cost was immense. The war’s brutality clashed with my ideals, leaving me drained, as if my heart were a sponge wrung dry. I felt powerless, a bystander to humanity’s self-destruction. This conflict fed my despair, deepening the exhaustion that overwhelmed me in 1916. Yet, it also sharpened my resolve to write truths that pierce the veil of nationalism, to affirm life’s sanctity through art. The war taught me that ideals, though battered, must endure, for they are the spark that keeps us human.
EN: By 1916, you were grappling with physical and mental exhaustion—insomnia, migraines, and depression—that halted your writing. Can you describe what it was like to face this creative paralysis, and how it felt to be so overwhelmed by both personal and global turmoil?
Hermann Hesse: By 1916, I was a man unraveling, my body and mind betraying me. Insomnia stalked my nights, migraines pounded my skull, and depression draped over me like a leaden cloak. The world’s turmoil—the war’s carnage, my father’s death, my wife’s illness—merged with my own, creating a storm I could not weather. Writing, my refuge, abandoned me; the words would not come, as if my soul had lost its voice. It was a paralysis more terrifying than physical ailment, for to cease creating was to cease being myself.
I felt like a tree stripped of leaves, battered by winds I could not name. The weight of personal grief and global horror pressed down, leaving me hollow, questioning whether I could ever emerge whole. This crisis was a dark mirror, forcing me to see the fragility of my spirit. Yet, in that darkness, I glimpsed a truth: to break is to begin anew. My collapse led me to the sanatorium, where I began to rebuild, not just as a writer, but as a man seeking meaning.
EN: Your decision to seek treatment at a sanatorium in Lucerne and work with Dr. Josef Lang introduced you to Jungian psychotherapy. How did exploring the unconscious and integrating opposites within your psyche help you navigate your inner conflicts, and what was transformative about this experience?
Hermann Hesse: Entering the sanatorium in 1916 was an act of surrender, not to defeat, but to the unknown depths of my psyche. Dr. Lang, a disciple of Jung, guided me through the labyrinth of my unconscious, where light and shadow, reason and chaos, wrestled for dominion. Jung’s ideas—the integration of opposites, the journey toward individuation—were like a map to a country I had always inhabited but never understood. I learned to face the contradictions within me: the artist and the father, the rebel and the seeker, the man who craved solitude yet longed for connection.
This process was transformative because it gave form to my chaos. I saw my struggles not as failures but as fragments of a greater whole, each with a voice to be heard. Therapy taught me to listen to my dreams, to honor the darkness as much as the light. It was as if I had been drowning and found a current to carry me forward. This awakening fed my art, giving birth to Demian and a new vision of life as a quest for self-unity, a journey I could share with others.

EN: Your novel Demian, which was the first novel of yours I read, is often seen as a turning point, deeply influenced by your Jungian therapy and the concept of individuation. How did your time in crisis and therapy inspire this work, and what did it mean to you to channel such personal struggles into art?
Hermann Hesse: Demian was born from the ashes of my crisis, a phoenix of the soul. My time in the sanatorium, under Dr. Lang’s guidance, opened a door to the unconscious, where I found the concept of individuation—the process of becoming one’s true self. The war, my failing marriage, my father’s death, my own despair—these were not mere burdens but threads in a tapestry of inner conflict. Jung’s ideas gave me a language to weave them into meaning.
Writing Demian was an act of alchemy, transforming pain into insight. Sinclair’s journey—his struggle to break free from convention, to embrace both light and shadow—mirrored my own. To channel my turmoil into art was to find purpose in suffering, to offer readers a map through their own darkness. Demian meant everything to me: it was proof that from the depths of crisis, a new voice could emerge, one that speaks not just for me but for all who seek their own path.
EN: After your separation from Maria Bernoulli, you embraced a more solitary life dedicated to art and spiritual exploration. How did this shift allow you to redefine your path as a writer, and what did it teach you about balancing personal freedom with human connection?

Hesse's writing desk.

Hermann Hesse: Leaving Maria was both a liberation and a wound, a step toward reclaiming my soul’s quiet. The marriage, with its storms, had tethered me to a life I could not sustain. In solitude, I found the space to breathe, to write, to explore the spiritual questions that had always haunted me. This shift redefined me as a writer—not as one bound by duty, but as one called to probe the mysteries of existence. Works like Siddhartha and Steppenwolf grew from this solitude, their roots in my need to understand the self’s place in the cosmos.
Yet, solitude taught me a paradox: freedom demands sacrifice. In choosing my art, I distanced myself from human ties—my sons, my past loves—and felt the ache of isolation. I learned that connection, though vital, must not drown the inner voice. Balancing the two is a dance, never perfected, but necessary. My path became one of embracing solitude while holding space for others, knowing that art, at its best, bridges the solitary soul to the world.
EN: Looking back, you’ve described your sanatorium stay not as a defeat but as a necessary period of healing. How did confronting the complexities of your psyche during this time strengthen you, and what message would you share with others facing their own inner turmoil?
Hermann Hesse: The sanatorium was not a surrender but a pilgrimage into the self. In Lucerne, amid my exhaustion and despair, I faced the chaos of my psyche—the warring fragments of grief, guilt, and longing. With Dr. Lang’s help, I learned to see these not as enemies but as guides, each pointing toward a deeper truth. This confrontation strengthened me, not by erasing pain but by teaching me to carry it, to weave it into my being. I emerged not whole in the conventional sense, but whole in my acceptance of brokenness.
To those facing their own turmoil, I would say: do not fear the darkness within. It is not your enemy but your teacher. Seek it out, whether through silence, art, or the aid of another, and listen to its whispers. The path to healing is not escape but descent, a journey through the shadows to find the light you carry within. Your struggles are the raw material of your becoming—embrace them, and they will lead you home.
EN: Your works resonate with readers worldwide, often because they grapple with universal struggles of identity and meaning. How do you see your personal crises—familial, emotional, and war-related—as having shaped the universal appeal of your literature?

Hermann Hesse: My life’s crises—my failing marriage, my distance from my sons, my father’s death, the war’s horrors—were not merely personal but echoes of the human condition. In my struggles, I found the universal: the ache for meaning, the tension between self and society, the search for a truth beyond dogma. The war’s disillusionment, my family’s fractures, my own descent into despair—these were my teachers, revealing the shared wounds we all carry.
My writing, from Demian to The Glass Bead Game, seeks to name these wounds, to offer not answers but questions, not solutions but journeys. Readers find themselves in my work because I have dared to lay bare my own soul—its doubts, its rebellions, its hopes. By wrestling with my crises, I learned that the particular is universal: one man’s struggle is every man’s, and in telling my story, I tell theirs. My art, born from pain, is a bridge to others, a reminder that in our brokenness, we are all seeking the same light.

* * * * *

PostScript: Hermann Hesse, the acclaimed German-Swiss author of Steppenwolf, Siddhartha, and Demian, experienced a profound personal and psychological crisis that led to his being placed in a mental institution in 1916. This period was pivotal in his life and creative evolution.
This work was created in collaboration with Grok, an AI developed by xAI.