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Once again, I play mechanically and think about Isabelle and the descriptions of pre-Christian religions I read last night. Back then, the Gods in Greece used to be cheerful; they'd wander from people to people; they were slightly more villainous and treacherous and flighty, like the people to whom they belonged. They were embodiments and excesses of life in all its fullness and cruelty and harmlessness and beauty. Isabelle was right: the pale man above me with his beard and bloody limbs is none of this. 'Two thousand years! Two thousand years,' I think to myself, and life—swirled with lights, mad screams, death, and ecstasy—has always bumped against the stone buildings on which somber, bloody, and surrounded by thousand of Bodendieks, have stood the images of the dying man. And the leaden shadow of the church spread across countries and smothered their vitality; it transformed Eros, the cheerful god, into a secret, dirty, sinful bedroom story, and forgave nothing, despite all the sermons about love and forgiveness; for true forgiveness is to accept another as he is—not to demand his repentance and obedience and submission before pronouncing 'Ego te absolvo.'
Erich Maria REMARQUE
Der Schwarze Obelisk






