Perhaps Nietzsche was right when he spoke about God’s shadows inside caves, for years to come. As of late often such an image has appeared to me, especially in relation to American politics – the future ahead of us paints a picture of religious fanaticism, galvanized by American imperialism which slowly but surely fortifies Trump’s self-representation as a godlike figure. This strange sort of theocracy terrifies me.
Some time ago now, I coined the term “neodivinity,” which refers to the phenomena in which figures take on the role of supplements, or surrogates, of the “dead god;” they simulate divinity. It is no surprise that in a book about political fanaticism, this theme would arise, but I was eager to find a novel that explored this. And what an interesting exploration!
The protagonist of Mephisto by Klaus Mann was written with Gustaf Gründgens in mind: a Communist turned Nazi for fame’s sake. Much like the real man, the fictional figure gives the eponymous 1936 novel its name after his successful performance as Mephistopheles, from Goethe’s Faust. Both men take on evil’s character in order to swiftly navigate the Third Reich. Borrowing Mann’s words, the novel was written with the purpose of analysing the “abject type of treacherous intellectual who prostitutes his talent for the sake of some tawdry fame and transitory wealth.” And Mann does illustrate, in all its unscrupulous nature, the horrors of Nazism.
Upon starting the book one may take note of Höfgen’s disillusionment. Coupled with bitterness, his Faustian ambition motions towards extravagant success, a desire to elevate oneself over Germany and seduce the motherland. He inherits from the “killers of god” the anatomy of a character of unrelenting passion for something greater beyond, and its unfortunate misplacement onto a field wherein it is defiled and departs from its original form. Is standing at God’s stead not a shadow of the divinity lost to our championing of man? Again appears Nietzsche’s prediction.
For characters like Benjamin Pelz, Nazism simulates an apotheosis of sorts: “the birth of a new type of human being […] the renaissance of a very ancient one, which is archaic, magical, and warlike.” Much like a religion, performing in the likeness of his Savior earns people a position in this heaven of terror of Nazi Germany. Being part of “schöne Versammlung von Göttern” means Höfgen himself is at God’s stead, too. Characters such as young Miklas, a member of the Hitler Youth, reflect the replacement of the dead God’s corpse with the man-god who serves as a surrogate of the Father, a figure in Whose likeness one may be led to salvation. The youth’s earnest feelings are misdirected by hatred and propaganda, falling trap to the promises of idols and manufacturing “neodivinity” instead.
In the case of Hendrik, it is not the fatherly figure that seduces him to take the course he does, but instead the shadow of an essence required for him to survive in the world that appears to him in the abject. In the absence of something, Hendrik renews his energies in the decadent sublime of the abject; another shadow of the ineffable and infinite satisfaction of religious sublime. Klaus Mann utilizes the motif of dance to symbolize a figurative and literal renunciation of the self to vice and primitivity, and all the depths and heights of the abject, as a means of transcendence. As one gives himself up to these greater-than forces, he encounters something akin to the awe-striking humility of divinity. By any means necessary, Hendrik fights against the chronic recurrence of dissatisfaction and existential lethargy that haunts his life, no matter what form the solution may take on.
Höfgen represents not a man of truly evil inclinations, but a man of no inclinations; a breeding ground for evil. In the absence of the thing that inspires someone with infinite satisfaction, such as the sublime that is uncreated and overwhelms us with emotion, man will seek to draw from surrogate gods, displacing one’s longing for this thing and placing one’s energy onto places that depart from whence it truly can be attained.
Mephisto stands out to me as a story that has had to work against its own time, both in the oppositional nature of the work and in its complicated history, meddled with lawsuits, delayed publications, and censorship. However, Mann’s ability to showcase the modes through which man attempts to reach a communal something during a time of fragmentation separates his novel from other political works during the time. It is not only a political satire, but an in-depth exploration of the psyche and spirit alike. I hope Klaus Mann is able to be given the recognition he deserves, away from the shadow cast by his father’s shame, and away from the shame imposed upon him both in life and death.
Book cover of “Mephisto” by Klaus Mann
