The following will be available for purchase in a more complete for as Part I of The Dionysian Man, a novel in April 2014: [All Spelling Errors are my own and should be fucking ignored as this is a rough draft preview of an upcoming book. History in the making people. super cereal]
The Dionysian Man
It is easy enough to be disheartened and depressed by existence. Often the events that unfold in a normal life are enough to unhinge even the sturdiest of minds from their delicate moorings to sanity. Optimists would have you believe that the things that happen to us and others have a purpose that will reveal itself at the appropriate moment. Pessimists… well, pessimists are nothing more than misanthropic optimists, truth be told. They are optimistic in the face of optimism and they take a certain degree of comfort if not pleasure in this notion. Professor Florian Tull was neither an optimist nor a pessimist in thought nor in deportment. He was equally happy and unhappy with the sundry little disappointments and triumphs that inflicted themselves upon him over the course of his 55 years. Florian Tull enjoyed nothing worth enjoying and was disturbed by nothing that would elicit a measure of disturbance. Herr Tull had grown up seeing the world as a puzzling and beautifully awe inspiring place. He was a rare specimen of man: he was not in a thrall to metaphysical ideas and tenants. Herr Tull was a free spirit in the sense that he was a freethinker: he did not let self-indulgent fear rule his mind or influence his personal morality. That is not to say, however, that he did not have his own petty phobias and foibles.
Herr Tull was a Professor of Philosophy at one of the premier Universities in all of Germany, a University he proudly called his alma mater. His heart was an arrhythmic muscle devoid of the passion and lust for power and people that often fuels intelligent or unique minds such as his was. His bland and unimaginative seeming personality was ill-suited to the task of cultivating the potential of emerging geniuses and leaders on the surface. He reserved what little passion he had for his exploration of the real nature of philosophical and physical freedom in what he deemed a “world imprisoned by faith and fear”. His one remarkable trait as a thinker and a teacher was the uncanny ability to see the world in the most profoundly achromatic shades of grey. Sadly this talent was often mistaken for a depressive personality, and as a result of this erroneous observation many of Herr Tull’s colleagues and contemporaries went out of their way to ovoid him.
He was respected and feared by his students, but he was also despised and pitied. One student pitied him so much that she condescended to marry him. Inga Tull nee Hoffman was a brilliant writer and a beautiful woman. She had all of the qualities that her husband so sorely lacked and more besides. She was gracious, pleasant, possessed an excellent sense of humor, and was generally beloved by all who met or beheld her. She was the rare woman in her era that was actually able to capitalize on the gifts and talents she possessed. She was one of the most celebrated young writers of either gender in Germany and Europe with three well received novels and two widely attended plays under the belt surrounding her lithe frame. But as is often the case with writers there was something lacking in her self-esteem. A Freudian would call her personal malaise a repressed hatred of her mother that led to a lack of self-appreciation. A Christian would see her as a lost soul who had never felt the love of God, and as a consequence never found a way to love herself. Most others would just call her a fool.
Foolish was the only way to describe her decision to marry her professor and PhD advisor. She would later explain that she saw something safe in the man she called “Florry”. She would say that he was kind to her were no other man was before, and that he asked nothing of her besides patience with his morose temperament and the long hours he spent working on his “Philosophical Masterwork”. Herr Tull had never been the recipient of a woman’s affection (or in sooth interest) before, and he grasped onto Frau Hoffman like a terrified serf grasps onto the word of his God. Theirs was a short courtship. He proposed to her while they were both attending a colloquium on translations of early German Romanticism. Just around the time the speaker got around to De Stael Tull looked to his erstwhile Eve and asked her if she would do him the favor of marrying him. Not wanting to make a scene in the midst of dozens of her colleagues she said yes. They did not discuss the matter further until they had dinner that night. At that point the idea had sunk in and Inga felt that she could certainly do no worse. Tull was lucky in this regard: she was busy with her studies and her creative endeavors, so much so that her inherent insecurity urged her to reach out to the nearest kind soul. This just happened to be Tull.