Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse

Philosophical novel and cult sixties read, Steppenwolf is about the dichotomy of Harry Haller, a man both lone wolf of the steppes and sophisticated mystic, a ‘suicide’ unable to join the two halves of his personality.

Hesse complained that his book had been violently misunderstood, which was almost certainly a pop at the counterculture’s enthusiasm for the drug taking and frank sexuality in the latter half of the novel to the detriment of its more subtle nuances. At risk of being accused of a misunderstanding myself, here’s a quick dash through some of its boozy references.

Steppenwolf takes the form of a set of notes by Haller, containing A Treatise on the Steppenwolf, a pamphlet he is given in the street, and a preface by the nephew of the lady renting a room to Haller. The nephew, a rather serious young man, takes a liking to Haller, despite his rather dissolute behaviour. A furtive prowl around Haller’s room while he’s out confirms the nephew’s suspicions that he’s a lush:

On the big table among the books and papers there was often a vase of flowers. There, too, a paint box, generally full of dust, reposed among flakes of cigar ash and (to leaving nothing out) sundry bottles of wine. There was a straw-covered bottle usually containing Italian red wine, which he procured from a little shop in the neighbourhood; often, too, a bottle of Burgundy as well as Malaga; and a squat bottle of Cherry brandy was, as I saw, nearly emptied in a very brief space – after which it disappeared in a corner of the room, there to collect the dust without further diminution of its contents.

He follows him into a tavern one night and sits with him, an experience that does nothing to change his mind:

We sat there for an hour, and while I drank two glasses of mineral water, he accounted for a pint of red wine and then called for another half.

Mind you, Haller’s own accounts of his nights spent down the pub relate some steady imbibing:

None the less, the quiet of the place was worth something; no crowds, no music; only a few peaceful townsfolk at bare wooden tables (no marble, no enamel, no plush, no brass) and before each his evening glass of good old wine. Perhaps this company of habitués, all of whom I know by sight, were all regular Philistines and had in the Philistine dwellings their dreary altars of the home dedicated to sheepish idols of contentment; perhaps, too, they were solitary fellows who had been sidetracked, quiet, thoughtful topers of bankrupt ideals, lone wolves and poor devils like me... Here I cast anchor, for an hour, or it might be two. With the first sip of Elsasser I realized that I had eaten nothing that day since breakfast.

Wine by the pint cannot be a good idea, especially on an empty stomach. Could this be the real provenance of the illuminated letters on the wall advertising the Magic Theatre. Entrance not for Everybody. For Madmen Only...