IV. Einsamkeit

Freud—you've heard of him, I suppose?—made his name attempting to treat rich neurotic Jewish ladies in Vienna. (Their symptoms would manifest as all sorts of things, from headaches to spasms to partial paralysis. The blanket term for this was, naturally enough, hysteria.) Was it something about the city that drove these women to that degree of profound nervousness? Perhaps. As I've found out, the weather in Vienna is maddeningly cold and rainy for weeks on end: while back home the violets are peeping above the mould, we've had nothing but moist, cloudy, 3° weather since we arrived. (Actually, it snowed a bit yesterday.) It is enough to make someone agitated. Add to that the layout of the streets, all curving; it's impossible to maintain one's sense of direction, since all the buildings are so close together that one never can see a great distance. Though one is never far from other people, it is difficult to get a sense of social interaction. The Viennese are intensely private, never raising their voices in public. (The only conversations one hears on the U-Bahn are those of Japanese and American tourists.)

There must be something about the city that nurtures the creative urge: is it this simultaneous closeness and isolation that drives residents of Vienna to seek the consolation of art and philosophy, creating such novels, paintings and symphonies? Would we have Mahler, Klimt and Wittgenstein without this maddening city?

I don't mean to say I dislike Vienna; no indeed, it's a beautiful place with no real inconveniences to speak of. But it is important to spend time with friends, lest one go all hysterical; fortunately, I have many Americans here with me. And one simply must avail oneself of the parks—which, at least, Vienna has plenty of. Today I went out to Schönbrunn again, walking up the zig-zag path to the Gloriette and back down. Then I had a Käsekrainer, which can't possibly be healthy but was delicious. I can tell already it will be difficult leaving Vienna when this term is over.