As a little boy, on such days as Good Friday, after my Father had read out to us the story of the Passion,
I had lived in imagination and with much emotion in Gethsemane and on Golgotha,
in that world so poignantly beautiful, pale and ghostlike, and yet so terribly alive.
And when I listened to the Passion according to St. Matthew by Bach,
I felt the mystical thrills of this dark, powerful, mysterious world of passion and suffering.
I find in this music, even to-day and in the “actus tragicus,” the essence of all poetry and of all artistic expression.
At the conclusion of the lesson Demian said to me contemplatively: “There’s something in this, Sinclair, which I don’t like.
Read through the story, consider it, there’s something there which sounds insipid. I mean this business of the two thieves.
It’s sublime, the three crosses standing side by side on the hill!
But what about this sentimental story of the honest thief, which reads more like a tract?
First he was a criminal who had perpetrated crimes, and God knows what,
and now he breaks out in tears and is consumed by feelings of contrition and repentance.
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