Everything begins with wonder

『Longing Pushes Me』, which has been much loved since its publication, has returned to readers in a new and richer form.
By restoring the missing manuscript, we provide readers who love Hermann Hesse with a new way to encounter him. The manuscript, which has been refined with a modern sensibility and a sophisticated vocabulary, makes us feel as if Hesse from over 100 years ago has come back to life and is slowly telling us stories.

Hermann Hesse lived between departure and stay, longing and nostalgia.
He was a writer and a man of nature who lived his entire life between contemplation of his hometown and nature, and anguish over humanity and art.
This collection of essays contains passionate confessions about his hometown, nature, and art, told by a man who loved nature more than anyone else, who strove to understand humanity, and who dedicated his passionate life to art.

The author, who was interested in and affectionate about everything that happens in every aspect of life and felt great movements even in their smallest gestures, always had a warm gaze on all the wonders that occur through life, nature, and the universe.

Hermann Hesse, who constantly sought, felt, and awakened us to what we were losing while engaging in anti-war activities even in the midst of a war led by his home country, Germany.
This book, a compilation of his writings on nature, perfume, humanity, art, and travel throughout his life, transcends time and space and still deeply moves us, helping us rediscover our love for life.

The mountains, the lakes, the rivers, and the sun were my friends, they talked to me and helped me grow.
For a long time I felt more affectionate and familiar with them than with any other person or life I shared with them.
But what I liked more than the sparkling lake, the somehow sad-looking fir trees, and the sun-drenched rocks were the clouds.

In this vast world, is there anyone who knows clouds better than I do, or loves them more than I do? If there's anything more beautiful than clouds in this world, please tell me! Clouds are a source of joy and comfort.
It is a blessing and talent bestowed upon the cloud by God, and it possesses the power of anger and death at the same time.
Clouds are sweet, soft, and peaceful, like a newborn life.
They are beautiful, abundant, and generous, like kind angels.
They are also dark and inescapable, like the messengers of death, and they show no mercy.

Since childhood, clouds have been my affectionate girlfriends and sisters.
Even when we passed each other in an alley, we nodded and pretended to know each other, and sometimes even exchanged glances.
I also haven't forgotten what I learned from the clouds at that time.
The shapes and colors of the clouds, the play in the sky, the spinning dance together, and the rest that follows.
And as they go along, they tell strange stories about earth and heaven… … .
---From "Beautiful and Melancholy Clouds"

A healthy, energetic, and optimistic attitude, the ability to face all serious problems with a smile, the ability to reject criticism, and the vitality gained from enjoying the moment.
All these are slogans of the times we live in.
In this way, this era tries to forget the burdensome memories of the world war through lies.
They act exaggeratedly as if nothing is wrong and do very American things.
Like a fat baby, like a made-up actor, he acts exaggeratedly and foolishly, but he is incredibly happy and smiles brightly.


In English, it's called 'smiling'.
Such optimism is widespread.
Every day, we decorate ourselves with brightly shining flower petals, hang pictures of new movie stars, and enjoy seeing numbers representing new records.
---From "Confrontation"

When we were children, the stumps of spruce trees that grew in the Black Forest were transported all summer long on huge, sturdy rafts across all the rivers to Mannheim, and sometimes even as far as the Netherlands.
Raft transport was a peculiar business, and in all the towns bordering on the river, the appearance of the first raft on the river in spring was considered more precious and remarkable than the blooming of flowers on the dry branches that had been curled up during the winter.
Such rafts (in the Swabian dialect they are not called rafts, but rather dully called detmok) were made by cutting very tall fir and spruce trunks.
Although the bark was peeled, the tree was not cut, but rather cut into pieces to fit the original shape.

The raft was made up of several sections, each section usually made up of eight to twelve wooden trunks woven together and tied at the ends.
Because all the joints were loosely connected, the raft, no matter how long it was, could move flexibly and pass through the bends of the river without difficulty.
However, there were frequent instances where the raft would suddenly hit an obstacle and stall as it drifted along.
(syncopation)

There was one wonderful fairy tale that our children loved more than anything else, and it was about a boy.
Once upon a time, the boy disobeyed the ban and sneaked onto a raft floating down the river and went all the way to the Netherlands.
And finally, the story goes, he reached the sea, and after several months, he returned home and was reunited with his parents who were mourning his disappearance.
For years, the secret wish I had kept deep in my heart was to be just like the boy in the fairy tale.

---From "Raft Trip"