Hier die erste Eintragung Baltasar Graciáns in das Buch:

"The final chapter of my life.

On this twenty-fifth day of August, 1658, in the late evening of my life and at the age of fifty-seven, I, Baltasar Gracián, have a divine commitment to record the prime incidents that have taken me to this moment.
As I am about to prepare these entries of painful events in my life, I have no vision of who will read them. Yet I am convinced that God will see to it that these recollections fall into the proper hands.
My health is failing. There is not much time remaining, perhaps a few months at best. Before I ascend to eternal peace, I am obliged, as all men are, to leave my contribution of earthly gratitude.
What better way to accomplish this than to warn future generations that the art of self-preservation is at the heart of survival? Or to point out that life is an ever-constant battle; and to alert those intent upon making their fortune in this world to the hidden intentions in human behavior. The world is an illusionary place and dangers abound.
I have devoted my life to the Church. The Church is good. But within its confines is a cold-hearted bishop who has vowed to destroy me. Archbishop Segovia Montoro has sought this revenge for years. Does he not know that God was watching him inflict misery on others?
I have dedicated my life to testimonies that needed to be heard by the populace, only to find, in the waning days, that nothing tangible remains: My voice has no listeners, my published writings are banned and have mysteriously vanished. The bishop decreed that those who did not turn in my books would be guilty of mortal sin. It is as though I never existed! But if this punishment was meant to break my will, it did not succeed.
I often think of the days gone by and the many events that shaped my life. I think of my constant conflict with certain leaders of the Church. Whoever said "He has the patience of a saint" must have had a survivor in mind, for how else does anyone prevail?
I have taken the priestly vows knowingly, and in my heart and mind have always followed the dictates of the Church. But I am obsessed, driven to speaking out against the chicanery in the world, and the imposters who deceive the good and seduce the trusting.
Should speaking out be judged a crime of ecumenical disobedience? In my thinking, it should not. But it is. And I am constantly on trial.
How can one not respond to his conscience? These are deep internal convictions, and I must listen to them. It is, after all, the voice of God.
My eyes are not blind and my heart is not stone; I observed my Jesuit brothers who bowed in obedience and bent their minds to the questionable interpretations they were directed to spout. I heard their raised voices warning the God-fearing parishioners of damnation: "Choose your own path," they shouted, "and you incur the wrath of the devil." Over and over they advocated: "Listen to what the Church instructs! God has chosen Mother Church to point out what is right thinking and that which is not!"

As I listened with heavy heart, I could not stand in the shadows and be crushed by the unbearable weight of my unspoken thoughts. If there is truth to the message of my brothers, why has God given us minds of our own?
My quest has always been to seek truth and to educate those who are eager to learn. I am convinced now that this quest is not something I chose for myself.
Some of my brother Jesuits would have the whole world become Christian by having Christians become worldly. If there were any certainty that it could be so, I would be in total agreement. But those who make promises they cannot deliver are mere hypocrites. The reality is that education ist reserved for the rich, and celibacy denies mankind the offspring from some of our brightest minds.
The Bishop's hostility toward me is a mystery. Strangely, I have seen His Excellency but once in my life, but his messages and couriers have appeared at my door frequently; he is aware of my every movement.
I often wondered what so inflames the Bishop´s heart. Is it mere pettiness? Is it jealousy? If he truly believes that I have effectuated harm toward the Church, it is purely imagined. I am a trained Jesuit, a teacher. I am here to enrich the soul of every reachable human being.
To you who read this journal I will explain my downfall and disgrace at the hands of the Bishop so that you can judge the events for yourself.

His fury was precipitated by a three-volume novel I had written. The Criticizer, an allegorical vision of human life. My message affirmed that in a woundrous world, often darkened with corruption and evil, one should still have optimistic confidence in man´s possibilities when he is aided by intelligence and kindness.
And how did Archibishop Segovia Montoro respond to these principles? He threatened to report me to the General of the Society and to charge me with heresy. To avoid this unpardonable sin I complied with his demands that I go on a bread-and-water fast. Not once, but four full days.
The solitude, the humiliation, were awesome. I asked God's forbearance and I accepted my miserable punishment with the knowledge that successful missions do not come without painful opposition.
But the Bishop was not finished with me. With stored vengeance he directed that I be removed from my faculty position at the University in Zaragoza. And when my written appeals finally exasperated him, he exiled me to a forgotten parish in Graus, a poor village in a deplorable state, millenia from any semblance of culture or vitality.
For my convictions, for my writings and my warnings to those who came to hear the Truth, I was stripped of my published works, and not even allowed a single copy of all that I had written.
Dear God, perhaps I do not belong in the Church. Perhaps my devotion somehow is incomplete. What a myriad of problems you give me!
Frightened, and in desperation, I applied to another order.
The Bishop's final revenge was to see that no other religious community accepted me. Neither did my friends in high places, not even King Philip IV, whom I knew quite well, come to my defense. I learned that friends do not come to the aid of a drowning man for fear that they themselves be caught in the undertow. But oftimes strangers do.
I must thank God for Senor and Senora Blanca, those elderly parishioners who remembered me from days gone by.
It is only a forthnight since they miraculously found me in an insignificant monastery performing menial chores in that forsaken village of Graus. They opend their hearts and home to me with unconditional kindness. My room in their weather-worn house here in Tarragona is smal and barren, yet I feel boundless gratitude for their warmth and friendship.
In reflection, the Bishop always tried to stop me from writing. This drove me to do my work in the darkest hours of the night, by candlelight. The dim light and candle smoke burned my eyes, and the late hours left me fatiqued.
Although it was the publication of The Criticizer that caused the upheaval in my life, it is the disappearance of The Oracle that I mourn the most. In it was recorded all that I have observed in my lifetime: the good and the evil, the elegant and the vulgar. I cannot bear to think that copies of this work will lie burried forever in some dark, damp cellar, or worse, that they have become a pile of ashes.
Yet strong resolve remains. Someday, somewhere, somehow.... I am convinced that my voice will be heard through the words I have written.
Words, once recorded, are never lost from the human mind. This quiet room, this quill and parchment, will assist me. I know God will not take me until I have set down, once more, the "rules of life" from The Oracle.
Job was right: Life is warfare. But for the true survivor the worst that can happen is merely another obstacle that must be hurdled.
I feel the strength to create again, and I thank God for hearing my prayers.
The lost words easily come to mind ...."


Ich hoffe, dass ich nicht zu viele Tippfehler überlesen habe.
Grace