Chronicles From The Future: The amazing story of Paul Amadeus Dienach

One more thing: Dienach did not invent a mentally ill character, but was ill himself, even before the attack of tuberculosis, I mean to say. He was an aloof and whiny hypochondriac, to say the least—notice his never-ending complaining in his writings—and hypersensitive almost to a pathological degree. He did not wish to speak of his two past illnesses (in 1917 and 1921-1922). Still, I recall him vaguely telling me at some point that “lethargic sleep is not an enigma for science anymore” and that “this reaction of the neuro-psychological system, this defence mechanism can be beneficial at times when neural cells are overcharged. It contributes to regulating their alternating current flow and protects them from impending collapse”. In either case, had it not been for his illness, he would not have encountered such fate in his life, which nowadays astounds us.

Who, indeed, could have predicted that this man’s illness would take such an incredible and unique turn? Much has been said about the unknown powers hidden within the human soul. It is true that we are unaware of thousands of things that exist and that thousands of things happen around us about which we are clueless. Nevertheless, who would ever speak of such potential of the human psychodynamics that resembles a miracle? Of course, this does not mean every emotionally overloaded psychological state bears such incredible potential, as was Dienach’s case. However, certain similar states—few among the many—may appear to lead to such parapsychic (or metapsychic) wanderings, as was the case of the spirit of these manuscripts’ author.

I recall that in 1923 we only saw Dienach as a man whose life was crushed by incurable sadness. Back in those days, the phrase “some great love affair” would frivolously come to our smiling and slightly sarcastic lips. Indeed, the writings in his “First Notebook” show that he was a man who had failed at his job and ended up being good at nothing in life due to his morbid predisposition of the incurable romantic and his unfortunate love affair (See e.g. Dec. 6, 1918 [First Edition]: I was telling myself to be strong, pull myself together and go out—but I couldn’t. Jan 17, 1919 [First Edition]: I feel guilty towards my mother, etc.). That exaggerated purple prose and those repetitions here and there, along with quite a few redundancies, retained by the translator, as well as that excessive sentimentality are everywhere to be found in his manuscripts.

It is true, however, that every time he was not absent-minded or lost in his never-ending daydreaming, it was interesting to talk to him. He would often like to ask us about our studies. In fact, during one of our conversations, he told us that he had also pursued history and classical studies in his homeland when he was young, but a few years later, an illness forced him to permanently leave his job.

Another time, when someone asked him about his choice to come and live in Greece, he told us, revising his first strange answer that he did it “for reasons of nostalgia”, that he came motivated, as many others, by love for this renowned city.

“And besides,” he added with that hesitance in his voice—the same voice he used every time he had doubts whether his words would come across as right and rational—“I had this wish to see a place that lives two lives, divided by twenty entire centuries.”

The fact that a kind of nostalgia was dogging him once again here in Greece as well was evident to anyone spending time with him. As every ailing person, he would also blame the place and the climate. In fact, I believe that this man, who felt at times, as we would say about him then, that “life was too short for him” wherever he went, he could not manage to get these thoughts out of his head: “Where could the exit be?” In the end, he had stopped teaching and spent, as we found out afterwards, the final months of his life in a somewhat dismal financial situation.