Dream Notes

Theodor W. Adorno

• Publisher: Polity
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN: 9780745638317, 9780745638300
• eBook ISBN: 9780745694610
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Philosophy
• Subtopic: Social Philosophy

"Dreams are as black as death."
—Theodor W. Adorno

Adorno was fascinated by his dreams and wrote them down throughout his life. He envisaged publishing a collection of them although in the event no more than a few appeared in his lifetime.

Dream Notes offers a selection of Adornos writings on dreams that span the last twenty-five years of his life. Readers of Adorno who are accustomed to high-powered reflections on philosophy, music and culture may well find them disconcerting: they provide an amazingly frank and uninhibited account of his inner desires, guilt feelings and anxieties. Brothel scenes, torture and executions figure prominently. They are presented straightforwardly, at face value. No attempt is made to interpret them, to relate them to the events of his life, to psychoanalyse them, or to establish any connections with the principal themes of his philosophy.

Are they fiction, autobiography or an attempt to capture a pre-rational, quasi-mythic state of consciousness? No clear answer can be given. Taken together they provide a highly consistent picture of a dimension of experience that is normally ignored, one that rounds out and deepens our knowledge of Adorno while retaining something of the enigmatic quality that energized his own thought.

— Dream Notes —

Frankfurt, January 1934

In my dream, I was travelling with G. in a large, very comfortable bus down from Pontresina to the Lower Engadine. The bus was quite full and there was no lack of people I knew: the much travelled illustrator Miss P. and an old professor in industry and his wife were among them. However, the bus did not travel along the Engadine road, but went somewhere near my home town: between Königstein and Kronberg.¹ On a large bend the bus went too far onto the right side of the road and one of its front wheels became suspended over a ditch for what seemed to me to be a very long time. ‘I have seen this happen before’, said the much travelled illustrator in the tone of someone who knew what she was talking about. ‘The bus will go on like this for a bit and will then turn over and we shall all be dead.’ That same moment the bus plunged over the side. Suddenly, I came to and found myself standing up, facing G.; both of us were unharmed. I realized I was crying as I said, ‘I would so like to have kept on being alive with you.’ Only then did I notice that my body was completely smashed up. At the moment of death, I awoke.

Oxford, 9 June 1936

Dream: Agathe² appeared to me and said in a sorrowful voice: ‘My child, I always used to say to you that we shall meet again after our death. Today, I can only tell you: I don’t know. –’

Oxford, 10 March 1937

I found myself in Paris without any money, but wanted to visit a particularly elegant brothel, the Maison Drouot (in reality, Hôtel Drouot is the best-known auction house for antiques). I asked Friedel to lend me some money: 200 francs. To my great astonishment he gave them to me, saying, however: ‘I only give them you because the food in the Hôtel Drouot is so outstanding.’ In fact, without even catching a glimpse of a girl, I did eat in the bar – a beefsteak that made me so happy that I forgot about everything else. It was served with a white sauce.

In another dream, earlier the same night, I saw Agathe. She said: ‘My child, you mustn’t be cross with me, but if I owned two genuine valleys, I would give up all of Schubert’s music in exchange.’

London, 1937

(while he was working on In Search of Wagner)

My dream had a title: ‘Siegfried’s last adventure’ or ‘Siegfried’s last death’. It took place on a vast stage which did not just represent a landscape but actually was one: small rocks and a lot of vegetation, rather like in the mountains leading up to the Alpine pastures. Siegfried was striding through this theatrical landscape toward the rear, accompanied by someone, I cannot remember who. He was dressed half in mythological, half in modern clothes, a little bit like for a rehearsal. Finally, he discovered his adversary, a figure in riding dress: grey-green linen suit, riding breeches and brown riding boots. He started to fight with him, but their struggle was plainly all in fun. It mainly consisted of his wrestling with his opponent, who was already on the ground and who seemed happy to let this happen. Siegfried soon succeeded in forcing him onto his back until his shoulders touched the ground, and he was either declared the loser or he admitted as much. Unexpectedly, however, Siegfried drew a small dagger from his jacket pocket, where he kept it on a small clip, as if it were a fountain pen. He hurled the knife at his opponent’s chest from close to, as if in play. The latter groaned aloud and it became clear that it was a woman. She quickly made her escape, saying that she would now have to die alone in her little house, that was the hardest thing of all. She disappeared into a building that looked like the ones belonging to the Darmstadt artist colony. Siegfried sent his companion after her with instructions to take possession of her treasures. Brünnhilde then appeared in the background in the shape of the Statue of Liberty in New York. Sounding like a nagging wife, she screamed, ‘I want a ring, I want a beautiful ring, don’t forget to take her ring from her.’ This was how Siegfried obtained the ring of the Nibelung.

New York, November or December 1938

I dreamt that Hölderlin was called Hölderlin because he was always playing a flute made of elder wood [Holunder].

New York, 30 December 1940

Just before waking up, I witnessed the scene illustrated by Baudelaire’s poem Don Juan aux enfers, probably taken from a picture by Delacroix. However, instead of stygian night it was broad daylight and an American public festival by the waterside. There stood a large white sign – belonging to a steamer station – with a garish red inscription saying ‘ALABAMT’. Don Juan’s barque had a long, narrow funnel – a ferry boat (‘Ferry Boat Serenade’). Unlike in Baudelaire, the hero does not stand in silence. In his Spanish costume – black and violet – he speaks incessantly and vociferously, like a salesman. My thought was: an out-of-work actor. But not content with vehement statements and gestures, he began mercilessly to thrash Charon – a figure who remained undefined. He then announced that he was an American and that he wouldn’t stand for all this. He wouldn’t let himself be shut up in a box. This statement was greeted with a wave of applause, as if he were a champion. He then strode past the onlookers, who were cordoned off from him. I shuddered and found the entire scene ridiculous, but my main worry was that the crowd would take a dislike to us. When he came to where we were, A. complimented him on his talented performance. I have forgotten his reply, but his tone was anything but friendly. After that, we started to ask questions about the fate of the characters in Carmen in the next world. ‘Is Micaela looking good?’ ‘Awful’, replied Don Juan in a rage. ‘But surely Carmen is all right’, I insisted. ‘No’, he said, but it seemed to me that his anger was fading. At that point, the boats on the Hudson tooted that it was 8 a.m. and I woke up.

New York, 8 February 1941

I was on a ship that had been boarded by pirates. They clambered up the sides, there were even some women among them. But my wish that they should be overpowered prevailed. At any rate, in the next scene their fate was decided. They all had to die; to be shot and their bodies thrown overboard. I objected, but not from any feelings of humanity. It would be a pity, I said, that the women should be killed without our having taken our pleasure with them. Everyone agreed with me. I went down into the space where the pirates were being held – the low-ceilinged lounge of a medium-sized steamer. The pirates all sat in prehistoric silence. The men, heavily shackled, were dressed in old-fashioned clothing. Loaded pistols lay on the table in front of them. The brides were around five in number, dressed in modern clothes. I have a distinct memory of two of them. One was German. She fitted exactly my image of a tart – in a red dress, her hair peroxide blond like a bar-girl, on the plump side, but very attractive; her profile made her look a little sheep-like. The other girl was a delightful young mulatto, dressed quite simply in a brown knitted woollen dress, the kind of woman one sees in Harlem. The women went into a side room and I told them to undress. They obeyed, that is, the tart started to take her clothes off right away. The mulatto girl refused to do so. ‘This is the style of the Institute’, she said, ‘not the Circus style.’³ When I asked what she meant, she explained that in the circus world, to which she belonged, a body was such an everyday matter that no one took any interest in nakedness. Things were different, she thought, in my world. This is why my sister (= L.) let no opportunity slip to show off as much of herself as possible.

Los Angeles, 22 May 1941

We were walking, my mother, Agathe and I, on a ridge path of a reddish sandstone hue familiar to me from Amorbach. But we were on the West Coast of America. Far below, to the left, lay the Pacific Ocean. At one point the footpath seemed to become steeper or to peter out altogether. I set about looking for a better path off to the right, through rocks and undergrowth. After a few steps I came to a large plateau. I thought I had now found the way. But I soon discovered that the vegetation concealed the dizziest precipices in every direction, and that there was no way to reach the plain that stretched inland and that I had mistakenly thought to be part of the plateau. There, at frighteningly regular intervals, I saw groups of people with apparatuses, surveyors perhaps. I looked for the way back to the first path, and found it too. When I rejoined my mother and Agathe a laughing black couple suddenly stood in our path; he was dressed in bold checked trousers, she in a grey sporting costume. We walked on. Soon we met a black child. ‘We must be close to a settlement’, I said. There were a number of huts or caves made of sand or cut into the hillside. A gateway passed through one of them. We went through and stood, overwhelmed with joy, on the square in front of the palace of Bamberg – the ‘Schnatterloch’ in Miltenberg.⁴

Los Angeles, 20 November 1941

In my first night in Los Angeles I dreamt I had arranged to meet a girl of the loosest morals in a café – in Paris? She kept me waiting. Finally, I was called to a phone booth. I shouted into the phone, ‘Are you coming at long last?’, and also something intimate. From a long way off I heard a voice reply, ‘This is Professor MacIver’. He wanted to tell me something of importance concerning the courses at the institute. He also said something about a ‘misunderstanding’. He went on speaking, but I did not understand what he said, partly because I was still thinking about the girl and partly because his voice was too muffled.

Los Angeles, January 1942

On the Untermain Quay in Frankfurt I was caught up in the march-past of an Arab army. I asked King Ali Faisal to let me through and he agreed. I entered a beautiful house. After some unclear happenings I was shown onto another floor, leading to President Roosevelt, who had his small private office there. He received me with great warmth. However, just in the way one speaks to children, he told me that I didn’t have to pay attention the whole time, but could go ahead and read a book. All sorts of people came to visit without my taking any notice. Finally, a tall, sun-bronzed man appeared to whom Roosevelt introduced me. It was Knudsen.⁵ The president said that he had some defence matters to discuss and he would have to ask me to leave the room. But I should definitely come to visit him again. He scribbled down his name, address and telephone number on a scrap of paper that had already been written on. – The lift didn’t take me back to the ground floor and the exit, but down into the basement. There I found myself in the greatest danger. If I stayed in the lift shaft, I would be crushed to death; if I tried to climb out to the space surrounding it – I was scarcely tall enough for that – I would become entangled in the cables and ropes. Someone told me that I should try to climb up to some higher ground, heaven knows where. I said something about crocodiles, but took the advice. The crocodiles were already coming closer; their heads were those of extraordinarily beautiful women. One spoke kindly to me, saying that being eaten didn’t hurt. To help convince me she promised me the loveliest things beforehand.

A few nights later

I went with my mother to hear a performance of The Mastersingers. The entire dream took place during the performance, although the shadowy events on the stage had no connection with Wagner’s plot. Only at one point did I seem to recognize Act Two. We were sitting in the front of one of the large balcony boxes over the stage. At the back of the box there was a large party of people who I realized were Frankfurt patricians. They began to make a huge row which was directed at a tall, good-looking man with a manly chest who was wearing tails and who was standing in the stalls next to one of the stalls boxes. I felt it was my duty to join in the row and shouted some highly insulting remarks at him. He instantly singled me out from among his enemies and shouted that I should come down and face him if I dared. I answered that it was beneath me to fight a con-man like him, but it did not sound very convincing. The patricians rushed down the stairs from the boxes and fell upon him. In the meantime, the mood of the glitteringly dressed audience began to turn against me and, with my mother’s agreement, I thought it advisable to leave the box for a while. Long gap. Then, I was back in the box, but hidden. Act Two. On leaving the theatre with other people I knew, I encountered a wealthy, self-important girl. She remonstrated with me about the man in tails. ‘But surely you know him. He is X the bank director.’

Los Angeles, end of May 1942

I dreamt I was to be crucified. The crucifixion was to take place at the Bockenheimer Warte, just by the university.⁶ I felt no fear throughout the entire process. Bockenheim resembled a village on Sunday, deathly quiet, as if under glass. I observed it closely on my way to the place of execution. I imagined that the appearance of things on this my last day would enable me to glean some definite knowledge of the next world. At the same time, however, I declared that one should beware of arriving at premature conclusions. One should not let oneself be seduced into ascribing objective truth to the religion practised there simply because Bockenheim was still at the stage of simple commodity production. That aside, I was worried about whether I would...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• Editorial Foreward
• Dream Notes
• Afterword
• Index