A Visit Poem by Jared Carter

It is Nietzsche, living in a boardinghouse in Turin, and on the verge of madness. Only hours before the authorities come to take him away, he receives a letter explaining that Schopenhauer is not really dead.

Thus he learns from a reliable source that years before, his great
predecessor circulated the story of his own demise, so that he might live out his remaining years in anonymity and peace.

Schopenhauer, now a mere husk, is in fact residing in a villa on the
outskirts of Milan, only a few hours' journey from Turin. Nietzsche immediately calls for a cab to the train station and sets out for the address he has been given.

It is an unassuming house on a country road. Patches of stucco have fallen from the white-washed walls. Two mules browse in a nearby field. In the courtyard, beneath a willow tree, water gurgles in a tiled fountain.

Schopenhauer cannot afford servants. He comes to the door and recognizes Nietzsche although they have never met until this moment.

"You were a fool to come here, " he says. "And besides, you look terrible. You should be in bed. Or better yet, in a hospital."

"I must speak with you, " Nietzsche says, pushing into the corridor. He tosses his hat on the hall table. "I haven't much time." He barges into Schopenhauer's study.

"In your present state, " Schopenhauer says, following after him, "you could have visited anyone, anyone at all. Socrates, Aristotle, Herder, Kant. Any one of them would have been happy to see you."

Nietzsche goes to the sideboard and seizes a decanter of spirits. With shaking hands he fills a large drinking glass.

Schopenhauer comes over and takes the decanter away from him and puts it in the cupboard. "Come to visit me, have you? " he says. "You should know better. I gave up philosophy long ago. I am an old man now. Do you know how old I am? "

Nietzsche shakes his head and continues to gulp down the contents of the glass.

"I am a hundred and one years old. Imagine! Who would have thought I would last that long? It's preposterous! "

"Help me, " Nietzsche says. "I have witnessed a coachman in the Piazza Carlo Alberto flogging his horse until it drops to the pavement. I can no longer endure such savagery. I cannot bear the thought of it."

"Forget about the coachman, " Schopenhauer says, "and the horse, too." Everything else in the room turns dark. He dissolves into the thinnest of vapors, his voice a whisper now. "It's that sister of yours who bears watching."


First published in The New Formalist.