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Paul—the famous, epoch-making philosopher and the madman who, in Vienna at least, was equally famous and possibly more so. Paul the madman was just as philosophical as his uncle Ludwig, while Ludwig the philosopher was just as mad as his nephew Paul. Ludwig became famous through his philosophy, Paul through his madness. The one was
possibly
more philosophical, the other
possibly
more mad. But it may well be that the philosophical Wittgenstein is regarded as a philosopher merely because he set his philosophy down on paper and not his madness, and that Paul is regarded as a madman because he suppressed his philosophy instead of publishing it, and displayed only his madness. Both were quite extraordinary men with quite extraordinary brains; the one published his brain, and the other did not. I would go so far as to say that whereas the one
published
his brain, the other
put his brain into practice
. And where is the distinction between a brain that is published and constantly publishing itself and a brain that is constantly putting itself into practice? Yet if Paul had published anything, it would have been quite different from anything that Ludwig published, just as Ludwig would have practiced a form of madness quite different from Paul’s. In either case, the Wittgenstein name guaranteed a certain standard, indeed the highest standard. Paul the madman unquestionably achieved a standard equal tothat of Ludwig the philosopher: the one represents a high point in philosophy and the history of ideas, the other a high point in the history of madness—that is, if we insist on adhering to the conventional designations of philosophy, history, ideas, and madness, which are nothing but perverse historical concepts. In the Hermann Pavilion I was completely cut off from my friend, even though he was only two hundred yards away. I longed for nothing more intensely than to see Paul again, having for so many months been deprived of all contact with his mind and having almost suffocated among hundreds of other minds, which for the most part had nothing to offer. For let us not deceive ourselves: most of the minds we associate with are housed in heads that have little more to offer than overgrown potatoes, stuck on top of whining and tastelessly clad bodies and eking out a pathetic existence that does not even merit our pity. But the day will come when I really will visit Paul, I thought, and I made some notes about things that I intended to discuss with him, things that I had been unable to discuss with anyone for so many months. At that time I found it quite simply impossible, without Paul, to have any conversation about music or philosophy or politics or mathematics. If my musical thinking became moribund, for instance, I had only to pay Paul a visit in order to revive it. The poor fellow is locked up in the Ludwig Pavilion, I thought, possibly even in a straitjacket, when he would so much like to be at the opera. He was the most passionate operagoer Vienna has ever had, as the
cognoscenti
know. He was an opera fanatic, and even when he had become totally impoverished and finally embittered (which was inevitable), he managed to afford daily visits to the opera,even if it meant standing through the performance. Even when he was gravely ill he would stand through the six hours of
Tristan
and still have the strength to shout “Bravo” or to whistle louder than anyone before or since. He was feared on opening nights. If he was enthusiastic he carried the whole house with him by beginning to applaud a few seconds before the rest. If, on the other hand, he led them in whistling, the biggest and most expensive productions would be flops, because
he
wanted them to be, because
he
was in a particular mood. I can make a show a success whenever I want, given the right conditions, he would say, and I can also make it a total flop, given the right conditions—and the conditions are always right—by being the first to shout