Читать книгу The Autobiography of Wilhelm Stekel - The Life Story of a Pioneer Psychoanalyst - Wilhelm Stekel - Страница 12

We moved again. Now I attended a Protestant, coeducational school, which was known as a model school. My teachers were kind, the spirit of the school was excellent, the teaching was stimulating. The children were from a higher social stratum than were my earlier classmates. There were none of the roughnecks of the former period.

I was able to read very early, but I had never read stories. But now I had a delightful experience. I found a children’s book. I can visualize the picture on the title page: a powerful giant, a little boy, and a church bell. I see myself lying on the couch and devouring line after line with my cheeks burning. That day I discovered my “reading ego,” and my passion for reading has remained throughout my life. My parents used my voracious reading as a means of restraining me when I ran wild. When visitors came I was, as a rule, a nuisance and a troublemaker. I wanted to be the center of attention, and tormented visitors with thousands of questions; but if I had a book with illustrations, I looked at the pictures, let my fantasy drift, and hours would pass by in perfect silence. When I accompanied my parents on a visit to friends, my first question directed to our hosts was, “Have you any books with illustrations?” When my wish was granted I did not molest the adults any more.

I must mention here that the games with the boys continued, although in a different form; we now were a gang, and our captain was a boy of fourteen. We had to obey like soldiers. And yet I must say that the interest in books was stronger than anything else. My brother, who was six years my senior, had the same passion. He already had a small library; the books were in a locked bookcase; I could see them through the glass. I remember having had an idea that if my brother should die I would inherit all these beautiful books.

I tried to get books at any price. I borrowed them from other boys, and sometimes I bought the cruel books about Indians. Most of them were dirty and torn. They had passed through many hands. Usually I identified myself with the hero, and in my daydreams I was a great man, the leader of an army (the Austrian army, of course), fighting against the armies of the Czar and killing thousands of enemies. At this time an actress lived in our house, and sometimes I received complimentary tickets (standing room) from her. But I do not remember the plays. I only know how sorry I felt when the theatre was empty. I counted every visitor and was glad when a new one arrived. I wanted to create my own plays. Our theatre was the porch of the Greek Orthodox Church which stood in the center of a vast meadow surrounded by a fence. Everything was improvised, and I invariably played the villain or the robber captain.

I am sorry to say that I also wanted to be a real robber; sometimes all my wild instincts overwhelmed me. I stole money from my father’s pocket, bought candies and shared them with the gang. We caught innocent boys and gave them a good hiding. Mothers came to my mother to complain bitterly about this monster of a child. I could tell many stories of my misdeeds.