I DECIDED TO speak to my father. Not because we were particularly close. My father was undemonstrative， and could neither share his feelings with us children nor deal with the feelings we had for him. For a long time I believed there must be a wealth of undiscovered treasure behind that uncommunicative manner， but later I wondered if there was anything behind it at all. Perhaps he had been full of emotions as a boy and a young man， and by giving them no outlet had allowed them over the years to wither and die.
But it was because of the distance between us that I sought him out now. I wanted to talk to the philosopher who had written about Kant and Hegel， and who had， as I knew， occupied himself with moral issues. He should be well positioned to explore my problem in the abstract and， unlike my friends， to avoid getting trapped in the inadequacies of my examples.
When we children wanted to speak to our father， he gave us appointments just like his students. He worked at home and only went to the university to give his lectures and 百度竞价推广inars. Colleagues and students who wished to speak to him came to see him at home. I remember lines of students leaning against the wall in the corridor and waiting their turn， some reading， some looking at the views of cities hanging in the corridor， others staring into space， all of them silent except for an embarrassed greeting when we children went down the corridor and said hello. We ourselves didnt have to wait in the hall when our father had made an appointment with us. But we too had to be at his door at the appointed time and knock to be admitted.
I knew two of my fathers studies. The windows in the first one， in which Hanna had run her fingers along the books， looked out onto the streets and houses. The windows in the second looked out over the plain along the Rhine. The house we moved to in the early 1960s， and where my parents stayed after we had grown up， was on the big hill above the city. In both places， the windows did not open the room to the world beyond， but framed and hung the world in it like a picture. My fathers study was a capsule in which books， papers， thoughts， and pipe and cigar smoke had created their own force field， different from that of the outside world.
My father allowed me to present my problem in its abstract form and with my examples. It has to do with the trial， doesnt it？ But he shook his head to show that he didnt expect an answer， or want to press me or hear anything that I wasnt ready to tell him of my own accord. Then he sat， head to one side， hands gripping the arms of his chair， and thought. He didnt look at me. I studied him， his gray hair， his face， carelessly shaven as always， the deep lines between his eyes and from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. I waited.
When he answered， he went all the way back to beginnings. He instructed me about the individual， about freedom and dignity， about the human being as subject and the fact that one may not turn him into an object. Dont you remember how furious you would get as a little boy when Mama knew better what was good for you？ Even how far one can act like this with children is a real problem. It is a philosophical problem， but philosophy does not concern itself with children. It leaves them to pedagogy， where theyre not in very good hands. Philosophy has forgotten about children. He smiled at me. Forgotten them forever， not just sometimes， the way I forget about you.
But . . .
But with adults I see absolutely no justification for setting other peoples views of what is good for them above their own ideas of what is good for themselves.
Not even if they themselves are happy about it later？
He shook his head. Were not talking about happiness， were talking about dignity and freedom. Even as a little boy， you knew the difference. It was no comfort to you that your mother was always right.
Today I like thinking back on that conversation with my father. I had forgotten it until after his death， when I began to search the depths of my memory for happy encounters and shared activities and experiences with him. When I found it， I was both amazed and delighted. Originally I was confused by my fathers mixing of abstraction and concreteness. But eventually I sorted out what he had said to mean that I did not have to speak to the judge， that indeed I had no right to speak to him， and was relieved.
My father saw my relief. Thats how you like your philosophy？
Well， I didnt know if one had to act in the circumstances I described， and I wasnt really happy with the idea that one must， and if one really isnt allowed to do anything at all， I find that . . . I didnt know what to say. A relief？ A comfort？ Appealing？ That didnt sound like morality and responsibility. I think thats good would have sounded moral and responsible， but I couldnt say I thought it was good， that I thought it was any more than a relief.
Appealing？ my father suggested.
I nodded and shrugged my shoulders.
No， your problem has no appealing solution. Of course one must act if the situation as you describe it is one of accrued or inherited responsibility. If one knows what is good for another person who in turn is blind to it， then one must try to open his eyes. One has to leave him the last word， but one must talk to him， to him and not to someone else behind his back.
Talk to Hanna？ What would I say to her？ That I had seen through her lifelong lie？ That she was in the process of sacrificing her whole life to this silly lie？ That the lie wasnt worth the sacrifice？ That that was why she should fight not to remain in prison any longer than she had to， because there was so much she could still do with her life afterwards？ Could I deprive her of her lifelong lie， without opening some vision of a future to her？ I had no idea what that might be， nor did I know how to face her and say that after what she had done it was right that her short- and medium-term future would be prison. I didnt know how to face her and say anything at all. I didnt know how to face her.
I asked my father： And what if you cant talk to him？
He looked at me doubtfully， and I knew myself that the question was beside the point. There was nothing more to moralize about. I just had to make a decision.
I havent been able to help you. My father stood up and so did I. No， you dont have to go， its just that my back hurts. He stood bent over， with his hands pressed against his kidneys. I cant say that Im sorry I cant help you. As a philosopher， I mean， which is how you were addressing me. As your father， I find the experience of not being able to help my children almost unbearable.
I waited， but he didnt say anything else. I thought he was making it easy on himself； I knew when he could have taken care of us more and how he could have helped us more. Then I thought that perhaps he realized this himself and really found it difficult to bear. But either way I had nothing to say to him. I was embarrassed， and had the feeling he was embarrassed too.
Well then . . .
You can come any time. My father looked at me.
I didnt believe him， and nodded.
我决定和我爸爸谈谈，不是由于大家彼此之间无话不谈。我爸爸是个沉默寡言的人，他既不可以把他的感情告诉大家这类孩子，又不可以接收大家带给他的感情。在非常长的一段时间里，我猜想在这种互不通气的行为背后蕴藏着丰富的、没挖掘的宝藏。但后来我怀疑那儿是不是真的有哪些东西。或许他年轻时有过丰富的感情，但没表达出来，天长日久这种感情就变得枯萎，就自消自灭了。
然而，正是因为大家之间存在着距离我才找他谈。我找的谈话对象是一位哲学家，他写过有关康德和黑格尔的书，而且我了解书中写的是有关道德问题。他也应该有能力就我的问题和我进行抽象的探讨，而不是像我的朋友们那样只举些空洞的例子。
假如大家这类孩子想和爸爸谈话的话，他像对待他的学生一样与大家预约时间。他在家工作，只不过在有他的讲坛和研讨课时才去大学。想要和他谈话的同事和学生都到家来。我还记得学生们排着长队靠在走廊的墙上等着，有些阅读点什么，有些观赏挂在走廊里的城市风景图，也有些同学呆呆地东张西望。他们都沉默不语，直到大家这类孩子打着招呼穿过走廊时才回以一个尴尬的问候。大家与爸爸约谈当然不必在走廊里等候，但，大家也要在约定好的时间去谈，敲门后让进来时才能进来。
我见过爸爸的两个书房。第一个书房，也就是汉娜用手指巡摸书脊的那间，它的窗户面向街道，对面有房子。第二个书房的窗户面向莱茵平原。大家六十年代初搬进的那座房屋坐落在山坡上面，面向城市。当大家这类孩子长大将来我的爸爸妈妈仍旧住在那儿。这处房屋的窗户和那处房屋的窗户一样不是外凸式的，而是内凸式的，仿佛是挂在房间里的一幅画。在我爸爸的书房里，书本、纸张、思想、烟斗和烟冒出的烟相互交织在一块，足使外来的人产生各种各样的压抑感。我对它们既熟知又陌生。
我爸爸让我把问题全盘兜出，包含抽象描述和举例说明。与法庭审判有关，对吗？但他摇着头向我示意，他并不期待得到回答，也不想逼迫我和不想了解我一个人不想说出的事情。这之后，他坐着沉思起来，头侧向一边，两手扶着椅子的扶手。他没看着我，我却仔细地查看着他，他的满头银发，他的一直刮得非常糟糕的胡腮与他那从鼻梁延伸到嘴角和两眼之间的明确的皱纹。我等着。
当他讲话时，他先把话题拉得非常远。他教会我怎么样对待人、自由和尊严；他教会我把人当做主体对待，不允许把人当做客体来对待。你还记得你小时候母亲告诉你学好时你是怎么样大发雷霆的吗？把孩子放纵到什么程度，这的的确确是个问题。这是个哲学问题，但哲学不探讨孩子问题，哲学把孩子们交给了教育学，可孩子们在教育学那儿也没遭到非常不错的照顾。哲学把孩子们遗忘了。他看着我笑着，把他们永远忘记了，不是偶尔把他们忘记了，就像我偶尔把你们忘记了一样。
但
但在成人身上，我也绝对看不出有哪些理由可以把其他人觉得对他们有好处的东西置于他们自己觉得是好的东西之上。
假如他们后来对此感到非常幸福的话，如此做也不可以吗？
他摇着头说：大家谈论的不是幸福而是尊严和自由。当你还是个孩子子时就已经了解它们有什么区别了。你母亲总有理，这并没叫你从中得到安慰。
目前我非常想回想和爸爸的那次谈话。我已经把它忘记了，直到他过世后，我才开始在沉睡的记忆中探寻我与他的美好会面和美好的历程及美好的感受。当我找到它时，我惊奇不已地考虑着它，它使我很幸福。当时，爸爸把抽象的东西和形象逼真的事情混合在一块，这使我刚开始感到非常困惑，但，我最后还是按他所说的去做了，我不必去找审判长谈话，我根本不允许自己找他谈话。我感到如释重负。
我的爸爸看着我说：你如此喜欢哲学吗？
还可以。我不了解大家在我描述的上述状况下是不是应该采取行动。假如大家需要采取行动却又不允许行动的话，我想，对此我会感到很不幸。目前我感到我不了解怎么说好。感到轻松？感到安慰？感到愉快？这听上去不道德和不负责任。我目前感觉很好，这听上去既道德又负责任，但我不可以说我感觉很好，而且感到比卸下重负还好。
感觉很好吗？我爸爸试探着问。
我点点头，耸耸肩。
不，你的问题不会有愉快的解决方法。当然了，假如你所描述的状况是一种责任重大的状况的话，大家就需要要采取行动。假如一个人了解如何做对别的人有好处，但他却闭上了双眼，视若无睹，这个时候，大家就需要努力让他睁开双眼，正视此事。大家需要让他本人做最后的决定，但大家需要和他谈，和他本人谈，而不是在他背后和其他什么人谈。
和汉娜谈？我该和她怎么说呢？说我识破了她的生活谎话？说她正在为这个愚蠢的谎话而牺牲她的整个一生？说为了这个谎话而牺牲不值得？说她应该争取尽可能降低蹲监狱的年限，以便在出狱之后能开始更多的生活？到底该怎么说呢？说到什么程度？她应该如何重新开始她的生活呢？我不为她展示一个生活远景就能让她抛弃她的生活谎话吗？我不了解什么是她的生活远景，我也不了解我该怎么样面对她和该怎么说，说她在做了那些事情后，她生活的最近和中期远景就是该坐牢？我不了解该怎么样面对她，也不了解到底该说些什么。我真的不了解该如何面对她。
我问我爸爸：假如大家不可以跟他交谈的话，那该如何解决呢？
他怀疑地看着我，我一个人也了解这个问题已经离题了。这没有什么道德问题，而是我需要做出决定的问题。
我没办法帮你。我爸爸说着站了起来，我也站了起来。不，你不必走，我只不过背痛。他弯曲地站着，双手压着腰。我不可以说，不可以帮你，我感到遗憾，我的意思是说，当你把我作为哲学家向我求教时。作为一名爸爸，我不可以帮助我们的孩子，这简直令我没办法忍受。
我等着，但他不再往下说了。我发现他把这事看得无足轻重。我了解，他什么时间应该对大家多加关心和他如何才能更多地帮助大家。随后我又想，他一个人或许也了解这个，而且的确感到很难承受，但，无论怎么样我都不可以对他怎么说了。我感到非常尴尬，而且感觉他也非常尴尬。
好吧，将来
你将来可以随时来。爸爸看着我说。
我不相信他的话，可我还是点点头。
