Money in Literature

Have you ever asked yourself: What is money, really? We all like to pretend we know. Coins, bills, numbers on a screen—right? But what if everything we think we know about money is just a well-told story? A fiction?

Today, we will examine this story with the help of literature. Novels, dramas, and folk tales often reveal more about the nature of money than economic theories.

Let's start with what money promises us: wealth, freedom, power. Even in the old folk book "Fortunatus" from 1509, the hero is given a choice—endless wisdom or a purse that never empties. Fortunatus doesn't think twice: give me the purse! Sounds logical—who needs wisdom when you can buy anything? That's the primal fantasy of wealth without effort.

Fortunatus

But then comes the reality check—for example, with the classic "The Richest Man in Babylon." It says: Set aside at least a tenth of everything you earn, immediately. Then, rule number 2: Keep control of your spending. Sounds simple, but it's crucial. Third: Let your money work for you, i.e., invest your savings wisely. And last but not least, rule number 4: Keep getting better at what you do so you can earn more. This is, so to speak, the opposite of magic, the disciplined, genuine path to prosperity. There's no magic, just iron discipline.

Max Frisch deals with the big topic of identity. In "Stiller" (1954), the protagonist—a man who denies his past and claims, "I am not Stiller"—is exemplary for the struggle for identity. Stiller wants to escape the role that others attribute to him: husband, artist, Swiss citizen. He tries to break free by playing with identities. But his attempt fails: society, the legal system, language itself—everything forces him back into his old mold. "I am Stiller" becomes an admission of his defeat, but also a moment of realization: identity is not freely chosen, but arises in the mirror of others.

In "Homo Faber" (1957), the development is almost mirror-image: Walter Faber no longer struggles for identity—he functions. As a rational technician, he has come to terms with the role assigned to him. He lives according to the principles of reason, efficiency, and control. But it is precisely this self-created rationality that becomes a trap: it suppresses the emotional, the random, the lively.

But money also has its dark side. Friedrich Dürrenmatt shows this in "The Visit." A fabulously wealthy woman returns to her hometown and offers the residents a fortune—in exchange for the death of a man. The price for a human life: one billion. And suddenly it becomes clear: everything has a price—even human beings.

Bertolt Brecht takes a similarly dark view. In "The Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny," anything goes—as long as you can pay for it. The only crime there? Being broke. Welcome to pure capitalism!

And then there is the illusion of wealth. Think of Mark Twain's million-pound note: a man has a note worth a million pounds, but he can't spend it. Nevertheless, he is treated like a king. The mere fact that he has it, i.e., the pure perception of his wealth, opens every door for him. He doesn't spend a single penny. This proves that the illusion of money is sometimes more powerful than money itself.

Émile Zola takes this even further: in "Money," he describes the Paris Stock Exchange as the stage of a gigantic theater—profits, losses, all pure fantasy. Here, money becomes a religion based on faith, not work.

At around the same time in Geneva, Henri-Frédéric Amiel recorded his life in his journal intime for thirty years—page after page. Hans Peter Treichler follows these notes and paints an impressive portrait of the scholar. The focus is on Amiel's relationship with money—a fascinating eco-biography published by Conzett Verlag.

And then comes Jeremias Gotthelf with his "Käserei in der Vehfreude" (Cheese Factory in Vehfreude). Take a look at this chronicle of failure. Year 1. We have a stable, traditional village. Community counts. Year 2. A modern cheese factory is built, promising huge profits. Suddenly, it's all about money. Year 3. Greed and speculation have completely replaced old values and morals. And Year 4. The whole thing collapses. What remains is economic and, above all, social ruin. A warning that is perhaps more relevant today than ever before.

Sounds like the 19th century? Not at all! We are seeing it again today. In "Hillbilly Elegy," J.D. Vance describes the American dream that has turned into a nightmare. Entire regions are being left behind, poverty and drugs are spreading, while on Wall Street the numbers are dancing. The dream of upward mobility? For many, it's just a bitter lie. An indictment of the American vice president—with political consequences.

And this brings us to the crucial realization: money is not a force of nature. It does not fall from the sky like rain. As Eske Bockelmann says, it is a way of thinking—a human construct that we ourselves have created.

The demand, as formulated, for example, in the context of Norbert Koubeck's work: What is needed is nothing less than the abolition of money as a way of thinking. This idea sounds utopian. But it forces us to think about the fundamental rules of our world. And that leads us to the following question. If money is really just a story that we humans once came up with, who says we can't write another one, perhaps even a better one? A story in which it is not greed that counts, but community?