My social critics reproach me for my negative and destructive views. I
do not know how to create anything, I am incapable of enthusiasm, I
cannot describe life, and so on.
This feeling seems logical enough, if it is sincere, if it is honest,
and I accept it as such, and it does not offend me.
But, as some of my esthetic critics tell me: "You are not an artist, you
do not know how to write," without feeling any deep conviction on the
subject, but rather fearing that perhaps I may be an artist after all
and that at last somebody may come to think so, so among my critics who
pose as defenders of society, there are those who are influenced by
motives which are purely utilitarian.
I am reminded of servants shouting at a man picking flowers over the
garden wall, or an apple from the orchard as he passes, who raise their
voices as high as possible so as to make their officiousness known.
They shout so that their masters will hear.
"How dare that rascal pick flowers from the garden? How dare he defy us
and our masters? Shall a beggar, who is not respectable, tell us that
our laws are not laws, that our honours are not honours, and that we are
a gang of accomplished idiots?"
Yes, that is just what I tell them, and I shall continue to do so as
long as it is the truth.
Shout, you lusty louts in gaudy liveries, bark you little lap-dogs,
guard the gates, you government inspectors and carabineers! I shall look
into your garden, which is also my garden, I shall make off with
anything from it that I am able, and I shall say what I please.