_is,_ but the thing he _represents_ in the eyes of the unsaintly. It
was through the fact that errors were made about him, that the state
of his soul was _falsely interpreted,_ that men separated themselves
from him as much as possible, as from something incomparable and
strangely superhuman, that he acquired the extraordinary power which
he exercised over the imagination of whole nations and whole ages. He
did not know himself; he himself interpreted the writing of his moods,
inclinations, and actions according to an art of interpretation which
was as exaggerated and artificial as the spiritual interpretation
of the Bible. The distorted and diseased in his nature, with its
combination of intellectual poverty, evil knowledge, ruined health, and
over-excited nerves, remained hidden from his own sight as well as from
that of his spectators. He was not a particularly good man, and still
less was he a particularly wise one; but he _represented_ something
that exceeded the human standard in goodness and wisdom. The belief in
him supported the belief in the divine and miraculous, in a religious
meaning of all existence, in an impending day of judgment. In the
evening glory of the world's sunset, which glowed over the Christian
nations, the shadowy form of the saint grew to vast dimensions, it grew
to such a height that even in our own age, which no longer believes in
God, there are still thinkers who believe in the saint.
144.
It need not be said that to this description of the saint which has
been made from an average of the whole species, there may be opposed
many a description which could give a more agreeable impression.
Certain exceptions stand out from among this species, it may be through
great mildness and philanthropy, it may be through the magic of unusual
energy; others are attractive in the highest degree, because certain
wild ravings have poured streams of light on their whole being, as is
the case, for instance, with the famous founder of Christianity, who
thought he was the Son of God and therefore felt himself sinless--so
that through this idea--which we must not judge too hardly because the
whole antique world swarms with sons of God--he reached that same goal,
that feeling of complete sinlessness, complete irresponsibility, which
every one can now acquire by means of science. Neither have I mentioned
the Indian saints, who stand midway between the Christian saint and the
Greek philosopher, and in so far represent no pure type. Knowledge,
science--such as existed then--the uplifting above other men through
logical discipline and training of thought, were as much fostered by
the Buddhists as distinguishing signs of holiness as the same qualities
in the Christian world are repressed and branded as signs of unholiness.
[Footnote 1: Why harass with eternal designs a mind too weak to compass
them? Why do we not, as we lie beneath a lofty plane-tree or this pine
[drink while we may]? HOR., _Odes_ III. ii. 11-14.--J.M.K.]
[Footnote 2:
"All greatest sages of all latest ages
Will chuckle and slily agree,
'Tis folly to wait till a fool's empty pate
Has learnt to be knowing and free:
So children of wisdom, make use of the fools
And use them whenever you can as your tools."--J.M.K.
]
[Footnote 3: It may be remembered that the cross was the gallows of the
ancient world.--J.M.K.]
[Footnote 4: This may give us one of the reasons for the religiosity
still happily prevailing in England and the United States.--J.M.K.]
FOURTH DIVISION.
CONCERNING THE SOUL OF ARTISTS AND AUTHORS.
145.
THE PERFECT SHOULD NOT HAVE GROWN.--With regard to everything that is
perfect we are accustomed to omit the question as to how perfection has
been acquired, and we only rejoice in the present as if it had sprung
out of the ground by magic. Probably with regard to this matter we are
still under the effects of an ancient mythological feeling. It still
_almost_ seems to us (in such a Greek temple, for instance, as that of
Pæstum) as if one morning a god in sport had built his dwelling of such
enormous masses, at other times it seems as if his spirit had suddenly
entered into a stone and now desired to speak through it. The artist
knows that his work is only fully effective if it arouses the belief
in an improvisation, in a marvellous instantaneousness of origin; and
thus he assists this illusion and introduces into art those elements
of inspired unrest, of blindly groping disorder, of listening dreaming
at the beginning of creation, as a means of deception, in order so to
influence the soul of the spectator or hearer that it may believe in
the sudden appearance of the perfect. It is the business of the science
of art to contradict this illusion most decidedly, and to show up the
mistakes and pampering of the intellect, by means of which it falls
into the artist's trap.
146.
THE ARTIST'S SENSE OF TRUTH.--With regard to recognition of truths, the
artist has a weaker morality than the thinker; he will on no account
let himself be deprived of brilliant and profound interpretations
of life, and defends himself against temperate and simple methods
and results. He is apparently fighting for the higher worthiness
and meaning of mankind; in reality he will not renounce the _most
effective_ suppositions for his art, the fantastical, mythical,
uncertain, extreme, the sense of the symbolical, the over-valuation
of personality, the belief that genius is something miraculous,--he
considers, therefore, the continuance of his art of creation as more
important than the scientific devotion to truth in every shape, however
simple this may appear.
147.
ART AS RAISER OF THE DEAD.--Art also fulfils the task of preservation
and even of brightening up extinguished and faded memories; when it
accomplishes this task it weaves a rope round the ages and causes
their spirits to return. It is, certainly, only a phantom-life that
results therefrom, as out of graves, or like the return in dreams of
our beloved dead, but for some moments, at least, the old sensation
lives again and the heart beats to an almost forgotten time. Hence,
for the sake of the general usefulness of art, the artist himself must
be excused if he does not stand in the front rank of the enlightenment
and progressive civilisation of humanity; all his life long he has
remained a child or a youth, and has stood still at the point where he
was overcome by his artistic impulse; the feelings of the first years
of life, however, are acknowledged to be nearer to those of earlier
times than to those of the present century. Unconsciously it becomes
his mission to make mankind more childlike; this is his glory and his
limitation.
148.
POETS AS THE LIGHTENERS OF LIFE.--Poets, inasmuch as they desire to
lighten the life of man, either divert his gaze from the wearisome
present, or assist the present to acquire new colours by means of a
life which they cause to shine out of the past. To be able to do this,
they must in many respects themselves be beings who are turned towards
the past, so that they can be used as bridges to far distant times
and ideas, to dying or dead religions and cultures. Actually they
are always and of necessity _epigoni._ There are, however, certain
drawbacks to their means of lightening life,--they appease and heal
only temporarily, only for the moment; they even prevent men from
labouring towards a genuine improvement in their conditions, inasmuch
as they remove and apply palliatives to precisely that passion of
discontent that induces to action.
149.
THE SLOW ARROW OF BEAUTY.--The noblest kind of beauty is that which
does not transport us suddenly, which does not make stormy and
intoxicating impressions (such a kind easily arouses disgust), but
that which slowly filter into our minds, which we take away with us
almost unnoticed, and which we encounter again in our dreams; but
which, however, after having long lain modestly on our hearts, takes
entire possession of us, fills our eyes with tears and our hearts with
longing. What is it that we long for at the sight of beauty? We long to
be beautiful, we fancy it must bring much happiness with it. But that
is a mistake.
150.
THE ANIMATION OF ART.--Art raises its head where creeds relax. It takes
over many feelings and moods engendered by religion, lays them to its
heart, and itself becomes deeper, more full of soul, so that it is
capable of transmitting exultation and enthusiasm, which it previously
was not able to do. The abundance of religious feelings which have
grown into a stream are always breaking forth again and desire to
conquer new kingdoms, but the growing enlightenment has shaken the
dogmas of religion and inspired a deep mistrust,--thus the feeling,
thrust by enlightenment out of the religious sphere, throws itself upon
art, in a few cases into political life, even straight into science.
Everywhere where human endeavour wears a loftier, gloomier aspect, it
may be assumed that the fear of spirits, incense, and church-shadows
have remained attached to it.
151.
HOW RHYTHM BEAUTIFIES.--Rhythm casts a veil over reality; it causes
various artificialities of speech and obscurities of thought; by the
shadow it throws upon thought it sometimes conceals it, and sometimes
brings it into prominence. As shadow is necessary to beauty, so the
"dull" is necessary to lucidity. Art makes the aspect of life endurable
by throwing lover it the veil of obscure thought.
152.
THE ART OF THE UGLY SOUL.--Art is confined within too narrow limits if
it be required that only the orderly, respectable, well-behaved soul
should be allowed to express itself therein. As in the plastic arts, so
also in music and poetry: there is an art of the ugly soul side by side
with the art of the beautiful soul; and the mightiest effects of art,
the crushing of souls, moving of stones and humanising of beasts, have
perhaps been best achieved precisely by that art.
153.
ART MAKES HEAVY THE HEART OF THE THINKER.--How strong metaphysical
need is and how difficult nature renders our departure from it may be
seen from the fact that even in the free spirit, when he has cast off
everything metaphysical, the loftiest effects of art can easily produce
a resounding of the long silent, even broken, metaphysical string,--it
may be, for instance, that at a passage in Beethoven's Ninth Symphony
he feels himself floating above the earth in a starry dome with the
dream of _immortality_ in his heart; all the stars seem to shine round
him, and the earth to sink farther and farther away.--If he becomes
conscious of this state, he feels a deep pain at his heart, and sighs
for the man who will lead back to him his lost darling, be it called
religion or metaphysics. In such moments his intellectual character is
put to the test.
154.
PLAYING WITH LIFE.--The lightness and frivolity of the Homeric
imagination was necessary to calm and occasionally to raise the
immoderately passionate temperament and acute intellect of the Greeks.
If their intellect speaks, how harsh and cruel does life then appear!
They do not deceive themselves, but they intentionally weave lies
round life. Simonides advised his countrymen to look upon life as
a game; earnestness was too well-known to them as pain (the gods so
gladly hear the misery of mankind made the theme of song), and they
knew that through art alone misery might be turned into pleasure. As
a punishment for this insight, however, they were so plagued with the
love of romancing that it was difficult for them in everyday life to
keep themselves free from falsehood and deceit; for all poetic nations
have such a love of falsehood, and yet are innocent withal. Probably
this occasionally drove the neighbouring nations to desperation.
155.
THE BELIEF IN INSPIRATION.--It is to the interest of the artist that
there should be a belief in sudden suggestions, so-called inspirations;
as if the idea of a work of art, of poetry, the fundamental thought of
a philosophy shone down from heaven like a ray of grace. In reality
the imagination of the good artist or thinker constantly produces
good, mediocre, and bad, but his _judgment,_ most clear and practised,
rejects and chooses and joins together, just as we now learn from
Beethoven's notebooks that he gradually composed the most beautiful
melodies, and in a manner selected them, from many different attempts.
He who makes less severe distinctions, and willingly abandons himself
to imitative memories, may under certain circumstances become a great
improvisatore; but artistic improvisation ranks low in comparison with
serious and laboriously chosen artistic thoughts. All great men were
great workers, unwearied not only in invention but also in rejection,
reviewing, transforming, and arranging.
156.
INSPIRATION AGAIN.--If the productive power has been suspended for a
length of time, and has been hindered in its outflow by some obstacle,
there comes at last such a sudden out-pouring, as if an immediate
inspiration were taking place without previous inward working,
consequently a miracle. This constitutes the familiar deception, in
the continuance of which, as we have said, the interest of all artists
is rather too much concerned. The capital has only _accumulated,_ it
has not suddenly fallen down from heaven. Moreover, such apparent
inspirations are seen elsewhere, for instance in the realm of goodness,
of virtue and of vice.
157.
THE SUFFERING OF GENIUS AND ITS VALUE.--The artistic genius desires
to give pleasure, but if his mind is on a very high plane he does not
easily find any one to share his pleasure; he offers entertainment
but nobody accepts it. This gives him, in certain circumstances, a
comically touching pathos; for he has really no right to force pleasure
on men. He pipes, but none will dance: can that be tragic? Perhaps.--As
compensation for this deprivation, however, he finds more pleasure in
creating than the rest of mankind experiences in all other species
of activity. His sufferings are considered as exaggerated, because
the sound of his complaints is louder and his tongue more eloquent;
and yet _sometimes_ his sufferings are really very great; but only
because his ambition and his envy are so great. The learned genius,
like Kepler and Spinoza, is usually not so covetous and does not make
such an exhibition of his really greater sufferings and deprivations.
He can reckon with greater certainty on future fame and can afford to
do without the present, whilst an artist who does this always plays a
desperate game that makes his heart ache. In very rare cases, when in
one and the same individual are combined the genius of power and of
knowledge and the moral genius, there is added to the above-mentioned
pains that species of pain which must be regarded as the most
curious exception in the world; those extra- and super-personal
sensations which are experienced on behalf of a nation, of humanity,
of all civilisation, all suffering existence, which acquire their
value through the connection with particularly difficult and remote
perceptions (pity in itself is worth but little). But what standard,
what proof is there for its genuineness? Is it not almost imperative to
be mistrustful of all who _talk_ of feeling sensations of this kind?
158.
THE DESTINY OF GREATNESS.--Every great phenomenon is followed by
degeneration, especially in the world of art. The example of the great
tempts vainer natures to superficial imitation or exaggeration; all
great gifts have the fatality of crushing many weaker forces and germs,
and of laying waste all nature around them. The happiest arrangement in
the development of an art is for several geniuses mutually to hold one
another within bounds; in this strife it generally happens that light
and air are also granted to the weaker and more delicate natures.
159.
ART DANGEROUS FOR THE ARTIST.--When art takes strong hold of an
individual it draws him back to the contemplation of those times when
art flourished best, and it has then a retrograde effect. The artist
grows more and more to reverence sudden inspirations; he believes
in gods and dæmons, he spiritualises all nature, hates science, is
changeable in his moods like the ancients, and longs for an overthrow
of all existing conditions which are not favourable to art, and does
this with the impetuosity and unreasonableness of a child. Now, in
himself, the artist is already a backward nature, because he halts at a
game that belongs properly to youth and childhood; to this is added the
fact that he is educated back into former times. Thus there gradually
arises a fierce antagonism between him and his contemporaries, and
a sad ending; according to the accounts of the ancients, Homer and
Æschylus spent their last years, and died, in melancholy.
160.
CREATED INDIVIDUALS.--When it is said that the dramatist (and the
artist above all) _creates_ real characters, it is a fine deception and
exaggeration, in the existence and propagation of which art celebrates
one of its unconscious but at the same time abundant triumphs. As a
matter of fact, we do not understand much about a real, living man,
and we generalise very superficially when we ascribe to him this and
that character; this _very imperfect_ attitude of ours towards man
is represented by the poet, inasmuch as he makes into men (in this
sense "creates") outlines as _superficial_ as our knowledge of man is
superficial. There is a great deal of delusion about these created
characters of artists; they are by no means living productions of
nature, but are like painted men, somewhat too thin, they will not
bear a close inspection. And when it is said that the character of
the ordinary living being contradicts itself frequently, and that
the one created by the dramatist is the original model conceived by
nature, this is quite wrong. A genuine man is something absolutely
_necessary_ (even in those so-called contradictions), but we do not
always recognise this necessity. The imaginary man, the phantasm,
signifies something necessary, but only to those who understand a
real man only in a crude, unnatural simplification, so that a few
strong, oft-repeated traits, with a great deal of light and shade
and half-light about them, amply satisfy their notions. They are,
therefore, ready to treat the phantasm as a genuine, necessary man,
because with real men they are accustomed to regard a phantasm, an
outline, an intentional abbreviation as the whole. That the painter
and the sculptor express the "idea" of man is a vain imagination and
delusion; whoever says this is in subjection to the eye, for this only
sees the' surface, the epidermis of the human body,--the inward body,
however, is equally a part of the idea. Plastic art wishes to make
character visible on the surface; histrionic art employs speech for
the same purpose, it reflects character in sounds. Art starts from the
natural _ignorance_ of man about his interior condition (in body and
character); it is not meant for philosophers or natural scientists.
161.
THE OVER-VALUATION OF SELF IN THE BELIEF IN ARTISTS AND
PHILOSOPHERS.--We are all prone to think that the excellence of a
work of art or of an artist is proved when it moves and touches us.
But there _our own excellence_ in judgment and sensibility must have
been proved first, which is not the case. In all plastic art, who
had greater power to effect a charm than Bernini, who made a greater
effect than the orator that appeared after Demosthenes introduced the
Asiatic style and gave it a predominance which lasted throughout two
centuries? This predominance during whole centuries is not a proof of
the excellence and enduring validity of a style; therefore we must
not be too certain in our good opinion of any artist,--this is not
only belief in the truthfulness of our sensations but also in the
infallibility of our judgment, whereas judgment or sensation, or even
both, may be too coarse or too fine, exaggerated or crude. Neither are
the blessings and blissfulness of a philosophy or of a religion proofs
of its truth; just as little as the happiness which an insane person
derives from his fixed idea is a proof of the reasonableness of this
idea.
162.
THE CULT OF GENIUS FOR THE SAKE OF VANITY.--Because we think well of
ourselves, but nevertheless do not imagine that we are capable of the
conception of one of Raphael's pictures or of a scene such as those of
one of Shakespeare's dramas, we persuade ourselves that the faculty for
doing this is quite extraordinarily wonderful, a very rare case, or,
if we are religiously inclined, a grace from above. Thus the cult of
genius fosters our vanity, our self-love, for it is only when we think
of it as very far removed from us, as a _miraculum,_ that it does not
wound us (even Goethe, who was free from envy, called Shakespeare a
star of the farthest heavens, whereby we are reminded of the line "die
Sterne, die begehrt man nicht".[1]) But, apart from those suggestions
of our vanity, the activity of a genius does not seem so radically
different from the activity of a mechanical inventor, of an astronomer
or historian or strategist. All these forms of activity are explicable
if we realise men whose minds are active in one special direction, who
make use of everything as material, who always eagerly study their
own inward life and that of others, who find types and incitements
everywhere, who never weary in the employment of their means. Genius
does nothing but learn how to lay stones, then to build, always to
seek for material and always to work upon it. Every human activity is
marvellously complicated, and not only that of genius, but it is no
"miracle." Now whence comes the belief that genius is found only in
artists, orators, and philosophers, that they alone have "intuition"
(by which we credit them with a kind of magic glass by means of which
they see straight into one's "being")? It is clear that men only speak
of genius where the workings of a great intellect are most agreeable
to them and they have no desire to feel envious. To call any one
"divine" is as much as saying "here we have no occasion for rivalry."
Thus it is that everything completed and perfect is stared at, and
everything incomplete is undervalued. Now nobody can see how the work
of an artist has _developed_; that is its advantage, for everything of
which the development is seen is looked on coldly The perfected art of
representation precludes all thought of its development, it tyrannises
as present perfection. For this reason artists of representation are
especially held to be possess of genius, but not scientific men. In
reality, however, the former valuation and the latter under-valuation
are only puerilities of reason.
163.
THE EARNESTNESS OF HANDICRAFT.--Do not talk of gifts, of inborn
talents! We could mention great men of all kinds who were but little
gifted. But they _obtained_ greatness, became "geniuses" (as they are
called), through qualities of the lack of which nobody who is conscious
of them likes to speak. They all had that thorough earnestness for work
which learns first how to form the different parts perfectly before it
ventures to make a great whole; they gave themselves time for this,
because they took more pleasure in doing small, accessory things well
than in the effect of a dazzling whole. For instance, the recipe for
becoming a good novelist is easily given, but the carrying out of the
recipe presupposes qualities which we are in the habit of overlooking
when we say, "I have not sufficient talent." Make a hundred or more
sketches of novel-plots, none more than two pages long, but of such
clearness that every word in them is necessary; write down anecdotes
every day until you learn to find the most pregnant, most effective
form; never weary of collecting and delineating human types and
characters; above all, narrate things as often as possible and listen
to narrations with a sharp eye and ear for the effect upon other people
present; travel like a landscape painter and a designer of costumes;
take from different sciences everything that is artistically effective,
if it be well represented; finally, meditate on the motives for human
actions, scorn not even the smallest point of instruction on this
subject, and collect similar matters by day and night. Spend some ten
years in these various exercises: then the creations of your study may
be allowed to see the light of day. But what do most people do, on the
contrary? They do not begin with the part, but with the whole. Perhaps
they make one good stroke, excite attention, and ever afterwards their
work grows worse and worse, for good, natural reasons. But sometimes,
when intellect and character are lacking for the formation of such an
artistic career, fate and necessity take the place of these qualities
and lead the future master step by step through all the phases of his
craft.
164.