superior, fertile minds is not necessarily, but still very frequently,
connected with that wholly or partly religious superstition that
those spirits are of superhuman origin and possess certain marvellous
faculties, by means of which they obtained their knowledge in ways
quite different from the rest of mankind. They are credited with
having an immediate insight into the nature of the world, through
a peep-hole in the mantle of the phenomenon as it were, and it is
believed that, without the trouble and severity of science, by virtue
of this marvellous prophetic sight, they could impart something final
and decisive about mankind and the world. So long as there are still
believers in miracles in the world of knowledge it may perhaps be
admitted that the believers themselves derive a benefit therefrom,
inasmuch as by their absolute subjection to great minds they obtain the
best discipline and schooling for their own minds during the period of
development. On the other hand, it may at least be questioned whether
the superstition of genius, of its privileges and special faculties,
is useful for a genius himself when it implants itself in him. In any
case it is a dangerous sign when man shudders at his own self, be it
that famous Cæsarian shudder or the shudder of genius which applies to
this case, when the incense of sacrifice, which by rights is offered
to a God alone, penetrates into the brain of the genius, so that he
begins to waver and to look upon himself as something superhuman. The
slow consequences are: the feeling of irresponsibility, the exceptional
rights, the belief that mere intercourse with him confers a favour,
and frantic rage at any attempt to compare him with others or even
to place him below them and to bring into prominence whatever is
unsuccessful in his work. Through the fact that he ceases to criticise
himself one pinion after another falls out of his plumage,--that
superstition undermines the foundation of his strength and even makes
him a hypocrite after his power has failed him. For great minds it
is, therefore, perhaps better when they come to an understanding about
their strength and its source, when they comprehend what purely human
qualities are mingled in them, what a combination they are of fortunate
conditions: thus once it was continual energy, a decided application
to individual aims, great personal courage, and then the good fortune
of an education, which at an early period provided the best teachers,
examples, and methods. Assuredly, if its aim is to make the greatest
possible _effect,_ abstruseness has always done much for itself and
that gift of partial insanity; for at all times that power has been
admired and envied by means of which men were deprived of will and
imbued with the fancy that they were preceded by supernatural leaders.
Truly, men are exalted and inspired by the belief that some one among
them is endowed with supernatural powers, and in this respect insanity,
as Plato says, has brought the greatest blessings to mankind. In a
few rare cases this form of insanity may also have been the means
by which an all-round exuberant nature was kept within bounds; in
individual life the imaginings of frenzy frequently exert the virtue of
remedies which are poisons in themselves; but in every "genius" that
believes in his own divinity the poison shows itself at last in the
same proportion as the "genius" grows old; we need but recollect the
example of Napoleon, for it was most assuredly through his faith in
himself and his star, and through his scorn of mankind, that he grew
to that mighty unity which distinguished him from all modern men, until
at last, however, this faith developed into an almost insane fatalism,
robbed him of his quickness of comprehension and penetration, and was
the cause of his downfall.
165.
GENIUS AND NULLITY.--It is precisely the _original_ artists, those who
create out of their own heads, who in certain circumstances can bring
forth complete _emptiness_ and husk, whilst the more dependent natures,
the so-called talented ones, are full of memories of all manner of
goodness, and even in a state of weakness produce something tolerable.
But if the original ones are abandoned by themselves, memory renders
them no assistance; they become empty.
166.
THE PUBLIC.--The people really demands nothing more from tragedy than
to be deeply affected, in order to have a good cry occasionally; the
artist, on the contrary, who sees the new tragedy, takes pleasure in
the clever technical inventions and tricks, in the management and
distribution of the material, in the novel arrangement of old motives
and old ideas. His attitude is the æsthetic attitude towards a work of
art, that of the creator; the one first described, with regard solely
to the material, is that of he people. Of the individual who stands
between the two nothing need be said: he is neither "people" nor
artist, and does not know what he wants--therefore his pleasure is also
clouded and insignificant.
167.
THE ARTISTIC EDUCATION OF THE PUBLIC.--If the same _motif_ is not
employed in a hundred ways by different masters, the public never
learns to get beyond their interest in the subject; but at last, when
it is well acquainted with the _motif_ through countless different
treatments, and no longer finds in it any charm of novelty or
excitement, it will then begin to grasp and enjoy the various shades
and delicate new inventions in its treatment.
168.
THE ARTIST AND HIS FOLLOWERS MUST KEEP IN STEP.--The progress from one
grade of style to another must be so slow that not only the artists but
also the auditors and spectators can follow it and know exactly what is
going on. Otherwise there will suddenly appear that great chasm between
the artist, who creates his work upon a height apart, and the public,
who cannot rise up to that height and finally sinks discontentedly
deeper. For when the artist no longer raises his public it rapidly
sinks downwards, and its fall is the deeper and more dangerous in
proportion to the height to which genius has carried it, like the
eagle, out of whose talons a tortoise that has been borne up into the
clouds falls to its destruction.
169.
THE SOURCE OF THE COMIC ELEMENT.--If we consider that for many
thousands of years man was an animal that was susceptible in the
highest degree to fear, and that everything sudden and unexpected had
to find him ready for battle, perhaps even ready for death; that even
later, in social relations, all security was based on the expected,
on custom in thought and action, we need not be surprised that at
everything sudden and unexpected in word and deed, if it occurs without
danger or injury, man becomes exuberant and passes over into the very
opposite of fear--the terrified, trembling, crouching being shoots
upward, stretches itself: man laughs. This transition from momentary
fear into short-lived exhilaration is called the _Comic._ On the other
hand, in the tragic phenomenon, man passes quickly from great enduring
exuberance into great fear; but as amongst mortals great and lasting
exuberance is much rarer than the cause for fear, there is far more
comedy than tragedy in the world; we laugh much offener than we are
agitated.
170.
THE ARTIST'S AMBITION.--The Greek artists, the tragedians for instance,
composed in order to conquer; their whole art cannot be imagined
without rivalry,--the good Hesiodian Eris, Ambition, gave wings to
their genius. This ambition further demanded that their work should
achieve the greatest excellence _in their own eyes,_ as they understood
excellence, _without any regard_ for the reigning taste and the
general opinion about excellence in a work of art; and thus it was
long before Æschylus and Euripides achieved any success, until at
last they _educated_ judges of art, who valued their work according
to the standards which they themselves appointed. Hence they strove
for victory over rivals according to their own valuation, they really
wished to _be_ more excellent; they demanded assent from without to
this self-valuation, the confirmation of this verdict. To achieve
honour means in this case "to make one's self superior to others, and
to desire that this should be recognised publicly." Should the former
condition be wanting, and the latter nevertheless desired, it is then
called _vanity._ Should the latter be lacking and not missed, then it
is named _pride_.
171.
WHAT IS NEEDFUL TO A WORK OF ART.--Those who talk so much about the
needful factors of a work of art exaggerate; if they are artists they
do so _in majorem artis gloriam,_ if they are laymen, from ignorance.
The form of a work of art, which gives speech to their thoughts and is,
therefore, their mode of talking, is always somewhat uncertain, like
all kinds of speech. The sculptor can add or omit many little traits,
as can also the exponent, be he an actor or, in music, a performer or
conductor. These many little traits and finishing touches afford him
pleasure one day and none the next, they exist more for the sake of the
artist than the art; for he also has occasionally need of sweetmeats
and playthings to prevent him from becoming morose with the severity
and self-restraint which the representation of the dominant idea
demands from him.
172.
TO CAUSE THE MASTER TO BE FORGOTTEN.--The pianoforte player who
executes the work of a master will have played best if he has made his
audience forget the master, and if it seemed as if he were relating
a story from his own life or just passing through some experience.
Assuredly, if he is of no importance, every one will abhor the
garrulity with which he talks about his own life. Therefore he must
know how to influence his hearer's imagination favourably towards
himself. Hereby are explained all the weaknesses and follies of "the
virtuoso."
173.
_CORRIGER LA FORTUNE._--There are unfortunate accidents in the lives
of great artists, which compel the painter, for instance, to sketch
out his most important picture only as a passing thought, or such as
obliged Beethoven to leave behind him only the insufficient pianoforte
score of many great sonatas (as in the great B flat). In these cases
the artist of a later day must endeavour to fill out the life of the
great man,--of all orchestral effects, would call into life that
symphony which has fallen into the piano-trance.
174.
REDUCING.--Many things, events, or persons, cannot bear treatment on
a small scale. The Laocoon group cannot be reduced to a knick-knack;
great size is necessary to it. But more seldom still does anything
that is naturally small bear enlargement; for which reason biographers
succeed far oftener in representing a great man as small than a small
one as great.
175.
SENSUOUSNESS IN PRESENT-DAY ART.--Artists nowadays frequently
miscalculate when they count on the sensuous effect of their works, for
their spectators or hearers have no longer a fully sensuous nature,
and, quite contrary to the artist's intention, his work produces in
them a "holiness" of feeling which is closely related to boredom. Their
sensuousness begins, perhaps, just where that of the artist ceases;
they meet, therefore, only at one point at the most.
176.
SHAKESPEARE AS A MORALIST.--Shakespeare meditated much on the passions,
and on account of his temperament had probably a close acquaintance
with many of them (dramatists are in general rather wicked men). He
could, however not talk on the subject, like Montaigne, but put his
observations thereon into the mouths of impassioned figures, which
is contrary to nature, certainly, but makes his dramas so rich in
thought that they cause all others to seem poor in comparison and
readily arouse a general aversion to them. Schiller's reflections
(which are almost always based on erroneous or trivial fancies) are
just theatrical Reflections, and as such are very effective; whereas
Shakespeare's reflections do honour to his model, Montaigne, and
contain quite serious thoughts in polished form, but on that account
are too remote and refined for the eyes of the theatrical public, and
are consequently ineffective.
177.
SECURING A GOOD HEARING.--It is not sufficient to know how to play
well; one must also know how to secure a good hearing. A violin in the
hand of the greatest master gives only a little squeak when the place
where it is heard is too large; the master may then be mistaken for any
bungler.
178.
THE INCOMPLETE AS THE EFFECTIVE.--Just as figures in relief make such
a strong impression on the imagination because they seem in the act
of emerging from the wall and only stopped by some sudden hindrance;
so the relief-like, incomplete representation of a thought, or a
whole philosophy, is sometimes more effective than its exhaustive
amplification,--more is left for the investigation of the onlooker, he
is incited to the further study of that which stands out before him in
such strong light and shade; he is prompted to think out the subject,
and even to overcome the hindrance which hitherto prevented it from
emerging clearly.
179.
AGAINST THE ECCENTRIC.--When art arrays itself in the most shabby
material it is most easily recognised as art.
180.
COLLECTIVE INTELLECT.--A good author possesses not only his own
intellect, but also that of his friends.
181.
DIFFERENT KINDS OF MISTAKES.--The misfortune of acute and clear authors
is that people consider them as shallow and therefore do not devote any
effort to them; and the good fortune of obscure writers is that the
reader makes an effort to understand them and places the delight in his
own zeal to their credit.
182.
RELATION TO SCIENCE.--None of the people have any real interest in
a science, who only begin to be enthusiastic about it when they
themselves lave made discoveries in it.
183.
THE KEY.--The single thought on which an eminent man sets a great
value, arousing the derision and laughter of the masses, is for him a
key to hidden treasures; for them, however, it is nothing _more_ than a
piece of old iron.
184.
UNTRANSLATABLE.--It is neither the best nor the worst parts of a book
which are untranslatable.
185.
AUTHORS' PARADOXES.--The so-called paradoxes of an author to which a
reader objects are often not in the author's book at all, but in the
reader's head.
186.
WIT.--The wittiest authors produce a scarcely noticeable smile.
187.
ANTITHESIS.--Antithesis is the narrow gate through which error is
fondest of sneaking to the truth.
188.
THINKERS AS STYLISTS.--Most thinkers write badly, because they
communicate not only their thoughts, but also the thinking of them.
189.
THOUGHTS IN POETRY.--The poet conveys his thoughts ceremoniously in the
vehicle of rhythm, usually because they are not able to go on foot.
190.
THE SIN AGAINST THE READER'S INTELLECT.--When an author renounces his
talent in order merely to put himself on a level with the reader, he
commits the only deadly sin which the latter will never forgive, should
he notice anything of it. One may say everything that is bad about a
person, but in the manner _in which_ it is said one must know how to
revive his vanity anew.
191.
THE LIMITS OF UPRIGHTNESS.--Even the most upright author lets fall a
word too much when he wishes to round off a period.
192.
THE BEST AUTHOR,--The best author will be he who is ashamed to become
one.
193.
DRACONIAN LAW AGAINST AUTHORS.--One should regard authors as criminals
who only obtain acquittal or mercy in the rarest cases,--that would be
a remedy for books becoming too rife.
194.
THE FOOLS OF MODERN CULTURE.--The fools of mediæval courts correspond
to our _feuilleton_ writers; they are the same kind of men,
semi-rational, witty, extravagant, foolish, sometimes there only for
the purpose of lessening the pathos of the outlook with fancies and
chatter, and of drowning with their clamour the far too deep and solemn
chimes of great events; they were formerly in the service of princes
and nobles, now they are in the service of parties (since a large
portion of the old obsequiousness in the intercourse of the people with
their prince still survives in party-feeling and party-discipline).
Modern literary men, however, are generally very similar to the
_feuilleton_ writers, they are the "fools of modern culture," whom
one judges more leniently when one does not regard them as fully
responsible beings. To look upon writing as a regular profession should
justly be regarded as a form of madness.
195.
AFTER THE EXAMPLE OF THE GREEKS.--It is a great hindrance to knowledge
at present that, owing to centuries of exaggeration of feeling, all
words have become vague and inflated. The higher stage of culture,
which is under the sway (though not under the tyranny) of knowledge,
requires great sobriety of feeling and thorough concentration of
words--on which points the Greeks in the time of Demosthenes set an
example to us. Exaggeration is a distinguishing mark of all modern
writings, and even when they are simply written the expressions therein
are still _felt_ as _too_ eccentric. Careful reflection, conciseness,
coldness, plainness, even carried intentionally to the farthest
limits,--in a word, suppression of feeling and taciturnity,--these
are the only remedies. For the rest, this cold manner of writing and
feeling is now very attractive, as a contrast; and to be sure there is
a new danger therein. For intense cold is as good a stimulus as a high
degree of warmth.
196.
GOOD NARRATORS, BAD EXPLAINERS.--In good narrators there is often
found an admirable psychological sureness and logicalness, as far as
these qualities can be observed in the actions of their personages,
in positively ludicrous contrast to their inexperienced psychological
reasoning, so that their culture appears to be as extraordinarily high
one moment as it seems regrettably defective the next. It happens far
too frequently that they give an evidently false explanation of their
own heroes and their actions,--of this there is no doubt, however
improbable the thing may appear. It is quite likely that the greatest
pianoforte player has thought but little about the technical conditions
and the special virtues, drawbacks, usefulness, and tractability of
each finger (dactylic ethics), and makes big mistakes whenever he
speaks of such things.
197.
THE WRITINGS OF ACQUAINTANCES AND THEIR READERS.--We read the writings
of our acquaintances (friends and enemies) in a double sense, inasmuch
as our perception constantly whispers, "That is something of himself,
a remembrance of his inward being, his experiences, his talents," and
at the same time another kind of perception endeavours to estimate the
profit of the work in itself, what valuation it merits apart from its
author, how far it will enrich knowledge. These two manners of reading
and estimating interfere with each other, as may naturally be supposed.
And a conversation with a friend will only bear good fruit of knowledge
when both think only of the matter under consideration and forget that
they are friends.
198.
RHYTHMICAL SACRIFICE.--Good writers alter the rhythm of many a period
merely because they do not credit the general reader with the ability
to comprehend the measure followed by the period in its first version;
thus they make it easier for the reader, by giving the preference to
the better known rhythms.. This regard for the rhythmical incapacity
of the modern reader has already called forth many a sigh, for much
has been sacrificed to it. Does not the same thing happen to good
musicians?
199.
THE INCOMPLETE AS AN ARTISTIC STIMULUS.--The incomplete is often
more effective than perfection, and this is the case with eulogies.
To effect their purpose a stimulating incompleteness is necessary,
as an irrational element, which calls up a sea before the hearer's
imagination, and, like a mist, conceals the opposite coast, _i.e._ the
limits of the object of praise. If the well-known merits of a person
are referred to and described at length and in detail, it always gives
rise to the suspicion that these are his only merits. The perfect
eulogist takes his stand above the person praised, he appears to
_overlook_ him. Therefore complete praise has a weakening effect.
200.
PRECAUTIONS IN WRITING AND TEACHING.--Whoever has once written and has
been seized with the passion for writing learns from almost all that he
does and experiences that which is literally communicable. He thinks
no longer of himself, but of the author and his public; he desires
insight into things; but not for his own use. He who teaches is mostly
incapable of doing anything for his own good: he is always thinking of
the good of his scholars, and all knowledge delights him only in so
far as he is able to teach it. He comes at last to regard himself as a
medium of knowledge, and above all as a means thereto, so that he has
lost all serious consideration for himself.
201.
THE NECESSITY FOR BAD AUTHORS.--There will always be a need of bad
authors; for they meet the taste of readers of an undeveloped, immature
age--these have their requirements as well as mature readers. If human
life were of greater length, the number of mature individuals would be
greater than that of the immature, or at least equally great; but, as
it is, by far the greater number die too young: _i.e._ there are always
many more undeveloped intellects with bad taste. These demand, with the
greater impetuosity of youth, the satisfaction of their needs, and they
_insist_ on having bad authors.
202.
Too NEAR AND TOO FAR.--The reader and the author very often do not
understand each other, because the author knows his theme too well and
finds it almost slow, so that he omits the examples, of which he knows
hundreds; the reader, however, is interested in the subject, and is
liable to consider it as badly proved if examples are lacking.
203.
A VANISHED PREPARATION FOR ART.--Of everything that was practised in
public schools, the thing of greatest value was the exercise in Latin
style,--this was an exercise in art, whilst all other occupations
aimed only at the acquirement of knowledge. It is a barbarism to put
German composition before it, for there is no typical German style
developed by public oratory; but if there is a desire to advance
practice in thought by means of German composition, then it is
certainly better for the time being to pay no attention to style, to
separate the practice in thought, therefore, from the practice in
reproduction. The latter should confine itself to the various modes
of presenting a given subject, and should not concern itself with the
independent finding of a subject. The mere presentment of given subject
was the task of the Latin style, for which the old teachers possessed a
long vanished delicacy of ear. Formerly, whoever learned to write well
in a modern language had to thank this practice for the acquirement
(now we are obliged to go to school to the older French writers). But
yet more: he obtained an idea of the loftiness and difficulty of form,
and was prepared for art in the only right way: by practice.
204.
DARKNESS AND OVER-BRIGHTNESS SIDE BY SIDE.--Authors who, in general,
do not understand how to express their thoughts clearly are fond of
choosing, in detail, the strongest, most exaggerated distinctions and
superlatives,--thereby is produced an effect of light, which is like
torchlight in intricate forest paths.
205.
LITERARY PAINTING.--An important object will be best described if the
colours for the painting are taken out of the object itself, as a
chemist does, and then employed like an artist, so that the drawing
develops from the outlines and transitions of the colours. Thus the
painting acquires something of the entrancing natural element which
gives such importance to the object itself.
206.
BOOKS WHICH TEACH HOW TO DANCE.--There are authors who, by representing
the impossible as possible, and by talking of morality and cleverness
as if both were merely moods and humours assumed at will, produce
a feeling of exuberant freedom, as if man stood on tiptoe and were
compelled to dance from sheer, inward delight.
207.