What is a poet? An unhappy man who conceals profound anguish in his
heart, but whose lips are so fashioned that when sighs and groans pass
over them they sound like beautiful music. His fate resembles that of
the unhappy men who were slowly roasted by a gentle fire in the tyrant
Phalaris' bull--their shrieks could not reach his ear to terrify
him, to him they sounded like sweet music. And people flock about the
poet and say to him: do sing again; which means, would that new
sufferings tormented your soul, and: would that your lips stayed
fashioned as before, for your cries would only terrify us, but your
music is delightful. And the critics join them, saying: well done, thus
must it be according to the laws of æsthetics. Why, to be sure, a critic
resembles a poet as one pea another, the only difference being that he
has no anguish in his heart and no music on his lips. Behold, therefore
would I rather be a swineherd on Amager,[2] and be understood by the
swine than a poet, and misunderstood by men.
In addition to my numerous other acquaintances I have still one more
intimate friend--my melancholy. In the midst of pleasure, in the
midst of work, he beckons to me, calls me aside, even though I remain
present bodily. My melancholy is the most faithful sweetheart I have
had--no wonder that I return the love!
Of all ridiculous things the most ridiculous seems to me, to be
busy--to be a man who is brisk about his food and his work.
Therefore, whenever I see a fly settling, in the decisive moment, on
the nose of such a person of affairs; or if he is spattered with mud
from a carriage which drives past him in still greater haste; or the
drawbridge opens up before him; or a tile falls down and knocks him
dead, then I laugh heartily. And who, indeed, could help laughing?
What, I wonder, do these busy folks get done? Are they not to be
classed with the woman who in her confusion about the house being
on fire carried out the fire-tongs? What things of greater account, do
you suppose, will they rescue from life's great conflagration?
Let others complain that the times are wicked. I complain that they
are paltry; for they are without passion. The thoughts of men are thin
and frail like lace, and they themselves are feeble like girl
lace-makers. The thoughts of their hearts are too puny to be sinful.
For a worm it might conceivably be regarded a sin to harbor thoughts
such as theirs, not for a man who is formed in the image of God. Their
lusts are staid and sluggish, their passions sleepy; they do their duty,
these sordid minds, but permit themselves, as did the Jews, to trim the
coins just the least little bit, thinking that if our Lord keep tab of
them ever so carefully one might yet safely venture to fool him a bit.
Fye upon them! It is therefore my soul ever returns to the Old Testament
and to Shakespeare. There at least one feels that one is dealing with
men and women; there one hates and loves, there one murders one's
enemy and curses his issue through all generations--there one sins.
Just as, according to the legend,[3] Parmeniscus in the Trophonian
cave lost his ability to laugh, but recovered it again on the island
of Delos at the sight of a shapeless block which was exhibited as the
image of the goddess Leto: likewise did it happen to me. When I was
very young I forgot in the Trophonian cave how to laugh; but when I
grew older and opened my eyes and contemplated the real world, I had
to laugh, and have not ceased laughing, ever since. I beheld that the
meaning of life was to make a living; its goal, to become Chief Justice;
that the delights of love consisted in marrying a woman with ample
means; that it was the blessedness of friendship to help one another
in financial difficulties; that wisdom was what most people supposed
it to be; that it showed enthusiasm to make a speech, and courage, to
risk being fined 10 dollars; that it was cordiality to say "may it agree
with you" after a repast; that it showed piety to partake of the
communion once a year. I saw that and laughed.
A strange thing happened to me in my dream. I was rapt into the
Seventh Heaven. There sat all the gods assembled. As a special
dispensation I was granted the favor to have one wish. "Do you wish
for youth," said Mercury, "or for beauty, or power, or a long life; or
do you wish for the most beautiful woman, or any other of the many fine
things we have in our treasure trove? Choose, but only one thing!" For
a moment I was at a loss. Then I addressed the gods in this wise: "Most
honorable contemporaries, I choose one thing--that I may always
have the laughs on my side." Not one god made answer, but all began
to laugh. From this I concluded that my wish had been granted and
thought that the gods knew how to express themselves with good taste;
for it would surely have been inappropriate to answer gravely: your
wish has been granted.
[Footnote 1: Interlude (of aphorisms). Selection.]
[Footnote 2: A flat island south of the capital, called the "Kitchen
Garden of Copenhagen."]
[Footnote 3: Told by Athenaios.]