That the life of man is but a dream, many a man has surmised heretofore;
and I, too, am everywhere pursued by this feeling. When I consider
the narrow limits within which our active and inquiring faculties are
confined; when I see how all our energies are wasted in providing for
mere necessities, which again have no further end than to prolong
a wretched existence; and then that all our satisfaction concerning
certain subjects of investigation ends in nothing better than a passive
resignation, whilst we amuse ourselves painting our prison-walls with
bright figures and brilliant landscapes,—when I consider all this,
Wilhelm, I am silent. I examine my own being, and find there a world,
but a world rather of imagination and dim desires, than of distinctness
and living power. Then everything swims before my senses, and I smile
and dream while pursuing my way through the world.
All learned professors and doctors are agreed that children do not
comprehend the cause of their desires; but that the grown-up should
wander about this earth like children, without knowing whence they come,
or whither they go, influenced as little by fixed motives, but guided
like them by biscuits, sugar-plums, and the rod,—this is what nobody is
willing to acknowledge; and yet I think it is palpable.
I know what you will say in reply; for I am ready to admit that they are
happiest, who, like children, amuse themselves with their playthings,
dress and undress their dolls, and attentively watch the cupboard,
where mamma has locked up her sweet things, and, when at last they get
a delicious morsel, eat it greedily, and exclaim, "More!" These are
certainly happy beings; but others also are objects of envy, who dignify
their paltry employments, and sometimes even their passions, with
pompous titles, representing them to mankind as gigantic achievements
performed for their welfare and glory. But the man who humbly
acknowledges the vanity of all this, who observes with what pleasure
the thriving citizen converts his little garden into a paradise, and how
patiently even the poor man pursues his weary way under his burden,
and how all wish equally to behold the light of the sun a little
longer,—yes, such a man is at peace, and creates his own world within
himself; and he is also happy, because he is a man. And then, however
limited his sphere, he still preserves in his bosom the sweet feeling of
liberty, and knows that he can quit his prison whenever he likes.