DIAPSALMATA1
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 aesthetics. 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
firetongs? 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 legend3 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. 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.