Great art springs from a non-artistic motivation; great art is what it becomes after being shaped by the artist. Making art for the sake of making it can only beget lesser art, and the examples are so abundant that it is correct to say that superior art will always be, to a greater or lesser extent, autobiographical. One does not need to know Shakespeare’s biography to know him, since his work proves what issues his mind was occupied with while he was alive. Shakespeare would not be who he is if he conceived his plays from the artistic effect he intended to produce; just as Dostoevsky would never have the same vitality if he wrote novels from “artistic motives”. Art is the form given to a motivation that does not require an artist to manifest itself—or to understand it.
Category: Notes
The Church of Misanthropy
I strip away my modesty to state that no one has ever been as apt as I am to found the Church of Misanthropy. I have the complete theoretical foundation and the practice of a high priest. But I confess, with a certain sadness, that Karl Kraus would make an exemplary minister. He says that he has discovered that it is possible to live with people in a strange land, that is, in an environment where he does not understand a word of what they say and where it is impossible for them to communicate. Thus, the neighbor really seems tolerable. But I am impressed that I do not consider this as a novelty, since I have already written this myself. It is curious how, every time, exactly the same thing happens: I am happy to detect the shared anomaly, but it never impresses me. I am capable of each and every misanthropic manifestation ever conceived; no particularity escapes me, and I empathize with every expression of repulsion and detachment toward man. Ban language by law, proposes Karl Kraus; allow man only gestural manifestation in cases of emergency. And I support, of course, these being propositions that have already come from my own fingers. But this church would never prosper; and however efficient removal techniques may be, just as there are interesting proposals to build walls to separate him from his surroundings, to the misanthrope there is and always will be only one definitive solution—and this one, it is prudent to avoid.
A Person With Some Education…
A person with some education does not interrupt another on the telephone; but he interrupts, without fearing for an instant, one who is thinking, as soon as he has the slightest and most insignificant communicative impulse. From this one can only conclude that thinking is a disease, and that normal people are not used to it; otherwise they would certainly know that a “excuse me” or an “I beg your pardon” in no way lessens the violent and abrupt cut they operate in the flow of ideas, which may never return. Neither morals nor conventions have taken care of this incomparable inconvenience: there are no restraints of any kind on the person who feels the desire to approach a stranger; quite the contrary, it is the stranger who will seem rude if he does not pay attention to the one who demands it. And, finally, how much satisfaction it gave to see for the first time that Karl Kraus noticed it! It is a subject for a whole book, and yet everyone seems accustomed to hearing news when they go to the barbershop; to being approached insistently by anyone who comes forward with the intention of selling. Well done, well done!
Doctor Faustus, by Thomas Mann
The main problem with this work is expectation: it is the novel of an author who, twenty years earlier, published The Magic Mountain. We expect, then, that these two decades will be reflected in maturity and higher altitudes—something that does not happen, Mann seeming instead to have come down from the mountain. Doctor Faustus is a fine example of the authentically German defects: it is a work of almost fifty chapters that would be much better and more powerful if summarized in three. Its climax consists of the invocation of the devil, a character that is always interesting in itself. If the work was reduced to this moment and its consequences, perhaps we would have a different impression; but Mann makes sure to bore us with a few hundred idle pages. What to say? Carpeaux compared this work to Hermann Hesse’s The Glass Bead Game, saying that both authors took refuge in music. But oh, how different! It seems impossible to compare them without leaving Doctor Faustus completely humiliated: this is a work devoid of elevation, boasting a mediocre thoroughness, as written by the bourgeois who entertains himself by displaying useless knowledge and writes as a hobby. What a disappointment! It seems inevitable to imagine Mann, in his luxurious mansions, overcome by a boredom similar to that of the old Indians, unable to perceive himself fading the more he allowed himself to “take refuge.” It hurts to see him in this great writer…