Interludes
Interlude (of aphorisms). Selection.
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, and be understood by the swine than a poet, and misunderstood by men.
What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart. But his lips are shaped so that his sighs and groans sound like beautiful music. His fate resembles that of the unhappy men slowly roasted over a low fire in the tyrant Phalaris' bull. Their screams could not reach the tyrant's ears as terrifying cries. To him, those screams sounded like sweet music. And people gather around the poet and say to him: please sing again. By this they mean: may new sufferings torment your soul, and may your lips remain shaped as before. Your cries would only terrify us, but your music is delightful. And the critics join them, saying: well done, this is how poetry must be, according to the laws of aesthetics. Of course, a critic is as much like a poet as one pea is like another. The only difference is that the critic has no anguish in his heart and no music on his lips. So I would rather be a swineherd on Amager, understood by the pigs, than a poet misunderstood by people.
A flat island south of the capital, known as the "Kitchen Garden of Copenhagen."
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!
Besides my many other acquaintances, I have one more close friend: my melancholy. In the middle of pleasure, in the middle of work, he beckons to me and calls me aside. Yet I remain physically present. My melancholy is the most faithful sweetheart I have ever had. No wonder I love him in return!
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?
Of all ridiculous things, being busy seems to me the most ridiculous. I mean being a man who rushes through his meals and his work. So I laugh heartily whenever I see a fly land on such a busy man's nose at the crucial moment. Or if a carriage rushing past even faster splashes him with mud. Or if the drawbridge opens in front of him. Or if a roof tile falls and kills him. And who, really, could help laughing? What, I wonder, do these busy people accomplish? Don't they belong in the same category as the woman who carried out the fire tongs? In her confusion over her house being on fire, that was what she saved. What more valuable things do you suppose these busy people will save from life's great fire?
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.
Let others complain that the times are wicked. I complain that the times are petty, because they lack passion. People’s thoughts are thin and fragile like lace, and the people themselves are weak like girls who make lace. The thoughts in their hearts are too small to be sinful. For a worm, having such thoughts might conceivably count as a sin. But not for a human being made in the image of God. Their lusts are tame and sluggish, their passions sleepy. These shabby minds do their duty. But they allow themselves, as the Jews did, to shave just the tiniest bit of metal off coins. They think that even if our Lord keeps the closest watch, they might still safely risk fooling him a little. Shame on them! That is why my soul keeps returning to the Old Testament and to Shakespeare. There, at least, you feel you are dealing with men and women. There, people hate and love. There, people murder their enemies and curse their descendants through all generations. There, people sin.
Just as, according to the legend, 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.
According to the legend, Parmeniscus lost his ability to laugh in the Trophonian cave. But he recovered it on the island of Delos when he saw a shapeless block displayed as the goddess Leto’s image. Just as this happened to Parmeniscus, so it happened to me. When I was very young, I forgot how to laugh in the Trophonian cave. But when I grew older, opened my eyes, and looked at the real world, I had to laugh. I have not stopped laughing since. I saw that the meaning of life was to make a living. Its goal was to become Chief Justice. The pleasures of love consisted in marrying a wealthy woman. The blessing of friendship was helping one another through financial difficulties. Wisdom was whatever most people thought it was. Giving a speech showed enthusiasm, and risking a 10-dollar fine showed courage. Saying "may it agree with you" after a meal showed warmth. Taking communion once a year showed devotion to God. I saw all this and laughed.
Told by Athenaios.
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.
A strange thing happened to me in a dream. I was carried up to the Seventh Heaven. All the gods sat gathered there. As a special favor, I was granted one wish. "Do you wish for youth," said Mercury, "or beauty, or power, or a long life? Or do you wish for the most beautiful woman, or any other of the many wonderful things in our treasury? Choose, but only one thing!" For a moment I did not know what to say. Then I addressed the gods: "Most honorable contemporaries, I choose one thing: to always have the laughter on my side." Not one god answered, but all began to laugh. From their laughter, I concluded that my wish had been granted. I also thought the gods knew how to express themselves with good taste. For surely a solemn answer would have been inappropriate: your wish has been granted.