Foreword to Richard Wagner

2 min

In order to keep at a distance all the possible scruples, excitements, and misunderstandings to which the thoughts gathered in this essay will give occasion, considering the peculiar character of our æsthetic publicity, and to be able also to write the introductory remarks with the same contemplative delight, the impress of which, as the petrifaction of good and elevating hours, it bears on every page, I form a conception of the moment when you, my highly honoured friend, will receive this essay; how you, say after an evening walk in the winter snow, will behold the unbound Prometheus on the title-page, read my name, and be forthwith convinced that, whatever this essay may contain, the author has something earnest and impressive to say, and, moreover, that in all his meditations he communed with you as with one present and could thus write only what befitted your presence. You will thus remember that it was at the same time as your magnificent dissertation on Beethoven originated, viz., amidst the horrors and sublimities of the war which had just then broken out, that I collected myself for these thoughts. But those persons would err, to whom this collection suggests no more perhaps than the antithesis of patriotic excitement and æsthetic revelry, of gallant earnestness and sportive delight. Upon a real perusal of this essay, such readers will, rather to their surprise, discover how earnest is the German problem we have to deal with, which we properly place, as a vortex and turning-point, in the very midst of German hopes. Perhaps, however, this same class of readers will be shocked at seeing an æsthetic problem taken so seriously, especially if they can recognise in art no more than a merry diversion, a readily dispensable court-jester to the "earnestness of existence": as if no one were aware of the real meaning of this confrontation with the "earnestness of existence." These earnest ones may be informed that I am convinced that art is the highest task and the properly metaphysical activity of this life, as it is understood by the man, to whom, as my sublime protagonist on this path, I would now dedicate this essay.

Given the peculiar nature of public discussion of art, the thoughts gathered in this essay may provoke all kinds of doubts, excitement, and misunderstandings. To keep all these at a distance, I imagine the moment when you, my highly honored friend, receive this essay. I do this also so I can write these opening remarks with the same contemplative delight that marks every page. The essay preserves that delight like a stone formed from good and uplifting hours. I imagine you coming in, perhaps after an evening walk through the winter snow. You see Prometheus unbound on the title page and read my name. At once, you are convinced that whatever the essay contains, its author has something serious and profound to say. You are also convinced that throughout his reflections, he spoke with you as though you were present. He could therefore write only what was fitting in your presence. You will remember that I gathered my thoughts at the same time you were writing your magnificent dissertation on Beethoven. This was amid the horrors and grandeur of the war that had just broken out. But some people might see in this gathering of thoughts nothing more than a contrast. They might contrast patriotic excitement with aesthetic indulgence, or courageous seriousness with playful delight. They would be mistaken. If such readers actually read this essay, they will discover, rather to their surprise, how serious the German problem is that we must address. We rightly place this problem at the very center of German hopes, as their vortex and turning point. Perhaps, however, these same readers will be shocked to see an aesthetic problem treated so seriously. This is especially likely if they see art as nothing more than a cheerful diversion, a court jester easily dismissed by the "earnestness of existence." They behave as if no one understood what it really means to set art against the "earnestness of existence." These serious people should know that I am convinced that art is the highest task and the true metaphysical activity of this life. The man to whom I now dedicate this essay understands art in this way. He is my sublime champion on this path.

BASEL, end of the year 1871.