In his eyes the
man who will not lend himself to these graceful fancies is vulgar, and
the man who takes them seriously is prejudiced. He is entertained by the
variations of conscience, but he is too clever to laugh at them. The
true critic neither concludes nor excludes; his pleasure is to
understand without believing, and to profit by the results of
enthusiasm, while still maintaining a free mind, unembarrassed by
illusion. Such a mode of proceeding has a look of dishonesty; it is
nothing, however, but the good-tempered irony of a highly-cultivated
mind, which will neither be ignorant of anything nor duped by anything.
It is the dilettantism of the Renaissance in its perfection. At the same
time what innumerable proofs of insight and of exultant scientific
power!
August 14, 1869.--In the name of heaven, who art thou? what wilt
thou--wavering inconstant creature? What future lies before thee? What
duty or what hope appeals to thee?
My longing, my search is for love, for peace, for something to fill my
heart; an idea to defend; a work to which I might devote the rest of my
strength; an affection which might quench this inner thirst; a cause for
which I might die with joy. But shall I ever find them? I long for all
that is impossible and inaccessible: for true religion, serious
sympathy, the ideal life; for paradise, immortality, holiness, faith,
inspiration, and I know not what besides! What I really want is to die
and to be born again, transformed myself, and in a different world.
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