There can
be no echo without a noise. Consciousness means some one who experiences
something. And all the somethings together cannot take the place of the
some one. The phenomenon exists only for a point which is not itself,
and for which it is an object. The perceptible supposes the perceiver.
May 15, 1876.--This morning I corrected the proofs of the "Etrangeres."
[Footnote: _Les Etrangeres: Poesies traduites de diverses
litteratures_, par H. F. Amiel, 1876.] Here at least is one thing off my
hands. The piece of prose theorizing which ends the volume pleased and
satisfied me a good deal more than my new meters. The book, as a whole,
may be regarded as an attempt to solve the problem of French
verse-translation considered as a special art. It is science applied to
poetry. It ought not, I think, to do any discredit to a philosopher,
for, after all, it is nothing but applied psychology.
Do I feel any relief, any joy, pride, hope? Hardly. It seems to me that
I feel nothing at all, or at least my feeling is so vague and doubtful
that I cannot analyze it. On the whole, I am rather tempted to say to
myself, how much labor for how small a result--_Much ado about nothing!_
And yet the work in itself is good, is successful. But what does
verse-translation matter? Already my interest in it is fading; my mind
and my energies clamor for something else.
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