To mourn for
one's self is a last sign of vanity; we ought only to regret that which
has real values, and to regret one's self, is to furnish involuntary
evidence that one had attached importance to one's self. At the same
time it is a proof of ignorance of our true worth and function. It is
not necessary to live, but it is necessary to preserve one's type
unharmed, to remain faithful to one's idea, to protect one's monad
against alteration and degradation.
November 7, 1878.--To-day we have been talking of realism in painting,
and, in connection with it, of that poetical and artistic illusion which
does not aim at being confounded with reality itself. Realism wishes to
entrap sensation; the object of true art is only to charm the
imagination, not to deceive the eye. When we see a good portrait we say,
"It is alive!"--in other words, our imagination lends it life. On the
other hand, a wax figure produces a sort of terror in us; its frozen
life-likeness makes a deathlike impression on us, and we say, "It is a
ghost!" In the one case we see what is lacking, and demand it; in the
other we see what is given us, and we give on our side. Art, then,
addresses itself to the imagination; everything that appeals to
sensation only is below art, almost outside art. A work of art ought to
set the poetical faculty in us to work, it ought to stir us to imagine,
to complete our perception of a thing.
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