‘For mark you, Phaedrus, beauty alone is both divine and
visible; and so it is the sense’s way, the artist’s way, little Phaedrus, to
the spirit. But, now tell me, my dear boy, do you believe that such a man can
ever attain wisdom and true manly worth, for whom the path to the spirit must
lead through the senses? Or do you rather think – for I leave the point to you –
that it is a path of perilous sweetness, a way of transgression, and must
surely lead him who walks in it astray? For you know that we poets cannot walk
the way of beauty without Eros as our companion and guide. We may be heroic
after our fashion, disciplined warriors of our craft, yet are we all like
women, for we exult in passion, and love is still our desire – our craving and
our shame. And from this you will
perceive that we poet can be neither wise nor worthy citizens. We must needs be
wanton, must needs rove at large in the realm of feeling. Our magisterial style
is all folly and pretence, our honourable repute a farce, the crowd’s belief in
us is merely laughable. And to teach youth, or the populace, by means of art is
a dangerous practice and ought to be forbidden. For what good can an artist be
as a teacher, when from his birth up he is headed direct for the pit? We may
want to shun it and attain to honour in the world; but however we turn, it
draws us still. So, then, since knowledge might destroy us, we will have none
of it. For knowledge, Phaedrus, does not make him who possesses it dignified or
austere. Knowledge is all-knowing, understanding, forgiving; it takes up no
position, sets no store by form. It has compassion with the abyss – it is the abyss. So we reject it, firmly,
and henceforward our concern shall be with beauty only. And by beauty we mean simplicity,
largeness, and renewed severity of discipline; we mean a return to detachment and
to form. But detachment, Phaedrus, and preoccupation with form lead to
intoxication and desire, they may lead the noblest among us to frightful
emotional excesses, which his own stern cult of the beautiful would make him
the fist to condemn. So they too, they too, lead to the bottomless pit yes,
they lead us thither, I say, us who are poets – who by our natures are prone not
to excellence but to excess. And now, Phaedrus, I will go. Remain here; and
only when you can no longer see me, then do you depart also.’
– Thomas Mann (1875-1955)
