ady there and maintains itself by its own
strength. Why then this vague striving and pushing forward without
rest or goal? Can this storm and stress give form and nourishing juice
to the everliving plant of humankind, that grows and fashions itself
in quiet? This empty, restless activity is only a bad habit of the
north and brings nothing but ennui for oneself and for others. And
with what does it begin and end except with antipathy to the world in
general, which is now such a common feeling? Inexperienced vanity does
not suspect that it indicates only lack of reason and sense, but
regards it as a high-minded discontent with the universal ugliness of
the world and of life, of which it really has not yet the slightest
presentiment. It could not be otherwise; for industry and utility are
the death-angels which, with fiery swords, prevent the return of man
into Paradise. Only when composed and at ease in the holy calm of true
passivity can one think over his entire being and get a view of life
and the world.

How is it that we think and compose at all, except by surrendering
ourselves completely to the influence of some genius? Speaking and
fashioning are after all only incidentals in all arts and sciences;
thinking and imagining are the essentials, and they are only possible
in a passive state. To be sure it is intentional, arbitrary,
one-sided, but still a passive state. The more beautiful the climate
we live in, the more passive we are. Only the Italians know what it is
to walk, and only the Orientals to recline. And where do we find the
human spirit more delicately and sweetly developed than in India?
Everywhere it is the privilege of being idle that distinguishes the
noble from the common; it is the true principle of nobility. Finally,
where is the greater and more lasting enjoyment, the greater power and
will to enjoy? Among women, whose nature we call passive, or among
men, in whom the transition from sudden wrath to ennui is quicker than
that from good to evil?

Satisfied with the enjoyment of my existence, I proposed to raise
myself above all its finite, and therefore contemptible, aims and
objects. Nature itself seemed to confirm me in this undertaking, and,
as it were, to exhort me in many-voiced choral songs to further
idleness. And now suddenly a new vision presented itself. I imagined
myself invisible in a theatre. On one side I saw all the well-known
boards, lights and painted scenery; on the other a vast