rs are able to
substitute for the true.

Art has for its object not merely to afford a transient pleasure, to
excite to a momentary dream of liberty; its aim is to make us absolutely
free; and this it accomplishes by awakening, exercising, and perfecting
in us a power to remove to an objective distance the sensible world;
(which otherwise only burdens us as rugged matter, and presses us down
with a brute influence;) to transform it into the free working of our
spirit, and thus acquire a dominion over the material by means of ideas.
For the very reason also that true art requires somewhat of the objective
and real, it is not satisfied with a show of truth. It rears its ideal
edifice on truth itself--on the solid and deep foundations of nature.

But how art can be at once altogether ideal, yet in the strictest sense
real; how it can entirely leave the actual, and yet harmonize with
nature, is a problem to the multitude; and hence the distorted views
which prevail in regard to poetical and plastic works; for to ordinary
judgments these two requisites seem to counteract each other.

It is commonly supposed that one may be attained by the sacrifice of the
other;--the result is a failure to arrive at either. One to whom nature
has given a true sensibility, but denied the plastic imaginative power,
will be a faithful painter of the real; he will adapt casual appearances,
but never catch the spirit of nature. He will only reproduce to us the
matter of the world, which, not being our own work, the product of our
creative spirit, can never have the beneficent operation of art, of which
the essence is freedom. Serious indeed, but unpleasing, is the cast of
thought with which such an artist and poet dismisses us; we feel
ourselves painfully thrust back into the narrow sphere of reality by
means of the very art which ought to have emancipated us. On the other
hand, a writer endowed with a lively fancy, but destitute of warmth and
individuality of feeling, will not concern himself in the least about
truth; he will sport with the stuff of the world, and endeavor to
surprise by whimsical combinations; and as his whole performance is
nothing but foam and glitter, he will, it is true, engage the attention
for a time, but build up and confirm nothing in the understanding. His
playfulness is, like the gravity of the other, thoroughly unpoetical. To
string together at will fantastical images is not to travel into the
realm of the ideal; a