"-for their [artists] idleness is an occupation. It is like the pleasure of a pasha in his harem; they fondle ideas, they become drunk at the springs of intellect. Great artists, totally absorbed in reverie, have rightly been called dreamers. These opium-eaters all sink into poverty, whereas, if they had been sustained by harsh circumstances, they would have been great men."
But it is what makes them artists. If they would have been "great men" then they would not have been dreamers- they would have been doers. The unreal and real cannot coincide, cannot live peacefully in one combined world. One or the other. But maybe it is what makes them so amazing- that they have this "greatness" in them, but choose not to act on it- and devote their entire lives to intellect. As if they forsake greatness for "ideas" and the "springs of intellect." Personally, it is a lot more satisfying. They do not want to give back to humanity, but want to receive the divine mysteries that can only be shown to some.
"He who can describe his plan in words is already deemed to be an extraordinary man. All writers and artists have this ability. But to produce! To bring to birth! To work hard at rearing the child, to put it to bed every night well fed with milk, to kiss it every morning with the inexhaustible love of a mother, to lick it clean, to dress it a hundred times in the prettiest of jackets with tears again and again; but not to be discouraged by the convulsions of this mad life and to turn it into the living masterpiece which speaks to all eyes in sculpture, to all minds in literature, to all memories in painting, to all hearts in music, that is the task of execution! The hand must be ready at every moment to work in obedience to the mind. And the mind is not creative to order, any more than love flows uninterruptedly."
Many have the impression that artists are just dreamers, and don't do much in their life- as real work. But challenging yourself constantly, living with a talent that cannot be accurately described or understood- only that it comes from outside oneself, and not being discouraged when it disappoints. This is the hardest labor of the mind- that tests the strength of character... These artists, they truly love their labor, as Balzac says, as if it were their own child. Reminds me of writers, that live with their characters for years and years until they write it all down. These are the true masters, the true men of humanity. They bring part of the universe into humanity...Now, I cannot think of anything that benefits humanity more...
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