Having read Thomas Mann's The Beloved Returns, I think about those immortal scenes, and what Loette had said about them. How she didn't ask to be immortalized, and how she was just a pure and innocent girl enjoying her life while Goethe used her character to impact humanity. I love the energy and passion that Werther gives off, it's rare to see such energy on paper. he loves losing himself to nature, worshiping the "sublime and beautiful".
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"That the life is but a dream is a thought which has occurred to many people, and I myself am constantly haunted by it. When i see the limitations which imprison the active and speculative faculties of man; when I see how all human activity is directed toward procuring satisfaction for needs that have n other purpose than prolonging our miserable existence; when I see, moreover, how any comfort we may derive from certain points of inquiry is merely a dreamlike kind of resignation, in which we paint our prison walls with gaily colored figures and luminous prospects- all this, Wilhelm, leaves me speechless. I withdraw into my inner self and there discover a world- a world, it is true, rather of vague perceptions and dim desires than of creative power and vital force. And then everything swims before my senses, and I go on smiling at the outer world like someone in a dream."
The marvelous "vague" and "dim" mind of a poet! Goethe distinguishes two worlds, a world of "vague perceptions and dim desires" and the "outer world". And how each world affects the other. As if the world of dreams spilled into reality...
"[...] But that grown-ups too stumble like children on this earth, not knowing whence they come or wither they go, acting as little according to true purposes, being ruled like them by cakes and birch rods, no one likes to believe; yet to me it seems quite obvious."
We are all children in essence- the difference is only that it comes in different forms.
"O my friends! Why does the stream of genius so seldom break out as a torrent, with roaring high waves, and shake your awed soul?"
"Since then, sun, moon, and stars may continue on their course; for me there is neither day nor night, and the entire universe about me has ceased to exist."
As if these forced has wiped out the universe, and only what one chooses (maybe involuntarily) to see remains.
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I was thinking about Werther, and George Sand's Lélia, and how this passion was most inflamed by this noble creature- this obstacle of achieving their desire. Only this made them feel passion and set their whole being aflame. What contrast! I mean, true, the poets could have lived a life of debauchery, and gotten their "passions" out of this life. But then, they wouldn't have truly felt them and suffered from them. And suffering made them treasure these noble creatures all the more. They wouldn't have had to pine away in this alternative life, they would have easily achieved it. I think for the poet, it is a deliberate decision to love something that cannot return the same love without reserve. Only then do they realize that they have monster inside of them. What excites the poet in them, also starts to destroy them...Such is the fate of the poet, what a misfortune! What a curse! They are bound to suffer, and it is all voluntarily!
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"[...] and He makes us happiest when He lets us stagger under a benign delusion."
The question then, is, is there really happiness in this delusion? maybe happiness in reality has a different essence, less made up of the mind, and more of the spontaneity and mystery of the uncontrollable. Because delusion is the mind tricking us.
"-Oh, the times when i longed to fly on the crane's wings, as it passed overhead, to the shores of the illimitable ocean, in order to drink from the foaming cup of the Infinite and elating sensation of life, and to feel, if only for a moment, in the cramped forces of my being one drop of the bliss of that being who creates everything and through Himself."
In this passage, Goethe includes God so delicately- and gives him the authorship of the "bliss", which is very peculiar. Because usually bliss is derived from the mind, but Goethe gives glory to this "infinite" Creator. Maybe he is trying to say that true "bliss" is more than what the mind creates, but what the Mysterious is able to produce. And such bliss cannot be compared to what our pathetic little mind tries to synthetically manufacture.
"Can you say, 'This is!' when everything passes, everything rolls past with the speed of lightning and so rarely exhaust the whole power of its existence, alas, before it is swept away by the current, drowned and smashed on the rocks?"
"[...]-The blossoms of life are only phantoms. How many fade, leaving no trace behind; how few bear fruit, and how few of these fruit ripen!"
"Therefore, our fortune and misfortune depends on the objects and persons to which we compare ourselves; and for that reason nothing is more dangerous than solitude. Our imagination, by its nature inclined to exalt itself, and nourished by the fantastic imagery of poetry, crates a series of beings of which we are the lowest, so that everything else appears more wonderful, everyone else more perfect. And that is completely natural. We so frequently feel that we are lacking in many qualities which another person apparently possesses, and we then furnish such a person with everything we ourselves posses and with a certain idealistic complacency in addition. And in this fashion a Happy Being is finished to perfection- the creature of our imagination."
What power our imagination has- to create! that is interesting, we are the lowest of the "hierarchy" in our imagination- instead of being superior to everyone else. This gives us more flexibility-for if we had everything we could only deduct- and eventually remain with nothing, but by being able to add to our qualities we truly can reach perfection- in our mind! That is delusion! How clever.
"-You see, dear friend, how limited and how happy were the glorious Aneients! How naive their emotions and poetry! When Ulysses speaks of the immeasurable sea and the infinite earth, everything is true, human, deeply felt, intimate, and mysterious. What is the use of my present knowledge, which I share with any school boy, that the earth is round? Man needs only a few clods of earth wherein to enjoy himself, and even fewer for his last rest."
The more we let go of our knowledge, the more we'll be able to purely and fully embrace Nature as it really is.
"[...] -oh, when this glorious Nature lives before me as immobile as on a little lacquered painting, and all this beauty cannot pump one single drop of happiness from my heart to my brain, and the whole man stands before the face of God like a dried-up well, like a broken pitcher-"
One little detail makes a world of difference! sure, one can attempt to enjoy nature in all its forms, and yet, something in us has to respond to the beauty, or else it might as well be nothing. It depends on us! Goodness, that a burned is placed not only on our moods and ever-changing feelings,but on the little tiny details that make up our events, and therefore our lives. Happiness depends on so many factors! And yet, when one strives to enjoy God, then, and only then, can one also enjoy Nature. For he is the Creator of it all. For when one looks outside of oneself, then he is able to see the whole picture. And that "whole" is God: infinite and immortal.
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The story is of course immortal. It describes the "classic poet", that chooses his density, his forbidden destiny, and suffers from it in the end. Such youth, energy, and innocence! Werther must have been extremely close to Nature, as long as his love lasted. As long as his love bloomed and grew into the surroundings. And the "classic poet" is also shown to be extremely confused as he tries to deal with Genius- which makes him even more lost. For some reason, it was too much for him to bear- and this led to the "classic" death of the poet- suicide, which is the most difficult of all. It reminds me of a quote from Balzac, I believe, asking how anyone can know what has gone through a poets mind, from the moment he entered the city with such hope and needed his life in such despair. It is as if the poet's fate is to soar where no one has soared before, to crash back down in the uttermost sorrow, and despair and even insanity. What these marvelous delights of the mind and soul can do to the poet! I'm sorry to mention, but he was a bit selfish to ruin the life of his beloved- showing that the "classic poet" is not so noble as he thinks. But his sort of immaturity and innocence is what makes the poet a poet.
Also, reading this story, a concept came to me. What if the "sublime and beautiful" goes beyond what we can see- what this does to our Beings- but into every detail of our lives, every concept, and idea, everything that is impacted by the Mystery and Majesty of the unknown, the uncontrollable? For it cannot end at our vision- it has to go beyond, into the spiritual- for only then it is infinite. If that makes any sense...
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This image is so stupendous. Not only does it give this extremely vague and undefined energy to it- but the branches of the trees seem to float in the air- as if they have given up. This seems to me to be the world of the poet- alone and vague. Goethe echoed the theme that no matter how much the poet tries to be optimistic- and tries to outgrow his calling, destiny does not let him go. Loneliness and solitude both make up the poet- but that is where genius gets to thrive.
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Published by Everyman's Library
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