is to say, in the wretched hovels of the serf bound to the soil, so that he may bemoan his fate in his own language which his oppressor does not understand.
But let us suppose that our language remains a living and a literary language and so preserves its literature; what sort of literature can that be, the literature of a people without political independence? What does a sensible writer want, and what can he want? Nothing else but to influence public life and the life of all, and to form and reshape it according to his vision; and if he does not want to do this, everything he says is empty sound to tickle the ears of the indolent. He wants to think originally and from the root of spiritual life for those who act just as originally, i.e., govern. He can, therefore, only write in a language in which the governors think, in a language in which the work of government is carried on, in the language of a people that forms an independent State. For what is the ultimate aim of all our efforts even in regard to the most abstract sciences? Admitting that the immediate objects of these efforts is to propagate the science from generation to generation and to maintain it in the world, the question arises: Why should it be maintained? Obviously only in order to shape the life of all and the whole human order of things when the right time comes. That is its ultimate object; hence, every effort in science indirectly serves the State, though it may be only in a remote future. If it abandons this aim, it loses its worth and its independence. But he who sets this aim before him must write in the language of the dominant race.
191. Just as it is true beyond doubt that, wherever a separate language is found, there a separate nation exists, which has the right to take independent charge of its affairs and to govern itself; so one can say, on the other
