DIAPSALMATA[1]
What is a poet? An unhappy man who conceals profound anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so fashioned
that when sighs and groans pass over them they sound like
beautiful music. His fate resembles that of the unhappy
men who were slowly roasted by a gentle fire in the tyrant
Phalaris' bull—their shrieks could not reach his ear to
terrify him, to him they sounded like sweet music. And
people flock about the poet and say to him: do sing again;
which means, would that new sufferings tormented your
soul, and: would that your lips stayed fashioned as before,
for your cries would only terrify us, but your music is de-
lightful. And the critics join them, saying: well done, thus
must it be according to the laws of aesthetics. Why, to
be sure, a critic resembles a poet as one pea another, the
only difference being that he has no anguish in his heart
and no music on his lips. Behold, therefore would I rather
be a swineherd on Amager[2], and be understood by the swine
than a poet, and misunderstood by men.
In addition to my numerous other acquaintances I have
still one more intimate friend—my melancholy. In the
midst of pleasure, in the midst of work, he beckons to me,
calls me aside, even though I remain present bodily. My
melancholy is the most faithful sweetheart I have had—no
wonder that I return the love!
