'I know it is
his idea. I know it is a picture of himself, really--'
Loerke snorted with rage.
'A picture of myself!' he repeated, in derision. 'Wissen sie, gnadige
Frau, that is a Kunstwerk, a work of art. It is a work of art, it is a
picture of nothing, of absolutely nothing. It has nothing to do with
anything but itself, it has no relation with the everyday world of this
and other, there is no connection between them, absolutely none, they
are two different and distinct planes of existence, and to translate
one into the other is worse than foolish, it is a darkening of all
counsel, a making confusion everywhere. Do you see, you MUST NOT
confuse the relative work of action, with the absolute world of art.
That you MUST NOT DO.'
'That is quite true,' cried Gudrun, let loose in a sort of rhapsody.
'The two things are quite and permanently apart, they have NOTHING to
do with one another. I and my art, they have nothing to do with each
other. My art stands in another world, I am in this world.
Pages:
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892