It happens only now and then, let us say once in a century,
that a man is born whose intellect so perceptibly surpasses the
normal measure as to amount to that second faculty which seems to be
accidental, as it is out of all relation to the will. He may remain
a long time without being recognized or appreciated, stupidity
preventing the one and envy the other. But should this once come to
pass, mankind will crowd round him and his works, in the hope that he
may be able to enlighten some of the darkness of their existence or
inform them about it. His message is, to some extent, a revelation,
and he himself a higher being, even though he may be but little above
the ordinary standard.
Like the ordinary man, the genius is what he is chiefly for himself.
This is essential to his nature: a fact which can neither be avoided
nor altered, he may be for others remains a matter of chance and of
secondary importance. In no case can people receive from his mind
more than a reflection, and then only when he joins with them in the
attempt to get his thought into their heads; where, however, it is
never anything but an exotic plant, stunted and frail.
In order to have original, uncommon, and perhaps even immortal
thoughts, it is enough to estrange oneself so fully from the world of
things for a few moments, that the most ordinary objects and events
appear quite new and unfamiliar.
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