It is the same with
the man of genius; he, too, hopes for his reward and for honor at
least; and at last finds that he has worked for posterity alone. Both,
to be sure, have inherited a great deal from their ancestors.
The compensation I have mentioned as the privilege of genius lies, not
in what it is to others, but in what it is to itself. What man has in
any real sense lived more than he whose moments of thought make their
echoes heard through the tumult of centuries? Perhaps, after all, it
would be the best thing for a genius to attain undisturbed possession
of himself, by spending his life in enjoying the pleasure of his own
thoughts, his own works, and by admitting the world only as the heir
of his ample existence. Then the world would find the mark of his
existence only after his death, as it finds that of the Ichnolith.[1]
[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note._--For an illustration of this feeling
in poetry, Schopenhauer refers the reader to Byron's _Prophecy of
Dante_: introd. to C. 4.]
It is not only in the activity of his highest powers that the genius
surpasses ordinary people. A man who is unusually well-knit, supple
and agile, will perform all his movements with exceptional ease, even
with comfort, because he takes a direct pleasure in an activity for
which he is particularly well-equipped, and therefore often exercises
it without any object.
Pages:
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153