This is the real source of all those prolix discussions, carried on in
countless books and reviews, on the moral aspect of Goethe's life, and
whether he ought not to have married one or other of the girls with
whom he fell in love in his young days; whether, again, instead of
honestly devoting himself to the service of his master, he should not
have been a man of the people, a German patriot, worthy of a seat in
the _Paulskirche_, and so on. Such crying ingratitude and malicious
detraction prove that these self-constituted judges are as great
knaves morally as they are intellectually, which is saying a great
deal.
A man of talent will strive for money and reputation; but the spring
that moves genius to the production of its works is not as easy to
name. Wealth is seldom its reward. Nor is it reputation or glory; only
a Frenchman could mean that. Glory is such an uncertain thing, and,
if you look at it closely, of so little value. Besides it never
corresponds to the effort you have made:
_Responsura tuo nunquam est par fama labori._
Nor, again, is it exactly the pleasure it gives you; for this is
almost outweighed by the greatness of the effort. It is rather a
peculiar kind of instinct, which drives the man of genius to give
permanent form to what he sees and feels, without being conscious of
any further motive.
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