He did not know how to dominate
either his life or his work; he did not even try to dominate them. He
was the incarnation of romantic genius, an unrestrained force,
unconscious of the road he trod. I would not go so far as to say that he
did not understand himself, but there are certainly times when he is
past understanding himself. He allows himself to drift where chance will
take him,[4] like an old Scandinavian pirate laid at the bottom of his
boat, staring up at the sky; and he dreams and groans and laughs and
gives himself up to his feverish delusions. He lived with his emotions
as uncertainly as he lived with his art. In his music, as in his
criticisms of music, he often contradicts himself, hesitates, and turns
back; he is not sure either of his feelings or his thoughts. He has
poetry in his soul, and strives to write operas; but his admiration
wavers between Gluck and Meyerbeer. He has a popular genius, but
despises the people. He is a daring musical revolutionary, but he
allows the control of this musical movement to be taken from him by
anyone who wishes to have it. Worse than that: he disowns the movement,
turns his back upon the future, and throws himself again into the past.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25