Christophe was a little embarrassed about this kind of art, because he knew that infection itself; and without trying to return to the past, – (the impossible and unnatural desire), – he now purged his soul again in the spirit of the past Masters who had had the instinct and ability of the great collective art to screen and curb their thoughts. Such was, for example, Handel, who despised his time and racial devotion, and composed huge spiritual Anthems.and their oratorio, heroic epic, folk songs for their people. The hardest thing was to find such poetry texts as the composer’s inspiration, which might have aroused common feelings today for all the peoples of Europe, such as the Bible in Handel. The present Europe had no single book: no poetry, no prayer, no creed that would have been all. Oh, such a shame should weigh underground on all modern writers, artists and thinkers! Not only have you written, thought of everyone. Beethoven alone has left a few pages of new, comforting and fraternal gospel; but only musicians can read it, most people never hear it. However, Wagner has tried to build a religious art on the Bayreuth Hill, who would connect all people. But his great spirit was too far from simplicity and too full of all the decadent musical mistakes and thoughts of his time: not the fishermen of Galilee came to the holy hill but the Pharisees.
Christophe knew what to do; but he did not have a suitable poet, he had to settle for his own half himself, to contract with his music alone. And väitettäköön any music is not an international language: the need for a spring of words, which notes the arrow will fly in the hearts of all.
Christophe was going to write a series of symphonies that would have been inspired by everyday life. He designed, among other things, the Home Symphony , quite unique, not like Richard Strauss. He did not think at all to materialize the old onesAlphabetically following family life as cinematographic images, where musical themes expressed, the author’s forcibly forced, different individuals who were then seen moving together were seen if the listener had exposed ears and eyes. It felt like Chrispyhe’s only great contraptionist’s academic and childish play. Christophe did not want to portray people and actions, but express emotions that would have been familiar to everyone and where everyone might have found echo in their own souls, maybe comforting too. The first part interpreted the young man’s loving couple as a serious and naive happiness, its tender sensuality, its confidence in the future, its joys and desires. One was at the body of the deceased child of Elegia. Christophe hated all the description of death, all the pursuit of realism in the pain expressions; individual characters disappeared; there was only great sorrow, – you, me, every man, – the grief in front of the face of the accident, which is part of everyone or may therefore come. The broken soul, the grief that Christophe had expelled all the usual effects of the tearful melodrama, then gradually recovered, painfully struggling, and offered his suffering to God. The man continued, in the next section, which was associated with that previous, courageous journey, – in a vigorous fugue, whose cunning nature and stubborn rhythm inspired and carried through the battles and tears to a marvelous march, an indomitable bold proclamation. The last part depicted the evening of life. The initial half-themes appeared there again, moving their trust and affection, which could not become obsolete,
Christophe is looking for great, simple, and human subjects from books of the past, topics that speak to the hearts of all and vibrate what is best in the hearts. He chose two subjects: Josef and Niobe. But with regard to them, Christophea became an obstacle not only because of the lack of poetic text that was a dangerous, centuries-old and unresolved issue of combining poetry and music. With his flight to Françoise, he brought him back to his plans, which he had already drafted with Corinn: a dream to create a musical drama that would stay between the resitative opera and the spoken drama; – It is hardly suspected by any artist today to carry out its artistic work, but the expired and contempt for wagnerism traditions denies it as denying everything really new: for there is no longer any trace of the traces of Beethoven, Weber, Schumann or Bizet, who have used the melodrama cleverly; it is not a matter of gluing any spoken voice to any kind of music, nor influencing, paying what you paid for, tremolo, coarse effects on the rabid audience; the question is to create a new kind of music where the singer’s voices are in harmony with their related instruments, and in their harmonious episodes they combine music dreams and echo. It is self-evident that this form cannot be adapted to the subjects of the limited species, to some intimate and full-bodied spiritual moments if you intend to reveal the scent of poetry. No art can be more subdued and aristocratic than this. So it is natural that it has very little hope of flourishing at a time like ours, who sneaks out of the primacy of the ascenders,
Perhaps Christophe was better than one another to create this art; His innate qualities, his crowded powers, were already an obstacle. He could do nothing more than design it and make a couple of sketches with the help of Françoise.
So he composed a few pages of the Bible, almost literally reconciling, – among other things, the immortal scene in which Josef expresses himself to his brothers and can no longer, after long persecution, conceal his movement and affection, but muttering silently the following words that have brought tears to Tolstoy and many others contact:
” I can not hold myself … Listen, I am Joseph; doth my father yet live I am Joseph, your brother, who has long ago lost I am Josef?. …”
This beautiful and free communion of Christophe and Françoise could not last long. They had common moments of the fullness of life; but they were too different. And because they were both as intense, they often came up with answers. Those collisions never got a rough character: Christophe liked his friends. And Françoise, who could sometimes be so cruel, was good for those who were good for her; under no condition in the world would he have done evil to them. Besides, they had both gifts of happy humor. Françoise was first ready to mock herself. Nonetheless, his heart slipped into his heart: for he was still in his old passions; he still thought of the misery he loved; and he could not tolerate this humiliating state of his soul, especially,
Christophe, who saw her staying whole days silent and nervous, wondered that she was not happy. Had Françoise got to the battle: she was a great artist, admired, adored…
– Yes, Françoise said; if I were a well-known actor with a great-grandchild’s soul and acting like an affair, I’d be happy. They are pleased when they have “taken” a good wealthy position, reached the rich bourgeoisie, and received – nec plus ultra – honorary chest. I, I wanted more. Unless a man is funny, does success seem even worse than failure? You should at least know it!
– I know that, Christophe replied. Ah, good God, I did not imagine glory as a child. How hot I wanted it, and how radiant it seemed to me! It was somehow religious to me… But I’m not sure! Success has a divine attribute: it allows me to do something good.
– What good? There is a winner. But for what? Nothing around has changed. Theaters, concerts, everything remains. Just a new fashion that follows another. We are only understood by passing; and then we are thinking of quite different things. Do you understand other artists yourself? In any case, you will not be understood. How are they far from you, the masters you love most! Just think of Tolstoy…
Christophe had written to Tolsto. She was her devout admirer, she wept while reading her books; he was going to compose a story he wrote for his Russian peasants, he had asked him for permission, sent him his Lied . Tolstoy had not responded to him any more than the honors of Goethe Schubert and Berlioz when they sent him his masterpiece. Tolstoy had given himself the compositions of Christophe; and they were sorry for him: he understood nothing of them. He was the Decadent of Beethoven and the Shakespeare Shank. Instead, he was very fond of the wonderful little masters, the piano music that once charmed the “Wiggle King”; and he liked the Camarinesian Recognition as a Christian book…
“The big men don’t want us,” said Christophe. For others, one must think.
– Who? A bourgeois audience, those shadows that darken people’s real life? To play, write for that! Sacrifice their lives for them! It’s not sweet.
– You have to worry, Christophe said. I see them as they are, but it doesn’t make me sad. They are not as bad as you say.
– Kind German optimist!
– They’re people like me. Why wouldn’t they understand me? … – And even if they didn’t understand, would I have anything? For there are, of course, a couple of three of those thousands who are with me: it is enough for me; I just need a small hatch where I can sometimes breathe fresh air…. Remember what you were like a child! Isn’t it beautiful to do to others, for example, to one, – to the same good, to produce the same happiness that someone else gave you before?
– And you think that one of them would be one? For my part, I have begun to doubt it … And if that were so, in what way the best of those that we love, really love us? How do they see us? Look very weak! They are too embarrassed to admire us; they’re as much fun to watch some of the stupid dozen actresses; they bring us down to the fools that are despised. They are all those who just thrive, just the same.
– And yet: in the aftermath, the greatest ones, in spite of everything, remain the greatest.
– That’s the length of the distance. Mountains go up as far as they get worse. Then you can see their height better; but still they are farther away… And who else says that the biggest ones remain? Do you know how many big ones have disappeared?
– Oh, hell! replied by Christophe. Although any man would understand, what I think, and not know what I am, so I’m thinking and I am after all. I have my music; I believe in it; it is more true than any other.
– You’re free in your art field, you can do what you want. But I, what can I do? I have to play what is given, and chew up to disgust always. However, we have not yet reached the level of life of the American actress in France: Rip or Robert-Macaire are showing a thousand times in a row its operas, twisting a third of the millennium of the same stupid part. But we’re going there. Our theaters are so poor! The crowd does not endure genius other than the infinitely small doses of pharmacy, maner and fictional sugar … Nero, which is “fashionable!” Cries on it or laughs…… A waste of power! See what fate some Mounet gets from them. What did he have to do with his whole life? Only a couple, three parts, costing trouble: Oedipos, Polyeuktes. The rest, what the rubbish! Didn’t it really work? And when you think of what he could have done with such powers, great and honorable? And it’s not better than anywhere else in France. What did they do about Duss? Where did he spend his life? How are the useless parts?
“Your right part is to force the world to honor the mighty works of art,” said Christophe.
– It’s a pointless effort. And it won’t work. As soon as such a powerful work of art touches the stage, loses the greatness of its poetry, turns into a liar. Even the breath of the public’s throat spoils it. The crowds of oppressive cities no longer know what is free air, nature, healthy poetry: it wants theatrical ruin, catwreck, leather painted, and stinky. – Ah, then … let’s just succeed in such a … No, it doesn’t live yet, it doesn’t fill my life.
– You still think of him.
– You know it well. Um, man.
– But if he were you, that man, and if he loved you, admit that you wouldn’t be happy, you would always invent something that would torture yourself.
– It is true … Ah, what it is to me … Look, I’ve got to fight too much, I have spent too much on myself, I can not longer find peace inside me is always a restlessness, fever …?
– Didn’t it have been in you before you had to suffer.
– It is possible. Yes, it was already when I was a little girl, as long as I can remember… It was already membraneing me.
– What do you want now?
– Where can I know? I’d like more than I can.
– I know that, Christophe said. I was kind of young.
– Yeah, but you have become a man. I will remain immature forever. I am a fragmentary objects.
– Nobody’s perfect. Happiness is to know and love their own limitations.
– I can’t do it anymore. I’ve been away from it. Life has warped me, rigged, silhouetted as rude. And after all, it seems to me that I could have been a normal and healthy woman, and yet my soul is beautiful without being like a flock of people.
– You can still have it. I see you just like that.
– Say how you see me.
Christophe described him to a situation in which he would have developed in a natural and harmonious way, and was happy, loved and loved. The friend seemed good to hear it. But then he said:
– No, it’s impossible now.
– Well, then, Christophe said, So you have to say as
Handel old when he came blind:
What ever is is right
And Christophe went to the piano and sang this to him. Françoise embraced her, bringing her beloved optimist-hood. Christophe did good to him. But he was bad for Christoph: at least Françoise feared it. He sometimes got into painful despair and could not hide it from Christoph because love made him weak. At night, when they lay in their breasts in bed, and Françoise shuddered in pain, Christophe felt his feelings, and then he prayed to his friends, so close and at the same distance, to give him the part that weighed him; and Françoise could not resist him, but opened his heart and wept in his arms; and Christophe then comforted him for long night moments, gently and without anger; however, such anxious restlessness began to bother him for a long time. Françoise feared that his soul’s fever would also seize Christophe. He loved too much Christoph to tolerate the idea that he would suffer for him. François was offered a place in America; he agreed to bid to force himself to leave. And he left Christophe, a somewhat humiliated state of mind. Françoise was as humiliated as she was. They couldn’t be happy together!
– A friend-couple, he said to Christoph sadly, gently smiling. Are we stupid now? We will never have such a beautiful life, such a friendship. But there’s nothing you can do. We’re so stupid!
They looked at each other, embarrassed and sad. They laughed that they would not burst into tears, embraced each other, and split tears in their eyes. Never have they loved each other as deeply as they separated.
And when Françoise had left, Christophe returned to his art, his old comrade… Oh, the starry sky!
Not passed – long, Christophe received a letter from Jacquelin. It was only the third letter from him; and the tone was quite different from what Christophe was used to on his side. Jacqueline complained that Christophea had not been seen for a long time and asked her to visit them, if she didn’t want to make her sad friends who loved her. Christophe was pleased, but he wasn’t surprised. He had thought that Jacquel’s wrong mood for him would not last forever. He used to mention one of his grandfather’s murder:
“Sooner or later there will be good moments for the women, just wait patiently.”
So Christophe went to visit his friend again and was welcomed. Jacqueline was very attentive to the guest; he was staring at the characteristic ironic tone, warned in his speeches about anything that might have offended Christoph, followed his plans with interest, and talked intelligently about serious things. Christophe thought he had changed in the meantime. But Jacqueline was the only one to please Christoph. He had heard about Christophe’s and the fashion actress’s love affairs, because the gossip about it was now the subject of the Parisians; and then Christophe had appeared to her in a whole new light: Jacqueline had become very curious about everything that Christoph had. When he now saw Christophe, he thought he was much more sympathetic than before. His lack was not without Jacqueline’s charm. He noticed that Christoph was a genius, and that he paid the trouble to let him fall in love with himself.
The life of a young couple had not improved; on the contrary, it was getting worse. Jacquelella was sad, unfortunate: she was dying to death … How a woman is alone in the world! Except the child does not attach him; and she is not always alone in arresting her: for when she is really a woman, and not just a woman, when she has a rich soul and a demanding soul life, she is created for whatever she can not do alone unless she can help her! much less alone, even when he is the most lonely: his solo call is enough to populate the entire wilderness; and when he is alone with another person, he adapts to it better than a woman because he notices it less, he always speaks to himself. And he’s not even thinking that such a voice, Who speaks with restlessness to the corpse, makes silence for the being who lives with him and to whom all the words are dead, unless love revives them, two more horrible and the more terrible of the wilderness. The man does not notice it; he has not put his love in his life like a woman in his whole life: the goals of his life are elsewhere…. for the only idol: short-lived love and motherhood, that high-level fraud that is banned from thousands of women and never fills other women in a few years? He who lives with him and to whom all the words are dead unless love revives them, two more horrible and wilderness more terrible. The man does not notice it; he has not put his love in his life like a woman in his whole life: the goals of his life are elsewhere…. for the only idol: short-lived love and motherhood, that high-level fraud that is banned from thousands of women and never fills other women in a few years? He who lives with him and to whom all the words are dead unless love revives them, two more horrible and wilderness more terrible. The man does not notice it; he has not put his love in his life like a woman in his whole life: the goals of his life are elsewhere…. for the only idol: short-lived love and motherhood, that high-level fraud that is banned from thousands of women and never fills other women in a few years?
Jacqueline was desperate. He had such horror moments that they pierced him like a sword. He thought:
“What am I? Why was I born?”
And his heart was anxious.
– “God of Heaven, I have to die! I have to die!”
This thought tortured him at night like a nightmare. He dreamed that he said:
– “Now is the year 1889.”
– “No,” he was answered. “Now is 1909.”
And he was comforted that he was twenty years older than a bone-in.
– It will end soon, and I have not lived. What I have put in these twenty years? What have I done to my life?
He dreamed that he was four little girls. All four of them slept in the same room, in different beds. All of them were the same size, and the face looked the same; but one of them was eight years old, the other fifteen, the third twenty, the fourth forty. Fire plague. Three were already dead. The fourth looked at himself from the mirror; and he was dismayed; she saw herself: the nose was shrunk, her face pale … and she too soon had to die – and all that would end…
– “… What have I done to my life …?”
He woke up in the eyes; and the nightmare did not disappear in the day: that nightmare was true. What did he do for his life? Who had robbed him?… He began to hate his husband, that innocent cousin, (whatever it is, even the other innocent: the pain is the same!) The brother of the blind law that wanted to crush him. After such a moment of anger he always regretted because he was good; but he suffered too bitterly; nor could he prevent himself from pushing the suffering to that being who was bound to him and suffocated him, even though another suffered; because for someone Jacqueline wanted revenge. He was depressed from behind, he hated himself; and he felt that if he did not find the means of salvation, he would make his husband even more evil. That way he now grinned around; he clung to everything just like a drowning shrub. He tried to get attached to a thing, to some work, to a creature that was somehow his own thing, his work, and his being. He tried again to engage in spiritual tongue, he read foreign languages, began to write an article, a short story, he began to paint, compose… Unnecessary: the first day the courage was discouraged. It was too difficult. And, moreover, “Those books and works of art that they really are? I don’t know, I love them, I don’t think they are there.” On some days her speech was lively, she laughed with her husband, she seemed very excited about everything they talked about, about everything Olivier did; he was trying to drown himself to forget … Awkward affliction: suddenly a feeling of enthusiasm, a cool heart cold, Jacqueline went crazy, tears, depressed, barely able to breathe. – He had already made a bite for Olivier. Olivier had become skeptical, world-wide. Jacqueline was not happy about it; he saw Olivier as weak as he was. Almost every night they were gone from home. Jacqueline tried to evaporate in her Parisian salons, which no one could foresee, because it was covered by an ironic and always alert smile. He was looking for someone who would have loved him and arrested him from the pit. Unnecessary, pointless, pointless! His silent call for help was answered by silence alone. he saw Olivier as weak as he was. Almost every night they were gone from home. Jacqueline tried to evaporate in her Parisian salons, which no one could foresee, because it was covered by an ironic and always alert smile. He was looking for someone who would have loved him and arrested him from the pit. Unnecessary, pointless, pointless! His silent call for help was answered by silence alone. he saw Olivier as weak as he was. Almost every night they were gone from home. Jacqueline tried to evaporate in her Parisian salons, which no one could foresee, because it was covered by an ironic and always alert smile. He was looking for someone who would have loved him and arrested him from the pit. Unnecessary, pointless, pointless! His silent call for help was answered by silence alone.
Jacqueline didn’t love Christoph; he could not tolerate his hard behavior, his offensive honesty, and above all his indifference. He didn’t love him; but he had the instinct that Christophe was at least powerful, – the rock in the ocean of death. And he wanted to cling to that rock, that strong swimmer, whose head was above the flood, or drowned with him…
And besides: it wasn’t enough for him to have separated Olivier from his friends; he still had to steal those friends for himself. Even in the most honorable women, sometimes the instinct arises, forcing them to test the greatness of their powers, even to overwhelm them. In such a misuse of power, they experience the power of their weakness. And when a woman is selfish and vanity, she enjoys the jealous joy when she can take away the friendship of her friends as a spouse. That task is quite easy: just a glance is enough. There is no man, whether honorable or not, who would not be weak enough to visit this hook. No matter how honest a man’s friend is, he is almost always deceiving his friend in his thoughts, although he can avoid the act himself. And if you deceive it, then their friendship will end: they no longer look at each other with their eyes. A woman who plays this dangerous play is mostly left unchanged, she does not demand any more: she keeps them both, having broken between them, they are stolen for their mercy.
Christophe noticed these Jacqueline compliments; but he was not stunned by them. When Christophe meant good to someone, he had a naive tendency to be very natural that he was also loved without any secret ideas. He was happy to respond to the young woman’s approach; he considered him charming; he am happy with his whole heart; And now she was so jealous of Jacqueline that she almost fooled Olivier if Olivier couldn’t be happy with Jacqueline and make her happy.
Christophe left for a few days on a car trip that his friends had decided to do; and he departed a stranger to their farm, – the old farm of the Langeais family in Bourgogne; the house was preserved as a memorial, but otherwise it is not often visited. It was a secluded place in the middle of vineyards and forests; inside it was swirling; there was a smell of mold, ripe fruit, sizzling Siim and sun-heated resin trees. When Christophe was now for several days near Jacqueline, he was gradually taken over by some kind of annoying and adorable feeling that did not make him uneasy, enjoying the innocent, but not intangible, seeing him, hearing his voice, hissing that pretty body and feeling Jacqueline’s mouth breathing. Olivier was a little worried and silly. He was not suspicious; but he was haunted by some sort of dull restlessness, even if he had lost sight of it; and in order to inflict herself on that fault, he often left the others between them. Jacqueline knew what Olivier knew and moved her; and his mind did say to him:
– Oh, don’t be in pain, my friend. I love you more and more.
But he didn’t say anything, and they all gave it a go, how it happened. Christophe without knowing anything, Jacqueline knowing what he wanted, and leaving it a coincidence to show it to him, Olivier alone, foreseeing something, but without wanting to think of it, because self-feeling and love made him frustrated. When the will is silent, the instinct speaks; As the soul falls asleep, the body passes its own way.
One night after the meal, the air was so wonderful for them, – not the moonlight, the Heavenly Sky, – that they made the mind walk into the garden. Olivier and Christophe left there. Jacqueline went to her room to take her catch. He didn’t come back. Christophe stormed the sluggishness of women from the age, and went to call Jacquelea, – (for a few years Christophe himself seemed like a part of the husband.) – He now heard Jacqueline coming. The chamber where Christophe stood could not see anything, the shutters were closed.
– Come on, Mrs. Kuhniainen, shouted Christophe happily. So you spend your mirror talking about it by looking at it.
Jacqueline didn’t answer. She had stopped, Christophelle had a feeling she was in the room; but Jacqueline didn’t move.
– Where are you? asked Christophe.
Jacqueline didn’t answer. Also, Christophe remained silent: he grinned in the dark and became strangely restless. He stopped hard with a heartbreaking heart. She heard Jacqueline’s breath just outside. Christophe took another step and stopped again. Jacqueline was close to her, Christophe knew it, but she couldn’t move. A few seconds of silence. Suddenly, two hands hold on to him and pull him up, his lips falling on his lips. Christophe embraced him. Not saying a word, both motionless. – Their lips were severely pulled apart. Jacqueline left the room. Christophe went after him. His knees trembled. He tumbled for a moment to lean on the wall, waiting for the heart’s ardent turmoil to settle down. Finally he left behind others. Jacqueline phoned calmly with her husband. They two walked a few steps ahead of Christophe. Christophe followed them with shock. Olivier stopped to wait for him. Christophe as well. Olivier kindly invited him to come. Christophe didn’t answer. Olivier knew the nature of his friend, and that he occasionally closed herself and ruthlessly, so he didn’t try to attract him now, but continued to walk with Jacqueline. And Christophe followed them in ten steps, followed by a plane like a dog. When others stopped, he stopped. As they walked, he walked. So they went to the park once and went back in. Christophe immediately rose to his chamber and closed there. He did not ignite the fire. He did not go to rest. Didn’t think anything. Synnnyö took her sleep, he fell asleep at the table, head on his hands. An hour later he woke up. Lighted the candle. Hastily gathered his paper and other goods, pushed them into his suitcase, threw himself into the bed, and slept until dawn. Then he left the room with his bags and traveled away. He was expected all morning. He was looking all day. Jacqueline hid his boiling anger in indifference and said publicly ironically intending to drop his silver spoon. Just the next night, a letter was received from Olivier Christoph: He was looking all day. Jacqueline hid his boiling anger in indifference and said publicly ironically intending to drop his silver spoon. Just the next night, a letter was received from Olivier Christoph: He was looking all day. Jacqueline hid his boiling anger in indifference and said publicly ironically intending to drop his silver spoon. Just the next night, a letter was received from Olivier Christoph:
Man can only show the way to others. Can’t pave the way for them. Each must save itself. Save yourself! Save yourself! I like you so much.
Respect my greetings to Mrs Jeannin. ”
“Mrs. Jeannin” read the letter, mouth despicable wrinkle. Luki and said dry:
– Well, obey his advice. Save yourself. But when Olivier stretched out his hand to take his letter back, Jacqueline routed it and threw it down; and two great tears broke out of his eyes. Olivier took him by the hand:
– What are you? he asked as he moved.
– Let me be, shouted Jacqueline with her frenzy.
And he went out. At the door he still shouted:
Christophe had finally made the men of his patron Le Grand Journal his enemies. You might have guessed it. Christophe had received heaven’s praise from heaven for a good name:
” No gratitude “.
“The aversion to expressing gratitude , wrote Goethe ironically, is rare and does not occur in prominent men who have risen from the poorest classes of the population and have been forced to take care of the help of their benefactors, which is almost always roughly poisoned .”
Christophe did not think that his duty would have demanded him a reptile because of his ministry, and – that was not the same thing – to give up his own freedom. He did not, in turn, serve his good with the auction, he donated it. His helpers did a little differently. The high level of chastity they had on their debtors’ obligations was hurt when Christophe refused to compose a foolish anthem he was required to hold for the advertising event organized by that newspaper. They made it clear to Christophe that his behavior was quite inappropriate. Christophe cared for little of them. And he irritated them for some time after that, ruthlessly reversing some of the self-conscious news that the magazine spread about him.
Then a full war began against him. It used all the weapons. Again, the arsenal of distortion was pulled out of the old canoe that has always been used by all the weak-minded, against creative souls, and who is never a habit, but whose influence on fools is infallible: he was accused of plagiarism. Artificially selected pieces of the works and compositions of other unknown magnitudes were cut and fake; thus it was proved that he had stolen his subject from those ruins. He was accused of trying to stifle younger artists. Okay, if he had to deal with only those gentlemen who are barking as a profession, that is, critics, those dwarves who climb on the shoulders of a great man and shout:
– I am bigger than you!
But no, it wasn’t enough; gifted men are fighting against each other: everyone is trying to give their coworkers as much trouble as possible; and yet, as has often been said, the world is wide enough that everyone can do their work in peace; and each of them already has the enemy of their own ability to give enough effort.