The Death of Virgil Quotes

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The Death of Virgil The Death of Virgil by Hermann Broch
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The Death of Virgil Quotes (showing 1-7 of 7)
“...in the intoxication of falling, man was prone to believe himself propelled upward.”
Hermann Broch, The Death of Virgil
“… for overstrong was the command to hold fast to each smallest particle of time, to the smallest particle of every circumstance, and to embody all of them in memory as if they could be preserved in memory through all deaths for all times.”
Hermann Broch, The Death of Virgil
“...he knew of the innermost danger of all artists, he knew the utter loneliness of the man destined to be an artist, he knew the inherent loneliness which drove such a one into the still deeper loneliness of art and into the beauty that cannot be articulated, and he knew that for the most part such men were shattered by this immolation, that it made them blind, blind to the world, blind to the divine quality in the world and in the fellow-man, that--intoxicated by their loneliness--they were able to see only their own god-likeness, which they imagined to be unique, and consequently this self-idolatry and its greed for recognition came more and more to be the sole content of their work--, a betrayal of the divine as well as of art, because in this fashion the work of art became a work of un-art, an unchaste covering for artistic vanity, so spurious that even the artist's self-complacent nakedness which it exposed became a mask; and even though such unchaste self-gratification, such dalliance with beauty, such concern with effects, even though such an un-art might, despite its brief unrenewable grant, its inextensible boundaries, find an easier way to the populace than real art ever found, it was only a specious way, a way out of the loneliness, but not, however, an affiliation with the human community, which was the aim of real art in its aspiration toward humanity, no, it was the affiliation with the mob, it was a participation in its treacherous non-community, which was incapable of the pledge, which neither created nor mastered any reality, and which was unwilling to do so, preferring only to drowse on, forgetting reality, having forfeited it as had un-art and literarity, this was the most profound danger for every artist; oh how painfully, how very painfully he knew this.”
Hermann Broch, The Death of Virgil
“Orpheus chose to be the leader of mankind. Ah, not even Orpheus had attained such a goal, not even his immortal greatness had justified such vain and presumptuous dreams of grandeur, such flagrant overestimation of poetry! Certainly many instances of earthly beauty--a song, the twilit sea, the tone of the lyre, the voice of a boy, a verse, a statue, a column, a garden, a single flower--all possess the divine faculty of making man hearken unto the innermost and outermost boundaries of his existence, and therefore it is not to be wondered at that the lofty art of Orpheus was esteemed to have the power of diverting the streams from their beds and changing their courses, of luring the wild beasts of the forest with tender dominance, of arresting the cattle a-browse upon the meadows and moving them to listen, caught in the dream and enchanted, the dreamwish of all art: the world compelled to listen, ready to receive the song and its salvation. However, even had Orpheus achieved his aim, the help lasts no longer than the song, nor does the listening, and on no account might the song resound too long, otherwise the streams would return to their old courses, the wild beasts of the forest would again fall upon and slay the innocent beasts of the field, and man would revert again to his old, habitual cruelty; for not only did no intoxication last long, and this was likewise true of beauty's spell, but furthermore, the mildness to which men and beasts had yielded was only half of the intoxication of beauty, while the other half, not less strong and for the most part far stronger, was of such surpassing and terrible cruelty--the most cruel of men delights himself with a flower--that beauty, and before all the beauty born of art, failed quickly of its effect if in disregard of the reciprocal balance of its two components it approached man with but one of them.”
Hermann Broch, The Death of Virgil
“Çünkü aslında hiçbir şey gelmiyordu şairin elinden, hiçbir kötülüğün ortadan kaldırılmasına yardımcı olamıyordu; yalnızca dünyayı ihtişama boğup yücelttiğinde kulak veriliyordu ona, yoksa olduğu haliyle anlattığında değil. Sadece yalan, ünün ta kendisiydi, yoksa bilgi değil”
Hermann Broch, The Death of Virgil
“Gürültüden kaçmak, kendini kitlenin uğultusuna, o bir yanardağınkini andıran, yeraltından gelen, hiç bitmeyecekmiş gibi aralıksız süren, tembel dalgalar halinde alana yayılan uğultuya kapamak için artık hayattan koparılırcasına alınıp götürülme düşüncesi, hiç kuşkusuz çekici gelen bir düşünceydi;”
Hermann Broch, The Death of Virgil
“Du bist immer allzu bescheiden gewesen, Vergil, doch kein Mann falscher Bescheidenheit; es ist mir klar, daß du deine Gaben absichtlich schlecht machen willst, um sie uns schließlich hinterrücks zu entziehen.'

Nun war es ausgespochen, ach, nun war es ausgesprochen – unbeirrbar und hart ging der Cäsar auf sein Ziel los, un nichts wird ihn hindern, die Manuskripte zu rauben: 'Octavian, laß mir das Gedicht!'

'Sehr richtig, Vergil, das ist es ... Lucius Varius und Plotius Tucca haben mir von deinem erschreckenden Vorhaben berichtet, und gleich ihnen wollte ich es nicht glauben ... gedenkst du tatsächlich deine Werke zu vernichten?'

Schweigen breitete sich im Raume aus, ein strenges Schweigen, das fahl und dünnstrichig konturiert in dem nachdenklich strengen Gesicht des Cäsars seinen Mittelpunkt hatte. Im Nirgendwo klagte etwas sehr leise und auch dies so dünn und geradlinig wie die Falte zwischen des Augustus Augen, dessen Blick auf ihn ruhte.

'Du schweigst', sagte der Cäsar, 'und dies heißt wohl, daß du dein Geschenk tatsächlich zurückziehen willst ... bedenke, Vergil, es ist die Äneis! deine Freunde sind sehr betrübt, und ich, du weißt es, ich rechne mich zu ihnen.'

Plotias leises Klagen wurde vernehmlicher; dünn aneinandergereiht, betonungslos kamen die Worte: 'Vernichte die Dichtung, gib mir dein Schicksal; wir müssen uns lieben.'

Das Gedicht vernichten, Plotia lieben, Freund dem Freunde sein, seltsam überzeugend fügte sich Verlockung an Verlokkung, und doch war es nicht Plotia, die daran teilnehmen durfte: 'Oh, Augustus, es geschieht um unserer Freundschaft willen; dringe nicht in mich.'

'Freundschaft? ... du sprichst, als ob wir, deine Freunde, unwert wären, dein Geschenk zu behalten.”
Hermann Broch, The Death of Virgil

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