Aschenbach had been as problematic and absolutistic as any youngster. He had been an addict of the intellect, had overexploited knowledge, had ground up seed-corn for bread, had divulged secrets, had cast suspicion on talent and had betrayed art—yes, at the same time that his word-pictures were entertaining, uplifting and enlivening his more naive readers, this youthful artist had kept the twenty-year-olds agog with his cynical remarks on the questionable nature of art and even the role of the artist.
