Death in Venice

by Thomas Mann

That was elegant, witty and correct, despite its apparently too passive formulation: because composure beneath blows of fate, graciousness in the midst of torment, does not signify mere endurance; it is an active achievement, a positive triumph, and the figure of Saint Sebastian is the most beautiful symbol, if not in all of art, then at least in the type of art we are discussing. When you looked into this fictional world of Aschenbach’s, you saw the elegant self-control that conceals the sapping of strength and biological decay from the eyes of the world up to the last minute; you saw yellowed ugliness, handicapped in its appeal to the senses, but nevertheless able to kindle its smoldering lust into pure flame and even to rise to dominance in the realm of beauty; you saw the pallid weakness that from the glowing depths of the spirit derives the strength to humble an entire haughty nation at the foot of the Cross, at its feet; you saw charming composure in the empty and severe service of form; you saw the false, dangerous life, the rapidly enervating yearning and art of the born deceiver.