ion before man appeared, thou wouldst have said, 'All is perfect so
far.' But questioned if anything more perfect in joy might be, thou
wouldst have said, 'Yes; a being may be made, unlike these who do not
know the joy they have, who shall be conscious of himself, and know that
he is happy. Then his life will be satisfied with daily joy.'" O king,
thou wouldst have answered foolishly. The higher the soul climbs in joy
the more it sees of joy, and when it sees the most, it perishes. Vast
capabilities of joy open round it; it craves for all it presages; desire
for more deepening with every attainment. And then the body intervenes.
Age, sickness, decay, forbid attainment. Life is inadequate to joy. What
have the gods done? It cannot be their malice, no, nor carelessness;
but--to let us see oceans of joy, and only give us power to hold a
cupful--is that to live? It is misery, and the more of joy my artist
nature makes me capable of feeling, the deeper my misery.

"But then, O king, thou sayest 'that I leave behind me works that will
live; works, too, which paint the joy of life.' Yes, but to show what
the joy of life is, is not to have it. If I carve the young Phoebus, am
I therefore young? I can write odes of the delight of love, but grown
too grey to be beloved, can I have its delight? That fair slave of
yours, and the rower with the muscles all a ripple on his back who
lowers the sail in the bay, can write no love odes nor can they paint
the joy of love; but they can have it--not I."

The knowledge, he thinks, of what joy is, of all that life can give,
which increases in the artist as his feebleness increases, makes his
fate the deadlier. What is it to him that his works live? He does not
live. The hand of death grapples the throat of life at the moment when
he sees most clearly its infinite possibilities. Decay paralyses his
hand when he knows best how to use his tools. It is accomplished
wretchedness.

I quote his outburst. It is in the soul of thousands who have no hope of
a life to come.

"But," sayest thou--(and I marvel, I repeat,
To find thee trip on such a mere word) "what
Thou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die:
Sappho survives, because we sing her songs,
And AEschylus, because we read his plays!"
Why, if they live still, let them come and take
Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup,
Speak in my place! "Thou diest while I survive?"--
Say rather that my fate