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Excerpt: ...light, the rolling waves of which are beating up against the base of the wooded steeps of the Weissenstein, the vast circle of the Alps soars to a sublime height. The eastern side of the horizon is drowned in the splendors of the rising mists; but from the Todi westward, the whole chain floats pure and clear between the milky plain and the pale blue sky. The giant assembly is sitting in council above the valleys and the lakes still submerged in vapor. The Clariden, the Spannorter, the Titlis, then the Bernese colossi from the Wetterhorn to the Diablerets, then the peaks of Vaud, Valais, and Fribourg, and beyond these high chains the two kings of the Alps, Mont Blanc, of a pale pink, and the bluish point of Monte Rosa, peering out through a cleft in the Doldenhorn-such is the composition of the great snowy amphitheatre. The outline of the horizon takes all possible forms: needles, ridges, battlements, pyramids, obelisks, teeth, fangs, pincers, horns, cupolas; the mountain profile sinks, rises again, twists and sharpens itself in a thousand ways, but always so as to maintain an angular and serrated line. Only the inferior and secondary groups of mountains show any large curves or sweeping undulations of form. The Alps are more than an upheaval; they are a tearing and gashing of the earth's surface. Their granite peaks bite into the sky instead of caressing it. The Jura, on the contrary, spreads its broad back complacently under the blue dome of air. Eleven o'clock.-The sea of vapor has risen and attacked the mountains, which for a long time overlooked it like so many huge reefs. For awhile it surged in vain over the lower slopes of the Alps. Then rolling back upon itself, it made a more successful onslaught upon the Jura, and now we are enveloped in its moving waves. The milky sea has become one vast cloud, which has swallowed up the plain and the mountains, observatory and observer. Within this cloud one may hear the sheep-bells ringing, and see...… (plus d'informations)
Amiel's Journal, once popular and heralded, appears to have fallen out of style. The angle which drew me was his friends' sorrow that Amiel never committed himself to a great work despite his great intellect, leaving this journal as his only legacy. Multiple times in the journal he examines himself for why he can not or does not rise to the occasion. Amiel could be judging himself when he is critiquing Joubert, in the early days of his diary: "His book, extracted from fifty years of his life ... is more subtle than strong, more poetical than profound ... a great wealth of small curiosities of value, than of a great intellectual existence and a new point of view." In this category to which both himself and Joubert belong, Amiel writes that Joubert "deals with what is superficial and fragmentary". It's as much true of this journal, given the breadth of topics Amiel flits between in his various entries. A few topics predominate, especially his wrestling with faith and his stubborn maintenance of a positive philosophy.
As early as 1851 he had a premonition of his ultimate lack of production if he did not act soon. "A shiver seizes us when the ranks grow thin around us, when age is stealing upon us, when we approach the zenith, and what destiny says to us 'Show what is in thee! Now is the moment, now is the hour, else fall back into nothingness! ... Show us what thou hast done with thy talent.' " Later in 1870, he charges his critical, intellectual faculty with having subsumed his creative force. His explanation which I found most affecting relates to what the author Anne Pratchett once described, that writing is the frustrating act of snatching a gorgeous butterfly (the idea) and crucifying it with a pin in hopes of thereby sharing the glory of that vision of its flight with others - conveying, in fact, only a shadow of that vision. I see shades of this in Amiel's unwillingness to commit himself to grander writing exploits because of the potential disturbance to his contentment, his sensation of enjoying living. It would turn his thoughts dark to confront discomforting facts about surrounding reality - politics of his day, religion, science - which did not hold a candle to the elation of retaining his thoughts and sensations internally rather than trying to formulate them in a way that would inevitably evade capture. He wanted to leave his butterflies fluttering.
There's little to indicate he took comfort in at least leaving this journal as his record, or had any intentional plan to do so. He shares no explanation for his habit of recording these sporadic entries over several decades. At one point he does cite another author's journal uncovered in postmortem and the sensation that it caused, but if he dared imagine the same achievement for his own he doesn't state it. At one point he even derides the time he's spent upon it: "This journal of mine represents the material of a good many volumes: what prodigious waste of time, of thought, of strength!"
There's scraps of wisdom and highlights to be had that suggest what he might have chosen to focus on if he'd done otherwise. I appreciate his thinking about how important it is to balance the intellectual life with being open to the wonder of daily, playful experience as the actual act of living. This meshes well with his many entries about the wonders and splendor of nature, literally smelling the flowers along the way. I appreciated his wrestling with love and loneliness. I am sure if he had applied himself, it would have been to a work of theocracy or philosophy. He offers a cogent argument for why philosophy cannot easily be substituted for religion, indicating he had the two subjects firmly delineated in his mind. But always he returns to the recognition that time has slipped past him as he admires the great works of others (Hugo's Les Miserables among them), separately noting that "A man esteems most highly what he himself lacks, and exaggerates what he longs to possess."
He writes that he did not pursue marriage because he did not find his one great love. Perhaps he did not write his one great work because he similarly could not settle on his subject? In this telling he becomes a man who waited for ideal moments that never arrived, and consequently was passed by on all fronts. It does not seem to be the story he told himself. Despite regret, there's the sense that Amiel enjoyed his life. He appreciated nature, appreciated art, appreciated others' wisdom, and always maintained an optimistic outlook and a strong faith which bolstered him through every trial: "Do all the good you can, and say all the truth you know or believe; and for the rest be patient, resigned, submissive. God does his business, do yours." He does not shift from this attitude, never assumes a deeper remorse, not even towards the journal's end when he feels fatal illness overtaking him. Putting aside the day-to-day enjoyment of limited mortality for the labour and sake of producing a legacy was not worth the exchange. I believe he found this unconscious decision understandable and inarguable, and died satisfied. How can anyone say he chose wrongly? ( )
Informations provenant du Partage des connaissances anglais.Modifiez pour passer à votre langue.
A man only understands that of which he has already the beginnings in himself. Let us be true: this is the highest maxim of art and of life, the secret of eloquence and of virtue, and of all moral authority.
The cleverest tailor cannot make us a coat to fit us more closely than our skin.
Derniers mots
Notice de désambigüisation
Directeur de publication
Courtes éloges de critiques
Langue d'origine
DDC/MDS canonique
LCC canonique
▾Références
Références à cette œuvre sur des ressources externes.
Wikipédia en anglais
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Excerpt: ...light, the rolling waves of which are beating up against the base of the wooded steeps of the Weissenstein, the vast circle of the Alps soars to a sublime height. The eastern side of the horizon is drowned in the splendors of the rising mists; but from the Todi westward, the whole chain floats pure and clear between the milky plain and the pale blue sky. The giant assembly is sitting in council above the valleys and the lakes still submerged in vapor. The Clariden, the Spannorter, the Titlis, then the Bernese colossi from the Wetterhorn to the Diablerets, then the peaks of Vaud, Valais, and Fribourg, and beyond these high chains the two kings of the Alps, Mont Blanc, of a pale pink, and the bluish point of Monte Rosa, peering out through a cleft in the Doldenhorn-such is the composition of the great snowy amphitheatre. The outline of the horizon takes all possible forms: needles, ridges, battlements, pyramids, obelisks, teeth, fangs, pincers, horns, cupolas; the mountain profile sinks, rises again, twists and sharpens itself in a thousand ways, but always so as to maintain an angular and serrated line. Only the inferior and secondary groups of mountains show any large curves or sweeping undulations of form. The Alps are more than an upheaval; they are a tearing and gashing of the earth's surface. Their granite peaks bite into the sky instead of caressing it. The Jura, on the contrary, spreads its broad back complacently under the blue dome of air. Eleven o'clock.-The sea of vapor has risen and attacked the mountains, which for a long time overlooked it like so many huge reefs. For awhile it surged in vain over the lower slopes of the Alps. Then rolling back upon itself, it made a more successful onslaught upon the Jura, and now we are enveloped in its moving waves. The milky sea has become one vast cloud, which has swallowed up the plain and the mountains, observatory and observer. Within this cloud one may hear the sheep-bells ringing, and see...
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As early as 1851 he had a premonition of his ultimate lack of production if he did not act soon. "A shiver seizes us when the ranks grow thin around us, when age is stealing upon us, when we approach the zenith, and what destiny says to us 'Show what is in thee! Now is the moment, now is the hour, else fall back into nothingness! ... Show us what thou hast done with thy talent.' " Later in 1870, he charges his critical, intellectual faculty with having subsumed his creative force. His explanation which I found most affecting relates to what the author Anne Pratchett once described, that writing is the frustrating act of snatching a gorgeous butterfly (the idea) and crucifying it with a pin in hopes of thereby sharing the glory of that vision of its flight with others - conveying, in fact, only a shadow of that vision. I see shades of this in Amiel's unwillingness to commit himself to grander writing exploits because of the potential disturbance to his contentment, his sensation of enjoying living. It would turn his thoughts dark to confront discomforting facts about surrounding reality - politics of his day, religion, science - which did not hold a candle to the elation of retaining his thoughts and sensations internally rather than trying to formulate them in a way that would inevitably evade capture. He wanted to leave his butterflies fluttering.
There's little to indicate he took comfort in at least leaving this journal as his record, or had any intentional plan to do so. He shares no explanation for his habit of recording these sporadic entries over several decades. At one point he does cite another author's journal uncovered in postmortem and the sensation that it caused, but if he dared imagine the same achievement for his own he doesn't state it. At one point he even derides the time he's spent upon it: "This journal of mine represents the material of a good many volumes: what prodigious waste of time, of thought, of strength!"
There's scraps of wisdom and highlights to be had that suggest what he might have chosen to focus on if he'd done otherwise. I appreciate his thinking about how important it is to balance the intellectual life with being open to the wonder of daily, playful experience as the actual act of living. This meshes well with his many entries about the wonders and splendor of nature, literally smelling the flowers along the way. I appreciated his wrestling with love and loneliness. I am sure if he had applied himself, it would have been to a work of theocracy or philosophy. He offers a cogent argument for why philosophy cannot easily be substituted for religion, indicating he had the two subjects firmly delineated in his mind. But always he returns to the recognition that time has slipped past him as he admires the great works of others (Hugo's Les Miserables among them), separately noting that "A man esteems most highly what he himself lacks, and exaggerates what he longs to possess."
He writes that he did not pursue marriage because he did not find his one great love. Perhaps he did not write his one great work because he similarly could not settle on his subject? In this telling he becomes a man who waited for ideal moments that never arrived, and consequently was passed by on all fronts. It does not seem to be the story he told himself. Despite regret, there's the sense that Amiel enjoyed his life. He appreciated nature, appreciated art, appreciated others' wisdom, and always maintained an optimistic outlook and a strong faith which bolstered him through every trial: "Do all the good you can, and say all the truth you know or believe; and for the rest be patient, resigned, submissive. God does his business, do yours." He does not shift from this attitude, never assumes a deeper remorse, not even towards the journal's end when he feels fatal illness overtaking him. Putting aside the day-to-day enjoyment of limited mortality for the labour and sake of producing a legacy was not worth the exchange. I believe he found this unconscious decision understandable and inarguable, and died satisfied. How can anyone say he chose wrongly? (