It at once lifts from my
shoulders the oppressive feeling of responsibility that was weighing
me down. After all, what does it matter what I say? What does it
matter what any of us says about anything? Nobody takes much notice
of it, luckily for everybody. This reflection must be of great
comfort to editors and critics. A conscientious man who really felt
that his words would carry weight and influence with them would be
almost afraid to speak at all. It is the man who knows that it will
not make an ounce of difference to anyone what he says, that can
grow eloquent and vehement and positive. It will not make any
difference to anybody or anything what I say about the Ober-Ammergau
Passion Play. So I shall just say what I want to.
But what do I want to say? What can I say that has not been said,
and said much better, already? (An author must always pretend to
think that every other author writes better than he himself does.
He does not really think so, you know, but it looks well to talk as
though he did.) What can I say that the reader does not know, or
that, not knowing, he cares to know? It is easy enough to talk
about nothing, like I have been doing in this diary hitherto. It is
when one is confronted with the task of writing about SOMEthing,
that one wishes one were a respectable well-to-do sweep - a sweep
with a comfortable business of his own, and a pony - instead of an
author.
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