The glance that, as artists, you have about exterior and interior things is different from the one you have as human being: it is more freezing and passionate.
You can, as human being, be good, tollerant, loveful, positive how much as you want, you can even be totally acritical inside, you can accept whatever, but as an artist your demon forces you to observe, and pick instantly and with hurting badness every minimal particularity based on literary point of view, which can be significant, which can open new horizonts, which stand out race, social ambients, individual psicology – it force you to take note of it without scrubs, nearly as between you and what you are looking at it wasn't any human relation; in the “novel”, then, all those characteristics emerge very visible. If, then, the novel is a protrait, an artistic rappresentation of a near event, then it hears a complain: “ And then, in that way he look at us? With that koldness, that amused hostility, with eyes empty of love?”
Don't speak please! And search, inside you, to find a piece of reverence for something that is more stern, ascetic and deep of whatever you, in your bland sentimentalism, call “love”!
-G.Lukacs-
