About high thoughts and small life in Great Literature

The labor of great literature, or perhaps one could call it its very nature, is contradicting the ethics of great thought. This may sound very confusing and honestly there might not be much truth in it, who am I to claim even a molecule out of that divine domain. But in my futile opinion this has grown to a vast dimension of certainty.

Great literature is in many ways a much more convincing depiction of the world than any other field of manly labor and is precisely so for that reason. It is the essence of great literature to ponder on grand filosophies of life all encompassing structures of interpretations and ideas. These grandiose schemes explain it all, they are the basic solution to all our petty struggles, no matter how overwhelming of an hinderness they form. The filosopher is like Alexander unraveling the Gorgonian knot, astonishing us by the mere simplicity of his insight, to whom the final end of man’s struggle comes like an epiphany in the night.

The filosopher’s constitution however is a deviation of the archetype of a man’s life. The filosopher with all the fire of his insight, remains blind compared to the boddhisatwa of the novellist, of the poet. Endlessly greater insight possesses Apollo than Prometheus, whose enlightenment is hybris. The sage, the sophist despises the petty commonalities of every day, of every man, the attachment to meaninglessness of man is to the filosopher a waste, the dirt of the spirit is love, the dirt of the soul is happiness to the sophist.

But to the great novellist love is a deep breath, a smile like a beam of light. Great literature has succeeded to interweave the grandiose schemes into the general structure of petty detail that form the body of its work. The great sophist’s thoughts are stripped and shrunk to solitary petty facts that pass us in life like a breath vanishes in the wind. It are the ephemeral concerns, the colorful descriptions of material detail, the surges of our heart that are no concern to none but our selves, pathetic characters whose faces we forget, events that are repeated and involve random antagonists, that form the body, the red threat of great literature. Hidden are one or two lines of grandiose thought. This is great literature, because man is pettiful.

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