Beauty is infinitely various, always equally beautiful, and can never be
repeated. Gautier, in a famous poem, has wisely praised the artist who
works in durable material:
Oui, l'oeuvre sort plus gelle
D'une forme au travail
Rebelle,
Vers, marbre, onyx, email.
No, not more beautiful; only more lasting.
Tout passe. L'art robuste
Seul a l'eternite.
Le buste
Survit a la cite.
Well, after all, is there not, to one who regards it curiously, a
certain selfishness, even, in this desire to perpetuate oneself or the
work of one's hands; as the most austere saints have found selfishness
at the root of the soul's too conscious, or too exclusive, longing after
eternal life? To have created beauty for an instant is to have achieved
an equal result in art with one who has created beauty which will last
many thousands of years. Art is concerned only with accomplishment, not
with duration. The rest is a question partly of vanity, partly of
business. An artist to whom posterity means anything very definite, and
to whom the admiration of those who will live after him can seem to
promise much warmth in the grave, may indeed refuse to waste his time,
as it seems to him, over temporary successes.
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