“I shall lay [I shall place] my bow in the clouds.” As though he were laying it down there, as though he wished to use it no longer.
“Everything is a riddle in the poets,” Plato said. But in these sorts of riddles there must be both an apparent meaning that is beautiful and a hidden meaning that is more beautiful.
Voltaire sometimes enters poetry, but leaves it at once. This impatient and restless mind cannot settle there, or even pause there for a little while.
To give words clarity, color, recession, and relief.
February 26.
But if one divides what is simple, if one wishes to dissect what is one, if one distributes into several limbs what has no joint, one destroys it, one makes it unrecognizable at once. One has chopped it up, one has destroyed it, and yet one believes one has analyzed it.
“To sit on the bushel.” — “To put the ruler in one’s head” (to free one’s hands of it). — “... the compasses in the eye,” Michelangelo said. This expression is so clear and thereby so natural that the people have it everywhere, and it will forever be adopted in every place where it is spoken and by all who have heard it a single time. Every utterance that expresses a thought well is its clothing, its own body, its inseparable accompaniment, its natural companion.
I call imagination the faculty of making perceptible to the senses all that is intellectual, of embodying what is spirit, and, in a word, of bringing to light without altering its nature what is invisible in itself.
February […]7.
To write with the mind and with thought. What is written this way appears more luminous at first. There is always phosphorus in it, that phosphorus I was speaking of when I said: “If the poet’s finger had passed its phosphorus into it...”
F.V. “The rascal’s good sense sometimes frightens me.” It always seems to me that this duelist has a plaster over his eye from some blow he received. He is a bold one-eyed man! The other is merely cross-eyed. The third always has his throat clogged.
The exception always comes from the reason for the rule.
Then the mind yields its grasses, but not its fruits. It works with what surrounds it, but not with what is within it. It brings into play only its opinions, not its innermost thoughts, coloring and modeling according to its fancies the clouds that wander around it. Thus it obtains only what it gives. It amuses attention. But as what it makes does not come from the soul, it does not go there either.
Montesquieu. He dictated what he remembered having thought. Thus all those little fillings that give pleasure in reading, but that memory values little, are absent from his writings.
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The Notebooks of Joseph Joubert, Volume II · Book Mode · Diotimos