Kepler may well bring us to Einstein, the greatest pioneer in the comprehension of the universe since his day, and, indeed, one who is more than a pioneer, since he already seems to have won a place beside Newton. It is a significant fact that Einstein, though he possesses an extremely cautious, critical mind, and is regarded as conspicuous for his common sense, has a profound admiration for Kepler, whom he frequently quotes. For Einstein also is an imaginative artist.[50] Einstein is obviously an artist, even in appearance, as has often been noted by those who have met him; “he looks far more the musician than the man of science,” one writes, while those who know him well say that he is “essentially as much an artist as a discoverer.” As a matter of fact he is an artist in one of the most commonly recognised arts, being an accomplished musician, a good violinist, it is said, while improvisation on the piano, he himself says, is “a necessity of his life.” His face, we are told, is illumined when he listens to music; he loves Bach and Haydn and Mozart, Beethoven and Wagner much less, while to Chopin, Schumann, and the so-called romantics in music, as we might anticipate, he is indifferent. His love of music is inborn; it developed when, as a child, he would think out little songs “in praise of God,” and sing them by himself; music, Nature, and God began, even at that early age, to become a kind of unity to him. “Music,” said Leibnitz, “is the pleasure the human soul experiences from counting without being aware that it is counting.” It is the most abstract, the most nearly mathematical of the arts—we may recall how music and mathematics had their scientific origin together in the discovery of Pythagoras—and it is not surprising that it should be Einstein’s favorite art.[51] It is even more natural that, next to music, he should be attracted to architecture—the art which Goethe called “frozen music”—for here we are actually plunged into mechanics, here statics and dynamics are transformed into visible beauty. To painting he is indifferent, but he is drawn to literature, although no great reader. In literature, indeed, it would seem that it is not so much art that he seeks as emotion; in this field it is no longer the austerely architectonic that draws him; thus he is not attracted to Ibsen; he is greatly attracted to Cervantes as well as Keller and Strindberg; he has a profound admiration for Shakespeare, but is cooler towards Goethe, while it would seem that there is no writer to whom he is more fervently attached than the most highly emotional, the most profoundly disintegrated in nervous organisation of all great writers, Dostoievsky, especially his masterpiece, “The Brothers Karamazov.” “Dostoievsky gives me more than any scientist, more than Gauss.” All literary analysis or æsthetic subtlety, it seems to Einstein, fails to penetrate to the heart of a work like “The Karamazovs,” it can only be grasped by the feelings. His