The Prose Writings of Heinrich HeineHeine, Heinrich
General
The Prose Writings of Heinrich Heine
Heine, Heinrich
Heine, Heinrich, 1797-1856 -- Translations into English
Hoffman does not belong to the romantic school. He did not come into
contact with the Schlegels, and was in no way affected by their
tendencies. I only mention him in contrast to Novalis, who was
peculiarly a poet of that school. Novalis is less known here than
Hoffman, who has been introduced to the French public by Loeve-Veimars
in a very attractive form, and thus has acquired a great reputation in
France. In Germany, Hoffman is by no means _en vogue_, but he was so
formerly. In their time his works were much read, but only by persons
whose nerves were either too strong or too weak to be affected by less
violent accords. The minds that were really intellectual, and the
natures that were truly poetical, would have nothing to do with him.
Such as these much preferred Novalis. But frankly confessed, Hoffman was
a much greater poet than Novalis, for the latter with his idealistic
pictures ever floats in the blue skies; while Hoffman, notwithstanding
all his grotesque bogies, still clings fast to earthly realities. Just
as the giant Anteus remained strong and invincible so long as his feet
rested on mother earth, and lost his strength the moment Hercules held
him aloft; so also the poet is strong and mighty as long as he does not
forsake the _terra firma_ of reality, but becomes powerless as soon as
he attempts to float enraptured in the blue ether.
The great resemblance between these two poets lies in the fact that
their poetry was really a disease. It has been said that it does not
come within the province of the critic, but of the physician, to pass
judgment on their writings. The rosy glow in Novalis's poems is not the
hue of health, but the hectic flush of consumption; and the brilliant
light in Hoffman's fantastic conceptions is not the flame of genius, but
of fever.
But have we a right thus to criticise--we, who are ourselves not blest
with robust health? and especially now, when all literature appears like
one vast hospital? or is poetry, perhaps, a disease of humanity, as the
pearl is the morbid matter of the diseased oyster?
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