In reading The Art of Tragedy, Nietzche honorable expelling Schopenhauer's belief that lyric poets are so far from reality they cannot see the tragedy in life. On the contrary, the subject being an artist, is already swollen with both contemplation and will. To paraphrase, art cannot be valued on esthetics, the reason being, the subjective, a habitually self-promoting personality can only be an enemy of art and never it's creator.
If indeed we measure our individual will greater than the reality of the artistic exertion, how ever can a conscious mind consider all of creation?
Within the essence of all being, we fascinate through the realms of art and wonder, still concretely formed from some part of the subjectively sculpted minds of those whom we watched and imitated as youth. Is it the illusion in this significance that we should continue to undulate or shall, at once, actually participate in the lyrical presence within our own being to see the truest form of existence and how, individually, we fit into it, creating the whole of life?
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