Mine is the second method. I am more or less
Hardy-drunk.'
The humorous exactness and detachment of the description are remarkable,
and we feel that there was more than the supersession of a small by a
great idol in this second phase. By April he is at Jena, 'only 15 miles
from Goethe's grave, whose inhabitant has taken the place of Thomas
Hardy (successor to Masefield) as my favourite prophet.'
'I hope (if nothing else) before I leave Germany to get a thorough
hang of _Faust_.... The worst of a piece like _Faust_ is that it
completely dries up any creative instincts or attempts in oneself.
There is nothing that I have ever thought or ever read that is not
somewhere contained in it, and (what is worse) explained in it.'
He had a sublime contempt for any one with whom he was not drunk. He
lumped together 'nasty old Lyttons, Carlyles, and Dickenses.' And the
intoxication itself was swift and fleeting. There was something wrong
with Goethe by July; it is his 'entirely intellectual' life.
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