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She does, indeed, quote the remark of Gorki, who, at the time of Strindberg's death, compared him to the ancient Danubian hero, Danko, "who, in order to help humanity out of the darkness of problems, tore his heart out of his breast, lit it, and holding it high, led the way."
Yes, without a touch of Strindberg's mad fantasy, Zorn is kin to him in his ironic, witty way of saying things about his friends and in front of their faces. Consider that large plate of Renan. Has any one so told the truth concerning the ex-seminarian, casuist, and marvellous prose writer of France?
Here, and in a score of similar passages, we can see how physical were the demons that endlessly consumed Strindberg's peace of mind. His attitude to women, as we find it expressed in The Confession of a Fool, The Dance of Death, and all through his work, is that of a man overwhelmed with the physical. He raves now with lust, now with disgust two aspects of the same mood.
She got what she wanted for she wanted only dross. Ibsen's Button-Moulder will meet her at the Cross-Roads when her time comes. Hedda, like Strindberg's Julia, may escape him because, coward as she was when facing harsh reality, she had the courage to rid her family of a worthless encumbrance.
And now again exactly forty days of fasting and pain had passed. There seemed, therefore, to be a secret legislature which promulgates clearly defined sentences. I thought of the forty days of the Flood, the forty years of wandering in the desert, the forty days' fast kept by Moses, Elijah, and Christ. There you have Strindberg's secret.
The second act of his Franziska, a Karnevalgroteske, was given at the Dresden Pressfestival, February 7, 1913, with the title of Matrimony in the Year 2000, the author and his wife appearing in the leading rôles with brilliant success. It contains in solution the leading motives from all his plays and his philosophy of life. It is fantastic, as fantastic as Strindberg's Dream Play, but amusing.
Now, every morning when I wake, I find these works of art a little askew, the left corner inclined down and the right up!" I came upon that passage in Sylva Sylvarum, the first book of Strindberg's I ever read, and it pleased me so much that I believe I read no further. I am reminded of it now when Strindberg's fame has grown so great in England.
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