kind we meet the one and the other. But I call an inoffensive music that winch altogether thinks but of itself and has forgotten the world on account of itself— the spontaneous resounding of the deepest solitude, which speaks of itself to itself, quite forgetful of the fact that there are hearers, listeners, effects, misunderstandings, and failures in the outside world. In fact, the music, which we have just heard, is indeed of this noble and rare kind; and everything that I said about it was a fiction—pardon my little trick, if you feel illclineil.—B.: Ah, then you too are an admirer of this music? Then many things shall be forgiven you.
256
Felicity of the evil.—These silent, gloomy, evil people possess a something which you cannot deny: a rare and strange delight in the dolce far nieute, an evening —add sunset—rest, such as none but a heart can enjoy which only too often has been consumed, lacerated, poisoned by passions.
257.
Words present in our winds..—We always express our thoughts in words which are nearest at hand. Or, to reveal my whole suspicion: we live at every moment no other thought but that for the approxi- mative expression of which the words are present in our minds. moment
