Nine Yiddish Writers
Hear him talk, or rather watch him talk. What expressiveness, what exaggerated emphasis, what passionate insistence. He nudges you with his elbow, demands approval of every remark, dictates your answers. You wonder, is he sincere? Is his soul on fire? One moment he pouts like a child, another he denounces like a prophet, the third he flatters like a lackey, the fourth he glories like a king. It's acting, you conclude, acting of the high artistic kind, that is full of soul and heart. Perhaps, but listen to the subject matter and you will be convinced that you are mistaken. He talks on a topic that is nearest and dearest to his soul, he speaks of the one thing in which his entire being is centered. Yes, he speaks of himself, always himself.
Vanity, the power and the weakness of the artist, has been Rosenfeld's good and bad angel in life. It was the desire of glory, the dream of renown and distinction, that marvelous passion that chained Bal- zac eighteen hours a day to his writing desk, which also made of the poor little sweatshop tailor a poet whose fame will endure for many, many years. But that same passion is responsible for the many prac- tical errors he has committed, for a great measure of suffering he has endured, for the utter destitution in which he is now placed.
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