cultural curiosity, a phenomenon which is so unmistakable that we are reminded of the words of Novalis: a closer rapprochement among nations has always been the historical function of war.
For a long time Goethe's idea of a "world-literature"—a German idea, I modestly beg to add—has been extensively realized. The equalization is universal, the democratic levelling is nearly attained. There are Frenchmen who manifest a broad British humour (Proust) denatured, Parisianized Russians (Kusmin) and Scandinavians who complete the synthesis of Dostoevsky and America (Jensen). This may be termed the internationalization of art—a process, to be sure, which does not prevent the various folk-characters from remaining even now genuinely and uncompromisingly opposed to an incredible extent. Still, that is simply another incentive to the curiosity I was speaking of; and the cultural life of Europe was never more plainly “in the sign of trade’ than since the great war. Translating flourishes. Even Germany, the world's scapegoat, has its part in this prosperity; for its spiritual products are reaching the outside world in greater numbers than before. Not only the Slavic and the Scandinavian countries—as was always the case—but also France, Italy, Spain, America are taking them into their languages; and that is certainly not merely an accident of the exchange nor a form of exploitation. It is curiosity, as I have said, and we have every reason to exert ourselves that this curiosity may not be too greatly disappointed.
America—whose responsible participation in the sphere of Occidental culture may have been brought drastically to its attention by the need of entering the war—has quite obviously a great share in the movement I am speaking of. Every title-page of the review for which I am now writing is an evidence and an example of my contention. For each one displays in varied array along with the names of Anglo-Saxon writers those of any other nationality. And is it not to this cosmopolitan view that I owe the pleasure of being able to address the readers of The Dial?
Indeed, I am delighted with this opportunity! It satisfies that world-need which lies in the blood of every German artist, and which had to languish during the years of isolation and sterile discord. It touches my imagination. I shall "make something of it," as the good highly poetic idiom puts it. I am almost on the point of considering my position as sublime. See: I sit in my room in
