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[Home]
[Up]
[Contents]
[Preface]
[Bibliographical Note]
[A Note on the Text]
[WHAT IS ART?]
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
[CONCLUSION]
[Appendix I]
[Appendix II]
[Notes]
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WHAT IS ART?
¿¹¼úÀº ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡?
TRANSLATED BY RICHARD PEVEAR AND LARISSA VOLOKHONSKY
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¿¹¼úÀº ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡?
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¡¡ |
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As a result of the unbelief of people of the upper classes, the art of these people became poor in content. But, besides that, while becoming more and more exclusive, it became at the same time more and more complex, fanciful and unclear. |
»ó·ù °è±Þ »ç¶÷µéÀÇ ºÒ½Å¾ÓÀÇ °á°ú·Î¼, ÀÌ »ç¶÷µéÀÇ ¿¹¼úÀº ³»¿ëÀÌ
ÀúÇϵǾú´Ù. ±×·¯³ª, ±× »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, Á¡Á¡ ´õ ¹èŸÀûÀÌ µÇ¾î°¡´Â °¡¿îµ¥, ±×°ÍÀº µ¿½Ã¿¡ ´õ¿í´õ º¹ÀâÇϰí, ºñÇö½ÇÀûÀ̸ç ÀÌÇØÇÏ±â ¾î·Æ°Ô µÇ¾î
°¬´Ù. |
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When an artist of the whole people — such as Greek artists or the Jewish prophets once were — created his works, he naturally strove to say what he had to say in such fashion that his work would be understood by all people. But when an artist created for a small circle of people who lived in exceptional conditions, or even for one person and his courtiers, for a pope, a cardinal, a king, a duke, a queen, a king¡¯s mistress, he naturally sought only to influence these people who were known to him and who lived in certain conditions with which he was familiar. And this easier way of calling up feelings pushed the artist involuntarily towards expressing himself in allusions unclear to everyone else and comprehensible only to the initiate. First of all, one could say more that way, and, secondly, this manner of expression contained within itself, even for the initiate, a certain special charm of obscurity. This manner of expression, consisting of euphemisms, mythological and historical allusions, came into use more and more, and seems to have reached its extreme limits recently in so-called decadent art. Recently, not only have vagueness, mysteriousness, obscurity and inaccessibility to the masses been considered a merit and a condition of the poeticality of artistic works, but so, too, have imprecision, indefiniteness and ineloquence. |
Àüü »ç¶÷µéÀÇ ¿¹¼ú°¡
— ¿¾³¯¿¡ ÀÖ¾ú´ø ±×¸®½º ¿¹¼ú°¡µé ȤÀº À¯ÅÂÀÎ ¼±ÁöÀÚµéó·³ — °¡ ±×ÀÇ ÀÛǰµéÀ» ¸¸µé¾úÀ» ¶§, ±×´Â ´ç¿¬È÷ ±×ÀÇ ÀÛǰÀÌ ¸ðµç »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô
ÀÌÇØµÉ ¼ö ÀÖµµ·Ï ¸»ÇØ¾ß ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ» ¸»ÇÏ·Á ¾Ö½è´Ù. ±×·¯³ª ¿¹¼ú°¡°¡ ¿¹¿ÜÀûÀÎ »óȲµé¿¡¼ »ç´Â Á¶±×¸¸ ¹üÁÖÀÇ »ç¶÷µéÀ» À§ÇØ, ȤÀº ÇÑ »ç¶÷
±×¸®°í ±×ÀÇ ÃßÁ¾ÀÚµéÀ» À§ÇØ, ±³È², Ãß±â°æ, ¿Õ, ±ºÁÖ,¿©¿Õ, ¿Õºñ¸¦ À§ÇØ ¸¸µé¾úÀ» ¶§, ±×´Â ´ç¿¬È÷ ¿ÀÁ÷ ±×¿¡°Ô ¾Ë·ÁÁ® ÀÖÀ¸¸ç
±×°¡ Ä£¹ÐÇÑ Æ¯Á¤ »óȲµé ¾È¿¡ »ç´Â ÀÌ·± »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô ¿µÇâÀ» ÁÖ°íÀÚ Ãß±¸ÇÏ¿´´Ù. ±×¸®°í ´À³¦µéÀ» ºÒ·¯³»´Â ÀÌ·± ´õ ½¬¿î ¹æ¹ýÀº ¿¹¼ú°¡·Î ÇÏ¿©±Ý
ÀǵµÇÏÁö ¾Ê°Ô ´Ù¸¥ ¸ðµç »ç¶÷¿¡°Ô ÀÌÇØµÉ ¼ö ¾øÀ¸¸ç ¿ÀÁ÷ ȸ¿øµé¿¡°Ô¸¸ ³³µæµÉ ¼ö ÀÖ´Â ¾Ï½Ãµé·Î ÀÚ±â ÀÚ½ÅÀ» Ç¥ÇöÇÏ´Â ÂÊÀ¸·Î ¹Ð¾î³»¾ú´Ù.
¹«¾ùº¸´Ùµµ, ±×·± ¹æ¹ýÀ¸·Î ´õ ¸¹ÀÌ Ç¥ÇöµÉ ¼ö ÀÖ¾úÀ» °ÍÀ̸ç, µÑ°·Î, ÀÌ·± Ç¥Çö ¹æ½ÄÀº ½ÉÁö¾î ȸ¿øµé¿¡°Ôµµ ±× ÀÚü ¾È¿¡¼ ¸ðÈ£ÇÔ °°Àº
¾î¶² Ưº°ÇÑ ¸Å·ÂÀ» ´ã°í ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ÀÌ·± Ç¥Çö ¹æ½ÄÀº, ¿Ï°î¾î¹ýµé, ½ÅÈÀû ¹× ¿ª»çÀû ¾Ï½Ãµé·Î ±¸¼ºµÇ¾î¼, Á¡Á¡ ´õ ¸¹ÀÌ »ç¿ëµÇ°Ô µÇ¾ú°í,
ÃÖ±Ù¿¡ ¼ÒÀ§ µ¥Ä«´ç ¿¹¼ú¿¡¼ ±× ±ØÇÑ¿¡ µµ´ÞÇÑ °Íó·³ º¸ÀδÙ. ÃÖ±Ù µé¾î¼ ¹ÎÁßµéÀ» ÇâÇÑ ¸ðÈ£ÇÔ, ½ÅºñÇÔ, ¾Ö¸ÅÇÔ ¹× ³ÇØÇÔÀÌ ¿¹¼úÀû
ÀÛǰµéÀÇ ½Ã¼ºÀÇ ÀåÁ¡ÀÌÀÚ Çö»óÀ¸·Î ¿©°ÜÁ® ¿ÔÀ» »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, ºÎÁ¤È®ÇÔ, ºÒÈ®Á¤¼º ¹× ´º¯µµ ±×·¯Çß´Ù. |
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Théophile Gautier, [56] in his preface to the famous Fleurs du Mal, says that Baudelaire rid his poetry, as far as possible, of eloquence, passion, and a too exactly copied truth — ¡®¡®l¡¯eloquence, la passion, et la verité calquée trop exactement¡¯. |
µð¿ÀÇÊ ±¸¶ì¿¡´Â, ±×ÀÇ À¯¸íÇÑ
Fleurs du MalÀÇ ¼¹®¿¡¼ ¸»Çϱ⸦, º¸µé·¹¸£´Â ±×ÀÇ ½Ã¿¡¼ °¡´ÉÇÑ ÇÑ ¿õº¯, ¿Á¤, ±×¸®°í ³Ê¹«³ª Á¤È®È÷ ´àÀº Áø¸®¸¦ Á¦°ÅÇß´Ù°í
ÇÑ´Ù, ¡®l¡¯eloquence, la passion, et la verité calquée trop exactement¡¯. |
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And Baudelaire did not only say this, but also proved it in his poems, and still more so in the prose of his Petits poèmes en prose, the meaning of which must be puzzled out like a rebus, and the majority of which remain unriddled. |
±×¸®°í º¸µé·¹¸£´Â À̰ÍÀ» ¸»ÇßÀ» »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, ±×ÀÇ ½Ãµé¿¡¼, ´õ
³ª¾Æ°¡¼ ±×ÀÇ »ê¹®
Petits poèmes en prose¿¡¼
À̰ÍÀ» Áõ¸íÇßÀ¸¸ç, ±× Àǹ̴ ¼ö¼ö²²±âó·³ Ç®¾î¾ß ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ̾úÀ¸¸ç, ±× ´ëºÎºÐÀº Ç® ¼ö ¾ø´Â ü·Î ÀÖ´Ù. |
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The poet Verlaine, following after Baudelaire, and also considered great, even wrote a whole Art poétique, in which he advises writing like this: |
º¸µé·¹¸£ µÚ¸¦ ÀÌ¾î¼ ÈǸ¢ÇÏ´Ù°í ¿©°ÜÁø ½ÃÀÎ º£¸£·»Àº ½ÉÁö¾î ´ë´ÜÇÑ
Art poétiqueÀ» ½èÀ¸¸ç, ¿©±â¼ ±×´Â ÀÌ·¸°Ô ¾µ °ÍÀ» ±Ç°íÇÑ´Ù: |
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¡¡ |
¡¡ |
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De la musique avant toute chose,
Et pour cela préfere l¡¯Impair
Plus vague et plus soluble dans l¡¯air,
Sans rien en lui qui pèse ou qui pose.
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¹«¾ùº¸´Ù À½¾ÇÀº,
±×¸®°í ±×°ÍÀº ºÒ±ÕÇüÀ» ÁÁ¾ÆÇϸç,
°ø±â ¼Ó¿¡ ´õ Èñ¹ÌÇÏ°í ´õ ½±°Ô ³ìÀ¸¸ç,
±× ¾È¿¡ ¹«°Ì°Å³ª ´ç±æ °ÍÀÌ ¾ø´Ù. |
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Il faut aussi que tu n¡¯ailles point
Choisir tes mots sans quelque méprise:
Rien de plus cher que la chanson grise
Où l¡¯Indécis au Précis se joint.
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±×¸®°í ¶Ç ´ç½ÅÀº ¾Æ¹«·± ¸ð¿å ¾øÀÌ
´ç½ÅÀÇ ¸»µéÀ» °ñ¶ó¼´Â ¾È µÈ´Ù:
ºñƲ°Å¸®´Â ³ë·¡º¸´Ù ±ÍÇÑ °ÍÀº
¾øÀ¸´Ï
°Å±â¿£ Á¤È®ÇÑ º»´ÉÀÌ ¿«¿© ÀÖ´Ù.
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And further on:
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±×¸®°í ³ª¾Æ°¡¼: |
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De la musique encore et toujours!
Que ton vers soit la chose envolée
Qu¡¯on sent qui fuit d¡¯une âme en allée
Vers d¡¯autres cieux à d¡¯autres amours.
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À½¾ÇÀº ´Ù½Ã ±×¸®°í ¾ðÁ¦³ª!
´ç½ÅÀÇ ½Ã±¸µéÀÌ ³¯°³°¡ µÇ¾î
´Ù¸¥ ÇÏ´Ã ¾È¿¡ ´Ù¸¥ »ç¶ûÀ» ÇâÇØ
¶°³ª´Â ¿µÈ¥À¸·Î ³¯¾Æ°¨À» ´À³¢°Ô
ÇÑ´Ù.
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Que ton vers soit la bonne aventure
Éparse au vent crispé du matin
Qui va fleurant la menthe et Ie thym .. .
Et tout Ie reste est littérature. [57]
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´ç½ÅÀÇ ½Ã±¸´Â Çà¿îÀÌ µÇ¾î
½Î´ÃÇÑ ¾ÆÄ§ ¹Ù¶÷¿¡ Èð¾îÁ®
¹ÎÆ®¿Í ŸÀÓ ÇâÀ» ¸ÃÀ¸¸ç °£´Ù...
±×·¯¸é ³ª¸ÓÁö ¸ðµÎ´Â ¹®ÇÐÀ̶ó.
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After these two come Mallarmé, regarded as the most important of the young poets, who says directly that the charm of a poem consists in our having to guess its meaning, that there should always be some riddle in a poem: |
±×¸®°í ÀÌµé µÎ »ç¶÷ ´ÙÀ½À¸·Î ¸»¶ó¸Þ°¡ µîÀåÇϸç, ±×´Â ÀþÀº ½ÃÀεé
Áß¿¡ °¡Àå Áß¿äÇÏ´Ù°í ¿©°ÜÁö°í ÀÖÀ¸¸ç, ±×´Â ½ÃÀÇ ¸Å·ÂÀº ¿ì¸®°¡ ±× Àǹ̸¦ ÃßÃøÇØ¾ß ÇÔ¿¡ ÀÖÀ¸¸ç, ½Ã¿¡´Â ¾ðÁ¦³ª ¾à°£ÀÇ ¼ö¼ö²²³¢°¡ Á¸ÀçÇØ¾ß
ÇÑ´Ù°í ³ë°ñÀûÀ¸·Î ¸»ÇÑ´Ù: |
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Je pense qu¡¯il faut qu¡¯il n¡¯y ait qu¡¯allusion. La contemplation des objets, l¡¯image s¡¯envolant des rêveries suscitées par eux, sont le chant: les Parnassiens, eux, prennent la chose entièrement et la montrent; par là ils manquent de mystère; ils retirent aux esprits cette joie délicieuse de croire qu¡¯ils creent. Nommer un objet, c¡¯est supprimer les trois quarts de la jouissance du poète qui est faite du bonheur de deviner peu à peu; le suggérer — voila le rêve. C¡¯est le parfait usage de ce mystère qui constitue le symbole: évoquer petit à petit un objet et en dégager un état d¡¯âme par une série de déchiffrements.
. . . Si un être d¡¯une intelligence moyenne et d¡¯une prépara¡©tion littéraire insuffisante ouvre par hasard un livre ainsi fait et pretend en jouir, il y a malentendu, il faut remettre les choses à leur place. Il doit y avoir toujours énigme en poésie, et c¡¯est le but de la littérature; il n¡¯y en a pas d¡¯autre — d¡¯évoquer les objets. [58]
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³ª´Â ¿ÀÁ÷ ¾Ï½Ã ¸¸ÀÌ ÀÖ¾î¾ß
ÇÑ´Ù°í »ý°¢ÇÑ´Ù. ´ë»óµé¿¡ ´ëÇÑ °¨»óÀº, ±×°ÍµéÀÌ ºÒ·¯³»´Â °ø»óµé ¼Ó¿¡ ½ºÃİ¡´Â ¿µ»óÀº, ³ë·¡´Ù: ½ÃÀεéÀº, ±×µéÀÇ ¿ªÇҷμ,
»ç¹°À» Àüü·Î ¸é¼ ±×°ÍÀ» µå·¯³½´Ù; °á±¹ ±×°ÍµéÀº ½Åºñ°¡ °á¿©µÈ´Ù; ±×°ÍµéÀº ¿ì¸®ÀÇ ¸¶À½µé¿¡¼ ±×°ÍµéÀÌ Ã¢Á¶Çϰí ÀÖ´Ù°í ¹Ï´Â ´ÞÄÞÇÑ
Áñ°Å¿òÀ» ¾Ñ¾Æ °£´Ù. ´ë»ó¿¡ À̸§À» Á¤ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀº Á¶±Ý¾¿ ÃßÃøÇØ º¸´Â Áñ°Å¿ò¿¡¼ ºñ·ÔµÇ´Â ½ÃÀÎÀÇ Áñ°Å¿òÀÇ »çºÐÀÇ »ïÀ» ¾ï´©¸£´Â
°ÍÀÌ´Ù; ¾Ï½Ã — ±×°ÍÀº ¹Ù·Î ²ÞÀÌ´Ù.
»ó¡À» ±¸¼ºÇÏ´Â °ÍÀº ¹Ù·Î ÀÌ·±
½ÅºñÀÇ ¿Ïº®ÇÑ »ç¿ëÀÌ´Ù: ´ë»óÀ» Á¶±Ý¾¿ ºÒ·¯³»°í ÀÏ·ÃÀÇ ÇØµ¶µéÀ» ÅëÇØ ±×·ÎºÎÅÍ ¸¶À½ÀÇ »óŸ¦ ÇØ¹æ½ÃŰ´Â °Í:
... ¸¸ÀÏ º¸ÅëÀÇ Áö¼º°ú ÃæºÐÇÏÁö
¾ÊÀº ¹®ÇÐÀû ¼Ò¾çÀ» Áö´Ñ »ç¶÷ÀÌ ÀÌ·¸°Ô Áö¾îÁø Ã¥À» ¿ì¿¬È÷ ¿¾î º¸°í ±×°ÍÀ» Áñ±â·Á ½ÃµµÇÑ´Ù¸é, ¿ÀÇØ°¡ Á¸ÀçÇϸç, ´ë»óµéÀÌ ¹Ýµå½Ã Á¦ÀÚ¸®¿¡
³õ¿©Á®¾ß ÇÑ´Ù. ½Ã¿¡´Â ¾ðÁ¦³ª ¼ö¼ö²²³¢°¡ ÀÖ¾î¾ß ÇÑ´Ù, ±×¸®°í ±×°ÍÀÌ ¹®ÇÐÀÇ ¸ñÀûÀÌ´Ù; ´Ù¸¥ °Í —
´ë»óµéÀ» ºÒ·¯³»´Â °Í — ¿Ü´Â ¾ø´Ù.
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Thus, among the new poets, obscurity is made a dogma, as the French critic Doumic, who has yet to recognize the truth of this dogma, quite correctly says: ¡®Il serait temps aussi de finir avec cette fameuse théorie de l¡¯obscurite que la nouvelle ecole a elevee en effet à la hauteur d¡¯un dogme.¡¯ [59] |
±×¸®ÇÏ¿©, »õ·Î¿î ½ÃÀÎµé »çÀÌ¿¡¼, ¸ðÈ£ÇÔÀº ½ÅÁ¶·Î µÇ¾î
ÀÖÀ¸¸ç, ÇÁ¶û½º ºñÆò°¡ µÎ¹Ì´Â, ÀÌ¹Ì ÀÌ·± ½ÅÁ¶ÀÇ Áø¸é¸ñÀ» ÀνÄÇÏ¿´À¸¹Ç·Î, ¾ÆÁÖ Á¤È®È÷ ¸»ÇÑ´Ù: '¿ì¸®´Â ¶ÇÇÑ »ç½Ç»ó »õ·Î¿î ÇÐÆÄ·Î¼
½ÅÁ¶ÀÇ À§Ä¡·Î °Ý»óµÇ¾î ¹ö¸° ÀÌ·± À¯¸íÇÑ ¸ðÈ£ÇÔÀÇ À̷аú´Â Àý±³ÇØ¾ß ÇÒ ¶§´Ù.' |
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But it is not only French writers who think this way. |
ÀÌ·¸°Ô »ý°¢ÇÏ´Â
°ÍÀº ÇÁ¶û½º ÀÛ°¡µé »Ó¸¸ÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï´Ù. |
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The poets of all other nationalities think and act in the same way: Germans, Scandinavians, Italians, Russians and Englishmen; all modern artists in all branches of art think in the same way: in painting, in sculpture and in music. Guided by Nietzsche and Wagner, artists of modern times think that there is no need for them to be understood by the crude masses, that it is enough for them to evoke poetic states in ¡®the best nurtured men¡¯, to use the expression of one English aesthetician. [60] |
´Ù¸¥ ¸ðµç
±¹ÀûµéÀÇ ½ÃÀε鵵 ¶È °°ÀÌ »ý°¢Çϰí ÇൿÇÑ´Ù: µ¶ÀÏÀεé, ½ºÄµð³ªºñ¾ÆÀεé, ÀÌÅ»¸®¾ÆÀεé, ·¯½Ã¾ÆÀÎµé ¹× ¿µ±¹Àεé; ±×¸®°í ¸ðµç ¿¹¼ú ºÐ¾ßµéÀÇ
¸ðµç Çö´ë ÀÛ°¡µéÀº µ¿ÀÏÇÏ°Ô »ý°¢ÇÑ´Ù: ¹Ì¼ú¿¡¼, Á¶°¢¿¡¼ ±×¸®°í À½¾Ç¿¡¼. ´Ïü¿Í ¹Ù±×³Ê¿¡ ¿µÇâÀ» ¹ÞÀº Çö´ëÀÇ ¿¹¼ú°¡µéÀº ±×°ÍµéÀÌ ¹«½ÄÇÑ
´ëÁߵ鿡 ÀÇÇØ ÀÌÇØµÉ Çʿ䰡 ¾ø´Ù°í, Áï, ¾î¶² ¿µ±¹ ¹ÌÇÐÀÚÀÇ Ç¥ÇöÀ» ºô¸°´Ù¸é, ±×°ÍµéÀÌ 'ÃÖ°í·Î ¾çÀ°µÈ »ç¶÷µé' ¾È¿¡ ½ÃÀûÀÎ °¨Á¤µéÀ»
ºÒ·¯ ÀÏÀ¸Å´À¸·Î½á Á·ÇÏ´Ù°í »ý°¢ÇÑ´Ù. |
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So that what I say may not seem unsubstantiated, I will cite at least a few examples here of French poets who are in the forefront of this movement. The name of these poets is legion. |
±×·¯¹Ç·Î ³»°¡
¸»ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀÌ ±Ù°Å°¡ ¾ø´Â °Íó·³ º¸ÀÌÁö ¾Êµµ·Ï, ¿©±â¿¡ ÀÌ·± ¿òÁ÷ÀÓÀÇ Àü¹æ¿¡ ÀÖ´Â ÇÁ¶û½º ½ÃÀεéÀÇ Àû¾îµµ ¸î ¿¹µéÀ» ÀοëÇÒ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. À̵é
½ÃÀεéÀÇ À̸§Àº ¹«¼öÇÏ´Ù. |
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I have chosen the new French writers, because they express the new trend in art more clearly, and the majority of Europeans imitate them. |
³ª´Â ÇÁ¶û½º
½ÅÁø ÀÛ°¡µéÀ» °ñ¶ó º¸¾Ò´Ù, ¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é ±×µéÀº ´õ¿í ¸íÈ®ÇÏ°Ô ¿¹¼úÀÇ »õ·Î¿î °æÇâÀ» Ç¥ÇöÇϸç, À¯·´ÀÎµé ´ëºÎºÐÀÌ ±×µéÀ» ¸ð¹æÇϱ⠶§¹®ÀÌ´Ù. |
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Besides those whose names are already regarded as famous, such as Baudelaire and Verlaine, the following are the names of some of these poets: Jean Moreas, Charles Morice, Henri de Régnier, Charles Vignier, Adrien Romaille, René Ghil, Maurice Maeterlinck, C. Albert Aurier, Remy de Gourmont, Saint-Pol-Roux le Magnifique, Georges Rodenbach, Comte Robert de Montesquiou-Fezensac. These are symbolists and decadents. Then come the Magi: Josephin Peladan, Paul Adam, Jules Bois, M. Papus et al. [61] |
º¸µé·¹¸£ ¹× º£¸¦·»Ã³·³, À̸§µéÀÌ ÀÌ¹Ì À¯¸íÇÏ´Ù°í ¿©°ÜÁö´Â »ç¶÷µé
¿Ü¿¡, ´ÙÀ½Àº ¸î¸î ÀÌ·± ½ÃÀεéÀÇ À̸§ÀÌ´Ù: Àå ¸ð·¹¾Æ, »þ¸¦ ¸ð¸®½º, ¾Ó¸® µå ·¹´Ï¿¡, »þ¸¦ ºñ´Ï¿¡, ¾Æµå¸®¾Ó ·Î¸¶ÀÌ¿¡, ¸£³× ±æ, ¸ð¸®½º
¸¶Å͸µÅ©, C. ¾Ëº£¸£ ¿À¸®¿¡, ·¹¹Ì µå ±¸¸ù, »óÆú·çÁî ¸¶´ÏÇÇÅ©, ÁÒÁö ·Îµç¹ÙÇÏ, ²ÇÆ® ·Îº£¸£ µå ¸ùÅ×½ºÅ°¿Ü ÆäÁ¨»ç. À̵éÀº
»ó¡ÁÖÀÇÀÚµéÀÌÀÚ µ¥Ä«´çÆÄµéÀÌ´Ù. ´ÙÀ½À¸·Î ¸¶¹ýÁÖÀÇÀÚµéÀÌ´Ù: Á¶¼¼ÇÉ Æç¶ó´ç, Æú ¾Æ´ã, ÁÙ¸£ ºÁ, M. ÆÄÇÇ µî. |
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Besides these, there are one hundred and forty-one more writers enumerated by Doumic in his book. |
ÀÌµé ¿Ü¿¡µµ, µÎ¹Ì°¡ ±×ÀÇ Ã¥¿¡¼ ¿°ÅÇÏ´Â 141 ¿©¸íÀÇ ÀÛ°¡µéÀÌ
ÀÖ´Ù. |
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Here are samples from those considered the best among these poets. I begin with the most famous, recognized as a great man deserving of a monument — Baudelaire. This, for instance, is a poem from his famous Fleurs du Mal: |
¿©±â ÀÌµé ½ÃÀεé Áß¿¡¼ ÃÖ°í¶ó°í ¿©°ÜÁö´Â »ç¶÷µé¿¡ °¡Á®¿Â ¿¹µéÀÌ
ÀÖ´Ù. ±â³äºñÀûÀÎ À§´ëÇÑ Àι°·Î ÀÎÁ¤µÇ´Â °¡Àå À¯¸íÇÑ »ç¶÷
—
º¸µé·¹¸£
—
ºÎÅÍ ½ÃÀÛÇϰڴÙ. À̰ÍÀº, ¿¹¸¦ µé¸é, ±×ÀÇ À¯¸íÇÑ
Fleurs du Mal¿¡¼ °¡Á®¿Â ½ÃÀÌ´Ù. |
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Je t¡¯adore a l¡¯egal de la voute nocturne,
O vase de tristesse, ô grande taciturne,
Et t¡¯aime d¡¯autant plus, belle, que tu me fuis,
Et que tu me parais, ornement de mes nuits,
Plus ironiquement accumuler les lieues
Qui séparent mes bras des immensités bleues.
¡¡
Je m¡¯avance à l¡¯attaque, et jegrimpe aux assauts,
Comme apres un cadavre unchoeur de vermisseaux,
Et je chéris, ô bête implacable et cruelle!
Jusqu¡¯à cette froideur par où tu m¡¯es plus belle! [62]
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¿À Å©°í Á¶¿ëÇÑ ½½ÇÄÀÇ ²Éº´ÀÌ¿©
³ª´Â ±×´ë¸¦ ÇÑ ¹ãÀÇ Ã¢°øÃ³·³ ¼þ¹èÇϸç,
³ªÀÇ ¹ÌÀÎÀÌ¿© ±×´ë°¡ ³ª¸¦ ¸Ö¸®Çϰí,
±×´ë°¡ ³ªÀÇ ¹ãµéÀÇ Àå½Äó·³ º¸À̰í,
³ªÀÇ ÆÈ µéÀ» Ǫ¸¥ ½É¿¬µé¿¡¼ ¶¼¾î ³õ´Â
°Å¸®¸¦ ´õ¿í ¾â±Ä°Ô ´Ã¿©¸¸ °¡µµ
´õ¿í ±×´ë¸¦ »ç¶û Çϳë¶ó.
¡¡
¸¶Ä¡ ½Ãü¿¡ ´Þ·Áµå´Â ÇÑ ¹«¸®ÀÇ Áö··À̵éó·³,
³ª´Â °ø°ÝÀÚ¿¡ ´Ù°¡°¡, ÆøÇàÀÚ¸¦ ±â¾î ¿À¸¥´Ù,
±×´ë¸¦ ³»°Ô ´õ ¾Æ¸§´ä°Ô ÇÏ´Â Â÷°¡¿òÀ»,
³ª´Â ´Þ·¤ ¼ö ¾øÀÌ ÀÜÀÎÇÑ Áü½ÂÀ» »ç¶ûÇÑ´Ù.
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¡¡ |
¡¡ |
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Here is another by the same Baudelaire: |
º¸µé·¹¸£ÀÇ ´Ù¸¥ ¿¹¸¦ º¸ÀÚ: |
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¡¡ |
¡¡ |
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DUELLUM
¡¡
Deux guerriers ont couru l¡¯un sur l¡¯autre; leurs armes
Ont éclaboussé l¡¯air de lueurs et de sang.
Cesjeux, ces cliquetis du fer sont les vacarmes
D¡¯unejeunesse en proie àl¡¯amour vagissant.
¡¡
Les glaives sont brisés! comme notrejeunesse,
Ma chère! Mais les dents, les ongles acérés,
Vengent bientot l¡¯épée et la dague traitresse.
— O fureur des coeurs murs par l¡¯amour ulcérés!
¡¡
Dans Ie ravin hanté des chats-pards et des onces
Nos héros, s¡¯étreignant méchamment, ont roulé,
Et leur peau fleurira l¡¯aridité des ronces.
¡¡
— Ce gouffre, c¡¯est l¡¯enfer, de nos amis peuplé!
Roulons-y sans remords, amazone inhumaine,
Afin d¡¯éterniser l¡¯ardeur de notre haine! [63]
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°áÅõ
¡¡
µÎ Àü»ç°¡ ¼·Î¿¡°Ô ´Þ·Á µé¾ú´Ù; ±×µéÀÇ ¹«±âµéÀº
Çϴÿ¡ ¼¶±¤°ú ÇǸ¦ Æ¢°å´Ù.
ÀÌ ½ÃÇÕµé, ÀÌ ¼íµ¢ÀÌÀÇ ºÎµúÈûÀº
¿ï¾î´ë´Â »ç¶ûÀÇ Á¦¹°ÀÌ µÈ ÀþÀ½ÀÇ ¼ÒÀ½ÀÌ´Ù.
¡¡
³¯µéÀÌ ºÎ·¯Á³´Ù! ¿ì¸®ÀÇ ÀþÀ½Ã³·³,
ÀÌ·±! ±×·¯³ª ÀÌ»¡, °Ã¶°°Àº ¼ÕÅéµéÀº,
°ð Ä®°ú ³¯À» ¼¼¿î ºñ¼ö¿¡ º¸º¹ÇÑ´Ù.
— ¿À, »ç¶ûÀ¸·Î ºÎÆÐµÈ ¼º¼÷ÇÑ ¸¶À½µéÀÇ ºÐ³ë¿©!
¡¡
»ìÄéÀ̵é°ú Ç¥¹üµé¿¡°Ô Âѱâ¾î °ñÂ¥±â ¾ÈÀ¸·Î,
¿ì¸®ÀÇ ¿µ¿õµéÀº, »ç¾ÇÇÏ°Ô ¸öÀ» °¨°í ±¼·¶°í,
±×µéÀÇ »ì°¯Àº ½Ã¸° °ËÀº µþ±â°¡ ÇÇ°Ô ÇÑ´Ù.
¡¡
— ±× ±¸µ¢ÀÌ´Â Áö¿Á, ¿ì¸® Ä£±¸µéÀÌ ¿ì±Û°Å¸°´Ù!
¿ì¸® Áõ¿ÀÀÇ Çâ±â°¡ ¿µ¿øÇϵµ·Ï,
±×°÷¿¡ ÈÄȸ ¾øÀÌ ±¸¸£ÀÚ, ¹«ÀÚºñÇÑ ¾Æ¸¶Á¸!
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¡¡ |
¡¡ |
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To be precise, I must say that there are less incomprehensible poems in the collection, but there is not one that is simple and can be understood without some effort — an effort seldom rewarded, because the feelings conveyed by the poet are not good ones, and are quite base. |
Á¤È®È÷ ¸»ÇÏÀÚ¸é, ¼±Á¤µÈ ½Ãµé Áß¿¡´Â ´ú ³ÇØÇÑ °ÍÀº
¾øÁö¸¸, ´Ü¼øÇÏ¸ç ¾à°£ÀÇ ³ë·Â — °ÅÀÇ º¸»ó ¹ÞÁö ¸øÇÏ´Â ³ë·Â —
¾øÀÌ ÀÌÇØµÉ ¼ö ÀÖ´Â °ÍÀº Çϳªµµ ¾øÀ½À» Ʋ¸²¾øÀÌ ¸»ÇϰíÀÚ ÇÑ´Ù, ¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é ½ÃÀο¡ ÀÇÇØ Àü´ÞµÇ´Â ´À³¦µéÀº ¼±ÇÑ °ÍµéÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¸ç,
³Ê¹«³ª õÇϱ⠶§¹®ÀÌ´Ù. |
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And these feelings are always expressed with deliberate originality and absurdity. This intentional obscurity is particularly noticeable in prose, where the author could speak simply if he wished to. |
±×¸®°í ÀÌ·± ´À³¦µéÀº ¾ðÁ¦³ª ÀǵµÀû µ¶Ã¢·Â°ú ¸ð¼øÀ¸·Î Ç¥ÇöµÈ´Ù.
ÀÌ·± °íÀÇÀû ¾Ö¸ÅÇÔÀº ƯÈ÷ »ê¹®¿¡¼ µÎµå·¯Áö´Âµ¥, ¿©±â¼ ÀÛ°¡´Â ´Ü¼øÈ÷ ¸»ÇϰíÀÚ ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ» ¸»ÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ´Ù. |
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Here is an example from his Petits poèmes en prose. The first piece is L¡¯Ètranger. |
¿©±â¿¡ º¸µé·¹¸£ÀÇ
Petits poèmes en prose¿¡¼ °¡Á®¿Â ¿¹°¡ ÀÖ´Ù. ù ´ÜÆíÀº L¡¯ÈtrangerÀÌ´Ù. |
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Qui aimes-tu le mieux, homme énigmatique, dis? ton père, ta mère, ta soeur ou ton frère?
—Je n¡¯ai ni père, ni mère, hi soeur, ni frère.
—Tes amis?
—Vous vous servez là d¡¯une parole dont le sens m¡¯est resté jusqu¡¯a cejour inconnu.
—Ta patrie?
—J¡¯ignore sous quelle latitude elle est située.
—La beauté?
—Je l¡¯aimerais volontiers, déesse et imortelle.
—L¡¯or?
—Je Ie hais comme vous haïssez Dieu.
—Eh! qu¡¯aimes-tu done, extraordinaire étranger?
—J¡¯aime les nuages ,. . les images qui passent . . . là-bas . . . là-bas ... les merveilleux nuages! [64]
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±×´ë´Â ´©±¸¸¦ °¡Àå »ç¶ûÇϴ°¡, ¾Ë
¼ö ¾ø´Â »ç¶÷ÀÌ¿©, ³ª¿¡°Ô ¸»ÇØ ´Þ¶ó: ±×´ëÀÇ ¾Æ¹öÁö, ±×´ëÀÇ ¾î¸Ó´Ï, ±×´ëÀÇ ´©ÀÌ, ȤÀº ±×´ëÀÇ ÇüÁ¦´Â?
³ª´Â ¾Æ¹öÁö, ¾î¸Ó´Ï, ´©ÀÌ, ȤÀº
ÇüÁ¦µµ ¾ø´Ù.
±×´ëÀÇ Ä£±¸µéÀº?
±×·¡¼ ±×´ë´Â À̳¯±îÁö ³»°Ô
¾Ë·ÁÁöÁö ¾ÊÀº Àǹ̸¦ Áö´Ñ ´Ü¾î¸¦ »ç¿ëÇϴ±º.
±×´ëÀÇ Á¶±¹Àº?
³ª´Â ±×°ÍÀÌ ¾î´À À§µµ¿¡ ÀÖ´ÂÁö
¸ð¸¥´Ù.
¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀº?
³ª´Â ±â²¨ÀÌ ±×°Í, ¿©½Å ±×¸®°í
ºÒ¸êÀ» »ç¶ûÇϰڴÙ.
Ȳ±ÝÀº?
³ª´Â ´ç½ÅÀÌ ½ÅÀ» Áõ¿ÀÇϵí
Áõ¿ÀÇÑ´Ù.
'±×·³, ±«»óÇÑ À̹æÀÎÀÌ¿© ±×´ë´Â
¹«¾ùÀ» »ç¶ûÇϴ°¡?
³ª´Â ±¸¸§µéÀ» ... ½ºÄ¡´Â
±¸¸§µéÀ»... Àú±â ... Àú±â... ³î¶ó¿î ±¸¸§µéÀ» »ç¶ûÇÑ´Ù!
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The piece entitled La soupe et les,nuages probably portrays the poet being misunderstood even by the woman he loves. Here is this piece: |
La soupe et les,nuagesÀ̶õ Á¦¸ñÀÇ ¼ÒǰÀº ¾Æ¸¶µµ ½ÉÁö¾î ±×°¡ »ç¶ûÇÏ´Â ¿©ÀÚ¿¡°Ôµµ ¿ÀÇØ ¹Þ°í ÀÖ´Â ½ÃÀÎÀ» ¹¦»çÇÑ´Ù. ÀÌ
´ÜÆíÀ» º¸ÀÚ: |
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Ma petite folle bien-aimée me donnait à dîner, et par la fenêtre ouverte de la salle à manger, je contemplais les mouvantes architectures que Dieu fait avec les vapeurs, les merveilleuses constructions de l¡¯impalpable. Et je me disais, à travers ma contemplation: Toutes ces fantasmagories sont presque aussi belles que les yeux de ma belle bien-aimée, la petite folle monstrueuse aux yeux verts.¡¯ |
³ªÀÇ ¹Ùº¸ °°Àº ÀÛÀº ¾ÖÀÎÀº ³»°Ô Àú³áÀ» ÁÖ°í ÀÖ¾ú´Ù, ±×¸®°í
°Å½ÇÀÇ ¿¸° âÀ» ÅëÇØ ³ª´Â ½ÅÀÌ ¼öÁõ±â·Î ¸¸µå´Â ¿òÁ÷ÀÌ´Â Á¶Çü¹°µéÀ», ¸¸Áú ¼ö ¾ø´Â ³î¶ó¿î ±¸Á¶¹°µéÀ», °¨»óÇϰí ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ±×¸®°í ³ª´Â
°¨»óÇÏ¸é¼ »ý°¢Çß´Ù: 'ÀÌ ¸ðµç ÁÖ¸¶µîÀº °ÅÀÇ ±«¹°°°ÀÌ ÀÛÀº ³ì»ö ´«À» °¡Áø ¹Ùº¸ÀÎ ³ªÀÇ ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿î ¾ÖÀÎÀÇ ´«Ã³·³ ¾Æ¸§´ä±¸³ª.' |
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Et tout à coup je reçus un violent coup de poing dans le dos, et j¡¯entendis une voix rauque et charmante, une voix hystérique et comme enrouee par l¡¯eau-de-vie, la voix de ma chère petite bien-aimée, qui disait: ¡®Allez-vous bientot manger votre soupe, s . . . b . . . de marchand de nuages?¡¯ [65] |
±×¸®°í °©Àڱ⠳ª´Â µî¿¡ °ÇÑ ÁÖ¸ÔÀ» ¸Â¾Ò´Ù, ±×¸®°í
³ª´Â, ¸¶Ä¡ ¼úÀ» ¸¶¼Å ½® °Íó·³, ½¬°í ¸Å·ÂÀûÀÎ ¸ñ¼Ò¸®, È÷½ºÅ׸¯ÇÑ ¸ñ¼Ò¸®, ³ªÀÇ ÀÛÀº ¾ÖÀÎÀÇ ¸ñ¼Ò¸®¸¦ µé¾ú´Âµ¥, ÀÌ·¸°Ô ¸»Çß´Ù:
'¸çÄ¥ ÀÖ´Ù ½ºÇÁ¸¦ µå½Ç °Ç°¡¿ä ¤¡——— ¤¸——— ±¸¸§Àå¼ö¾¾?
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However artificial this work is, with some effort one can guess what the author wished to say, but there are pieces that are entirely incomprehensible, to me at least. |
ÀÌ ÀÛǰÀÌ ¾Æ¹«¸® ÀÎÀ§ÀûÀ̶ó ÇÒÁö¶óµµ, Á¶±Ý¸¸ ³ë·ÂÇÑ´Ù¸é ÀÛ°¡°¡
¸»ÇÏ°í ½Í¾î ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ» ÁüÀÛÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ´Ù, ±×·¯³ª Àû¾îµµ ³»°Ô ÀüÀûÀ¸·Î ÀÌÇØµÉ ¼ö ¾ø´Â ´ÜÆíµéÀÌ ÀÖ´Ù. |
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Here, for instance, is Le Galant tireur, the meaning of which I entirely fail to grasp: |
¿©±â Le Galant tireur¸¦ ¿¹¸¦ µé¸é, ³ª´Â ÀÌ ÀÛǰÀÇ Àǹ̸¦ ÀüÀûÀ¸·Î ¾Ë¾Æ ³¾ ¼ö°¡ ¾ø´Ù. |
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Comme la voiture traversait le bois, il la fit arrêter dans le voisin-age d¡¯un tir, disant qu¡¯il lui serait agréable de tirer quelques balles pour tuer le Temps. Tuer ce monstre-là, n¡¯est-ce pas l¡¯occupation la plus ordinaire et la plus légitime de chacun? — Et il offrit galamment la main à sa chère, délicieuse et exécrable femme, a cette mystérieuse femme a laquelle il doit tant de plaisirs, tant de douleurs, et peut-être aussi une grande partie de son génie. |
¸¶Â÷°¡ °ø¿øÀ» °¡·ÎÁö¸£ÀÚ, ±×´Â »ç°ÝÀå ±Ùó¿¡ ¸ØÃßµµ·Ï ÇÏ¿´´Ù,
±×¸®°í ½Ã°£À» ¶§¿ì±â À§ÇØ ¸î ¹æ ½î´Â °ÍÀÌ Áñ°Å¿ï °ÍÀÌ¶ó ¸»Çß´Ù. ±× ±«¹°À» Á×ÀÌ´Â °ÍÀÌ ¿ì¸® °¢ÀÚÀÇ °¡Àå Æò¹üÇϰí ÇÕ¹ýÀûÀÎ Á÷¾÷ÀÌ
¾Æ´Ñ°¡?
— ±×¸®°í ±×´Â ±×ÀÇ ¼ÕÀ» ±×ÀÇ »ç¶û½º·´°í, Çâ±ßÇϸç ÇüÆí¾ø´Â ¾Æ³»¿¡°Ô, ±×¿¡°Ô ±×Åä·Ï ¸¹Àº Äè¶ôµéÀ», ±×Åä·Ï ¸¹Àº °íÅëµéÀ», ±×¸®°í ¿ª½Ã
¾Æ¸¶µµ ±×ÀÇ ÃµÀ缺ÀÇ Å« ºÎºÐÀ» ÁÖ´Â ±×Åä·Ï ½ÅºñÇÑ ¾Æ³»¿¡°Ô ³»¹Ð¾ú´Ù |
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Plusieurs balles frappèrent loin du but proposé; l¡¯une d¡¯elles s¡¯enfonça même dans le plafond; et comme la charmante créature riait follement, se moquant de la maladresse de son époux, celui-ci se tourna brusquement vers elle, et lui dit: ¡®Observe? cette poupée, là-bas, à droite, qui porte le nez en l¡¯air et qui a la mine si hautaine. Eh bien! cher ange, je me figure que c¡¯est vous.¡¯ Et il ferma les yeux et il lâcha la détente. La poupée fut nettement decapitée. Alors s¡¯inclinant vers sa chère, sa délicieuse, son exécrable femme, son inévitable et impitoyable Muse, et lui baisant respectueusement la main, il ajouta: ¡®Ah, mon cher ange, combienje vous remercie de mon adresse!¡¯ [66]
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¸î ¹ßÀº °ú³á¿¡¼ ¹þ¾î³µ´Ù; ÇÑ ¹ßÀº ½ÉÁö¾î õÀå¿¡ ¹ÚÇû´Ù;
±×¸®°í ¸Å·ÂÀûÀÎ ¿©ÀÚ´Â ±ò±ò°Å¸®¸ç ¿ô¾ú°í, ³²ÆíÀÇ ºÎÁ¤È®ÇÔÀ» ³î·È´Ù, ÈÄÀÚ´Â ´À´å¾øÀÌ ±×³à¿¡°Ô µ¹¾Æ¼¼ ¸»Çß´Ù: 'Àú±â ¿À¸¥ÂÊ¿¡ ÀÖ´Â ÀÎÇü,
ÄÚ¸¦ Çϴ÷Π³»¹Ð°í °Å¸¸ÇÑ ¸ð½ÀÀ» Çϰí ÀÖ´Â °Ô º¸¿©? ±Û½ê, ³» ÀÛÀº õ»ç¾ß, ³ª´Â ±×°Ô ³Ê¶ó°í ¿©±æ ÀÛÁ¤À̾ß.' ±×¸®°í ±×´Â ´«À» °¨°í¼
¹æ¾Æ¼è¸¦ ´ç°å´Ù. ÀÎÇüÀº ±ú²ýÀÌ ¸Ó¸®°¡ ³¯¾Æ°¬´Ù.
±×¸®°í ³ª¼ ±×ÀÇ »ç¶û½º·´°í, ±×ÀÇ Çâ±ßÇϸç, ±×ÀÇ ÇüÆí¾ø´Â
¾Æ³», ±×ÀÇ ÇÇÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø°í ÀÎÁ¤ ¾ø´Â ¹ÂÁî¿¡°Ô ´Ù°¡°¡¼, ±×³àÀÇ ¼Õ¿¡ Á¤ÁßÇÏ°Ô ÀÔ¸ÂÃß¾ú´Ù. ±×´Â ¸»À» À̾ú´Ù: '¿À, ³ªÀÇ »ç¶ûÇϴ õ»ç¿©,
³ªÀÇ Á¤È®ÇÔ¿¡ ´ëÇØ ¾î¶»°Ô ´ç½Å¿¡°Ô °í¸¿´Ù°í ÇÒ±î!'.
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The works of Verlaine, another celebrity, are no less fanciful and no less incomprehensible. Here, for instance, is the first of his Ariettes oubliées: |
´Ù¸¥ ¸í»çÀÎ º£¸£·»ÀÇ ÀÛǰµéÀº, ´ú ºñÇö½ÇÀûµµ ¾Æ´Ï¸ç ´ú ÀÌÇØ
ºÒ°¡´ÉÇÑ °Íµµ ¾Æ´Ï´Ù. ¿©±â¿¡ ±×ÀÇ ÀÛǰ ÀØÇôÁø ÀÛÀº ¾Æ¸®¾Æ(Ariettes oubliées)ÀÇ
ù ºÎºÐÀ» ¿¹·Î µé°Ú´Ù: |
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Le vent dans la plaine
Suspend son haleine. — Favart
¡¡
C¡¯est l¡¯extase langoureuse,
C¡¯est la fatigue amoureuse,
C¡¯est tous les frissons des bois
Parmi l¡¯étreinte des brises,
C¡¯est vers les ramures grises
Le choeur des petites voix.
¡¡
O le frele et frais murmure!
Cela gazouille et susure,
Cela ressemble au cri doux
Que l¡¯herbe agitée expire . . .
Tu dirais, sous l¡¯eau qui vire,
Le roulis sourd de cailloux.
¡¡
Cette âme qui se lamente
En cette plainte dormante,
C¡¯est la nôtre, n¡¯est-ce pas?
La mienne, dis, et la tienne,
Dont s¡¯exhale l¡¯humble antienne
Par ce tiède soir, tout bas. [67]
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Æò¿øÀÇ ¹Ù¶÷ÀÌ
±× ¼ûÀ» ¸ØÃß´Ù. — ÆÄ¹ÙÆ®
¡¡
±×°Ç ³ª¸¥ÇÑ È²È¦°æ,
±×°Ç ¾ÖÁ¤ÀÇ ÇÇ·Î,
±×°Ç ³ª¹«µéÀÇ ¸ðµç ¶³¸²
ȸ»ö ºû °¡Áöµé ±Ùó¿¡,
±×°Ç »êµé¹Ù¶÷ÀÇ Æ÷¿Ë ¼Ó¿¡,
ÀÛÀº ¸ñ¼Ò¸®µéÀÇ ÇÕâÀÌ´Ù.
¡¡
¿À, ¿¬¾àÇÏ°í ½Å¼±ÇÑ ¹°¼Ò¸®!
Á¹Á¹Á¹ ÀßÀßÀß,
±×°Ç Èçµé¸®´Â Àܵ𰡠³»½¬´Â...
¸¶Ä¡ ºÎµå·¯¿î ¿Üħ °°´Ù
´ç½ÅÀº ±ÁÀÌÄ¡´Â ¹° ¹Ø ÀÚ°¥µéÀÌ
¹«°Ì°Ô ±¸¸¥´Ù°í ¸»ÇϰÚÁö.
¡¡
ÀÌó·³ Á¹¸®¿î ¾Öµµ ¼Ó¿¡
¾ÖÅëÇØ ÇÏ´Â ¿µÈ¥Àº
±×°Ç ¿ì¸® °ÍÀÌÁö, ±×·¸Áö?
±×·¡, ³ªÀÇ °Í ±×¸®°í ³ÊÀÇ °Í,
ÀÌ ¿ÂÈÇÑ ¹ã¿¡, ³»½¬´Â
ºÎµå·¯¿î ÇÕâ.
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What is this ch©«ur des petites voix, and this cri doux que
l¡¯herbe agitée expire? And what is the meaning of the whole thing? For me it remains entirely incomprehensible. Here is another ariette: |
ÀÌ ÀÛÀº ¸ñ¼Ò¸®ÀÇ ÇÕâ(ch©«ur des petites voix) ¿Í ÀÌ ºÎµå·¯¿î Àܵ𰡠³»½¬´Â ºÎµå·¯¿î ¿Üħ(cri doux que
l¡¯herbe agitée expire)ÀÌ ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡? Àüü ÀÛǰÀÇ Àǹ̴ ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡? ³»°Ô´Â ÀüÀûÀ¸·Î ÀÌÇØÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø´Â
°ÍÀÌ´Ù. ¿©±â ´Ù¸¥ ¾Æ¸®¿¡Å¸°¡ ÀÖ´Ù. |
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Dans l¡¯interminable
Ennui de la plaine
La neige incertaine
Luit comme du sable.
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Æò¿øÀÇ ³¡¾ø´Â
Áö·çÇÔ ¼Ó¿¡
È帴ÇÑ ´«ÀÌ
¸ð·¡Ã³·³ ºû³´Ù.
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Le ciel est de cuivre
Sans lueur aucune,
On croirait voir vivre
Et mourir la lune.
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ÇÏ´ÃÀº Ȳµ¿À̸ç
¹Ý¦ÀÓµµ ¾ø´Ù
´ç½ÅÀº ÁöÄѺ»´Ù »ý°¢Çϸ®
´ÞÀÌ ³ª¼ Á״´ٰí.
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Comme des nuées
Flotte gris les chênes
Des forêts prochaines
Parmi les buées.
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±¸¸§ÀÌ È¸»öÀ¸·Î ²ÞƲ°Å¸®µí
±Ùó ½£µé ¾È¿¡
¾È°³µé »çÀÌ¿¡¼
Âü³ª¹«µéÀÌ ¶°µ·´Ù.
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Le ciel est de cuivre
Sans lueur aucune.
On croirait voir vivre
Et mourir la lune.
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ÇÏ´ÃÀº Ȳµ¿À̸ç
¹Ý¦ÀÓµµ ¾ø´Ù
´ç½ÅÀº ÁöÄѺ»´Ù »ý°¢Çϸ®
´ÞÀÌ ³ª¼ Á״´ٰí.
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Corneille poussive
Et vous les loups maigres,
Par ces bises aigres
Quoi done vous arrive?
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±î¿Á°Å¸®´Â ±î¸¶±Í
±×¸®°í ³ÊÈñ ¾Ó»óÇÑ ´Á´ëµé,
ÀÌó·³ ¿¡ÀÌ´Â ¹Ù¶÷¿¡
³ÊÈñ¿¡°Ô ¹«½¼ ÀÏÀΰ¡?
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Dans l¡¯interminable
Ennui de la plaine,
La neige incertaine
Luit comme du sable. [68]
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Æò¿øÀÇ ³¡¾ø´Â
Áö·çÇÔ ¼Ó¿¡
È帴ÇÑ ´«ÀÌ
¸ð·¡Ã³·³ ºû³´Ù.
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How is it that the moon lives and dies in a sky of brass, and how is it that snow shines like sand? All this is not only incomprehensible, but, under the pretext of conveying a mood, is a series of false comparisons and words. |
¾î¶»°Ô Ȳµ¿ Çϴÿ¡ ´ÞÀÌ »ì°í Á״°¡, ±×¸®°í ¾î¶»°Ô ´«ÀÌ ¸ð·¡Ã³·³
ºû³ª´Â°¡? ÀÌ ¸ðµç °ÍÀº ÀÌÇØµÉ ¼ö ¾øÀ» »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, ±âºÐÀ» Àü´ÞÇÑ´Ù´Â ±¸½Ç·Î, À߸øµÈ ºñ±³µé ¹× ´Ü¾îµéÀÇ ³ª¿ÀÌ´Ù. |
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Besides these artificial and obscure poems, there are others which are intelligible but quite bad both in forrn and content. Such are all the poems entitled La Sagesse. The greatest place in these poems is taken up by very bad manifestations of the most banal Catholic and patriotic feelings. There are, for instance, such stanzas as this: |
À̵é ÀÎÀ§ÀûÀÌ¸ç ¾Ö¸ÅÇÑ ½Ãµé ¿Ü¿¡µµ, ÁöÀûÀÌÁö¸¸ Çü½Ä ¹× ³»¿ë¿¡¼
¸Å¿ì ³ª»Û °ÍµéÀÌ ÀÖ´Ù. ÁöÇý(La Sagesse)¶ó´Â
Á¦¸ñÀÇ ¸ðµç ½Ãµéµµ ±×·¯ÇÏ´Ù. ÀÌ ½Ãµé¿¡¼ ÃÖ°íÀÇ ÀÚ¸®´Â °¡Àå ÁøºÎÇÑ Ä«Å縯 ¹× ¾Ö±¹Àû ´À³¦µé¿¡ °üÇÑ ¸Å¿ì ³ª»Û Ç¥ÇöµéÀÌ Â÷ÁöÇÑ´Ù. |
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Je ne veux plus penser qu¡¯a ma mère Marie, Siège de la sagesse et source de pardons, Mere de France aussi de qui nous attendons Inébranlablement l¡¯honneur de la patrie. [69]
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ÁöÇý°¡ ¸Ó¹«´Â °÷ ±×¸®°í ¿ë¼ÀÇ
¿øÃµ,
³ª´Â ÀÌÁ¦ ³ªÀÇ ¾î¸Ó´Ï ¸¶¸®¾Æ ¸¸À»,
Èçµé¸² ¾øÀÌ Á¶±¹ÀÇ ¿µ±¤À»
±â´ëÇÏ´Â
¶ÇÇÑ ÇÁ¶û½ºÀÇ ¾î¸Ó´Ï¸¦
»ý°¢ÇϷôÙ.
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Before giving examples from other poets, I cannot help dwelling upon the remarkable celebrity of these two versifiers, Baudelaire and Verlaine, now recognized as great poets. How could the French, who had Chénier, Musset, Lamartine and, above all, Victor Hugo, who still recently had the so-called Parnassians: Leconte de Lisle, Sully-Prudhomme, et al., ascribe such significance to these two versifiers and consider them great, when they are so unskilful in form and quite base and banal in content? One of them, Baudelaire, had a world outlook that consisted of crude egoism erected into a theory and the supplanting of morality by the concept of beauty, indefinite as the clouds and invariably artificial. Baudelaire preferred a woman¡¯s face painted rather than natural, and metal trees and a mineral simulacrum of water to the real things. |
´Ù¸¥ ½ÃÀεéÀÇ ¿¹µéÀ» º¸¿© ÁÖ±â Àü¿¡, ¹ü»óÄ¡ ¾ÊÀº À¯¸í½Å»çÀ̸ç,
ÀÌÁ¦ À§´ëÇÑ ½ÃÀεé·Î ÀÎÁ¤µÇ´Â, ÀÌ µÎ ½ÃÀεé, º¸µé·¹¸£ ¹× º£¸¦·»À» °õ°õÀÌ »ý°¢ÇØ º¸Áö ¾ÊÀ» ¼ö ¾ø´Ù. ¾îÂîÇÏ¿© ½¦´Ï¿¡, ¹¿¼¼, ¶ó¸¶¸£Æ¾
±×¸®°í ¹«¾ùº¸´Ù ºòÅ丣 À§°í¸¦ ¹èÃâÇÑ, ¾ÆÁÖ ÃÖ±Ù¿¡ ¼ÒÀ§ °í´äÆÄ ½ÃÀεé
— ¸£²ÇÅ× ¸®½½, ½¯¸® ÇÁ·òµ¼ µî — À» ¹èÃâÇÑ ÇÁ¶û½ºÀεéÀÌ, ÀÌ µÎ ½ÃÀεéÀÌ ±×Åä·Ï Çü½Ä¿¡ ¹Ì¼÷ÇÏ°í ³»¿ëÀûÀ¸·Î ³Ê¹«³ª õÇϰí ÁøºÎÇÔ¿¡µµ,
±×·¯ÇÑ Àǹ̸¦ ºÎ¿©ÇÏ°í ±×µéÀ» À§´ëÇÏ´Ù°í ¿©±â´Â °ÍÀΰ¡? ±×µé ÁßÀÇ ÇÑ »ç¶÷, º¸µé·¹¸£´Â õ¹ÚÇÑ À̱âÁÖÀÇ·Î ±¸¼ºµÈ ¼¼°è°üÀ»
ÀÌ·ÐÈÇÏ¿©, ±¸¸§µéó·³ ¸ðÈ£ÇÏ°í º¯ÇÔ¾øÀÌ ÀÎÀ§ÀûÀÎ, ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀ̶ó´Â °³³äÀ¸·Î µµ´ö¼ºÀ» ´ëüÇÏ¿´´Ù. º¸µé·¹¸£´Â ÀÚ¿¬º¸´Ù Ä¥ÇØÁø ¿©¼ºÀÇ ¾ó±¼À»,
»ç½ÇÀûÀÎ °Í º¸´Ù ±Ý¼Ó ³ª¹«µé ¹× À¯»ç ±¤Ãµ¼ö¸¦ ´õ ¼±È£ÇÏ¿´´Ù. |
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The world outlook of the other poet, Verlaine, consists of flabby licentiousness, the confession of his own moral impotence, and, as salvation from this impotence, the crudest Catholic idolatry. For all that, they are both not only totally devoid of naïvety, sincerity and simplicity, but are filled with artificiality, forced originality and self-conceit. So that in the least bad of their works one sees more of Messrs Baudelaire and Verlaine than of what they are portraying. And these two bad versifiers form a school and lead hundreds of followers after them. |
¶Ç ÇϳªÀÇ ½ÃÀÎ º£¸¦·»ÀÇ ¼¼°è°üÀº ³ªÅÂÇÑ ¹æÁ¾, ÀÚ±â ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ µµ´öÀû
ºÒ´ÉÀÇ °í¹é, ±×¸®°í, À̸¥ ºÒ´ÉÀ¸·ÎºÎÅÍÀÇ ±¸¿øÀ¸·Î¼ õ¹ÚÇÑ Ä«Å縯ÀÇ ¿ì»ó ¼þ¹è·Î ±¸¼ºµÇ¾î ÀÖ´Ù. ±×·¯ÇÔ¿¡µµ ºÒ±¸Çϰí, ±×°ÍµéÀº ¼ø¹ÚÇÔ,
¼º½Ç¼º ¹× ¼Ò¹ÚÇÔÀÌ ÀüÀûÀ¸·Î °á¿©µÇ¾î ÀÖÀ» »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, ÀÎÀ§¼º, °¾ÐÀûÀÎ µ¶Ã¢¼º ¹× Àڱ⠱⸸À¸·Î °¡µæ Â÷ ÀÖ´Ù. ±×·¯¹Ç·Î ±×µé ÀÛǰµé Áß
°¡Àå Á¶±Ý ³ª»Û °Í¿¡¼µµ ±×µéÀÌ ¹¦»çÇϰí ÀÖ´Â °Íº¸´Ù ´õÇÑ º¸µé·¹¸£³ª º£¸¦·» °°Àº ½ÃÀεéÀ» ¸¸³ª°Ô µÈ´Ù. ±×¸®°í ÀÌµé µÎ »ç¶÷ÀÇ ³ª»Û
½ÃÀεéÀº ÇϳªÀÇ ÇÐÆÄ¸¦ ÀÌ·ç¸ç ±×µé µÚ·Î ¼ö¹éÀÇ ÃßÁ¾ÀÚµéÀ» °Å´À¸°´Ù. |
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There is only one explanation of this phenomenon: that art for the society in which these two versifiers are active is not a serious, important matter of life, but is merely an amusement. And any amusement becomes boring with repetition. In order to make the boring amusement possible again, it must be renewed in some way: when Boston gets boring, whist is invented; when whist gets boring, preference is invented; when preference gets boring, some other new thing is invented, and so on. The essence of the matter remains the same, only the forms change. So it is with this art: its content, becoming more and more limited, finally reaches the point where artists of the exclusive classes think that everything has already been said, and it is no longer possible to say anything new. And so, to renew this art, they seek new forms. |
ÀÌ·± Çö»ó¿¡ ´ëÇØ ¿ÀÁ÷ ÇѰ¡Áö ¼³¸íÀÌ Á¸ÀçÇÑ´Ù: Áï, ÀÌµé µÎ
½ÃÀεéÀÌ È°µ¿ÇÏ´Â »çȸÀÇ ¿¹¼úÀº »î¿¡ ÀÖ¾î¼ ÁøÁöÇϰųª Áß¿äÇÑ ¹®Á¦°¡ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, ´Ü¼øÈ÷ ¿À¶ôÀÏ »ÓÀÌ´Ù. ±×¸®°í ¾î¶² ¿À¶ôÀÌ¶óµµ ¹Ýº¹µÈ´Ù¸é
Áö·çÇØ Áø´Ù. Áö·çÇÑ ¿À¶ôÀÌ ´Ù½Ã °¡´ÉÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖµµ·Ï ÇÏ·Á¸é, ¾î·µç ¹Ýµå½Ã »õ·Î¿ö Á®¾ß ÇÑ´Ù: º¸½ºÅæÀÌ Áö·çÇØÁö¸é, À§½ºÆ®°¡ °í¾ÈµÈ´Ù;
À§½ºÆ®°¡ Áö·çÇØÁö¸é ÇÁ·¹ÆÛ·±½º°¡ °í¾ÈµÈ´Ù; ÇÁ·¹ÆÛ·±½º°¡ Áö·çÇØÁö¸é, ´Ù¸¥ ¾î¶² »õ·Î¿î °ÍÀÌ °í¾ÈµÈ´Ù, ±×¸®°í ¶Ç... ¹®Á¦ÀÇ º»ÁúÀº
µ¿ÀÏÇÏ´Ù, ¿ÀÁ÷ Çü½Äµé¸¸ º¯ÇÒ »ÓÀÌ´Ù. ÀÌ·± ¿¹¼úµµ ±×·¸´Ù: ±× ³»¿ëÀÌ, Á¡Á¡ ´õ ÇѰ迡 À̸£·¯¼, ¸¶Ä§³» ¹èŸÀû °è±ÞµéÀÇ ¿¹¼ú°¡µéÀÌ À̹Ì
¸ðµç °ÍµéÀÌ ´Ù °Å·ÐµÇ¾ú´Ù°í »ý°¢ÇÏ´Â Áö°æ¿¡ À̸£¸ç, ¾î¶² »õ·Î¿î °ÍÀ» ¾ð±ÞÇÏ´Â °ÍÀÌ ´õ ÀÌ»ó °¡´ÉÇÏÁö ¾Ê´Ù. ±×·¡¼, ÀÌ·± ¿¹¼úÀ» »õ·Ó°Ô
Çϱâ À§Çؼ, ±×µéÀº »õ·Î¿î Çü½ÄµéÀ» Ãß±¸ÇÑ´Ù. |
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Baudelaire and Verlaine, while inventing a new form, have also enhanced it with previously unused pornographic details. And the critics and public recognize them as great writers. |
º¸µé·¹¸£¿Í º£¸£·»Àº, »õ·Î¿î Çü½ÄÀ» °í¾ÈÇÏ´Â ÇÑÆí, ÀÌÀü¿¡ »ç¿ëµÇÁö
¾ÊÀº ¿Ü¼³Àû ¹¦»çµé·Î ±×°ÍÀ» È®ÀåÇß´Ù. ±×¸®°í ºñÆò°¡µé°ú ´ëÁßµéÀº ±×µéÀ» À§´ëÇÑ ÀÛ°¡µé·Î ÀÎÁ¤ÇÑ´Ù. |
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This alone explains the success not only of Baudelaire and Verlaine, but of the entire decadent movement. |
´Ü À̰͸¸À¸·Îµµ º¸µé·¹¸£¿Í º£¸¦·» »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó Àüü ÅðÆóÁÖÀÇ ¿îµ¿ÀÇ
¼º°øÀÌ ¼³¸íµÈ´Ù. |
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There are, for instance, poems by Mallarmé and Maeterlinck that have no meaning, and in spite of that, or perhaps because of it, they are published not only in separate editions numbering tens of thousands, but in collections of the best works of the younger poets. |
¿¹¸¦ µé¸é, ¾Æ¹«·± Àǹ̵µ ¾ø´Â ¸»¶ó¸£¸Þ¿Í ¸¶Å͸µÅ©ÀÇ ½ÃµéÀÌ
ÀÖÀ¸¸ç, ±×·³¿¡µµ ºÒ±¸Çϰí, ȤÀº ±×·± ÀÌÀ¯·Î, ±×°ÍµéÀº ¼ö¸¸¿¡ ´ÞÇÏ´Â ÀμâºÎ¼ö·Î »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, û³â ½ÃÀεé Áß ÃÖ°íÀÇ ÀÛǰÁýµé·Î
ÃâÆÇµÇ¾ú´Ù. |
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Here, for example, is a sonnet by Mallarmé, published in the review Pan (1895, No. I): |
¿¹·Î¼, ¿©±â ¸»¶ó¸£¸ÞÀÇ ¼Ò³×Æ®°¡ ÀÖÀ¸¸ç ÀÌ´Â Æò·ÐÁö
Pan (1895, No. I)¿¡ ÃâÆÇµÈ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. |
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À la nue accablante tu
Basse de basalte et de laves
À même les êchos esclaves
Par une trompe sans vertu
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¿ë¾Ï ±×¸®°í Çö¹«¾Ïó·³
¾ï´©¸£´Â ³·Àº ±¸¸§¿¡ Á¶¿ëÇØÁ³´Ù.
ÁÁÁö ¾ÊÀº Æ®·³ÆêÀÌ ¸¸µå´Â
½ÉÁö¾î µÇÇ®À̵Ǵ ¸Þ¾Æ¸®µé¿¡ |
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Quel sépulcral naufrage (tu
Le sais, écume, mais y baves)
Suprême une entre les épaves
Abolit le mât dévètu
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¾î¶² ¹«´ý °°Àº ³ÆÄ¼±ÀÌ (´ç½Å,
°Å±â ³ë¿¹ ¼±ÀÌ, ±× °ÅǰÀ» ¾È´Ù)
ºÎ¼Áø °Íµé Áß¿¡ ÃÖ°íÀÇ ¹è°¡
¹ú°Å¹þÀº µÀ´ë¸¦ ºÎ¼ø´Ù |
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Ou cela que furibond faute
De quelque perdition haute
Tout l¡¯abîme vain éployé
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ȤÀº ¾î¶² °¡Àå ½ÉÇÑ ÆÄ¸êµµ
¸ðÀÚ¶õ´Ù°í ºÐ³ëÇÏ´Â À̾߱â
¿ÂÅë ÅÖ ºó ½É¿¬ÀÌ µå·¯³´Ù.
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Dans le si blanc cheveu qui traîne
Avarement aura noyé
Le flanc enfant d¡¯une sirène. [70]
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´Ã¾î¶ß¸° ¾ÆÁÖ ÇÏ¾á ¸Ó¸®Ä«¶ô¿¡
¾î¶² »çÀÌ·»ÀÇ ¾î¸° ¿·±¸¸®°¡
Ž¿å½º·´°Ô ºüÁ®µé °ÍÀÌ´Ù.
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¡¡ |
¡¡ |
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This poem is not exceptional in its incomprehensibility. I have read several poems by Mallarmé. They are all similarly devoid of meaning. |
ÀÌ ½Ã´Â ±× ³Çؼº¿¡¼ ¿¹¿ÜÀûÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï´Ù. ³ª´Â ¸»¶ó¸£¸ÞÀÇ ¿©·¯
½ÃµéÀ» Àоú´Ù. ±×°ÍµéÀº ¸ðµÎ ºñ½ÁÇÏ°Ô Àǹ̰¡ ¾ø¾ú´Ù. |
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And here is an example from another famous contemporary poet — three songs by Maeterlinck. This, too, I have taken from Pan (1895, No. 2): |
±×¸®°í ¿©±â µ¿½Ã´ëÀÇ ´Ù¸¥ À¯¸íÇÑ ½ÃÀÎÀÇ °Í
— ¸¶Å͸µÅ©ÀÇ ¼¼ °¡Áö °¡»çµé —
À» ¿¹·Î µé°Ú´Ù. ÀÌ°Í ¿ª½Ã
Pan (1895, No. 2)¿¡¼ °¡Á®¿Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù: |
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Quand il est sorti
(J¡¯entendis la porte)
Quand il est sorti
Elle avait souri . . .
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±×°¡ ³ª°¬À» ¶§
(³ª´Â ¹®¼Ò¸®¸¦ µé¾ú´Ù)
±×°¡ ³ª°¬À» ¶§
±×³à°¡ ¹Ì¼Ò¸¦ Áö¾ú´Ù...
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Mais quand il rentra
(J¡¯entendis la lampe)
Mais quand il rentra
Une autre etait la ...
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ÇÏÁö¸¸ ±×°¡ ¿ÔÀ» ¶§
(³ª´Â ºÒ ÄÑ´Â ¼Ò¸®¸¦ µé¾ú´Ù)
ÇÏÁö¸¸ ±×°¡ ¿ÔÀ» ¶§
°Å±â ´Ù¸¥ À̰¡ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù...
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Etj¡¯ai vu la mort
(J¡¯entendis son âme)
Et j¡¯ai vu la mort
Qui l¡¯attend encore ...
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±×¸®°í ³ª´Â ±×°Ô Á×À½ÀÎ ÁÙ ¾Ë¾Ò´Ù
(³ª´Â ±× ¿µÈ¥ÀÇ ¼Ò¸®¸¦ µé¾ú´Ù)
±×¸®°í ³ª´Â ±×°Ô Á×À½ÀÎ ÁÙ ¾Ë¾Ò´Ù
ħ¹¬ÇÏ¸ç ±×¸¦ ±â´Ù¸®°í ÀÖ¾ú´Ù...
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On est venu dire
(Mon enfant, j¡¯ai peur)
On est venu dire
Qu¡¯il allait partir . ...
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±×µéÀÌ ¿Í¼ ¸»Çß´Ù
(³» ÀÚ½Ä, ³ª´Â µÎ·Æ´Ù)
±×µéÀÌ ¿Í¼ ¸»Çß´Ù
±×´Â ¸Ö¸® °¡°í ÀÖ¾ú´Ù... |
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Ma lampe allumée
(Mon enfant, j¡¯ai peur)
Ma lampe allumée
Me suis approchee...
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µîºÒÀ» ÄѰí¼
(³» ÀÚ½Ä, ³ª´Â µÎ·Æ´Ù)
µîºÒÀ» ÄѰí¼
³ª´Â ´õ °¡±îÀÌ ¿Ã¶ó°¬´Ù...
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À la première porte
(Mon enfant, j¡¯ai peur)
À la première porte
La flamme a tremblé . . .
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ù° ¹®¿¡¼
(³» ÀÚ½Ä, ³ª´Â µÎ·Æ´Ù)
ù° ¹®¿¡¼
ºÒºûÀÌ Èçµé·È´Ù... |
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À la seconde porte
(Mon enfant, j¡¯ai peur)
À la seconde porte,
La flamme a parlé . . .
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µÑ° ¹®¿¡¼
(³» ÀÚ½Ä, ³ª´Â µÎ·Æ´Ù)
µÑ° ¹®¿¡¼
ºÒºûÀÌ ¸»Çß´Ù...
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À la troisième porte
(Mon enfant, j¡¯ai peur)
À la troisième porte
La lumière est morte . . .
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¼Â° ¹®¿¡¼
(³» ÀÚ½Ä, ³ª´Â µÎ·Æ´Ù)
¼Â° ¹®¿¡¼
ºûÀÌ »ç¶óÁ³´Ù...
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Et s¡¯il revenait unjour
Que faut-il lui dire?
Dites-lui qu¡¯on l¡¯attendit
Jusqu¡¯à s¡¯en mourir
...
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±×¸®°í ±×°¡ ¾ðÁ¦ µ¹¾Æ ¿Â´Ù¸é
³ª´Â ±×¿¡°Ô ¹«¾ùÀ» ¸»ÇÏÁö?
±×¿¡°Ô ±×³à°¡ Á×¾ú´Ù ¸»ÇÏ·Å
±×µé ±â´Ù¸®´Ù°¡...
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Et s¡¯il interroge encore
Sans me reconnaître,
Parlez-lui comme une sceur,
Il souffre peut-être ...
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±×¸®°í ±×°¡ ´õ ¹¯´Â´Ù¸é
³»°¡ ´©±ºÁö ±ú´ÝÁö ¸øÇÑ Ã¤,
´©ÀÌó·³ ±×¿¡°Ô ¸»ÇÏ·Å,
±×°¡ °íÅë ¹Þ°í ÀÖÀ» °Å¶ó°í...
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Et s¡¯il demande où vous êtes
Que faut-il répondre?
Donnez-lui mon anneau d¡¯or
Sans rien lui répondre . . .
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±×¸®°í ±×°¡ ³×°¡ ¾îµð¿¡ ÀÖ´ÂÁö
¹°À¸¸é
³ª´Â ±×¿¡°Ô ¹«¾ùÀÌ¶ó ¸»ÇÏÁö?
±×¿¡°Ô ³» ±Ý¹ÝÁö¸¦ ÁÖ·Å
±×¸®°í ¾Æ¹«°Íµµ ´õ ¸»ÇÏÁö
¸»·Å...
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Et s¡¯il veut savoir pourquoi
La salle est déserte?
Montrez-lui la lampe éteinte
Et la porte ouverte . . .
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±×¸®°í ±×°¡ ¿Ö³Ä°í ¹¯´Â´Ù¸é
±× ¹æÀÌ ÅÖ ºñ¾ú´ÂÁö?
±×¿¡°Ô ¾îµÎ¿î µîÀ» º¸¿© ÁÖ·Å
±×¸®°í ¹®À» ¿¾î¼...
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Et s¡¯il m¡¯interroge alors
Sur la dernière heure?
Dites-lui quej¡¯ai souri
De peur qu¡¯il ne pleure . . . [71]
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±×¸®°í ´ÙÀ½¿¡ ±×°¡ ³»°Ô ¹¯´Â´Ù¸é
ÀÓÁ¾¿¡ ´ëÇØ¼?
³»°¡ ¹Ì¼Ò Áö¾ú´Ù°í ±×¿¡°Ô ¸»ÇÏ·Å
µÎ·Á¿ö¼ ±×°¡ ¿ï °Í °°±â¿¡.
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Who went out? Who came in? Who is talking? Who died? |
´©°¡ ³ª°¬Áö? ´©°¡ µé¾î ¿ÔÁö? ´©°¡ ¸»Çϰí Àִ°¡? ´©°¡ Á×¾ú³ª? |
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I ask the reader not to be lazy about reading the examples I cite in the first appendix from the better-known and esteemed young poets — Griffin, [72] Régnier, Moréas and Montesquiou. It is necessary in order to form a clear idea of the true state of art, and not to think, as many do, that decadence is an accidental, temporary phenomenon. |
³ª´Â µ¶ÀÚµéÀÌ Á¦ÀÏ ºÎ·Ï¿¡¼ Àß ¾Ë·ÁÁ® ÀÖÀ¸¸ç Ã˸Á ¹Þ´Â ÀþÀº
½ÃÀεé
— ±×¸®ÇÉ, ·¹´Ï¿¡, ¸ð·¹¾Æ½º ¹× ¸ùÅ×½ºÅ°¿Ü —
¿¡°Ô¼ ³»°¡ ÀοëÇÏ´Â ¿¹µéÀ» ÀÐ¾î º¸±â¸¦ °ÔÀ»¸® ÇÏÁö ¸» °ÍÀ» ´çºÎÇÑ´Ù. ¿¹¼úÀÇ ÂüµÈ »óÅ¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ¸í·áÇÑ °³³äÀ» Çü¼ºÇϰí, ´Ù¸¥ ¸¹Àº
»ç¶÷µéó·³, ÅðÆóÁÖÀǰ¡ ¿ì¿¬ÇÑ °ÍÀ̸ç, ÀϽÃÀûÀÎ Çö»óÀ̶ó°í »ý°¢ÇÏÁö ¾Êµµ·Ï Çϱâ À§ÇØ ±×°ÍÀº ÇÊ¿äÇÏ´Ù. |
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To avoid the reproach of having picked out the worst poems, I have cited from each book the poem that happened to appear on the twenty-eighth page. |
ÃÖ¾ÇÀÇ ½ÃµéÀ» »Ì¾Ò´Ù´Â ºñ³À» ÇÇÇϱâ À§ÇØ, ³ª´Â °¢°¢ÀÇ Ã¥¿¡¼
½º¹° ¿©´ü ¹øÂ° ÆäÀÌÁö¿¡ ¿Ã¶ó ÀÖ´Â ½Ã¸¦ ÀοëÇÏ¿´´Ù. |
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All the poems of these poets are equally incomprehensible, or comprehensible only with great effort and then not fully. |
ÀÌµé ½ÃÀεéÀÇ ¸ðµç ½ÃµéÀº ¶È °°ÀÌ ³ÇØÇϰųª, ¾öû³ ³ë·ÂÀÌ
ÀÖ¾î¾ß¸¸ ÀÌÇØµÇ¸ç, ±×·³¿¡µµ ¿ÏÀüÈ÷ ÀÌÇØµÇÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù. |
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All the works of these hundreds of poets, of whom I have named only a few, are the same. And the same sort of poems are published by Germans, Scandinavians, Italians and us Russians. If not millions, at least hundreds of thousands of copies are typeset and printed (some sell in tens of thousands). To typeset, print, compose and bind these books, millions and millions of working days are spent — no less, I think, than for the building of a big pyramid. But not only that: the same thing goes on in all the other arts, and millions of working days are spent to produce objects just as incomprehensible in painting, music, drama. |
ÀÌµé ¼ö¹é ¸íÀÇ ½ÃÀεéÀÇ ¸ðµç ÀÛǰµéÀº, ±×°Íµé¿¡ ´ëÇØ ´ÜÁö ¸î
°¡Áö¸¸ ¸»ÇßÁö¸¸, µ¿ÀÏÇÏ´Ù. ±×¸®°í µ¿ÀÏÇÑ Á¾·ùÀÇ ½ÃµéÀÌ µ¶ÀÏÀεé, ½ºÄµð³ªºñ¾ÆÀεé, ÀÌÅ»¸®¾ÆÀÎµé ¹× ¿ì¸® ·¯½Ã¾ÆÀÎ µé¿¡ ÀÇÇØ ÃâÆÇµÈ´Ù.
¼ö¹é¸¸Àº ¾Æ´ÒÁö¶óµµ, Àû¾îµµ ¼ö½Ê¸¸ ºÎ°¡ ȰÀÚȵǾî ÀμâµÇ¾ú´Ù (¾î¶² °ÍÀº ¼ö¸¸ ºÎ°¡ ÆÈ¸°´Ù). ÀÌ Ã¥µéÀ» ȰÀÚÈÇϰí ÀμâÇϰí, Á¤¸®Çϰí,
Á¦º»Çϱâ À§ÇØ, ¾öû³ ¾çÀÇ ³ëµ¿ÀÏÀÌ ¼Ò¸ðµÈ´Ù
— »ý°¢°Ç´ë, °Å´ëÇÑ ÇǶó¹Ìµå¸¦ °Ç¼³ÇÏ´Â °Íº¸´Ù °áÄÚ ÀûÁö ¾Ê´Ù. ±×·¯³ª ±×°Í »ÓÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï´Ù: µ¿ÀÏÇÑ ÀÏÀÌ ´Ù¸¥ ¸ðµç ¿¹¼úµé¿¡¼ ÀϾ¸ç,
¹Ì¼ú, À½¾Ç, ¿¬±¹¿¡¼¿Í ¸¶Âù°¡Áö·Î ³ÇØÇÑ ÀÛǰµéÀ» ¸¸µé¾î ³»±â À§ÇØ ¼ö¹é¸¸ÀÇ ³ëµ¿ÀÏÀÌ ¼Ò¸ðµÈ´Ù. |
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Painting not only does not lag behind poetry in this, but even outstrips it. Here is a passage from the diary of an amateur of painting who visited the Paris exhibitions in 1894: [73] |
¹Ì¼úÀº ÀÌ Á¡¿¡¼ ½Ãº¸´Ù µÚÃÄÁöÁö ¾ÊÀ» »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó À̸¦ ´É°¡ÇÑ´Ù.
¿©±â 1894³â ÆÄ¸® Àü½Ãȸ¸¦ ´Ù³à¿Â ¾Æ¸¶Ãß¾î ¹Ì¼ú°¡ÀÇ Àϱ⿡¼ °¡Á®¿Â ±ÛÀÌ ÀÖ´Ù: |
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Today I attended three exhibitions: symbolists, impressionists and neo-impressionists. I looked at the paintings conscientiously and diligently — but again the same perplexity and, in the end, indignation. The first exhibition, of Camille Pissarro, is still the most comprehensible, though there is no drawing, no content, and the colours are most incredible. The drawing is so indefinite that one sometimes cannot tell which way a hand or head is turned. The content is mostly effets — effet de brouillard, ejfet du soir, soleil couchant. [74] Several paintings with figures, but without subject. |
¿À´Ã ³ª´Â »ó¡ÁÖÀÇÀÚµé, ÀλóÁÖÀÇÀÚµé ¹× ½ÅÀλóÁÖÀÇÀÚµéÀÇ ¼¼°¡Áö
Àü½Ãȸµé¿¡ Âü¼®Çß´Ù. ³ª´Â ÁøÁöÇÏ°Ô ±×¸®°í ºÎÁö·±È÷ ±×¸²µéÀ» °ü¶÷ÇÏ¿´´Ù
— ±×·¯³ª ´Ù½Ã±Ý ¶È°°ÀÌ È¥¶õ½º·¯¿üÀ¸¸ç, °á±¹¿¡´Â ºÐÅëÀÌ ÅÍÁ³´Ù. ù ¹øÂ° Àü½Ã´Â, ±î¹ÌÀ¯ ÇÇ»ç·ÎÀÇ °ÍÀ¸·Î, ±× Áß °¡Àå ³³µæÀÌ °¬Áö¸¸,
¾Æ¹«·± ±×¸®±âµµ, ¾Æ¹«·± ³»¿ëµµ ¾ø¾úÀ¸¸ç, »ö»óµéÀº ´çÂú¾Ò´Ù. ±×¸®±â´Â ³Ê¹«³ª ¾Ö¸ÅÇØ¼ ¾î´À ¹æÇâÀ¸·Î ¼ÕÀ̳ª ¸Ó¸®°¡ ÇâÇÏ´ÂÁö
¶§´ë·Î ºÐº°ÇÒ ¼öµµ ¾ø¾ú´Ù. ³»¿ëÀº ´ëüÀûÀ¸·Î È¿°úµé
— ¾È°³ È¿°ú, Àú³á È¿°ú, ¼®¾ç
— À̾ú´Ù. ¾î¶² ±×¸²µéÀº Çü»óµéÀº À־ ÁÖÁ¦´Â ¾ø¾ú´Ù. |
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In colouring there is a predominance of bright blue and bright green. And each painting has its basic tone, with which the painting is as if spattered. For example, the goose-girl has a basic tone of vert-de-gris, and there are spots of this colour everywhere: on her face, hair, arms, dress. In the same Durand-Ruel gallery, other paintings by Puvis de Chavannes, Manet, Monet, Renoir, Sisley — these are all impressionists. One of them — I could not make out his name, something like Redon — painted a blue face in profile. The whole face is just this blue tone, with some white. In Pissarro there is one watercolour done entirely in dots. In the foreground a cow, all painted in multicoloured dots. One cannot catch the general tone, whether one stands back or steps close. From there I went to look at the symbolists. I looked for a long time without asking anyone, trying to guess for myself what the point was — but it is beyond human comprehension. One of the first things that struck my eye was a wooden haut-relief, of ugly execution, portraying a woman (naked) who with her two hands is squeezing streams of blood from her nipples. The blood flows down and becomes purple flowers. The hair first hangs down, then is pulled up, turning into trees. The figure is painted yellow all over, the hair is brown. |
»ö»ó¿¡¼± ¿¶Àº û»ö ¹× ¿¶Àº ³ì»öÀÌ ÁÖ·ù¸¦ ÀÌ·ç¾ú´Ù. ±×¸®°í °¢°¢ÀÇ
±×¸²Àº ±âº» »öÁ¶°¡ ÀÖ¾ú´Âµ¥, ±×¸²Àº ÀÌ·± ¹æ½ÄÀ» Èð»Ñ·Á ³õÀº °Í °°¾Ò´Ù. ¿¹¸¦ µé¸é, °ÅÀ§Áö±â ¿©ÀÚ´Â ±âº» »öÁ¶°¡ ³ìû»öÀ̸ç, µµÃ³
—
±×³àÀÇ ¾ó±¼, ¸Ó¸®Ä«¶ô ÆÈ, ÀǺ¹
—
¿¡ ÀÌ »ö»óÀÌ ¹ÚÇô ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. µ¿ÀÏÇÑ µà¶õ ·ç¿¤ ȶû¿¡, —àºñ µå »þ¹æ, ¸¶³×, ¸£³ë¿Í¸£, ½Ã½½¸®°¡ ±×¸° ´Ù¸¥ ±×¸²µé
— À̰͵éÀº ¸ðµÎ ÀλóÁÖÀÇÀÚµéÀÌ´Ù
— ÀÌ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ±×µé ÁßÀÇ Çϳª´Â
— ±×ÀÇ À̸§Àº ±â¾ïÇÒ ¼ö ¾øÁö¸¸, ·¹µ· ºñ½ÁÇÑ ¾î¶² °ÍÀε¥
— Ǫ¸¥»ö Ãø¸é ¾ó±¼À» ±×·È´Ù. Àüü ¾ó±¼Àº ¹Ù·Î ÀÌ °°Àº ¾à°£ Èò»öÀ» ¶í Ǫ¸¥ »öÁ¶ÀÌ´Ù. ÇÇ»ç·Î¿¡°Ô ÀÖ¾î¼ Àüü°¡ Á¡µé·Î µÈ ÇѰ¡Áö
¼öäȹýÀ¸·Î ÀÌ·ç¾î Áø´Ù. Àü¸é¿¡¼ ÇÑ ¾Ï¼Ò´Â, ¸ðµÎ ´Ù¾çÇÑ »ö»óÀÇ Á¡µé·Î Ä¥Çß´Ù. µÚ·Î ¹°·¯¼µç °¡±îÀÌ ´Ù°¡¼µç ÀϹÝÀû »öÁ¶¸¦ °¨ÁöÇÒ ¼ö
¾ø´Ù. °Å±â·ÎºÎÅÍ ³ª´Â »ó¡ÁÖÀÇÀÚµéÀ» º¸·¯ °¬´Ù. ³ª´Â ¾Æ¹«¿¡°Ôµµ Áú¹®ÇÏÁö ¾Ê°í¼ ÇÑÂü µ¿¾È ¹Ù¶ó º¸¾ÒÀ¸¸ç, ¿äÁ¡ÀÌ ¹«¾ùÀÎÁö ÁüÀÛÇØ º¸°íÀÚ
¾Ö¸¦ ½è´Ù — ÇÏÁö¸¸ ±×°ÍÀº »ç¶÷ÀÇ ÀÌÇØÀÇ °æÁö¸¦ ¹þ¾î³ª ÀÖ´Ù. ³ªÀÇ ½Ã¼±À» ²ö ÃÖÃÊÀÇ °Íµé Áß Çϳª´Â ¸ñÀç·Î µÈ ³ôÀº ¾ç°¢À̾úÀ¸¸ç, ÈäÇϰÔ
¸¸µç °ÍÀ¸·Î, (³ªÃ¼ÀÇ)¿©ÀÚ°¡ µÎ ¼ÕÀ¸·Î ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ Á¥²ÀÁö·ÎºÎÅÍ Çǰ¡ ¶Ò¶Ò ¶³¾îÁöµµ·Ï Â¥³»°í ÀÖ´Â °ÍÀ̾ú´Ù. Çǰ¡ Èê·¯ ³»·Á¼ ÀÚÁÖ»ö ²ÉµéÀÌ
µÇ´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ¸Ó¸®Ä«¶ôÀº ¸ÕÀú ¾Æ·¡·Î ´Ã¾îÁö°í ´ÙÀ½¿£ ²ø¾î ¿Ã·ÁÁ® ³ª¹«µé·Î º¯ÇÑ´Ù. À±°ûÀº ÀüüÀûÀ¸·Î ³ë¶þ°Ô Ä¥ÇØÁö¸ç, ¸Ó¸®Ä«¶ôÀº °¥»öÀÌ´Ù. |
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Then a painting: a yellow sea, and floating in it what might be a ship or might be a heart; on the horizon a profile with a halo and yellow hair that becomes the sea and gets lost in it. The paint in some paintings is applied so thickly that it comes out as something between painting and sculpture. A third work, still less comprehensible: a male profile, before it a flame and black stripes — leeches, it was later explained to me. I finally asked a gentleman who was there what it all means, and he explained to me that the statue was a symbol, that it represented La Terre, that the heart floating in the yellow sea was Illusion, and the gentleman with the leeches was Le Mal. There were several impressionist paintings among them: primitive profiles with some flower in their hand. Monochrome, no drawing, and either completely indefinite or else outlined with a broad black contour. |
´ÙÀ½¿£ ¾î¶² ±×¸²: ³ë¶õ ¹Ù´Ù, ±×¸®°í ±× À§¿¡ ¹èÀ̰ųª ½ÉÀåÀÏ °Í
°°Àº °ÍÀÌ ¶°ÀÖ´Ù; ¼öÆò¼±¿£ Èı¤À» Áö´Ñ À±°û°ú ¹Ù´Ù°¡ µÇ¸ç ±× ¾È¿¡ »ç¶óÁö´Â ³ë¶õ ¸Ó¸®Ä«¶ôÀÌ ÀÖ´Ù. ¾î¶² ±×¸²µé¿¡¼ »öÄ¥Àº ³Ê¹«³ª µÎ²®°Ô
µÇ¾î¼ ±×¸²°ú Á¶°¢ »çÀÌÀÇ ¾î¶² °ÍÀ¸·Î º¸ÀδÙ. ¼¼ ¹øÂ° ÀÛǰÀº, ¿©ÀüÈ÷ ÀÌÇØ°¡ ´ú µÇ´Â °ÍÀ¸·Î, ³²ÀÚÀÇ Àι°ÀÌ ÀÖÀ¸¸ç, ±× ¾Õ¿¡ È¿°°ú
°ËÀº äÂïµé
— µÚ¿¡ ¼³¸íµÇ±â·Î °Å¸Ó¸®µé
— °¡ ÀÖ´Ù.
³ª´Â ¸¶Ä§³» °Å±â ÀÖ´Â ½Å»ç¿¡°Ô ±×°Ô ¸ðµÎ ¹«¾ùÀ» ÀǹÌÇϴ°¡ ¹°¾ú°í, ±×´Â ³»°Ô ¼³¸íÇϱ⸦, ±× Çü»óÀº »ó¡À̸ç, ±×°ÍÀº ¶¥(La
Terre)À» ³ªÅ¸³»¸ç, ³ë¶õ ¹Ù´Ù À§¿¡ ¶°ÀÖ´Â ½ÉÀåÀº ȯ¿µ(Illusion)À̰í,
°Å¸Ó¸®µé°ú ÇÔ²² ÀÖ´Â ½Å»çµéÀº ¾Ç(Le Mal)À̶ó°í Çß´Ù.
±×°Íµé Áß¿£ ¸î °¡Áö ÀλóÁÖÀÇ ±×¸²µéÀÌ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù: ¼Õ¿¡ ¸î ¼ÛÀÌ ²ÉµéÀ» µç ¿ø½ÃÀûÀÎ Àι°ÀÌ´Ù. ´Ü»öÀ̸ç, ½ºÄÉÄ¡µµ ¾ø°í, µÎ²¨¿î À±°ûÀ» µÎ¸¥
ÀüÀûÀ¸·Î ¾Ö¸ÅÇϰųª ±×·± °ÍÀ̾ú´Ù. |
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That was in the year 1894; now this tendency is still more strongly defined: Bocklin, Stuck, Klinger, Sasha Schneider and others. [75] |
À̰ÍÀº 1894³â¿¡ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù; ÀÌÁ¦ ÀÌ·± °æÇâÀº ÈξÀ ´õ °·ÂÇϰÔ
Á¤ÀǵȴÙ: º¸Å¬¸°,½ºÅÎ, Ŭ¸µ°Å, »ç»þ ½¬³ªÀÌ´õ ¹× µî. |
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The same thing is also happening in the drama. We are shown an architect who for some reason has not fulfilled his earlier lofty intentions and consequently climbs on to the roof of a house he has built and throws himself off it head first; or some incomprehensible old woman who exterminates rats and who, for no apparent reason, takes a poetical child to the sea and drowns him there; or some blind men who sit on the seashore and for some reason keep repeating the same thing over and over again; or some bell that falls into a lake and rings there. [76] |
¿¬±Ø¿¡µµ ¶È °°Àº ÀÏÀÌ ÀϾ°í ÀÖ´Ù. ¿ì¸®´Â ¾î¶² ÀÌÀ¯¿¡¼±Áö ±×ÀÇ
ÃʱâÀÇ ¼þ°íÇÑ ÀǵµµéÀ» ¼ºÃëÇÏÁö ¸øÇÑ ÇÑ °ÇÃà°¡°¡ °á±¹Àº ±×°¡ ÁöÀº ¾î¶² °¡¿ÁÀÇ ÁöºØ¿¡ ¿Ã¶ó°¡¼ ¸Ó¸®¸¦ ¾Æ·¡·Î ÇÏ°í ¶Ù¾î ³»¸®´Â °Í; ȤÀº
»ýÁãµéÀ» ¹Ú¸êÇϸç, ¾Æ¹«·± ¸í¹éÇÑ ÀÌÀ¯ ¾øÀÌ ½ÃÀûÀÎ ÇÑ ¾ÆÀ̸¦ ¹Ù´Ù¿¡ µ¥·Á°¡¼ ºüÆ®¸®´Â ¾î¶² ÀÌÇØÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø´Â ³ëÆÄ; ȤÀº ¹Ù´å°¡¿¡ ¾É¾Æ ÀÖ´Â
¾î¶² ¸ÍÀÎÀÌ ¾î¶² ÀÌÀ¯¿¡¼±Áö ¶È°°Àº ÀÏÀ» °è¼ÓÇØ¼ µÇÇ®ÀÌÇϸç; ¿¬¸ø¿¡ ºüÁø ¾î¶² Á¾ÀÌ °Å±â¼ ¿ï¸®´Â °ÍÀ» ±¸°æÇÏ°Ô µÈ´Ù. |
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The same thing is also happening in music — an art which, it seems, ought to be understood in the same way by everyone. |
À½¾Ç
— ¹ÝµíÀÌ ¸ðµç »ç¶÷µé¿¡ ÀÇÇØ ¶È°°Àº ¹æ¹ýÀ¸·Î ÀÌÇØµÇ¾î¾ß ÇÏ´Â °Íó·³ º¸ÀÌ´Â ¿¹¼ú
—
¿¡¼µµ µ¿ÀÏÇÑ ÀÏÀÌ ¹ú¾îÁø´Ù. |
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A well-known musician of your acquaintance sits down to the piano and plays for you what he says is a new work of his or of one of the new composers. You listen to the strange, loud noises, marvel at the gymnastic exercises of the fingers, and see clearly that the composer wishes to suggest to you that the sounds he is producing are poetic yearnings of the soul. You see his intention, but no other feeling is communicated to you except boredom. The performance goes on for a long time, or so at least it seems to you, a very long time, because without perceiving anything clearly, you involuntarily recall the words of Alphonse Karr: ¡®Plus ça va vite, plus ça dure longtemps.¡¯ [77] And it occurs to you that it is perhaps a mystification, that the performer is testing you, throwing his hands and fingers randomly on the keys hoping you will get caught in the trap and start praising him at which point he will laugh and confess that he was merely testing you. But when it is finally over, and the musician rises, sweaty and excited, from the piano, obviously expecting to be praised, you see that it was all very serious. |
¿ì¸®°¡ ¾Æ´Â À¯¸íÇÑ À½¾Ç°¡°¡ ÇÇ¾Æ³ë ¾Õ¿¡ ¾É´Â´Ù ±×¸®°í ´ç½ÅÀ» À§ÇØ
±×°¡ ÀÏÄ´ ¹Ù ±×ÀÇ È¤Àº »õ·Î¿î ÀÛ°î°¡µé ÁßÀÇ ÇÑ »ç¶÷ÀÇ »õ·Î¿î ÀÛǰÀ» ¿¬ÁÖÇÑ´Ù. ´ç½ÅÀº ÀÌ»óÇÏ°í ½Ã²ô·¯¿î ¼ÒÀ½µé¿¡ ±Í¸¦ ±â¿ïÀ̸ç, üÁ¶¿¡
°¡±î¿î ¼Õ°¡¶ô ÈÆ·Ãµé¿¡ °¨ÅºÇÑ´Ù, ±×¸®°í ÀÛ°î°¡°¡ ±×°¡ ¸¸µé¾î ³»´Â ¼Ò¸®µéÀÌ ¿µÈ¥ÀÇ ½ÃÀû °¥¸ÁµéÀ̶ó´Â °ÍÀ» ´ç½Å¿¡°Ô ¾Ï½ÃÇϱ⸦ ¹Ù¶õ´Ù´Â °ÍÀ»
¸í¹éÈ÷ ±ú´Ý´Â´Ù. ´ç½ÅÀº ±×ÀÇ Àǵµ¸¦ ±ú´ÝÁö¸¸, Áö·çÇÔ ¿Ü¿¡ ¾î¶² ´À³¦µéµµ ´ç½Å¿¡°Ô Àü´ÞµÇÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù. ¿¬ÁÖ´Â ¿À·§µ¿¾È Áö¼ÓµÇ°Å³ª, Àû¾îµµ
´ç½Å¿¡°Ô ¾ÆÁÖ ¿À·£ µ¿¾È ±×·± °Íó·³ º¸ÀδÙ, ¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é ¾î¶² °ÍÀ» ¸í·áÇÏ°Ô ÀνÄÇÏÁö ¸øÇÑ Ã¤, ´ç½ÅÀº ¹«ÀǽÄÀûÀ¸·Î ¾ËÆù¼Ò Ä«¸£ÀÇ ¸»µéÀ»
±â¾ïÇϱ⠶§¹®ÀÌ´Ù: '»¡¸® ¿òÁ÷ÀÏ ¼ö·Ï, ¿À·¡ Áö¼ÓµÈ´Ù.' ±×¸®°í ±×°ÍÀÌ ¾Æ¸¶ Ȧ¸®´Â °ÍÀ̸ç, ¿¬ÁÖÀÚ°¡ ´ç½ÅÀ» ½ÃÇèÇϰí ÀÖ°í,
±×ÀÇ ¼Õµé°ú ¼Õ°¡¶ôµéÀ» °Ç¹Ýµé¿¡ ¸¶±¸ÀâÀÌ·Î Èֵѷ¯¼ ´ç½ÅÀ» ÇÔÁ¤¿¡ ºüÁö°Ô ÇÏ°í ±×µé ĪÂùÇϱ⠽ÃÀÛÇϱ⸦ ¹Ù¶ó¸ç ±× Á¡À» ºñ¿ôÀ» °ÍÀÌ´Ù ±×¸®°í
±×°¡ ´ÜÁö ´ç½ÅÀ» ½ÃÇèÇϰí ÀÖ¾ú´Ù°í °í¹éÇÑ´Ù°í »ý°¢ÇÑ´Ù. ±×·¯³ª ±×°ÍÀÌ ¸¶Ä§³» ³¡³ª°í, À½¾Ç°¡°¡ ¶¡ÀÌ º£°í ÈïºÐÇÏ¿©, ¸í¹éÈ÷ ĪÂù ¹Þ°íÀÚ
±â´ëÇϸé¼, ÇǾƳ뿡¼ ÀÏ¾î ³¯ ¶§, ±×°ÍÀÌ ¸ðµÎ ³Ê¹«³ª ÁøÁöÇß´Ù´Â °ÍÀ» ±ú´Ý´Â´Ù. |
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The same things happens at all concerts with performances of Liszt, Wagner, Berlioz, Brahms and
— the latest — Richard Strauss, and countless others who ceaselessly compose opera after opera, symphony after symphony, piece after piece. |
¶È °°Àº ÀϵéÀÌ ¸®½ºÆ®, ¹Ù±×³Ê, º£¸¦¸®¿ÀÁî, ºê¶÷½º ±×¸®°í
— °¡Àå ÃÖ±ÙÀÇ — ¸®Ã³µå ½ºÆ®¶ó¿ì½º, ±×¸®°í ²÷ÀÓ¾øÀÌ ¿ÀÆä¶ó¿Í ¿ÀÆä¶ó¸¦, ±×¸®°í ±³Çâ°î°ú ±³Çâ°îÀ» ÀÛ°îÇÏ´Â ¹«¼öÇÑ ÀÛ°î°¡µéÀÇ ÀÛǰµéÀ»
°ø¿¬ÇÏ´Â ¸ðµç À½¾Çȸµé¿¡¼ ÀϾÙ. |
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The same thing happens in that area where it would seem difficult to be incomprehensible — the area of the novel and the short story. |
¶È °°Àº ÀÏÀÌ
³ÇØÇØÁö´Â °ÍÀÌ ¾î·Á¿î °Íó·³ º¸ÀÏ °Í °°Àº ¿µ¿ª — ¼Ò¼³ ¹× ´ÜÆí ¼Ò¼³ÀÇ ¿µ¿ª — ¿¡¼µµ ¹ß»ýÇÑ´Ù. |
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You read Là-bas by Huysmans, or short stories by Kipling, or L¡¯Annonciateur from the Contes cruels of Villiers de l¡¯Isle Adam, [78] etc., and all this is for you not only abscons [79] (a new word of the new writers), but utterly incomprehensible both in form and in content. Such, for instance, is the novel Terre promise by E. Morel, now appearing in the Revue Blanche, [80] as well as the majority of new novels: the style is quite bold, the feelings seem to be lofty, but one simply cannot understand what is happening where and to whom. |
ÈÖ½º¸¸ÀÇ
Àú ³Ê¸Ó¿¡(Là-bas) ȤÀº ŰÇøµÀÇ ´ÜÆíµé, ȤÀº ºô¸®¾î ¾ÆÀÏ ¾Æ´ãÀÇ ÀÜÀÎÇÑ À̾߱âµé ÁßÀÇ ÅëÁöÀÚ
µîÀ» ÀÐ¾î º¸¶ó, ±×·¯¸é ÀÌ ¸ðµç °ÍÀÌ ´ç½Å¿¡°Ô ³ÇØÇÒ(abscons, ½Å ÀÛ°¡µéÀÇ ½ÅÁ¶¾î) »Ó¸¸ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, Çü½ÄÀ̳ª ³»¿ë¿¡¼
ÀüÇô ÀÌÇØÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ¿¹¸¦ µé¾î, ÇöÀç Revue Blanche¿¡ ¿Ã¶ó ÀÖ´Â E. ¸ð·¼ÀÇ ¾à¼ÓÀÇ ¶¥(Terre promise)Àº
¹°·Ð ´ë´Ù¼ö »õ·Î¿î ¼Ò¼³µéÀÌ ±×·¯ÇÏ´Ù; ¹®Ã¼´Â ¸Å¿ì ´ë´ãÇϰí, ´À³¦µéÀº °í»óÇØ º¸ÀÌÁö¸¸, ¿ì¸®´Â ¾îµð¿¡ ´©±¸¿¡°Ô ¹«¾ùÀÌ ÀϾ°í ÀÖ´ÂÁö ±×Àú
ÀÌÇØÇÒ ¼ö ¾øÀ» »ÓÀÌ´Ù. |
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And all the young art of our time is like that. |
±×¸®°í ¿ì¸®
½Ã´ëÀÇ ¸ðµç ÀþÀº ¿¹¼úÀº ±×¿Í °°´Ù. |
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People of the first half of our century — admirers of Goethe, Schiller, Musset, Hugo, Dickens, Beethoven, Chopin, Raphael, da Vinci, Michelangelo, Delaroche [81] — understanding nothing of this new art, often simply regard its works as tasteless madness and wish to ignore them. But this attitude towards the new art is completely unfounded, because, first of all, this art is spreading more and more, and has already won itself a firm position in society — just as romanticism did in the ¡®thirties; second, and above all, because if we are able to judge the works of the latest, so-called decadent art
in this way simply because we do not understand them, then there is an enormous number of people — including all working people and many non-workers — who in exactly the same way do not understand those works of art which we consider beautiful: the poems of our own
favorite artists — Goethe, Schiller, Hugo; the novels of Dickens; the music of Beethoven and Chopin; the paintings of Raphael, Michelangelo, da Vinci, et al. |
¿ì¸® ¼¼±â
Àü¹Ý±âÀÇ »ç¶÷µé — ±«Å×, ½¯·¯, ¹¿¼¼, ÈÞ°í, µðŲÁî, º£Å亥, ¼îÆØ, ¶óÆÄ¿¤, ´ÙºóÄ¡, ¹ÌÄ̶õÁ©·Î, µ¨¶ó·Î½¬ÀÇ ÃßÁ¾ÀÚµé — Àº ÀÌ·±
»õ·Î¿î ¿¹¼ú¿¡ ´ëÇØ ÀüÇô ¸ð¸§À¸·Î½á, Á¾Á¾ ±× ÀÛǰµéÀ» ´Ü¼øÈ÷ ¹«¹Ì°ÇÁ¶ÇÑ ¹ÌÄ£ ÁþÀ¸·Î Ä¡ºÎÇÏ¸ç ±×°ÍµéÀ» ¹«½ÃÇϰíÀÚ ÇÑ´Ù. ±×·¯³ª »õ·Î¿î
¿¹¼ú¿¡ ´ëÇÑ ÀÌ·± °æÇâÀº ¿ÏÀüÈ÷ ±Ù°Å°¡ ¾ø´Ù, ¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é ¸ÕÀú ÀÌ ¿¹¼úÀº — »ï½Ê ³â´ëÀÇ ³¶¸¸ÁÖÀÇó·³ — Á¡Á¡ ´õ È®»êµÇ¾î À̹Ì
»çȸ¿¡¼ È®°íÇÑ À§Ä¡¸¦ Â÷ÁöÇØ ¹ö·È±â ¶§¹®À̸ç; µÑ°·Î, ¿ì¸®°¡ ±×°ÍµéÀ» ÀÌÇØÇÏÁö ¸øÇϱ⿡ ´Ü¼øÈ÷ ¿ì¸®°¡ ÃÖ±ÙÀÇ ÀÛǰµéÀ», ¼ÒÀ§ ÀÌ·± ¹æ½ÄÀÇ
ÅðÆóÁÖÀÇ ¿¹¼úÀ» Æò°¡ÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ´Ù¸é, ¿ì¸®°¡ ¾Æ¸§´ä´Ù°í ¿©±â´Â ±×·± ÀÛǰµé — ¿ì¸®°¡ °¡Àå ÁÁ¾Æ ÇÏ´Â ¿¹¼ú°¡µéÀÇ ½Ãµé — ±«Å×,
½¯·¯, ÈÞ°í; µðŲÁîÀÇ ¼Ò¼³µé; º£Å亥°ú ¼îÆØÀÇ À½¾Ç; ¶óÆÄ¿¤, ¹ÌÄ̶õÁ©·Î, ´ÙºóÄ¡ÀÇ ±×¸²µé, µî — À» Á¤È®È÷ ¶È°°ÀÌ ÀÌÇØÇÏÁö ¸øÇÏ´Â
¾öû³ª°Ô ¸¹Àº »ç¶÷µé — ¸ðµç ³ëµ¿ÀÚµé ¹× ºñ ³ëµ¿ÀÚµéÀ» Æ÷ÇÔÇÏ¿© — ÀÌ Á¸ÀçÇÑ´Ù. |
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If I have the right to think that large masses of people neither understand nor love what I recognize as unquestionably good, because they are not sufficiently developed, then I have no right to deny that it is possible for me not to understand or love the new works of art because I am insufficiently developed to understand them. And if I have the right to say that I, along with the majority of like-minded people, do not understand the works of the new art simply because there is nothing to understand and because it is bad art, then a still greater majority, the entire mass of working people who do not understand what I regard as beautiful art, have the same right to say that what I regard as good art is bad art and there is nothing in it to understand. |
¸¸ÀÏ ³»°¡,
¸¹Àº ´ëÁßµéÀÌ ±×µéÀÌ ÃæºÐÈ÷ ¹ßÀüµÇÁö ¾Ê¾Ò±â ¶§¹®¿¡, ³»°¡ ÀǽÉÀÇ ¿©Áö ¾øÀÌ ¼±ÇÏ´Ù°í ÀνÄÇϰí ÀÖ´Â °ÍÀ» ÀÌÇØÇÏÁöµµ »ç¶ûÇÏÁöµµ ¾Ê´Â´Ù°í
»ý°¢ÇÒ ±Ç¸®°¡ ÀÖ´Ù¸é, ³»°¡ ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰµéÀ» ÀÌÇØÇÒ ¸¸Å ÃæºÐÈ÷ ¹ßÀüµÇÁö ¾Ê¾Ò±â ¶§¹®¿¡, ³»°¡ »õ·Î¿î ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰµéÀ» ÀÌÇØÇϰųª »ç¶ûÇÒ ¼ö
¾ø´Ù´Â °ÍÀ» ºÎÁ¤ÇÒ ±Ç¸®µµ ¾ø´Ù. ±×¸®°í ¸¸ÀÏ ³»°¡ ´Ü¼øÈ÷, ´ë´Ù¼ö ºñ½ÁÇÑ »ý°¢À» °¡Áø »ç¶÷µé°ú ÇÔ²², ³»°¡ »õ·Î¿î ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰµéÀÌ
ÀÌÇØÇÒ °ÍÀÌ ¾øÀ¸¸ç ¾ÇÇÑ ¿¹¼úÀ̱⠶§¹®¿¡, ±×°ÍµéÀ» ÀÌÇØÇÏÁö ¸øÇÑ´Ù°í ¸»ÇÒ ±Ç¸®°¡ ÀÖ´Ù¸é, ³»°¡ ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿ò ¿¹¼úÀÌ¶ó ¿©±â´Â °ÍÀ» ÀÌÇØÇÏÁö
¸øÇÏ´Â ³ëµ¿ÇÏ´Â »ç¶÷µé Àüü ´ëÁßÀº, ³»°¡ ¼±ÇÑ ¿¹¼úÀ̶ó°í ¿©±â´Â °ÍÀÌ ¾ÇÇÑ ¿¹¼úÀÌ¸ç °Å±â¿¡ ÀÌÇØÇÒ ¾Æ¹« °Íµµ ¾ø´Ù°í ¸»ÇÒ ¶È°°Àº ±Ç¸®¸¦
°¡Áø´Ù. |
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I once saw especially clearly how wrong it is to condemn the new art when,
in my presence, a poet who writes incomprehensible verses laughed with merry
self-confidence at incomprehensible music, and soon afterwards a musician who
composes incomprehensible symphonies laughed with the same self-confidence at
incomprehensible poetry. I cannot condemn the new art and have no right to
condemn it simply because, as a man brought up in the first half of the
century, I do not understand it; I can only say that I am unable to understand
it. The one advantage of the art which I recognize over the art of the
decadents is that the art which I recognize is understood by a slightly larger
number of people than present-day art. |
³ª´Â »õ·Î¿î
¿¹¼úÀ» ºñ³ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀÌ ¾ó¸¶³ª À߸øµÈ °ÍÀÎÁö ƯÈ÷ ¸í¹éÈ÷ ±ú´ÞÀº ÀûÀÌ ÀÖ¾ú´Âµ¥, ³ªÀÇ ¸éÀü¿¡¼, ÀÌÇØÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø´Â ½ÃµéÀ» ¾²´Â ÇÑ ½ÃÀÎÀÌ ÀÌÇØÇÒ
¼ö ¾ø´Â À½¾Ç¿¡ ´ëÇØ À¯ÄèÇÑ ÀڽۨÀ¸·Î ºñ¿ô°í, ¾ó¸¶Áö ¾Ê¾Æ ÀÌÇØÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø´Â ±³Çâ°îµéÀ» ÀÛ°îÇÏ´Â ÇÑ À½¾Ç°¡°¡ ÀÌÇØÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø´Â ½Ã¿¡ ´ëÇÏ
¶È°°Àº ÀڽۨÀ¸·Î ºñ¿ôÀº ¶§¹®À̾ú´Ù. ³ª´Â »õ·Î¿î ¿¹¼úÀ» ºñ³ÇÒ ¼ö ¾øÀ¸¸ç ±×°ÍÀ» ºñ³ÇÒ ±Ç¸®µµ ¾ø´Ù ¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é ´Ü¼øÈ÷, ¼¼±âÀÇ Àü¹Ý¿¡ ÀÚ¶ó³
»ç¶÷À¸·Î¼, ³»°¡ ±×°ÍÀ» ÀÌÇØÇÏÁö ¸øÇϱ⠶§¹®ÀÌ´Ù; ³ª´Â ¿ÀÁ÷ ±×°ÍÀ» ÀÌÇØÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø´Ù°í ¸»ÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖÀ» »ÓÀÌ´Ù. ÅðÆóÁÖÀÇÀÚµéÀÇ ¿¹¼ú¿¡ ´ëÇØ
³»°¡ ÀνÄÇÏ´Â ¿¹¼úÀÇ ÇÑ °¡Áö ÀÌÁ¡Àº ³»°¡ ÀνÄÇÏ´Â ¿¹¼úÀÌ Çö½Ã´ëÀÇ ¿¹¼úº¸´Ù ¾à°£ ¸¹Àº »ç¶÷µé¿¡ ÀÇÇØ ÀÌÇØµÈ´Ù´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù. |
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From the fact that I am accustomed to a certain exclusive art and understand it, while I do not understand a still more exclusive art, I have no right to conclude that this art, my art, is the most true art, and that the art I do not understand is not true and is bad; I can only conclude from it that art, as it has become more and more exclusive, has become more and more incomprehensible for a larger and larger number of people, and in this movement towards greater and greater incomprehensibility, one step of which I occupy with my accustomed art, it has reached a point where it is understood by a very small number of the elect, and that this number of the elect keeps getting smaller and smaller. |
³»°¡ ¾î¶²
¹èŸÀû ¿¹¼ú¿¡ Àͼ÷ÇÏ¸ç ±×°ÍÀ» ÀÌÇØÇϸ鼵µ, ÇÑÆíÀ¸·Î ÈξÀ ´õ ¹èŸÀûÀÎ ¿¹¼úÀ» ÀÌÇØÇÏÁö ¸øÇÏ´Â »ç½Ç¿¡¼, ³ª´Â ÀÌ ¿¹¼úÀÌ, ³ªÀÇ ¿¹¼úÀÌ,
°¡Àå ÂüµÈ ¿¹¼úÀ̸ç, ³»°¡ ÀÌÇØÇÏÁö ¸øÇÏ´Â ¿¹¼úÀÌ ÂüµÇÁö ¾ÊÀ¸¸ç ¾ÇÇÏ´Ù°í °á·Ð ³»¸± ±Ç¸®°¡ ¾ø´Ù; ³ª´Â ¿ÀÁ÷ ±×·ÎºÎÅÍ, ¿¹¼úÀÌ ´õ¿í ´õ
¹èŸÀûÀÌ µÊ¿¡ µû¶ó, ´õ¿í ´õ ¸¹Àº ¼öÀÇ »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô ´õ¿í ´õ ÀÌÇØÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø°Ô µÇ¾î ¹ö·È´Ù°í °á·Ð ³»¸± ¼ö ÀÖÀ¸¸ç, ´õ¿í ´õ ½ÉÇÑ ³ÇؼºÀ»
ÇâÇÑ ÀÌ·± ¿òÁ÷ÀÓ ¾È¿¡¼, ³ª´Â ±× ÇÑ °ÉÀ½¿¡ ³»°¡ ÀûÀÀÇÑ ¿¹¼ú·Î ä¿ì°í ÀÖÀ¸¸ç, ¿¹¼úÀº ¸Å¿ì ÀûÀº ¼öÀÇ ¼±ÅÃµÈ Àڵ鿡 ÀÇÇØ ÀÌÇØµÇ´Â ÁöÁ¡¿¡
µµ´ÞÇßÀ¸¸ç, ¼±ÅÃµÈ ÀÌµé ¼ýÀÚ´Â Á¡Á¡ ´õ ÁÙ¾îµé°í ÀÖ´Ù. |
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As soon as the art of the upper classes became separated from the art of the whole people, there arose the conviction that art can be art and yet be incomprehensible to the masses. As soon as this thesis was allowed, it inevitably became necessary to allow that art may be comprehensible only to a small number of the elect, and, finally, only for two, or one — a best friend, one¡¯s own self. This is what modern artists say straight out: ¡®I create and I understand myself; if others do not understand me, so much the worse for them.¡¯ |
»ó·ù °è±ÞµéÀÇ
¿¹¼úÀÌ Àüü ´ëÁßµéÀÇ ¿¹¼ú·ÎºÎÅÍ ºÐ¸®µÇÀÚ¸¶ÀÚ, ¿¹¼úÀº ¿¹¼úÀÌ µÉ ¼ö ÀÖ°í ±×·³¿¡µµ ¹ÎÁߵ鿡°Ô ³ÇØÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ´Ù´Â ½Å³äÀÌ ¶°¿Ã¶ú´Ù. ÀÌ·±
ÁÖÀåÀÌ Çã¿ëµÇÀÚ¸¶ÀÚ, ÇÊ¿¬ÀûÀ¸·Î ¿¹¼úÀº ¿ÀÁ÷ ¼±ÅÃµÈ ÀûÀº »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô¸¸ ÀÌÇØµÉ ¼öµµ ÀÖÀ¸¸ç, ¸¶Ä§³» ¿ÀÁ÷ µÑ ȤÀº Çϳª — °¡Àå ÁÁÀº Ä£±¸,
ÀÚ±â ÀڽŠ— ¸¦ À§ÇÒ ¼öµµ ÀÖÀ½À» Çã¿ëÇÏ´Â °ÍÀÌ ÇÊ¿äÇÏ°Ô µÇ¾ú´Ù. À̰ÍÀÌ Çö´ë ¿¹¼ú°¡µéÀÌ ´ÜµµÁ÷ÀÔÀûÀ¸·Î ¸»ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù: ' ³ª´Â âÁ¶ÇÑ´Ù
±×¸®°í ³ª´Â ÀÚ½ÅÀ» ÀÌÇØÇÑ´Ù; ¸¸ÀÏ Å¸ÀÎÀÌ ³ª¸¦ ÀÌÇØÇÏÁö ¸øÇÑ´Ù¸é, ±×¸¸Å ±×µéÀ» À§ÇØ ºÒÇàÇÑ ÀÏÀÌ´Ù.' |
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The assertion that art can be good art and yet be incomprehensible to a large number of people is so wrong, its consequences are so pernicious for art, and it is at the same time so widespread, so embedded in our notions, that no explanation of its utter incongruity can suffice. |
¿¹¼úÀº ¼±ÇÑ
¿¹¼úÀ̸鼵µ ¸¹Àº »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô ³ÇØÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ´Ù´Â ´ÜÁ¤Àº Ʋ¸° °ÍÀ̸ç, ±× °á°úµéÀº ¿¹¼ú¿¡ ¸Å¿ì ÇØ·Ó´Ù, ±×¸®°í ±×°ÍÀº µ¿½Ã¿¡ ³Ê¹«³ª ³Î¸® ÆÛÁ®
ÀÖ°í, ³Ê¹«³ª ¿ì¸®ÀÇ °ü³äµé ¼Ó¿¡ ½É¾îÁ® ÀÖ¾î¼ ±×°ÍÀÌ µµ¹«Áö ´çÄ¡ ¾ÊÀ½À» ¾Æ¹«¸® ¼³¸íÇØµµ ¸ðÀÚ¶ö °ÍÀÌ´Ù. |
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Nothing is more common than to hear said of alleged works of art that they are very good but very difficult to understand. We are used to the assertion, and yet to say that a work of art is good but incomprehensible is the same as saying of some kind of food that it is very good but people cannot eat it. People may not like rotten cheese, putrid grouse and other such dishes appreciated by gastronomes with perverted taste, but bread and fruit are only good when people like them. It is the same with art: perverted art may be incomprehensible to people, but good art is always understood by everyone. |
¾î¶² ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰµéÀÌ ¸Å¿ì ÈǸ¢ÇÑ °ÍÀÌÁö¸¸ ÀÌÇØÇϱ⿡ ³Ê¹« ¾î·Æ´Ù°í
¸»ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ» µè´Â °Íº¸´Ù ÈçÇÑ °ÍÀº ¾ø´Ù. ¿ì¸®´Â ±×·± ÁÖÀåµé¿¡ Àͼ÷ÇØÁ® ÀÖ´Ù, ÇÏÁö¸¸ ¾î¶² ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰÀÌ ¼±ÇÏÁö¸¸ ÀÌÇØÇÏ±â ¾î·Æ´Ù°í ¸»ÇÏ´Â
°ÍÀº ¾î¶² Á¾·ùÀÇ À½½ÄÀÌ ¸Å¿ì ÈǸ¢ÇÏÁö¸¸ »ç¶÷µéÀÌ ±×°ÍÀ» ¸ÔÀ» ¼ö ¾ø´Ù°í ¸»ÇÏ´Â °Í°ú ¶È°°´Ù. »ç¶÷µéÀº ½âÀº Ä¡Áî, ºÎÆÐÇÑ ²æ ±×¸®°í º¯ÁúµÈ
ÃëÇâÀ» Áö´Ñ ¹Ì½Ä°¡µéÀÌ Áñ±â´Â ±×·± À½½ÄµéÀ» ÁÁ¾ÆÇÏÁö ¾ÊÀ» °ÍÀÌ´Ù, ±×·¯³ª »§°ú °úÀÏÀº »ç¶÷µéÀÌ ±×°ÍµéÀ» ÁÁ¾ÆÇÒ ¶§ ºñ·Î¼ À¯ÀÍÇÑ °ÍÀÌ´Ù.
¿¹¼ú¿¡¼µµ ¸¶Âù°¡Áö´Ù: ¿Ö°îµÈ ¿¹¼úÀº »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô ³ÇØÇÒÁöµµ ¸ð¸¥´Ù, ±×·¯³ª ÈǸ¢ÇÑ ¿¹¼úÀº ¾ðÁ¦³ª ¸ðµç »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô ÀÌÇØµÈ´Ù. |
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It is said that the best works of art are such that they cannot be understood by the majority and are accessible only to the elect, who are prepared to understand these great works. But if the majority do not understand, they must be given an explanation, the knowledge necessary for understanding. But it turns out that this knowledge does not exist, that the works cannot be explained, and therefore those who say that the majority do not understand good works of art give no explanations, but say that in order to understand one must read, look at, or listen to the same work over and over again. But this is not to explain, it is to make accustomed. And one can get accustomed to anything, even the worst. As it is possible to get people accustomed to rotten food, vodka, tobacco, opium, so it is possible to get them accustomed to bad art, which in fact is being done. |
°¡Àå ÈǸ¢ÇÑ ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰµéÀº ±×·¯Çϱ⠶§¹®¿¡ ±×°ÍµéÀº ´ë´Ù¼ö
»ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô ÀÌÇØµÉ ¼ö ¾øÀ¸¸ç À̵é À§´ëÇÑ ÀÛǰµéÀ» ÀÌÇØÇÒ Áغñ°¡ µÇ¾î ÀÖ´Â, ¿ÀÁ÷ ¼±ÅÃµÈ »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô¸¸ °³¹æµÇ¾î ÀÖ´Ù°í ¸»ÇÑ´Ù. ±×·¯³ª ¸¸ÀÏ
´ë´Ù¼ö°¡ ÀÌÇØÇÏÁö ¸øÇÑ´Ù¸é, ±×µé¿¡°Ô ¼³¸í, Áï, ÀÌÇØ¿¡ ÇÊ¿äÇÑ Áö½ÄÀÌ, Á¦°ø µÇ¾î Á®¾ß ÇÑ´Ù. ±×·¯³ª ÀÌ·± Áö½ÄÀº Á¸ÀçÇÏÁö ¾ÊÀ¸¸ç,
ÀÛǰµéÀº ¼³¸íµÉ ¼ö ¾ø°í, ±×·¯¹Ç·Î ´ë´Ù¼ö »ç¶÷µéÀÌ ÈǸ¢ÇÑ ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰµéÀ» ÀÌÇØÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø´Ù°í ¸»ÇÏ´Â »ç¶÷µéÀº ¾Æ¹«·± ¼³¸íµéÀ» ³»³õÁö ¾ÊÀ¸¸ç,
ÇÏÁö¸¸ ÀÌÇØÇϱâ À§ÇØ ¶È °°Àº ÀÛǰÀ» µÇÇ®ÀÌ ÇØ¼ Àаí, ÃÄ´Ùº¸°í, ȤÀº µé¾î¾ß ÇÑ´Ù°í ¸»Çϰí ÀÖÀ½ÀÌ µå·¯³´Ù. ±×·¯³ª À̰ÍÀº ¼³¸íµÉ °ÍÀÌ
¾Æ´Ï´Ù, ±×°ÍÀº ÀûÀÀµÇ¾î Á®¾ß ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ±×¸®ÇÏ¿© ¿ì¸®´Â ¹«¾ù¿¡µç, ½ÉÁö¾î ÃÖ¾ÇÀÇ °Íµé¿¡°í ÀûÀÀÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ´Ù. »ç¶÷µéÀÌ ½âÀº À½½Ä,
º¸µåÄ«, ´ã¹è, ¾ÆÆí¿¡ ÀûÀÀÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ´Â °Íó·³, ±×µéÀ» ³ª»Û ¿¹¼ú¿¡ ÀûÀÀµÇ°Ô ÇÏ´Â °ÍÀÌ °¡´ÉÇϸç, ½ÇÁ¦·Î ±×·± ÀÏÀÌ ÀÌ·ç¾îÁö°í ÀÖ´Ù. |
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Besides, it cannot be said that the majority of people lack the taste to appreciate the highest works of art. The majority understand and have always understood what we, too, consider the highest art: the artistically simple narratives of the Bible, the Gospel parables, folk legends, fairy tales, folk songs are understood by everyone. Why is it that the majority suddenly lost the ability to understand the highest of our art? |
´õ¿íÀÌ, ´ë´Ù¼ö »ç¶÷µéÀÌ ÃÖ°íÀÇ ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰµéÀ» °¨»óÇÒ ÃëÇâÀÌ
ºÎÁ·ÇÏ´Ù°í ¸»ÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø´Ù.´ë´Ù¼ö´Â ¾ðÁ¦³ª ¿ì¸®°¡ ¿ª½Ã ÃÖ°íÀÇ ¿¹¼úÀ̶ó°í ÀÌÇØÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ» ÀÌÇØÇϸç ÀÌÇØÇÏ¿© ¿Ô´Ù: ¼º¼ÀÇ ¿¹¼úÀûÀ¸·Î ´Ü¼øÇÑ
À̾߱âµé, º¹À½¼ÀÇ ºñÀ¯µé, ¹Î´ãµé, µ¿Èµé, ¹Î¿äµéÀº ¸ðµÎ¿¡°Ô ÀÌÇØµÈ´Ù. ´ë´Ù¼ö »ç¶÷µéÀÌ °©Àڱ⠿츮ÀÇ ÃÖ°í ¿¹¼úÀ» ÀÌÇØÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ´Â ´É·ÂÀ»
ÀÒ¾î ¹ö¸° ÀÌÀ¯´Â ¹«¾ùÀΰ¡? |
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One can say of speech that it is beautiful but incomprehensible to those who do not understand the language in which it is uttered. Speech uttered in Chinese may be beautiful and yet remain incompre¡©hensible to me if I do not know Chinese, but a work of art is distinguished from all other spiritual activity in that its language is understandable to everyone, that it infects everyone without distinction. The tears, the laughter of a Chinese will infect me in just the same way as the tears and laughter of a Russian, as will painting and music, or a work of poetry if it is translated into a language I understand. The song of a Kirghiz or a Japanese moves me, though not as much as it moves the Kirghiz or the Japanese themselves. So, too, I am moved by Japanese painting and Indian architecture and Arabian tales. If I am little moved by a Japanese song or a Chinese novel, it is not because I do not understand these works, but because I know and am accustomed to higher works of art, and by no means because this art is above me. Great works of art are great only because they are accessible and comprehensible to everyone. The story of Joseph, translated into Chinese, moves the Chinese. The story of Shakyamuni moves us. [82] The same is true of buildings, paintings, statues, music. And therefore, if art does not move us, one must not say that the cause is the spectator¡¯s or listener¡¯s incomprehension, but one can and must conclude that it is either bad art or not art at all. |
¿ì¸®´Â ¾î¶² ¿¬¼³ÀÌ ¾Æ¸§´äÁö¸¸ ±×°ÍÀÌ ÇàÇØÁö´Â ¾ð¾î¸¦ ÀÌÇØÇÏÁö
¸øÇÏ´Â »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô ÀÌÇØµÉ ¼ö ¾ø´Ù°í ¸»ÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ´Ù. Áß±¹¾î·Î ÇàÇØÁø ¿¬¼³Àº ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿ï ¼ö ÀÖÁö¸¸ ³»°¡ Áß±¹¾î¸¦ ¸ð¸¥´Ù¸é ¿©ÀüÈ÷ ÀÌÇØµÉ ¼ö
¾ø´Ù, ÇÏÁö¸¸ ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰÀº ±× ¾ð¾î°¡ ¸ðµç »ç¶÷¿¡°Ô ÀÌÇØµÉ ¼ö ÀÖÀ¸¸ç, ¸ðµç »ç¶÷µéÀ» Â÷º° ¾øÀÌ Àü¿°½Ãų ¼ö ÀÖ´Ù´Â Á¡¿¡¼ ¸ðµç ´Ù¸¥
Á¤½ÅÀûÀΠȰµ¿°ú ±¸º°µÈ´Ù. ÇÑ Áß±¹ÀÎÀÇ ´«¹°, ¿ôÀ½Àº ÇÑ ·¯½Ã¾ÆÀÎÀÌ ´«¹° ¹× ¿ôÀ½°ú ¶È °°ÀÌ ³ª¸¦ Àü¿°½Ãų °ÍÀ̸ç, ¹Ì¼ú, À½¾Ç, ȤÀº ½Ã
ÀÛǰµµ ±×°ÍÀÌ ³»°¡ ÀÌÇØÇÏ´Â ¾ð¾î·Î ¹ø¿ªµÈ´Ù¸é ¸¶Âù°¡Áö ÀÏ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ۸£±âÁîÀΠȤÀº ÀϺ»ÀÎÀÇ ³ë·¡°¡ ±×µé ½º½º·Î¸¦ °¨µ¿½ÃŰ´Â ¸¸ÅÀº
¾Æ´Ï´õ¶óµµ ³ª¸¦ °¨µ¿½ÃŲ´Ù. ±×·¡¼, ¸¶Âù°¡Áö·Î, ³ª´Â ÀϺ» ¹Ì¼ú ±×¸®°í Àεµ °ÇÃà ¹× ¾Æ¶óºñ¾Æ À̾߱âµé·Î °¨µ¿ ¹Þ´Â´Ù. ¸¸ÀÏ ³»°¡ ÀϺ»
³ë·¡ ȤÀº Áß±¹ ¼Ò¼³·Î Àû°Ô °¨µ¿ ¹Þ´Â´Ù¸é, ³»°¡ À̵é ÀÛǰµéÀ» ÀÌÇØÇÏÁö ¸øÇؼ°¡ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, ³»°¡ ´õ ÈǸ¢ÇÑ ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰµéÀ» ¾Ë°í Àͼ÷ÇØ ÀÖ±â
¶§¹®À̸ç, °áÄÚ ÀÌ ¿¹¼úÀÌ ³ª¸¦ ´É°¡Çؼ°¡ ¾Æ´Ï´Ù. À§´ëÇÑ ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰµéÀº ±×°ÍµéÀÌ ¿ÀÁ÷ ¸ðµç »ç¶÷ÀÌ ÀÌ¿ëÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖÀ¸¸ç ÀÌÇØµÉ ¼ö ÀÖ±â
¶§¹®ÀÌ´Ù. ¿ä¼ÁÀÇ À̾߱â´Â Áß±¹¾î·Î ¹ø¿ªµÇ¾î Áß±¹ÀεéÀ» °¨µ¿½ÃŲ´Ù. ¼®°¡¸ð´ÏÀÇ À̾߱â´Â ¿ì¸®¸¦ °¨µ¿½ÃŲ´Ù. °ÇÃàµé, ±×¸²µé, Á¶°¢µé,
À½¾Ç¿¡¼µµ µ¿ÀÏÇÏ´Ù. ±×·¯¹Ç·Î, ¿¹¼úÀÌ ¿ì¸®¸¦ °¨µ¿½ÃŰÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù¸é, ¿øÀÎÀÌ °üÁß, ȤÀº ûÃëÀÚÀÇ ¸ôÀÌÇØ¶ó°í ¸»Çؼ´Â ¾È µÇ¸ç, ÇÏÁö¸¸ ±×°ÍÀÌ
³ª»Û ¿¹¼úÀ̰ųª ÀüÇô ¿¹¼úÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó°í °á·Ð ³»¸± ¼ö Àְųª °á·Ð ³»·Á¾ß ÇÑ´Ù. |
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The difference between art and mental activity, which requires preparation and a certain sequence of learning (so that one cannot teach trigonometry to someone who does not know geometry), is precisely that art affects people independently of their degree of development and education, that the charm of a picture, of sounds, of images infects any man, on whatever level of development he may stand. |
¿¹¼ú°ú Á¤½ÅÀû Ȱµ¿ÀÇ Â÷ÀÌ´Â Á¤È®È÷, ÈÄÀÚ´Â Áغñ ¹× ƯÁ¤ÇÑ ÀÏ·ÃÀÇ
ÇнÀÀ» ¿ä±¸Çϸç (±×·¡¼ ¿ì¸®´Â ±âÇϸ¦ ¸ð¸£´Â ¾î¶² »ç¶÷¿¡°Ô »ï°¢¹ýÀ» °¡¸£Ä¥ ¼ö ¾øÀ¸¸ç), ¿¹¼úÀº »ç¶÷µéÀÇ ¹ß´Þ ¹× ±³À° Á¤µµ¿Í º°µµ·Î
±×µé¿¡°Ô ¿µÇâÀ» ¹ÌÄ¡¸ç, ƯÁ¤ ±×¸²ÀÇ, ¼Ò¸®µéÀÇ, ¿µ»óµéÀÇ ¸Å·ÂÀº ¸ðµç »ç¶÷À» Àü¿°½Ã۸ç, ±×°¡ ¾î¶² ¹ß´Þ ´Ü°è¿¡ À§Ä¡ÇÏµç ¸¶Âù°¡Áö´Ù. |
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The business of art consists precisely in making understandable and accessible that which might be incomprehensible and inaccessible in the form of reasoning. Usually, when a person receives a truly artistic impression, it seems to him that he knew it all along, only he was unable to express it. |
¿¹¼ú ÀÛ¾÷Àº Á¤È®È÷ ÀÚÄ© Ãß·ÐÀÇ ÇüÅ·ΠÀÌÇØµÉ ¼ö ¾ø°Å³ª ÀÌ¿ëµÉ ¼ö
¾ø´Â °ÍÀ» ÀÌÇØµÉ ¼ö ÀÖ°í ÀÌ¿ëµÉ ¼ö ÀÖµµ·Ï ¸¸µå´Â Á¡¿¡ ÀÖ´Ù. ÀϹÝÀûÀ¸·Î, ¾î¶² »ç¶÷ÀÌ ÁøÁ¤ ¿¹¼úÀûÀÎ ÀλóÀ» ¹Þ¾Ò´Ù¸é, ±×°¡ ±×°ÍÀ»
óÀ½ºÎÅÍ ¾Ë¾ÒÀ¸¸ç ´ÜÁö ±×°ÍÀ» Ç¥ÇöÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø¾ú´Ù°í ±×¿¡°Ô ´À²¸Áö´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù. |
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And the best, the highest art has always been so: the lliad, the Odyssey, the stories of Jacob, Isaac, and Joseph, the Hebrew prophets, the Psalms, the Gospel parables, and the story of Shakyamuni, and the Vedic hymns [83] — all convey very lofty feelings, and in spite of that are fully understandable to us now, to the educated and the uneducated, and were understood by people of their own time, who were still less educated than our own working people. They talk of incomprehensibility. But if art is the conveying of feelings that arise from a people¡¯s religious consciousness, how can a feeling based on religion — that is, on man¡¯s relation to God — be incomprehensible? Such art must be, and indeed has always been, understandable to everyone, because each man¡¯s relation to God is always the same. And therefore temples, and the images and singing in them, have always been understandable to everyone. The obstacle to understanding the best and highest feelings, as is also said in the Gospel, by no means lies in an absence of development and education, but, on the contrary, in false development and false education. A good and lofty artistic work may indeed be incomprehensible, only not to simple, unperverted working people (they understand all that is lofty) — no, but a true artistic work may be and often is incomprehensible to highly educated, perverted, religion-deprived people, as constantly occurs in our society, where people find the highest religious feelings simply incomprehensible. I know people, for example, who consider themselves most refined, and who say that they do not understand the poetry of love for one¡¯s
neighbor and of self-denial, or the poetry of chastity. |
±×¸®°í °¡Àå ¼±ÇÑ, ÃÖ°íÀÇ ¿¹¼úÀº ¾ðÁ¦³ª ±×·¨´Ù: Àϸ®¾Æµå,
¿Àµ÷¼¼ÀÌ, ¾ß°ö, ÀÌ»è, ¹× ¿ä¼Á À̾߱âµé, È÷ºê¸® ¼±ÁöÀÚµé, ½ÃÆí, º¹À½¼ÀÇ ºñÀ¯µé, ±×¸®°í ¼®°¡¸ð´ÏÀÇ À̾߱â, ±×¸®°í º£´ÙÀÇ
Âù¾çµé
— ¸ðµÎ°¡ ¸Å¿ì ¼þ°íÇÑ ´À³¦µéÀ» Àü´ÞÇϸç, ±×·³¿¡µµ ºÒ±¸Çϰí ÇöÀç ¿ì¸®¿¡°Ô, ¹è¿î ÀÚµç ¸ø ¹è¿î ÀÚ¿¡°Ôµç, ÃæºÐÈ÷ ÀÌÇØµÉ ¼ö ÀÖÀ¸¸ç, ±×µé
ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ½Ã´ëÀÇ »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô ÀÌÇØµÇ¾úÀ¸¸ç, ±×µéÀº ¿ì¸® ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ³ëµ¿ÇÏ´Â »ç¶÷µéº¸´Ù ÈξÀ ´ú ±³À°¹ÞÀº »ç¶÷µéÀ̾ú´Ù. ±×µéÀº ³ÇؼºÀ» ¸»ÇÑ´Ù.
±×·¯³ª ¸¸ÀÏ ¿¹¼úÀÌ »ç¶÷µéÀÇ Á¾±³Àû ÀǽĿ¡¼ ¼Ú¾Æ ³ª¿À´Â ´À³¦µéÀ» Àü´ÞÇÏ´Â °ÍÀ̶ó¸é, ¾îÂîÇÏ¿© Á¾±³¿¡ — Áï, ½Å¿¡ ´ëÇÑ »ç¶÷ÀÇ °ü°è À§¿¡
— ±âÃʸ¦ µÐ ´À³¦ÀÌ ÀÌÇØµÉ ¼ö ¾ø°Ú´Â°¡? ±×·¯ÇÑ ¿¹¼úÀº Ʋ¸²¾øÀÌ ´©±¸¿¡°Ô³ª ÀÌÇØµÉ ¼ö ÀÖ¾î¾ß ÇÏ¸ç »ç½Ç ¾ðÁ¦³ª ±×·¡¿Ô´Ù, ¿Ö³ÄÇÏ¸é ½Å¿¡
´ëÇÑ Á¦°¢±â »ç¶÷ÀÇ °ü°è´Â ¾ðÁ¦³ª µ¿ÀÏÇϱ⠶§¹®ÀÌ´Ù. ±×·¯¹Ç·Î »ç¿øµé, ±×¸®°í ±× ¾ÈÀÇ ¿µ»óµé ¹× ³ë·¡ÇÔÀº ¾ðÁ¦³ª ¸ðµÎ¿¡°Ô ÀÌÇØµÉ
¼ö ÀÖ¾î ¿Ô´Ù. ÃÖ¼±ÀÇ ±×¸®°í ÃÖ°íÀÇ ´À³¦µéÀ» ÀÌÇØÇÔ¿¡ ´ëÇÑ À庮Àº, ¶ÇÇÑ º¹À½¼¿¡¼ ¸»Çϰí ÀÖµíÀÌ, °áÄÚ ¹ßÀü ¹× ±³À°ÀÇ °á¿©¿¡ ³õ¿© ÀÖÁö
¾ÊÀ¸¸ç, ¹Ý´ë·Î °ÅÁþµÈ ¹ßÀü ¹× °ÅÁþµÈ ±³À°¿¡ ÀÖ´Ù. ¼±ÇÏ¸ç ¼þ°íÇÑ ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰÀº »ç½Ç ÀÌÇØµÉ ¼öµµ ÀÖÁö¸¸, ´Ü¼øÇϸç, Ÿ¶ôµÇÁö ¾ÊÀº ³ëµ¿ÇÏ´Â
»ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô´Â ¾Æ´Ï´Ù (±×µéÀº ¼þ°íÇÑ ¸ðµç °ÍÀ» ÀÌÇØÇÑ´Ù) — ¾ÊÀ» ¼öµµ ÀÖ´Ù, ±×·¯³ª ÂüµÈ ¿¹¼ú ÀÛǰÀº °íµµ·Î ±³À°¹Þ¾ÒÀ¸¸ç, Ÿ¶ôÇÑ, Á¾±³¸¦
ÀÒÀº »ç¶÷µé¿¡°Ô ÀÌÇØµÇÁö ¾ÊÀ» ¼öµµ ÀÖÀ¸¸ç Á¾Á¾ ÀÌÇØµÇÁö ¾Ê´Â´Ù, ÀÌ´Â ¿ì¸® »çȸ¿¡¼ ºÎ´ÜÈ÷ ÀϾ´Â °ÍÀ̸ç, »ç¶÷µéÀº ÃÖ°íÀÇ
Á¾±³Àû ´À³¦µéÀ» ´Ü¼øÈ÷ ÀÌÇØµÉ ¼ö ¾ø´Ù°í »ý°¢ÇÑ´Ù. |
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Thus, good, great, universal, religious art may be incomprehensible only for a small circle of perverted people, but not otherwise. |
±×·¡¼, ¼±ÇÑ, ÈǸ¢ÇÑ, º¸ÆíÀû, Á¾±³Àû ¿¹¼úÀº ¿ÀÁ÷ Á¶±×¸¸ ¹üÁÖÀÇ
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