The Maccabaean

THE old view of the man of genius—a man of peculiar abilities, a hero of action or a giant of intellect in some field of creative activity—as of a creature responsible only to himself, self nourished and creating independently, occasionally “from his shoulders and upward, higher than any of the people”—hidden from us by the whim of destiny—this view has already disappeared from the scientific world. There is no one of our contemporary scholars in psychology, individual or social, who does not recognize as axiomatic, that there is nothing in the individual which is not in the mass. The group and the individual cannot be separated. There is no individual in the world—even a gaon of the geonim—who is not dependent on the group. The group is the source, the only spring from which every creative artist drinks when thirsty; other sources outside the group do not exist. And men of science have agreed upon another point, after long researches and observation of the phenomena of the development of consciousness, that each individual has his group, that only from it is he influenced to create. One of the keenest and best of Russian philosophers, Vladi- mir Soloviov, has indicated three degrees for human creative activity. It ascends from the individual, passes through the nation, and reaches the highest rung, that called humanity. Of course, it is impossible to omit the first degree, because if the “I” is absent creative work is impossible. But it is possible to omit the second degree, that is to say, it is possible that a desire should awake in the creator to attain the highest degree in one flight, from the individual to humanity. But woe to the creator who is snared by such a desire! His achievement will be a miserable one, and counterfeit, because he has defied his source, “because he hath forsaken the fountain of living waters to make for himself broken cisterns.” Because when the artist belittles his own world, he is in reality defying his artistic powers, and is no more a creator, but an imitator. He is no more a free man but a slave, and true creation does not suffer slavery, even in a slight degree.

From this it follows that a man of genius does not belong to himself, but to the group. And not to a group in general, but to that group from which he derived and to which he is connected by all the fibers of his creating power—no matter if the creator feels it himself or not. Each genius owes a debt to his group. He must return to the treasury of his group what he has taken from it, 1) heis only a fine soul and his desire to uplift himself does not dull his conscience. In these matters to receive and not_to return is moral bankruptcy, a thousand times worse than civil bankruptcy, because it is hidden from the common eye, and because there is no disgrace or punishment following it.

And indeed such moral bankruptcy seldom occurs in another nation, dwelling in its land, and constructing its life according to its own inclinations, and its peculiar taste. There is no flight and no refuge for its geniuses. No one leaves the battle and no one betrays his source. On the contrary, he emphasizes it as much as possible in order that the source may be reflected in his work, to glorify it before the world. The value of each achievement by itself depends of course on the artistry of the creator, but to a large extent also on the stamp of truth which is placed on the creation. Each veil, each mask, each shadow kills the work of art and makes it counterfeit.

But, as regards us, we must confess our great sorrow that many of our elite, gaons of thought, were unable to lift themselves up to the highest grade of creation, not because of a lack of ability or genius, but because they estranged themselves purposely or accidentally from the source which nour- ished them. They considered themselves free, men who had no duty to their own group, and wanted to overlap the middle degree, which every true creation must pass through. And th ir creations bear upon them because of this, the sign of self-deception. They boasted that they have vanquished their limitations and that they have succeeded in ascending at once to the highest grade of humanity. But everyone who has a keen eye has observed the falsity of this boast. Everyone ascends in his artistry from degree to degree, but they are creating by a short cut, while in reality there is no short cut or royal road in creative work. We do not want to blame our elite as individuals, but we grieve over this negative phenomenon, over the robbery done to our nation by its great men and geniuses, over the spiritual treasures of which they have robbed it without returning them to their possessor. One may say, “But they have created, they have produced, and what harm was done if they have not tried to emphasize the source from which they have drawn their inspiration? What does it matter to us if these masterpieces were swallowed among all the masterpieces of Humanity, ‘and it could not be known that they had eaten them’?” This is the answer. Not national vanity speaks in us, not in order to beautify and adorn ourselves before strangers do we require that the works of our geniuses shall be credited to our account, that is to say, to the account of the nation which has fed and provided us all. But we know life, and we know how the relations between different nations are woven and on what they are based, and we know that when we waste our spiritual capital, scatter it on every side without gathering it in the national treasure as other people are accustomed to do, we are committing suicide. And we cannot complain against others if they think of us as a nation of low degree, whose creative power has come to an end. On this theory one