THE translations given in this volume, with the exception of the stormscene from Tolstoy in the First Lecture, are my own. The reader will please bear in mind that these Lectures, printed here exactly as delivered, were written with a view to addressing the ear as well as the eye, otherwise the book would have been entirely different from what it now is. When delivering the Sixth Lecture, I read extracts from Tolstoy’s “My Religion” and “What to Do,” illustrating every position of his I there commend; but for reasons it is needless to state, I omit them in the book. I can only hope that the reader will all the more readily go to the books themselves.

1889. P. GRAFTON, MASS., 1 July, 1889.

19. yüzyıldan bir asır evvel Avrupa’da sanatlar bilimden ayrılmış ve “güzel sanatlar” nevi şahsına münhasır bir kategoride konumlandırılmıştı. Dahası Estetik, bir bilim olarak tartışılmaya başlanmıştı. Tek kelimeyle, büyük harfle “Sanat” ve “Estetik” doğmuştu. Bugün kıta Avrupası ve Amerika’daki nitelikli felsefi dergilerin tartışmalarıyla güncelliğini devam ettiren estetik ve sanat felsefesinin vardığı noktadan hatta sanatın sonunun dile getirildiği bir zaviyeden bakıldığında Guyau’nun sanat, bilim ve şiire ilişkin yaklaşımlarının eskidiği görülebilir. Yine de Guyau’nun fikirlerini okurken değindiği meselelerin aynı dönemde birçok kişi tarafından ele alındığını hatırda tutmak gereklidir. Ancak böylesi karşılıklı bir okuma Guyau’nun bize hikemi gelen yaklaşımlarının değerini ifade edebilir. Bunun için de 19. asırdan beri basınımızda ifadesini bulan estetik ve sanata dair çevirilerin yaygınlaşması gerçekleşmesini arzu ettiğimiz bir temenni olmuştur. Elinizdeki kitap bu temenniyle aktarılmıştır.

There are, first of all, two kinds of authors: those who write for the subject’s sake, and those who write for writing’s sake. While the one have had thoughts or experiences which seem to them worth communicating, the others want money; and so they write, for money. Their thinking is part of the business of writing. They may be recognized by the way in which they spin out their thoughts to the greatest possible length; then, too, by the very nature of their thoughts, which are only half-true, perverse, forced, vacillating; again, by the aversion they generally show to saying anything straight out, so that they may seem other than they are. Hence their writing is deficient in clearness and definiteness, and it is not long before they betray that their only object in writing at all is to cover paper. This sometimes happens with the best authors; now and then, for example, with Lessing in his Dramaturgie, and even in many of Jean Paul’s romances. As soon as the reader perceives this, let him throw the book away; for time is precious. The truth is that when an author begins to write for the sake of covering paper, he is cheating the reader; because he writes under the pretext that he has something to say.