This tragedy is the tragedy of the metaphysical
erotic overflowing its own specific domain. Dante's faith in the
absolute value of his work and in the truth of the consummation of his
love in eternity--which was the sustaining power of his life--remained
unshaken, but Michelangelo lost his faith in his work; art and love
forsook him and withdrew into a transcendental world which he could
divine, but could not grasp. His faith was no blissful certainty; he
knew no more than the dark aspect of things; the imperfection of even
the sublimest, of his art and his love.
Shakespeare's genius could breathe life into all things human, and he
found satisfaction in doing so. Michelangelo's creative, plastic power
seemed illimitable; he possessed all the gifts an artist could possibly
have, but from year to year his conviction of the futility of all
earthly things grew to a profounder certainty. He had knocked at the
iron gate of humanity with his hammer and his chisel; they had broken
into fragments and sorrow made him dumb.
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