It is because the sea which washes between personality and
personality is here, for once, rolled away, and we and this Hamlet
touch, soul to soul. That is why we ask whether such a character can
be the mere evolvement of the artistic mind at work. That is why we
exclaim: 'The man who painted Hamlet must have been painting himself.'
The perfection of the dramatist's work betrays him. For, really and
truly, no man can paint another, but only himself, and what we call
'character painting' is, at the best, but a poor mixing of painter and
painted, a 'third something' between these two; just as what we call
colour and sound are born of the play of undulation upon organism.
INTRODUCTION TO THE SNOWDON EDITION OF 1901
Though written many years ago this story was, for certain personal
reasons easy to guess, withheld from publication--withheld, as _The
Times_ pointed out, because 'with the _Dichtung_ was mingled
a good deal of _Wahrheit_,' But why did I still delay in
publishing it after these reasons for withholding it had passed away?
This is a question that has often been put to me both in print and in
conversation.
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