Prose and poetry. – It is remarkable that the great masters of prose have almost always also been poets, be it publicly or only in secret, in the ‘closet’; and verily, one writes good prose only face to face with poetry! For this is an uninterrupted, courteous war with poetry: all its attractions depend on the fact that poetry is constantly evaded and contradicted; everything abstract wants to be presented as a prank against poetry and as if with a mocking voice; everything dry and cool is supposed to drive the lovely goddess into lovely despair; often there are rapprochements, reconciliations for a moment, and then a sudden leap back and derisive laugh; often the curtain is raised and a harsh light is let in just as the goddess is enjoying her dusks and muted colours; often the word is taken out of her mouth and sung according to a melody that makes her cover her refined ears with her refined hands – and so there are a thousand delights of this war, including defeat, of which the unpoetic, the so-called men of prose, know nothing at all – which is why they write and speak only bad prose! *War is the father of all good things;*35 war is also the father of good prose! In this century, four very strange and truly poetic persons attained a mastery of prose, for which this century is otherwise not made – out of a lack of poetry, as I have suggested. Excluding Goethe, who may fairly be claimed by the century that produced him, I see Giacomo Leopardi, Prosper Mérimée, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Walter Savage Landor, the author of Imaginary Conversations,36 as worthy of being called masters of prose.