Man's First Vision

Heinrich Von Kleist, from a letter written in September 5, 1800, To Wilhelmine von Zenge, in: An Abyss Deep Enough, edt. & tr. Philip B. Miller (New York, 1982), p. 53:

I am on the right path, I feel this in my ever more serene self-awareness, and the contentment that warms me within. Could I otherwise speak to you with such self-assurance, call you my own with such inward joy, find such delight and gladness and calm in the beauties of nature that now surround me? Yes, dear girl, this last is decisive. Solitude in nature's great openness: that is the touchstone of one's true moral worth. In society, on city streets, in theaters, our moral judgment is silent, things there work only on the intellect, and one has no need of the heart. But when we see the spacious, more noble, more sublime Creation before us, why, then one has need of a heart. Astir in our breast, its beating awakens the conscience. Man's first vision was of external nature, his second turns furtively inward to his innermost consciousness. If we find ugliness there, there alone, of all places, in the ideal beauty of nature, why then, no more can we know peace of mind, all pleasure and joy in life evaporate. We are oppressed within, we cannot grasp what is high and divine, we wander mute and senseless like slaves in the palaces of their masters. In the quiet of the forests we are anxious, startled by the babbling of a spring; God's presence is burdensome to us; we plunge into the hurry and bustle to lose ourselves in throngs, and wish we may never, never find ourselves again. 

How grateful I am that at least one person in the world understands me. If not for Brockes there might be no serenity for me, perhaps not even the strength necessary for my undertaking. For, to be thrown back entirely on one's own self-confidence, never to receive an encouraging look from another pair of eyes—and still to do what is right, that of course, as they say, is virtue of heroic dimension. But who knows whether Christ on the cross would have done as he did unless, among the raging tormentors about him, he could also see his mother and disciples casting moist glances of rapture. . . .