THE PRINCIPLE OF HOPE

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constitutes the exotic nature of Rembrandt's illumination, the echo of a fairytale distance in which the objects receptive to it or belonging to it are pictured very near.
This alone is the source of the glimmering element, but also the love of the flashing in silk, pearls, jewels, and the golden helmet. This alone is the source of the necessary
Arabianization in the pictures of Saskia and of Jews: the distance of light speaks most audibly through the fairyland of the Orient; a transcendental Baghdad glows in the
night. And this alone is ultimately the source, in the depths, of light not as an element of the world nor of the supernatural world but as a mystical expression of Being of
the figures accompanying it. This is most quietly the case in the Munich picture of the Resurrection, with Christ right down at the bottom edge, palely shining, and also
escaped from and superior to the mythological heavenly light which breaks down behind the descending angel: an Ex oriente lux which itself is only beginning to rise and
is reflected from this corpse in extreme remoteness. All Rembrandt's pictures, even the secular ones, are composed from out of the background, and his colours — of
night, incense, myrrh, gold — paint the perspective: hollow space with sparks.
Still life, Cythera and broad perspective in literature: Heinse, Roman de la Rose, Jean Paul
A picture tells us of what we see in it as simultaneity. And a poem perceives and can let us see what it tells in its succession. Above all if it allows itself to be guided by a
desired type of picture, by the still life, but then by departure, by the big wide world. The literary species of still life, which is of course now seen totally nostalgically, is
the idyll. Even the tiniest thing is honoured in it and becomes good, for where there is no affluence all things must serve for the best. As in the work of Andersen: tongs,
kettle, and candle are alive, the room itself is a little fairytale, all the gadgets live in it. The idyll runs a modest kitchen, cultivates carefree conversations, contains pleasant
fortunes throughout. Of course, like the painted still life of human beings, it can also bring with it that tame comfort which, extremely useful for our masters, cuts its coat
according to its cloth. Also it is no accident that the idyllic comes from the old pastoral and bucolic poem, in which a sated stratum glossed over the restricted life led by
those who had not chosen it for themselves. A life which even with the much­vaunted sour milk and bread they did not lead that satiated, that neatly