The artist possesses the strongest will and the strongest capacity for communication. He cannot rest or repose until he has discovered the way to bring to life in others everything that lives in himself. And nevertheless it is just in this continual self-renewing flow of communication that the artist feels himself isolated and thrown back to the limits of his own I. For no individual work that he creates can capture the fullness of this vision that he bears within himself. Always a distressingly felt opposition remains: “outer” and “inner” never completely correspond. But this boundary, which the artist must acknowledge, does not become a limit for him. He continues to create, for he knows that it is only in his creations that he can discover and take possession of his self. He has his world and his true self only in the gestalt that he gives them.
In religious feeling, too, we find the same duplexity. The deeper and more inward it is the more it appears to turn away from the world and break all ties that bind man to man, to his social reality. The believer knows only himself and God; and he does not want to know anything else. “God and the soul I desire to know,” says Augustine, “Nothing else? Nothing at all.” And yet, with Augustine, as with every other religious genius, the power of faith proves itself only in the profession of faith. He must communicate his faith to others, he must fill them with his own religious passion and fervor, in order to become truly certain of this faith. This profession is possible only through religious images–in images that begin as symbols and end as dogmas. Thus, even here, every initial enunciation is already the beginning of a renunciation. It is the destiny and, in a certain sense, the immanent tragedy of every spiritual form that it can never overcome this inner tension. With the resolution of the tension the life of spirit would also be extinguished; for the life of spirit consists in this very act of severing what is, so that it can, in turn, even more securely unite what has been severed.
Ernst Cassirer, The Logic of the Cultural Sciences,” “Perception of Things, Perception of Expression”
From the beginning of the United States, writers of a certain kind, and not all bad, have been bursting with some terrible truth that they can never quite articulate. Most often it has to do with the virtue of feeling as opposed to the vice of thinking. Those who try to think out matters are arid, sterile, anti-life, while those who float about in a daffy daze enjoy copious orgasms and the happy knowledge that they are the salt of the earth. This may well be true but Miller is hard put to prove it, if only because to make a case of any kind, cerebration is necessary, thereby betraying the essential position. On the one hand, he preaches the freedom of the bird, without attachments or the need to justify anything in words, while on the other hand, he feels obligated to write long books in order to explain the cosmos to us. The paradox is that if he really meant what he writes, he would not write at all. But then he is not the first messiah to be crucified upon a contradiction.
Gore Vidal, “The Sexus of Henry Miller”