It is always very unfortunate when a poet reviews his own works since one generally assumes that each poet turns a blind eye on his own weaknesses and, while, peculiarly, his other eye that is turned towards looking at the weaknesses of others, is the keenest eagle's eye. However, since it this is very common and well-known and since many books have already been written about the necessity of self-reflection, I have considered it to be not without merit to make a good start in it (meaning in the examination of my own errors). Already here, many will probably set an exclamation mark that is an indication of their agitation.--

The title of the poems in question is: Prometheus. Whew! General disgust. It appears as if the era of Aeschylus is supposed to be revived. Well, are there no human beings left so that one has to make titans reappear? (Slight doubts.) What an outrageous insult to today's humanity! Now, that everything is flourishing, we are supposed to return to the very fist beginnings of culture?--Is that not an inconceivable impertinence? (Here, the poet is shrugging his shoulders and clearing his throat from an artificial cough and saying:

Most highly esteemed audience! I am pleased that I have the honor, the honor which, however, is bestowed on many and for which I, for many years, have craved like a deer craves for water, namely the honor to meet you, the all-perceiving and trend-setting public, an event which I, by the way, on the occasion if this, my first literary attempt, barely had the courage, the courage that still is inexplicable to me even now, and that has cost me many sighs and tears, the courage to step into the light with this weak product of my muse, in order to plead in the appropriate manner for its favor, upon which depends so incredibly much so that, in the event that this favor is not bestowed upon this your talent respectively genius, he is, to say it with a few words, he is lacking everything, and he is forced to return from his glorious hopes that filled his soul and that are, by the way, usually the product of his day dreams, into a nothing.

Audience Fie, how unbearable to our distinguished, judging art critics' ears. Young friend, your prologue has to be criticized more than your work, itself. How stiff and forced, how bare of all poetry, what an unbearably long sentence! My tender nerves are unpleasantly touched by such ear-shattering words. How different would the following address sound:

"It was on a heavenly beautiful day in May. The larks were singing in the ever-clear, blue skies, butterflies were hovering around the rose-bushes like playful elves. The mild, enchanting air that was filled with many fragrances, was enveloping me, and a never-before felt bliss filled my innermost. What emerged from my mind under these conditions, I now lay down in your temple, you muses, as a symbol of my gratitude, however weak it may be, you muses who have bestowed your favor upon me, and if a poor mortal may dare to ask for a favor from the heavenly ones, it would be that you might continue to bestow your favor upon me. May the eternal harmonies of poetry continue to sound in my mind's inner ears and transport it out of wretched everyday conditions into your blessed halls (the audience is weeping; the poet--?

A fat captain: Can't you tell me what kind of animal Prometheus was?

A young officer: A titan, Captain!

The former: What is a titan?

An old lady: Fie, sir, who wants to deal with such pagan stuff?

Captain: Pooh...and even write poems about it!

A Councillor: "No power can touch those who dwell on Mount Olympus' lofty top!"

A Prof: Who says so? Has the M poet not read his Aeschylus well enough so that he does not know that, in the "Chained Prometheus", page 15, verse 19, Dindorf edition, it is written:

"Even Zeus shall not escape his fate."
Does not our Aeschylus say here, that this is nonsense?

Fat Captain: My learned student, who is Aeschylus, anyway?

Student: A hero of tragedy, sublime in drama and action, achieving powerful effects with titans.

The Former: With titans? Curious, a good gambler (having perceived the German word "Spiel" not as drama but as "Play" in the sense of "Game") and merchant (having perceived the German word "Handlung" not as action but as "business dealings") who can achieve effects in and with his novels? Is he still alive?

The Latter: He lived a few centuries before Christ.

The Former: Well, then Jean Paul must have lived at that time, too? (referring to the romantic writer Jean Paul (Friedrich Richter) and his novel, "Der Titan").

Prof: Everything passes, the alone are eternal, above time and life.

Councillor: What does the young poet mean by "eternal"?

Poet: Dear sir and patron, your kindness and extreme benevolence towards me totally confuses me (general laughter: ha, ha, ha) and I do not deserve, at all, that you are so concerned with me. (All have a serious look on their faces).

It was on a beautiful afternoon on a day in May, the mocking birds were singing like organ pipes and it was raining down heavily on the rose bushes. I fled into your closed-in gazebo and there I laid down in your halls my books that were still wet from the pouring rain. (General hissing and noise) Then, the mocking birds began to chirp and the dogs began to sing-- excuse me, please- so -that the entire house was shaking. If it was ever granted to a mortal--(the noise is getting louder and louder)

Prof: What does this hissing mean? Who is it meant for? You are making fun of yourself! It is your address.

Poet: In a state of trance, and with pathos.

However, those heavenly forces will not be angry forever,
Even if the sinner considered himself forsaken
And never hoped that his transgression would be forgiven,
They approach him, comfort him and forgive him.

(General Applause and Cheers)
Prof: Captain, it is easy to hiss.

C. Well--excuse me--hiss--I can't do otherwise--hiss--such a nonsense--hiss--I can not-- understand it--how a man--Aeschylus, tragedy--hazard--merchant--Jean Paul--before Christ--Roman--I am confused--oh--hiss-- h--oh--!

(A hundred vinaigrettes are flying towards him; etc.)
Poet, with warmth

To you, unconsciousness appears to be a lovely way out
Of the nonsense of stupidity, Aeschylus and Jean Paul,
Hazard and Merchant and Unconsciousness can only
Be overcome by vinaigrettes.
Woe to him who finds himself in the hands of stupidity
And--

St: Who do you mean by that, sir?

P(oet): Do you feel yourself addressed?

St(udent): I protest against such impertinence!

An old lady: Oh, my nerves! These crude men!

(Poet): St(upidity) has always been closely linked to weak nerves

Lady: Stupidity, weak nerves, you are arrogant

P(oet): No, that is too much for me, you are eccentric.

Of(ficer). Sir, what do you mean? I would not have thought that!

P(oet). That I have turned all of you into poets.