ABSTRACT

To-day, as always, art must, willy-nilly, make Transcendence perceptible, doing so at all times in the form which arouses contemporary faith. It may well be that the moment draws near when art will once again tell man what his God is and what he himself is. So long as we (as i f this were not yet taking place) have to contemplate the tragedy of man, the sheen of true being, in the forms of a long-past world-• not because the old art was a better art, but because as yet we have no truth of our own-though we do indeed participate in the genuine labours of our contemporaries as our situation, still we do it with the consciousness that we are failing to grasp our world.1