[Footnote 3: The literary work of Berlioz is rather uneven. Beside
passages of exquisite beauty we find others that are ridiculous in their
exaggerated sentiment, and there are some that even lack good taste. But
he had a natural gift of style, and his writing is vigorous, and full of
feeling, especially towards the latter half of his life. The _Procession
des Rogations_ is often quoted from the _Mémoires_; and some of his
poetical text, particularly that in _L'Enfance du Christ_ and in _Les
Troyens_, is written in beautiful language and with a fine sense of
rhythm. His _Mémoires_ as a whole is one of the most delightful books
ever written by an artist. Wagner was a greater poet, but as a prose
writer Berlioz is infinitely superior. See Paul Morillot's essay on
_Berlioz écrivain_, 1903, Grenoble.] One would think that such an
imaginative and skilful writer, accustomed in his profession of critic
to express every shade of feeling, would be able to tell us more exactly
his ideas of art than a Beethoven or a Mozart. But it is not so. As too
much light may blind the vision, so too much intellect may hinder the
understanding. Berlioz's mind spent itself in details; it reflected
light from too many facets, and did not focus itself in one strong beam
which would have made known his power. He did not know how to dominate
either his life or his work; he did not even try to dominate them. He
was the incarnation of romantic genius, an unrestrained force,
unconscious of the road he trod. I would not go so far as to say that he
did not understand himself, but there are certainly times when he is
past understanding himself. He allows himself to drift where chance will
take him,[4] like an old Scandinavian pirate laid at the bottom of his
boat, staring up at the sky; and he dreams and groans and laughs and
gives himself up to his feverish delusions. He lived with his emotions
as uncertainly as he lived with his art. In his music, as in his
criticisms of music, he often contradicts himself, hesitates, and turns