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In "Per Amica Silentia Lunae," W. B. Yeats navigates the intricate interplay between the personal and the mystical, delving into themes of love, loss, and the transcendental. The collection is rife with rich symbolism and allusions to the esoteric traditions that captivated Yeats throughout his life. His lyrical style, characterized by vivid imagery and musicality, invites readers into a contemplative space where the boundaries between the earthly and the ethereal blur. This work is an essential piece within the context of late 19th and early 20th-century literature, reflecting the Symbolist movement's influence and foreshadowing modernist developments in poetry. Yeats, a pivotal figure in the Irish literary renaissance, was deeply engaged with spirituality, folklore, and the occult. His involvement in the Golden Dawn, a mystical society, infused his poetry with a unique perspective on the supernatural and the subconscious. The personal experiences and philosophical inquiries that Yeats undertook shaped his artistic output, making "Per Amica Silentia Lunae" not just a collection of poems, but a significant exploration of the relationship between humanity and the cosmos. This captivating collection is recommended to readers seeking to explore the depths of human experience through the lens of mystical thought. Yeats' profound reflections and evocative language make this book a timeless journey into the soul's quest for understanding and connection. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - An Author Biography reveals milestones in the author's life, illuminating the personal insights behind the text. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
In the patient hush of moonlight, an artist discovers the double who compels him to speak, and from that encounter springs a vision of self, world, and art struggling toward coherence amid silence and necessity, where private discipline opposes public clamor, where the making of a beautiful thing demands a paradoxical surrender to powers both intimate and impersonal, and where imagination, chastened by solitude, learns to wear the mask that reveals rather than conceals, shaping experience into pattern, turning memory into destiny, and guiding the restless mind through the friendly night toward a language equal to its deepest inward urgencies.
Per Amica Silentia Lunae endures as a classic because it crystallizes W. B. Yeats’s mature aesthetics in a compact, luminous form that bridges lyric intensity and speculative thought. Its pages show how a poet of the highest order clarifies the terms of his craft without diminishing mystery. The work’s afterlife lies in classrooms and essays, in the conversations of poets and critics who return to it for a vocabulary of artistic selfhood and discipline. By joining metaphysical reflection to sensuous image, it models a modern prose of inwardness, and it has shaped how readers approach Yeats’s poems and plays across the twentieth century and beyond.
Written by W. B. Yeats and first published during the late 1910s, Per Amica Silentia Lunae is a short book of reflective prose assembled when Europe and Ireland were passing through upheaval. It belongs to Yeats’s middle-to-late career, when his public stature and private experiments in thought reached a new clarity. The Latin title means through the friendly silence of the moon, a phrase that evokes the nocturnal calm in which vision gathers. Comprising meditations rather than narrative, the book explores how imagination works, what the artist must risk, and how a life can be fashioned into a coherent practice of making.
The volume interweaves personal recollection, symbolic episodes, and theoretical propositions to explore the relation between the everyday self and the artistic self. Yeats considers the discipline of solitude, the uses of memory, and the role of chosen forms that sharpen feeling into expression. He treats inspiration not as accident but as a negotiation with an exacting counterpart that demands sincerity and form. Without laying out a closed system, he sketches a world where private experience and a shared spiritual atmosphere intersect, suggesting that the individual mind is most fruitful when it meets a larger order through attention, rigor, and imaginative consent.
Yeats’s purpose is to define the conditions under which poems and plays become inevitable, to show that art arises from a cultivated tension between contraries. He writes to clarify the logic of his own making, but he also offers readers a method: practice inwardness, accept discipline, and allow symbols to mature. He seeks neither confession nor treatise; instead, he composes a lucid set of meditations that guide without prescribing. The book reframes craft as an ethical and spiritual practice, insisting that style emerges from character, and that the highest achievement depends on shaping one’s life so that imagination can act with authority.
Historically, the book stands at a crossroads where late Romantic inheritance meets emerging modernism. Yeats had absorbed Symbolist techniques and revived Irish legend on the stage; here he condenses years of experiment into statements that are at once austere and incantatory. The prose offers a counterexample to purely analytical criticism by showing how ideas can be sung rather than diagrammed. It helped consecrate a mode of modern literary reflection in which poets articulate their poetics alongside their art. In critical histories of twentieth-century literature, Per Amica Silentia Lunae often appears as the compact key to Yeats’s subsequent work and to his earlier achievements.
Its influence rests less on doctrine than on attitude: the conviction that form is a moral choice, that a made mask can speak a deeper truth, and that the artist’s solitude is generative, not evasive. These notions traveled widely through modern poetry and criticism, shaping discussions of persona, sincerity, and tradition. Many later readers have used Yeats’s terms to think about the double life of the writer, the pressure of public roles on private imagination, and the necessity of a chosen discipline. By furnishing memorable concepts and a cadence for thinking, the book became a touchstone for those seeking a rigorous, living aesthetic.
Stylistically, the prose is poised between lyric and aphorism. Yeats favors luminous images, patient transitions, and a measured cadence that invites rereading. The structure is elliptical, with motifs reappearing to gather weight rather than to settle argument. He balances assertion with parable, and analysis with a sudden emblem or remembered scene. This method honors the book’s theme: knowledge as something glimpsed, then patiently articulated into form. The result is a language of authority without heaviness, intimate without confession, and abstract without aridity. It shows how prose can carry poetic pressure, offering clarity that does not strip away the felt life of mystery.
The period of composition matters. Written in the shadow of war and political transformation, the book draws energy from a world unsettled yet hungry for order. Yeats, who would receive the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1923, had long engaged with theater, folklore, and esoteric study; here he gathers those strands into a meditation on the making of art. Per Amica Silentia Lunae also looks forward, foreshadowing ideas he would elaborate in later work. Yet it remains distinct for its intimacy of scale, giving readers a direct encounter with the pressures and consolations that guide a major poet’s inner workshop.
Readers new to the book should expect meditation rather than argument and pattern rather than plot. Its insights arrive by accumulation: a symbol returns altered, a memory recast as method, a principle nearly stated, then completed by an image. Yeats trusts the reader to participate in the making of meaning, to supply attention where the prose withholds insistence. That participatory demand is part of the work’s charm, teaching a mode of reading equal to its theme of disciplined imagination. It rewards lingering more than haste, promising that patience will yield a clearer sense of how art and life can mutually clarify one another.
For contemporary audiences, its questions remain urgent: How does one cultivate attention in a noisy world; what mask permits authentic speech; what tradition can sustain freedom without stifling it; how might solitude renew, not isolate? The book proposes that lasting art is born where inward necessity meets chosen form, and that the artist’s task is to endure this rendezvous with steadiness and tact. In an age of performance and distraction, its emphasis on silence, rigor, and self-fashioning feels bracing rather than antiquarian. It offers both a language and a posture for making work that can outlast circumstance.
Per Amica Silentia Lunae continues to matter because it condenses the experience of a great poet into a guide for imaginative life. It presents the double of the self, the claims of memory, the discipline of form, and the radiance of symbolic vision, all articulated in prose that is grave, exact, and quietly exultant. As a statement of purpose and an invitation to practice, it anchors Yeats’s place in literary history and illuminates the sources of his art. For readers and writers alike, it remains a clear, durable compass pointing toward integrity, intensity, and the sustaining music of inward attention.
Per Amica Silentia Lunae is a brief, reflective work by W. B. Yeats composed of two interrelated essays. In a meditative prose that blends memoir, philosophy, and poetics, Yeats outlines how art arises from disciplined inner conflict and from contact with a universal store of images. The first essay examines the making of the self required for creative work; the second considers a world soul that offers shared symbols to the imagination. Across both parts, Yeats traces a sequence from personal cultivation to impersonal vision, seeking to describe the conditions under which poems, dramas, and images find their necessary form. The tone is ruminative rather than argumentative, moving through recollection, brief exempla, and compact statements of principle.
Anima Hominis opens with recollections of early efforts to find images and discipline the mind. Yeats proposes that artistic power is not born from comfortable harmony but from a deliberate opposition within the person. He introduces the “mask” as a chosen, contrary self, shaped through will, ritual, and style. By setting oneself against one’s habitual temperament, the artist generates the tension that becomes art. Yeats contrasts everyday persuasion with the deeper making that arises from inner quarrel, and he prepares the reader for his central claim: that creation demands both a constructed persona and persistent self-scrutiny.
Developing the mask further, he describes how selection, ceremony, and a refusal of naïve sincerity help the artist fashion an objective style. The chosen opposite is not falsehood but a perfected stance that compels concentration. Through the mask, one meets a fate larger than preference, and one’s materials gather into pattern. Yeats points to exemplary lives and dramatic characters whose greatness issues from conflict mastered in form. The argument proceeds step by step: choose the opposite, practice it as discipline, suffer its demands, and discover that the making of style coincides with the making of the self.
From this discipline he turns to the Daimon, a personal destiny that confronts each life with its necessary contrary. The Daimon presses the artist beyond habit toward an exacting vocation, and in obeying it one finds “tragic joy,” a heightened energy born of accepted limits and risk. Yeats presents the Daimon not as superstition but as a name for the pressure of form and fate. When the self and the anti-self contend to a pitch, character crystallizes and work acquires inevitability. The first essay thus concludes by linking genuine style to fidelity to one’s demanding, opposite calling.
Bridging toward wider implications, Yeats distinguishes the aims of the saint and the artist. Both seek intensity and unity, yet by unlike methods: the saint renounces images to approach simplicity; the poet multiplies and orders images to approach perfected pattern. He notes how symbols, rites, and disciplined habits assist both paths, and he suggests that societies and traditions serve as vessels where such practices endure. This comparison rounds off his account of the artist’s formation, emphasizing that sustained form, not spontaneous self-expression alone, carries the weight of meaning and prepares the imagination for what lies beyond the personal.