Now, since the interest of a work of art lies in the fact that we have the same kind of sympathy with a poetic representation as with reality, it is obvious that the representation must deceive us for the moment; and this it can do only by its truth.  But truth is an element in perfect art.  A picture, a poem, should be as true as nature itself; but at the same time it should lay stress on whatever forms the unique character of its subject by drawing out all its essential manifestations, and by rejecting everything that is unessential and accidental.  The picture or the poem will thus emphasize its idea, and give us that ideal truth which is superior to nature.

Truth, then, forms the point that is common both to interest and beauty in a work of art, as it is its truth which produces the illusion.  The fact that the truth of which I speak is ideal truth might, indeed, be detrimental to the illusion, since it is just here that we have the general difference between poetry and reality, art and nature.  But since it is possible for reality to coincide with the ideal, it is not actually necessary that this difference should destroy the illusion.  In the case of fine arts there is, in the range of the means which art adopts, a certain limit, and beyond it illusion is impossible.  Sculpture, that is to say, gives us mere colourless form; its figures are without eyes and without movement; and painting provides us with no more than a single view, enclosed within strict limits, which separate the picture from the adjacent reality.  Here, then, there is no room for illusion, and consequently none for that interest or sympathy which resembles the interest we have in reality; the will is at once excluded, and the object alone is presented to us in a manner that frees it from any personal concern.

It is a highly remarkable fact that a spurious kind of fine art oversteps these limits, produces an illusion of reality, and arouses our interest; but at the same time it destroys the effect which fine art produces, and serves as nothing but a mere means of exhibiting the beautiful, that is, of communicating a knowledge of the ideas which it embodies.  I refer to waxwork.  Here, we might say, is the dividing line which separates it from the province of fine art.  When waxwork is properly executed, it produces a perfect illusion; but for that very reason we approach a wax figure as we approach a real man, who, as such, is for the moment an object presented to our will.  That is to say, he is an object of interest; he arouses the will, and consequently stills the intellect.  We come up to a wax figure with the same reserve and caution as a real man would inspire in us:  our will is excited; it waits to see whether he is going to be friendly to us, or the reverse, fly from us, or attack us; in a word, it expects some action of him.  But as the figure, nevertheless, shows no sign of life, it produces the impression which is so very disagreeable, namely, of a corpse.  This is a case where the interest is of the most complete kind, and yet where there is no work of art at all.  In other words, interest is not in itself a real end of art.