[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 Memoires; 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 Memoires 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 ecrivain, 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 back; he is not sure either of his feelings or his thoughts.  He has poetry in his soul, and strives to write operas; but his admiration wavers between Gluck and Meyerbeer.  He has a popular genius, but despises the people.  He is a daring musical revolutionary, but he allows the control of this musical movement to be taken from him by anyone who wishes to have it.  Worse than that:  he disowns the movement, turns his back upon the future, and throws himself again into the past.  For what reason?  Very often he does not know.  Passion, bitterness, caprice, wounded pride—­these have more influence with him than the serious things of life.  He is a man at war with himself.

[Footnote 4:  “Chance, that unknown god, who plays such a great part in my life” (Memoires, II, 161).]