填空题Compared with the immediate practical responsibility of the scientist, the (1) of the artist must seem puny. The decision which faces (2) is not one of practical action: of course he will try to throw this (3) into the scale, and that weight, if he is a writer or (4) a painter of genius, may have its effect. For the novelist—in our society the only artist who has a mass audience and at the same time effective economic control of the means of addressing (5) —the hope of some decisive influence is a reasonable (6) . For him, since he takes of all artists (7) is probably the largest portion of his culture as material, there is no (8) escape from the necessity for treating the content of his work seriously than (9) is for the social psychologist he is coming so closely to resemble. The dichotomy which people have tried to establish between artistic proficiency and (10) content is becoming unbearable to almost all sensitive minds. I doubt if it has ever been real— we might have admired Shelley as (11) if he had been indifferent to such things as war and tyranny, though I doubt it; certainly (12) he been indifferent we should never have been led by (13) . There is no Hippocratic oath in literature, and I am not attempting to draw (14) up. As far as I am concerned, the artist is a human being writ large and his (15) are the ethics of any human being. Perhaps I can best illustrate (16) seems to me the new (17) of those duties of assertion and refusal from one writer, and I do not (18) it is without significance that this (19) projects the whole situation of choice into a scientific parable, the (20) of a pestilence: a (21) many human (22) are called to fight against, called not by any supernatural (23) but by the simple fact that the fight against a plague is (24) like a biological human (25) .

填空题It never occurred to him that he and his doing were not of the most intense and fascinating interest to anyone with whom he came in contact. He had theories about almost any subject under the sun, including vegetarianism, the drama, politics, and music; and in support of these theories he wrote pamphlets, letters, books.., thousands upon thousands of words, hundreds and hundreds of pages. He not only wrote these things, and published them—usually at somebody else"s expense—but he would sit and read them aloud, for hours, to his friends and his family. He had the emotional stability of a six-year-old child. When he felt out of sorts, he would rave and stamp, or sink into suicidal gloom and talk darkly of going to the East to end his days as a Buddhist monk. Ten minutes later, when something pleased him, he would rush out of doors and run around the garden, or jump up and down on the sofa, or stand on his head. He was almost innocent of any sense of responsibility. Not only did he seem incapable of supporting himself, but it never 21 to him that he was under any obligation to do so. He was convinced that the 22 owed him a living. In support of this belief, he borrowed 23 from everybody who was good for a loan—men, women, friends, or 24 . He wrote begging letters by the score, sometimes groveling 25 shame, at others loftily offering his intended benefactor the privilege of 26 to his support, and being mortally offended if the recipient declined the 27 . I have found no record of his ever paying or repaying money to 28 who did not have a legal claim upon it. The name of this monster was Richard Wagner. Everything that I have said about him you can find 29 record: in newspapers, in police reports, in the testimony of people who knew him, in his own letters, 30 the lines of his autobiography. And the curious thing about this record is 31 it doesn"t matter in the least. Because this undersized, sickly, 32 , fascinating little man was right all the time. The joke was 33 us. He was one of the world"s greatest dramatists; he was a great 34 ; he was one of the most stupendous musical geniuses that, up to now, the world has 35 seen. The world did owe him a living. When you consider what he wrote: thirteen operas and 36 dramas, eleven of them still holding the stage, eight of them unquestionably 37 ranking among the world"s great musical-dramatic masterpieces: when you listen to 38 he wrote, the debts and heartaches that people had to endure from him don"t 39 much of a price. Think of the luxury with which for a time, at least, fate 40 Napoleon, the man who ruined France and looted Europe; and then 41 you will agree that a few thousand dollars" worth of debts were not too 42 a price to pay for the Ring trilogy. Listening to his music, one does not forgive him for what he 43 or may not have been. It is not a matter of forgiveness. It is a 44 of being dumb with wonder that his poor brain and body didn"t burst 45 the torment of the demon of creative energy that lived inside him, 46 , clawing, scratching to be released; tearing, shrieking at him to 47 the music that was in him. The miracle is that what he did in the little 48 of seventy years could have been done at all, even by a great 49 . Is it any wonder that he had no time to be a man?