Token Self-Indulgent Post on Romanticism (725-732)

I’ll admit I have a soft spot for Romanticism. I suppose that being fascinated by the Enlightenment and Romanticism is kind of like rooting for the Giants and the Dodgers, but I think the key to appreciating both is valuing the very things about the two movements that make them different. When I think of the Enlightenment, I imagine more than anything wise old men, gently stroking their beards and thinking philosophically about all sorts of obscure topics. It’s all very serious and disciplined and exacting. When I imagine the great thinkers of the Enlightenment, I can’t seem them suffering fools gladly – something about them seems a bit condescending and self-satisfied, in a very stagnant, almost stifling sort of way.

Romanticism, on the other side, is like the much younger cousin of the Enlightenment, the black sheep of the family, the teenager whose hair makes old ladies go “tsk” and who writes angsty poetry on the internet. There is something charming about the coarseness, the excessive emotion of the poetry, the paintings, the novels, that makes you wince but at the same time draws you in. You can’t approach the Romantics the same way you would the philosophes. They’re a different breed, but I can’t help loving that about them.