"All beautiful and noble qualities have been united in me... I shall be the fruit which will leave eternal vitality behind even after its decay. How great must be your joy, therefore, to have given birth to me"
About this Quote
Narcissism here isn’t a character flaw so much as a survival strategy dressed up as prophecy. Schiele inflates himself into a self-contained mythology: “beautiful and noble qualities” aren’t merely traits, they’re evidence that nature has produced a masterpiece. The line dares you to laugh at the ego while quietly asking you to take it seriously. That tension is the engine of the quote.
The fruit metaphor does the heavy lifting. Fruit is sensuous, perishable, a thing you touch and bruise; it ripens, rots, gets eaten. By calling himself fruit, Schiele ties artistic greatness to the body, to appetite, to decay. Then he executes the pivot: even after rot, there’s “eternal vitality.” That’s not modest immortality-by-museum-label; it’s an insistence that the work will outlive the flesh with an almost biological stubbornness, as if art were a seed that keeps germinating after death.
The address to the mother sharpens the provocation. “How great must be your joy” reads like gratitude but lands as a power move: he turns maternal pride into his evidence, demanding reverence as repayment for the mere act of birth. In early 20th-century Vienna, where respectability policed sexuality and artists were treated as both celebrities and degenerates, Schiele’s bravado doubles as self-defense. It’s the rhetoric of a young artist who knows he’s scandalous, feels transient, and still wants the last word: if I’m doomed to decay, I’ll make the decay part of the monument.
The fruit metaphor does the heavy lifting. Fruit is sensuous, perishable, a thing you touch and bruise; it ripens, rots, gets eaten. By calling himself fruit, Schiele ties artistic greatness to the body, to appetite, to decay. Then he executes the pivot: even after rot, there’s “eternal vitality.” That’s not modest immortality-by-museum-label; it’s an insistence that the work will outlive the flesh with an almost biological stubbornness, as if art were a seed that keeps germinating after death.
The address to the mother sharpens the provocation. “How great must be your joy” reads like gratitude but lands as a power move: he turns maternal pride into his evidence, demanding reverence as repayment for the mere act of birth. In early 20th-century Vienna, where respectability policed sexuality and artists were treated as both celebrities and degenerates, Schiele’s bravado doubles as self-defense. It’s the rhetoric of a young artist who knows he’s scandalous, feels transient, and still wants the last word: if I’m doomed to decay, I’ll make the decay part of the monument.
Quote Details
| Topic | Mother |
|---|---|
| Source | Help us find the source |
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