Great art obliterates its author. Unamuno, Life 3.17

Would you rather be remembered, as a name, or leave some memorable piece of art in the world, a work so powerful that it overshadows, and eventually obliterates, your own name and fame? Unamuno suggests that the true artist plays more than she works; what she cares about is too important to be merely herself, or anything as trifling as personal identity. To play well is to lose yourself. Great art is good enough to make us forget its author.

Qué significa esa irritación cuando creemos que nos roban una frase, o un pensamiento, o una imagen que creíamos nuestra; cuando nos plagian? ¿Robar? ¿Es que es acaso nuestra, una vez que al público se la dimos? Sólo por nuestra la queremos y más encariñados vivimos de la moneda falsa que conserva nuestro cuño, que no de la pieza de oro puro de donde se ha borrado nuestra efigie y nuestra leyenda. Sucede muy comúnmente que cuando no se pronuncia ya el nombre de un escritor es cuando más influye en su pueblo desparramado y enfusado su espíritu en los espíritus de los que le leyeron, mientras que se le citaba cuando sus dichos y pensamientos, por chocar con los corrientes, necesitaban garantía de nombre. Lo suyo es ya de todos y él en todos vive. Pero en sí mismo vive triste y lacio y se cree en derrota. No oye ya los aplausos ni tampoco el latir silencioso de los corazones de los que le siguen leyendo. Preguntad a cualquier artista sincero qué prefiere, que se hunda su obra y sobreviva su memoria, o que hundida ésta persista aquélla, y veréis, si es de veras sincero, lo que os dice. Cuando el hombre no trabaja para vivir, e irlo pasando, trabaja para sobrevivir. Obrar por la obra misma, es juego y no trabajo. ¿Y el juego? Ya hablaremos de él.

What is the meaning of our irritation, when we believe that others have stolen from us a phrase, a thought, or an image that we deemed our own? Why are we upset when they copy our work? Is it truly theft? Is there anything that remains ours after we have surrendered it to the public? We merely wish that it were still ours, and live ever more enchanted with the false coin that shows our stamp, rather than the true gold from which our image and legend have been erased. It happens very often that a writer achieves greatest influence among the reading public when their spirits appropriate his, so that his name is no longer uttered, while the aphorisms and thoughts of his less successful rival require the justification of a name because they run so contrary to the common weal. The writer who has attained great influence belongs to all people, and lives in them, though his personal circumstances are sad and straightened, and he conceives himself a failure. He hears no applause, nor is he in any position to notice the beating hearts of those who go on reading him. Ask any sincere artist whether he would prefer his name or his work to survive, and if he is truly sincere, you will see what he tells you. When a man is not working to live, to get by, he works to survive. His work exists for its own sake, as a game and not a job. What are games? We will discuss that in time.