How we cite our quotes: (Chapter.Paragraph)
Quote #1
Overwrought from the difficult and dangerous labors of the late morning hours, labors demanding the utmost caution, prudence, tenacity, and precision of will, the writer had even after the midday meal been unable to halt the momentum of the inner mechanism—the motus animi continuus in which, according to Cicero, eloquence resides—and find the refreshing sleep that the growing wear and tear upon his forces had made a daily necessity. And so, shortly after tea he had sought the outdoors in the hope that open air and exercise might revive him and help him to enjoy a fruitful evening. (1.1)
In the very first paragraph of Death in Venice, we read this description of Aschenbach as a writer whose "labors" require "caution, prudence, tenacity, and precision of will." As we discuss in the "Characters" section, this description comes with an ironic edge; the way this passage goes to lengths to portray Aschenbach's writing as a heroic feat gives us the sense that he probably takes himself too seriously.
Quote #2
Yet he knew only too well the source of the sudden temptation. It was an urge to flee—he fully admitted it, this yearning for freedom, release, oblivion—an urge to flee his work, the humdrum routine of a rigid, cold, passionate duty. Granted, he loved that duty and even almost loved the enervating daily struggle between his proud, tenacious, much-tested will and the growing fatigue, which no one must suspect or the finished product betray by the slightest sign of foundering or neglect. But it made sense not to go too far in the other direction, not to be so obstinate as to curb a need erupting with such virulence. (1.8)
Let's face it: Everyone gets writer's block. It's important to keep in mind that Aschenbach's desire to see exotic places only arises because he's hit a rough spot in his writing. The narrator describes his longing to travel as "an urge to flee" his writer's block.
Quote #3
At forty, at fifty, and even when younger, at an age when others dissipate their talents, wax rhapsodic, or blissfully defer their grand projects, he would start his day early by dashing cold water over his chest and back; then, having set a pair of tall wax candles in silver holders at the head of his manuscript, he would spend two or three fervent, conscientious hours offering up to art the strength he had garnered in sleep. It was a forgivable error—indeed, it betokened a victory for his moral stance—that the uninitiated should take the world of his Maya or the epic background against which Frederick's feats unfolded as the product of prodigious strength and unending stamina, but in fact they grew out of daily increments of hundreds upon hundreds of bits of inspiration, and the only reason they were so perfect—overall and in every detail—was that their creator had held out for years under the strain of a single work with a fortitude and tenacity analogous to those Frederick had used to conquer his native province, and that he had devoted only his most vibrant and vital hours to its composition. (2.5)
Now that's what we call discipline. In this passage, the narrator shows us Aschenbach as an uncompromising artist whose success is based not in a heroic feat of "prodigious strength," but rather in a commitment to "daily increments" of unending labor. Here, we have the quintessential depiction of Aschenbach as a disciplined writer, who sees writing as a kind of holy duty—well, we know where that ends up.