It is an awkward thing to talk about oneself, but if it cannot be helped, and if maintaining silence can't shake off the suspicion of intellectual immaturity among present and future generations, then one is clearly forced into the sad necessity of joining in with the other cuckoos. I call immature a person who cannot give an account of his own actions; and, as others are too much concerned with themselves to do me this service, although it wouldn't be undeserved, naturally I myself have to step forth from behind the curtain and explain to my German fatherland that at least I haven't been a burden to it, like other unbidden scribblers. Everything calls upon me to do it: on the one hand, the complete neglect and, if I may say so, tacit indifference or rather disapproval of those whom I greatly admire as the nobler part of our fatherland; on the other hand, the misunderstanding, the two-faced praise, the unfounded reproach of ordinary critics. I have a friend who had acquired enough renown in our fatherland to give his name to my first play, and thus to protect it from the crushing insults and strange looks of entirely unauthorized judges, without my having to seek their favor through the tricks and intrigues to which these men are accustomed. I owe the present defense of myself to my friend's honor: it is he who communicated my plays, which I sent him in manuscript for the purpose of harmless amusement, to the world—without my knowledge or effort. But so that no one will think that I sought to hide myself behind his back and judge him unfavorably on account of his company, I will tell everyone here what I myself think of my play. Above all, however, I feel forced to show newly emerging playwrights the perspective from which to look at my works for the theater so far, so that they don't believe that I let myself be guided by the influences of a lucky or unlucky coincidence to write whatever my pen told me to.