The kings who came to the Christ-child in the manger arrived too late; they met the ox and ass, the experts, incapable of seeing anything. And as to the unreliability of the experts when it comes to evaluating higher spirits, is it necessary to say any more after what has been said, after all the criticism applied to these critics by the lofty spirits, after all the criticism applied by Socrates and Christ? There is a moral here—but critics learn nothing. Geniuses may do what they will with the erudite critics; the latter will go on regarding themselves as their favourite devotees in precisely the same way that certain fops react to beautiful women. Nor have all the historical gaffes made by the learned and expert critics, which they themselves are obliged to gaze upon and relate, succeeded in giving them a horror of being learned and expert critics. They recount how they were made to shut their mouths as if it had nothing to do with them, and as if they hadn't got into a tight spot. Their own age gives them credit, and cannot see that they are the same people as before and that they are carrying on their old profession. So it is the same as in Christ's life: Christ still suffers most at the hands of the scholars! They still carry on their mockery of him, dressing him up with a stage sceptre and purple robe, and undressing him again. Thus we have not yet succeeded in finding any reason for speaking any better of the learned men than Christ did; we mark well their sheer nonsense, and we do not see that they have any claim to be spared. Learned criticism does not see Christ the Genius; criticism's express purpose seems to be to show that the genius is not recognized by the world. The way the Christ of the gospels is treated by the historicocritical method is the most grandiose demonstration of this.—Constantin Brunner, Our Christ, Appendix on Criticism