It Is Not My Words That I

Whence? Wither? Why? How? - These Questions Cover All Philosophy.

The Ordinary True, Or Purely Real, Cannot Be The Object Of The Arts. Illusion On A Ground Of Truth,--that Is The Secret Of The Fine Arts.

Reason Is A Bee, And Exists Only On What It Makes; His Usefulness Takes The Place Of Beauty.

Professional Critics Are Incapable Of Distinguishing And Appreciating Either Diamonds In The Rough Or Gold In Bars. They Are Traders, And In Literature Know Only The Coins That Are Current. Their Critical Lab Has Scales And Weights, But Neither Crucible Or Touchstone.

Science Confounds Everything; It Gives To The Flowers An Animal Appetite, And Takes Away From Even The Plants Their Chastity.