It May Be That All Games Are

With Wordsworth, Indeed, The Light Of Revelation Did Not Fall Upon Human Beings So Unbrokenly As Upon The Face Of The Earth. He Knew The Birds Of The Countryside Better Than The Old Men, And The Flowers Far Better Than The Children.

When One Has Praised Turgenev, However, For The Beauty Of His Character And The Beautiful Truth Of His Art, One Remembers That He, Too, Was Human And Therefore Less Than Perfect. His Chief Failing Was, Perhaps, That Of All The Great Artists, He Was The Most Lacking In Exuberance. That Is Why He Began To Be Scorned In A World Which Rated Exuberance Higher Than Beauty Or Love Or Pity.

Keats, It Must Be Remembered, Was A Sensualist. His Poems ... Reveal Him As A Man Not Altogether Free From The Vulgarities Of Sensualism, As Well As One Who Was Able To Transmute It Into Perfect Literature.

The Lovers Of Beauty Must Unite In A League, And Carry Out Some Great Propagandist Work Through The Country. They Must Demand The Extermination Of The Bulldog And The Dismantling Of The Cheap Villa, Both Of Which Are Responsible For A Deal Of Our Contentment Amid Ugliness.

When People Complain Of The Decay Of Manners They Have In Mind Not The Impudent Abbreviations Of The Crowd, But The Decline In Bowing And Scraping And In Speaking Of One's Employer As "the Master." What The Rich Mean By The Good Manners Of The Poor Is Usually Not Civility, But Servility.