Oscar Wilde – the Picture of Dorian Gray:
'the artist is the creator of beautiful things. to reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim. the critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things. the highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. this is a fault.
those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. for these there is hope.
they are the elect to whome beautiful things mean only Beauty.
there is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. books are well written, or badly written. that is all. the nineteenth century dislike of Realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.
the moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. no artist desires to prove anything. even things that are true can be proved.
no artist has ethical sympathies. an ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
no art is ever morbid. the artist can express everything. thought and language are the artist instruments of an art. vice and virtue are to the artist materials of an art. from the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. from the point of view of feeling, the actor’s craft is the type. all art is at once surface and symbol. those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. those who read the symbol do so at their peril. it is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. when critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself.
we can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. the only excuse for making a useless things is that one admires it intensely.
all art is quite useless.'
– p3
'why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you – well, of course you have an intellectual expression, and all that. but beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. the moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. how perfectly hideous they are! except, of course, in the Church. but then in the Church they don’t think. a bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful.'
– p6
'there is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. it is better not be different from one’s fellows. the ugly and the stupid have the best of it in the world. they can sit at their ease and gape at the play. if they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. they live as we all should live, undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. they neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are – my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray’s good looks – we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.'
– p7
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Cormac McCarthy – The Road:
(REVIEWS)
emotionally shattering..The Road affirms belief in the tender pricelessness of the here and now. in creating an exquisite nightmare, it does not add to the cruelty and ugliness of our times, it warns us now how much we have to lose.. beauty and goodness are here aplenty and we should think about them. while we can. – Alan Warner, Guardian
nameless they remain, but some connective tissue, some deep sympathy, makes them human and knowable to us, causes us to care almost beyond bearing about their fates, and so makes us read on compulsively for feat of what might happen to them. and us.
- Clive Sinclair, Independent
Cormac McCarthy’s new novel, conjuring up the end not of an individual but of all humanity, feels very real. part of the achievement of The Road is its poetic description of landscapes from which the possibility of poetry would seem to have been stripped, along with their ability to support life.
– Adam Mars-Jones, Observer
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Siegmund Siegreich – The Thirty Six:
‘i now understand,’ my mother whispered. ‘it was divine intervention.’
she nodded her head. 'the man was a Lamed Vav.’
according to Kabbalah, in each generation there are thirty-six righteous people who sustain the world and preserve humanity. the term ‘Lamed Vav’ is two Hebrew letters that represent the number 36. these people are frequently unknown and obscure but they bear all of the sorrows and sins of the world. they also appear and help ordinary people in times of extreme need. their deeds are often unrecognise and unexplained. if i wasn’t convinced that this was how i came to be saved, my mother certainly was.
– p39
'the artist is the creator of beautiful things. to reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim. the critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things. the highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. this is a fault.
those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. for these there is hope.
they are the elect to whome beautiful things mean only Beauty.
there is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. books are well written, or badly written. that is all. the nineteenth century dislike of Realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.
the moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. no artist desires to prove anything. even things that are true can be proved.
no artist has ethical sympathies. an ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
no art is ever morbid. the artist can express everything. thought and language are the artist instruments of an art. vice and virtue are to the artist materials of an art. from the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. from the point of view of feeling, the actor’s craft is the type. all art is at once surface and symbol. those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. those who read the symbol do so at their peril. it is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. when critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself.
we can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. the only excuse for making a useless things is that one admires it intensely.
all art is quite useless.'
– p3
'why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you – well, of course you have an intellectual expression, and all that. but beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face. the moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. how perfectly hideous they are! except, of course, in the Church. but then in the Church they don’t think. a bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful.'
– p6
'there is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings. it is better not be different from one’s fellows. the ugly and the stupid have the best of it in the world. they can sit at their ease and gape at the play. if they know nothing of victory, they are at least spared the knowledge of defeat. they live as we all should live, undisturbed, indifferent, and without disquiet. they neither bring ruin upon others, nor ever receive it from alien hands. your rank and wealth, Harry; my brains, such as they are – my art, whatever it may be worth; Dorian Gray’s good looks – we shall all suffer for what the gods have given us, suffer terribly.'
– p7
XXXXXXXXXX
Cormac McCarthy – The Road:
(REVIEWS)
emotionally shattering..The Road affirms belief in the tender pricelessness of the here and now. in creating an exquisite nightmare, it does not add to the cruelty and ugliness of our times, it warns us now how much we have to lose.. beauty and goodness are here aplenty and we should think about them. while we can. – Alan Warner, Guardian
nameless they remain, but some connective tissue, some deep sympathy, makes them human and knowable to us, causes us to care almost beyond bearing about their fates, and so makes us read on compulsively for feat of what might happen to them. and us.
- Clive Sinclair, Independent
Cormac McCarthy’s new novel, conjuring up the end not of an individual but of all humanity, feels very real. part of the achievement of The Road is its poetic description of landscapes from which the possibility of poetry would seem to have been stripped, along with their ability to support life.
– Adam Mars-Jones, Observer
XXXXXXXXXX
Siegmund Siegreich – The Thirty Six:
‘i now understand,’ my mother whispered. ‘it was divine intervention.’
she nodded her head. 'the man was a Lamed Vav.’
according to Kabbalah, in each generation there are thirty-six righteous people who sustain the world and preserve humanity. the term ‘Lamed Vav’ is two Hebrew letters that represent the number 36. these people are frequently unknown and obscure but they bear all of the sorrows and sins of the world. they also appear and help ordinary people in times of extreme need. their deeds are often unrecognise and unexplained. if i wasn’t convinced that this was how i came to be saved, my mother certainly was.
– p39
WORDS......
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