The Last WordAs was his language so was his life. I came to the conclusion many years ago that almost all crime is due to the repressed desire for aesthetic expression. My thought is me: that’s why I can’t stop. I exist by what I think and I can’t prevent myself from thinking. Any work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justifications in every line. A weary, weary time tarrying here / Beneath the walls of Troy me have you kept, but from this hour / Alive you shall not keep me. Would that the Roman people had a single neck. The delusion that there are thousands of young people about who are capable of benefiting from university training, but have somehow failed to find their way there, is a necessary component of the expansionist cause. More will mean worse. I’ve always been interested in people, but I’ve never liked them. Man’s life is brief, and none can purchase more. But fame lives on, if men live, as men should, by courage. No opera plot can be sensible, for in sensible situations people do not sing. An opera plot must be, in both sense of the word, a melodrama. Christ follows Dionysius Beauty in things exist in the mind which contemplates them. Unless you believe, you will not understand. Sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. In men of the highest character and noblest genius there is to be found an insatiable desire for honor, command, power, and glory. Agrippina had long decided on murder. Now as I was young and easy under the apple’ bough To pretend, I actually do the thing: I have therefore only pretended to pretend. An artist has no need to express his mind directly in his work for it to express the quality of that mind; it has indeed been said that the highest praise of God consists in the denial of Him by the atheist, who finds creation so perfect that it can dispense with a creator. We all know that Art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth, at least the truth that is given us to understand. And though thou notest from thy safe recess old friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air love them for what they are; nor love them less, because to thee they are not what they were. With this I have said all that I thought the reader would wish me to explain. Nothing now remains but to find him—to find the reader, that is. |
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