To the sublime, which, whenever it may be excited in us
through external objects, since it is either formless, or else
moulded into forms which are incomprehensible, must surround us
with a grandeur which we find above our reach." He further says
of himself: "I had lived among painters from my childhood, and
had accustomed myself to look at objects, as they did, with
reference to art." And this was his practice to the last. He
was even too _well-bred_ to be thoroughly bred. He says that he
had had no intercourse with the lowest class of his towns-boys.
The child should have the advantage of ignorance as well as of
knowledge, and is fortunate if he gets his share of neglect and
exposure.
"The laws of Nature break the rules of Art."
The Man of Genius may at the same time be, indeed is commonly, an
Artist, but the two are not to be confounded. The Man of Genius,
referred to mankind, is an originator, an inspired or demonic
man, who produces a perfect work in obedience to laws yet
unexplored. The Artist is he who detects and applies the law
from observation of the works of Genius, whether of man or
nature. The Artisan is he who merely applies the rules which
others have detected. There has been no man of pure Genius; as
there has been none wholly destitute of Genius.
Poetry is the mysticism of mankind.
The expressions of the poet cannot be analyzed; his sentence is
one word, whose syllables are words. There are indeed no _words_
quite worthy to be set to his music. But what matter if we do
not hear the words always, if we hear the music?
Much verse fails of being poetry because it was not written
exactly at the right crisis, though it may have been
inconceivably near to it. It is only by a miracle that poetry is
written at all. It is not recoverable thought, but a hue caught
from a vaster receding thought.
A poem is one undivided unimpeded expression fallen ripe into
literature, and it is undividedly and unimpededly received by
those for whom it was matured.
If you can speak what you will never hear, if you can write what
you will never read, you have done rare things.
The work we choose should be our own,
God lets alone.
The unconsciousness of man is the consciousness of God.
Deep are the foundations of sincerity. Even stone walls have
their foundation below the frost.
What is produced by a free stroke charms us, like the forms of
lichens and leaves. There is a certain perfection in accident
which we never consciously attain. Draw a blunt quill filled
with ink over a sheet of paper, and fold the paper before the ink
is dry, transversely to this line, and a delicately shaded and
regular figure will be produced, in some respects more pleasing
than an elaborate drawing.
