Criticism is properly the rod of divination: a hazel switch for the discovery of buried treasure, not a birch twig for the castigation of offenders.
Without charm there can be no fine literature, as there can be no perfect flower without fragrance. - Arthur Symons
Without charm there can be no fine literature, as there can be no perfect flower without fragrance.
- Arthur Symons
It is in their eyes that their magic resides. - Arthur Symons
It is in their eyes that their magic resides.
Hardly any one is able to see what is before him, just as it is in itself. He comes expecting one thing, he finds another thing, he sees through the… - Arthur Symons
Hardly any one is able to see what is before him, just as it is in itself. He comes expecting one thing, he finds another thing, he sees through the…
A realist, in Venice, would become a romantic by mere faithfulness to what he saw before him. - Arthur Symons
A realist, in Venice, would become a romantic by mere faithfulness to what he saw before him.
Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears, A naked runner lost in a storm of spears. - Arthur Symons
Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears, A naked runner lost in a storm of spears.
Vaguely conscious of that great suspense in which we live, we find our escape from its sterile, annihilating reality in many dreams, in religion, pas… - Arthur Symons
Vaguely conscious of that great suspense in which we live, we find our escape from its sterile, annihilating reality in many dreams, in religion, pas…
The clamours of spring are the same old delicate noises, The earth renews its magical youth at a breath. - Arthur Symons
The clamours of spring are the same old delicate noises, The earth renews its magical youth at a breath.
To have loved, to have been made happy thus, / What better fate has life in store for us? - Arthur Symons
To have loved, to have been made happy thus, / What better fate has life in store for us?
I heard the sighing of the reedsAt noontide and at evening,And some old dream I had forgottenI seemed to be remembering. - Arthur Symons
I heard the sighing of the reedsAt noontide and at evening,And some old dream I had forgottenI seemed to be remembering.
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