A dream has power to poison sleep.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyRead
Reviewers, with some rare exceptions, are a most stupid and malignant race. As a bankrupt thief turns thief-taker in despair, so an unsuccessful author turns critic.
Interpretation
What this quote means
The quote critiques reviewers, suggesting that many are bitter individuals who lash out at those they cannot succeed against.
Percy Bysshe Shelley's quote suggests that many critics are often failed artists themselves, turning to reviewing not out of expertise or fairness, but from a place of bitterness. This perspective implies that their insights may be shaped by jealousy and a desire to undermine others, rather than a genuine attempt to provide constructive feedback.
Themes
CriticismReviewersAuthorsJealousyBitterness
In practice
Example use cases
During a panel discussion about literature, this quote could be referenced to emphasize the need for humility among critics.
More from Percy Bysshe Shelley
All quotes βSenseless is the breast and cold _x000D_ _x000D_ Which relenting love would fold;_x000D_ _x000D_ Bloodless are the veins and chill _x000D_ _x000D_ Which the pulse of pain did fill; _x000D_ _x000D_ Every little living nerve _x000D_ _x000D_ That from bitter words did swerve _x000D_ _x000D_ Round the tortur'd lips and brow, _x000D_ _x000D_ Are like sapless leaflets now _x000D_ _x000D_ Frozen upon December's bough.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyRead
A sensitive plant in a garden grew,_x000D_ _x000D_ And the young winds fed it with silver dew,_x000D_ _x000D_ And it opened its fan_x000D_ _x000D_ like leaves to the light,_x000D_ _x000D_ and closed them beneath the kisses of night.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyRead
I am the daughter of Earth and Water, And the nursling of the Sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain when with never a stain The pavilion of Heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyRead
O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?
Percy Bysshe ShelleyRead
Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone. But grief returns with the revolving year.
Percy Bysshe ShelleyRead
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