The artist is the creator of beautiful things. (...) 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 whom 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. (...) No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything. (...) 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...
O. Wilde (1854-1900), Preface to 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
E. Dickinson, Snow Flakes
1830 – 1886 American poet
I counted till they danced so
Their slippers leaped the town,
And then I took a pencil
To note the rebels down.
And then they grew so jolly
I did resign the prig,
And ten of my once stately toes
Are marshalled for a jig!
Fiocchi di Neve
Contai finché essi danzarono tanto
Che le loro scarpine saltarono la città -
E allora presi una matita
Per annotare i ribelli a terra -
E poi essi prosperarono così gioiosi
Che rinunciai alla boria -
E dieci delle mie dita prima così seriose
Si schierarono per una giga!