D. Appleton, 1895 - 566 páginas
"This book examines degeneration. It notes that degenerates are not always criminals, prostitutes, anarchists, and pronounced lunatics; they are often authors and artists. These, however, manifest the same mental characteristics, and for the most part the same somatic features, as the members of the above-mentioned anthropological family, who satisfy their unhealthy impulses with the knife of the assassin or the bomb of the dynamiter, instead of with pen and pencil. This book investigates the tendencies of the fashions in art and literature; aiming to prove that they have their source in the degeneracy of their authors, and that the enthusiasm of their admirers is for manifestations of more or less pronounced moral insanity, imbecility, and dementia. Thus, this book is an attempt at a really scientific criticism, which does not base its judgment of a book upon the purely accidental, capricious, and variable emotions it awakens--emotions depending on the temperament and mood of the individual reader--but upon the psycho-physiological elements from which it sprang."--Résumé de l'éditeur.

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Página 89 - It lies in heaven, across the flood Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night With flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth Spins like a fretful midge.
Página 89 - When round his head the aureole clings, And he is clothed in white, I'll take his hand and go with him To the deep wells of light; As unto a stream we will step down, And bathe there in God's sight.
Página 293 - Les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se répondent. Il est des parfums frais comme des chairs d'enfants, Doux comme les hautbois, verts comme les prairies...
Página 99 - Of Margaret sitting glorious there, In glory of gold and glory of hair, And glory of glorious face most fair; — Ah!
Página 321 - Where, if not from the Impressionists, do we get those wonderful brown fogs that come creeping down our streets, blurring the gas-lamps and changing the houses into monstrous shadows? To whom, if not to them and their master, do we owe the lovely silver mists that brood over our river, and turn to faint forms of fading pace curved bridge and swaying barge?
Página 125 - Dans l'interminable Ennui de la plaine La neige incertaine Luit comme du sable. Le ciel est de cuivre Sans lueur aucune, On croirait voir vivre Et mourir la lune.
Página 89 - Out of the circling charm; Until her bosom must have made The bar she leaned on warm, And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm. From the fixed place of Heaven she saw Time like a pulse shake fierce Through all the worlds.
Página 79 - Painting, or art generally, as such, with all its technicalities, difficulties, and particular ends, is nothing but a noble and expressive language, invaluable as the vehicle of thought, but by itself nothing. He who has learned what is commonly considered the whole art of painting, that is, the art of representing any natural object faithfully, has as yet only learned the language by which his thoughts are to be expressed.
Página 384 - Are you not clear about your place in your own home? Have you not an infallible guide in questions like these? Have you not religion? NORA. Oh, Torvald, I don't really know what religion is.
Página 87 - THE blessed damozel leaned out From the gold bar of Heaven ; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even ; She had three lilies in her hand, , And the stars in her hair were seven.

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