File Name: essays and aphorisms gutenberg.zip
I rejoice to concur with the common reader; for by the common sense of readers, uncorrupted by literary prejudices, after all the refinements of subtilty and the dogmatism of learning, must be generally decided all claim to poetical honours. Jonathan Cape. Some are now published for the first time. There are few greater delights than to go back three or four hundred years and become in fancy at least an Elizabethan. That such fancies are only fancies, that this "becoming an Elizabethan", this reading sixteenth-century writing as currently and certainly as we read our own is an illusion, is no doubt true. Very likely the Elizabethans would find our pronunciation of their language unintelligible; our fancy picture of what it pleases us to call Elizabethan life would rouse their ribald merriment. Still, the instinct that drives us to them is so strong and the freshness and vigour that blow through their pages are so sweet that we willingly run the risk of being laughed at, of being ridiculous.
The essays here brought together are meant to illustrate English literary criticism during the nineteenth century. A companion volume representative of Renaissance and Neo-classic criticism will, it is hoped, be issued at a future date. Meanwhile this volume may well go forth alone. For the nineteenth century forms an epoch in English literature whose beginnings are more clearly defined than those of most literary epochs. The greater part of the present collection deals with general principles rather than with criticisms of individual books or authors. The extracts from the Biographia Literaria are placed next to the Wordsworthian doctrines which they criticize; otherwise the arrangement of the essays is chronological.
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I do not struggle against the world, I struggle against a greater force, against my weariness of the world. M Cioran, Drawn and Quartered. Anything and everything that falls under the broad category of philosophical pessimism belongs here. Anything else will just be removed. Memes, personal problems, thinly veiled cries of despair, et cetera—not the place.
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One of the most delightful of the Last Essays of Elia is entitled 'Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading', a title which would serve very well to indicate the contents of this anthology. In bringing together into one volume the tributes and opinions of a galaxy of writers, my object has been the glorification of books as books, a book being regarded as a real and separate entity, and often as an end in itself. There is a wide circle to whom this collection should appeal, in addition to bibliomaniacs or mere collectors of first or rare editions to whom the contents are often anathema, for the love of books is not confined to scholars or great readers.
The word "tactician" is usually applied to military movements, but it has a broader meaning than this; it embodies the idea of a peculiar skill or faculty—a nice perception or discernment which is characterized by adroit planning or management, artfully directed in politics or diplomacy in government. True statesmanship is the masterful art. Poetry, music, painting, sculpture and architecture please, thrill and inspire, but the great statesman and diplomatist and leader in thought and action convinces, controls and compels the admiration of all classes and creeds. Logical thought, power of appeal and tactfulness never fail to command attention and respect. It has always been thus, and it will unquestionably so remain.
Published July 30, by IndyPublish. Written in English.
It is often enough, and always with great surprise, intimated to me that there is something both ordinary and unusual in all my writings, from the "Birth of Tragedy" to the recently published "Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future": they all contain, I have been told, snares and nets for short sighted birds, and something that is almost a constant, subtle, incitement to an overturning of habitual opinions and of approved customs. Everything is merely—human—all too human? With this exclamation my writings are gone through, not without a certain dread and mistrust of ethic itself and not without a disposition to ask the exponent of evil things if those things be not simply misrepresented. My writings have been termed a school of distrust, still more of disdain: also, and more happily, of courage, audacity even. And in fact, I myself do not believe that anybody ever looked into the world with a distrust as deep as mine, seeming, as I do, not simply the timely advocate of the devil, but, to employ theological terms, an enemy and challenger of God; and whosoever has experienced any of the consequences of such deep distrust, anything of the chills  and the agonies of isolation to which such an unqualified difference of standpoint condemns him endowed with it, will also understand how often I must have sought relief and self-forgetfulness from any source—through any object of veneration or enmity, of scientific seriousness or wanton lightness; also why I, when I could not find what I was in need of, had to fashion it for myself, counterfeiting it or imagining it and what poet or writer has ever done anything else, and what other purpose can all the art in the world possibly have? That which I always stood most in need of in order to effect my cure and self-recovery was faith, faith enough not to be thus isolated, not to look at life from so singular a point of view—a magic apprehension in eye and mind of relationship and equality, a calm confidence in friendship, a blindness, free from suspicion and questioning, to two sidedness; a pleasure in externals, superficialities, the near, the accessible, in all things possessed of color, skin and seeming. Perhaps I could be fairly reproached with much "art" in this regard, many fine counterfeitings; for example, that, wisely or wilfully, I had shut my eyes to Schopenhauer's blind will towards ethic, at a time when I was already clear sighted enough on the subject of ethic; likewise that I had deceived myself concerning Richard Wagner's incurable romanticism,  as if it were a beginning and not an end; likewise concerning the Greeks, likewise concerning the Germans and their future—and there may be, perhaps, a long list of such likewises.
Парень загородил ему дорогу. - Подними. Беккер заморгал от неожиданности. Дело принимало дурной оборот. - Ты, часом, не шутишь? - Он был едва ли не на полметра выше этого панка и тяжелее килограммов на двадцать. - С чего это ты взял, что я шучу. Беккер промолчал.
Как и то, что шахта лифта защищена усиленным бетоном. Сквозь клубящийся дым Сьюзан кое-как добралась до дверцы лифта, но тут же увидела, что индикатор вызова не горит. Она принялась нажимать кнопки безжизненной панели, затем, опустившись на колени, в отчаянии заколотила в дверь и тут же замерла. За дверью послышалось какое-то жужжание, словно кабина была на месте. Она снова начала нажимать кнопки и снова услышала за дверью этот же звук. И вдруг Сьюзан увидела, что кнопка вызова вовсе не мертва, а просто покрыта слоем черной сажи. Она вдруг начала светиться под кончиком пальца.
Ярко освещенное помещение аэровокзала сияло стерильной чистотой. Здесь не было ни души, если не считать уборщицы, драившей пол. На противоположной стороне зала служащая закрывала билетную кассу компании Иберия эйр-лайнз.
Шеф систем безопасности прочитал текст и схватился за поручень. - О Боже, - прошептал. - Ну и мерзавец этот Танкадо.
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