Learning Center
Plans & pricing Sign in
Sign Out

bemutat shingles


  • pg 1
									                   Matthew Arnold

Sat, 15 May 2010
                   The sea is calm to-night.
                   The tide is full, the moon lies fair
                   Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
                   Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
                   Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
                   Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
                   Only, from the long line of spray
                   Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
                   Listen! you hear the grating roar
                   Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
                   At their return, up the high strand,
                   Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
                   With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
                   The eternal note of sadness in.

                                      (―Dover Beach,‖ Paragraph 1)

Sat, 15 May 2010
                   Sophocles long ago
                   Heard it on the Agaean, and it brought
                   Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
                   Of human misery; we
                   Find also in the sound a thought,
                   Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

                              (―Dover Beach,‖ Paragraph 2)

Sat, 15 May 2010
                   The Sea of Faith
                   Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
                   Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
                   But now I only hear
                   Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
                   Retreating, to the breath
                   Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
                   And naked shingles of the world.

                                        (―Dover Beach,‖ Paragraph 3)

Sat, 15 May 2010
                   Ah, love, let us be true
                   To one another! for the world, which seems
                   To lie before us like a land of dreams,
                   So various, so beautiful, so new,
                   Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
                   Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
                   And we are here as on a darkling plain
                   Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
                   Where ignorant armies clash by night.

                                       (―Dover Beach,‖ Paragraph 4)

Sat, 15 May 2010
    To narrow our range, and quit these considerations of the general
    march of genius and of society, considerations which are apt to
    become too abstract and impalpable,—every one can see that a
    poet, for instance, ought to know life and the world before dealing
    with them in poetry; and life and the world being, in modern
    times, very complex things, the creation of a modern poet, to be
    worth much, implies a great critical effort behind it; else it must be
    a comparatively poor, barren, and short- lived affair. This is why
    Byron’s poetry had so little endurance in it, and Goethe’s so much;
    both Byron and Goethe had a great productive power, but Goethe’s
    was nourished by a great critical effort providing the true materials
    for it, and Byron’s was not; Goethe knew life and the world, the
    poet’s necessary subjects, much more comprehensively and
    thoroughly than Byron. He knew a great deal more of them, and he
    knew them much more as they really are.

                   (―The Function of Criticism at the Present Time,‖ §6)

Sat, 15 May 2010
    The English poetry of the first quarter of this century, with plenty
    of energy, plenty of creative force, did not know enough. This
    makes Byron so empty of matter, Shelley so incoherent, Words-
    worth even, profound as he is, yet so wanting in completeness and
    variety. Wordsworth cared little for books, and disparaged Goethe.
    I admire Wordsworth, as he is, so much that I cannot wish him
    different; and it is vain, no doubt, to imagine such a man different
    from what he is, to suppose that he could have been different; but
    surely the one thing wanting to make Wordsworth an even greater
    poet than he is,—his thought richer, and his influence of wider
    application,—was that he should have read more books, among
    them, no doubt, those of that Goethe whom he disparaged without
    reading him.
                                          (―The Function of Criticism,‖ §7)

Sat, 15 May 2010
    If I have insisted so much on the course which criticism
    must take where politics and religion are con- cemed, it
    is because, where these burning matters are in
    question, it is most likely to go astray. In general, its
    course is determined for it by the idea which is the law
    of its being; the idea of a disinterested endeavour to
    learn and propagate the best that is known and thought
    in the world, and thus to establish a current of fresh and
    true ideas.

                          (―The Function of Criticism,‖ §23)

Sat, 15 May 2010
      There is so much inviting us! what are we to take? what will
    nourish us in growth towards perfection? That is the question
    which, with the immense field of life and of literature lying before
    him, the critic has to answer; for himself first, and afterwards for
    others. . . .
      I conclude with what I said at the beginning: to have the sense of
    creative activity is the great happiness and the great proof of being
    alive, and it is not denied to criticism to have it; but then criticism
    must be sincere, simple, flexible, ardent, ever widening its
    knowledge. Then it may have, in no contemptible measure, a joyful
    sense of creative activity; a sense which a man of insight and
    conscience will prefer to what he might derive from a poor,
    starved, fragmentary, inadequate creation. And at some epochs no
    other creation is possible.

                                   (―The Function of Criticism,‖ §25–26)

Sat, 15 May 2010
                   Oscar Wilde

Sat, 15 May 2010
    The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the
  artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a
  new material his impression of beautiful things.
    The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
  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
    There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well
  written, or badly written. That is all.
    The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his
  own face in a glass.
    The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not
  seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of the subject-
  matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an
  imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are
  true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in
  an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The
  artist can express everything. . . .
    All art is quite useless.
                                             (Preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray)
Sat, 15 May 2010
                   He did not wear his scarlet coat,
                     For blood and wine are red,
                   And blood and wine were on his hands
                     When they found him with the dead,
                   The poor dead woman whom he loved,
                     And murdered in her bed.

                   He walked amongst the Trial Men
                     In a suit of shabby gray;
                   A cricket cap was on his head,
                     And his step seemed light and gay;
                   But I never saw a man who looked
                     So wistfully at the day.

                   I never saw a man who looked
                      With such a wistful eye
                   Upon that little tent of blue
                      Which prisoners call the sky,
                   And at every drifting cloud that went
                      With sails of silver by.

                                      (The Ballad of Reading Gaol, 1.1–18)
Sat, 15 May 2010
                   I walked, with other souls in pain,
                     Within another ring,
                   And was wondering if the man had done
                     A great or little thing,
                   When a voice behind me whispered low,
                     “That fellow's got to swing.”

                   Dear Christ! the very prison walls
                    Suddenly seemed to reel,
                   And the sky above my head became
                    Like a casque of scorching steel;
                   And, though I was a soul in pain,
                    My pain I could not feel.

                   I only knew what hunted thought
                      Quickened his step, and why
                   He looked upon the garish day
                      With such a wistful eye;
                   The man had killed the thing he loved,
                      And so he had to die.

                                    (The Ballad of Reading Gaol, 1.19–36)
Sat, 15 May 2010
                   Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
                     By each let this be heard,
                   Some do it with a bitter look,
                     Some with a flattering word,
                   The coward does it with a kiss,
                     The brave man with a sword!

                   Some kill their love when they are young,
                     And some when they are old;
                   Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
                     Some with the hands of Gold:
                   The kindest use a knife, because
                     The dead so soon grow cold.

                   Some love too little, some too long,
                     Some sell, and others buy;
                   Some do the deed with many tears,
                     And some without a sigh:
                   For each man kills the thing he loves,
                     Yet each man does not die.

                                     (The Ballad of Reading Gaol, 1.37–54)
Sat, 15 May 2010

To top