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 beauty.
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. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type. 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. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.
All art is quite useless.
OSCAR WILDE
Pismo koje je Oskar napisao čoveku po imenu Bernulf Clegg kasnije prerađeno i dodato romanu Slika Dorijana Greja, kao vrsta predgovora ili umetnikovog manifesta. Odatle potiče ono poznato All art is quite useless, koje je, međutim, najčešće grubo istrgnuto iz konteksta i stoga pogrešno interpretirano. Evo fotografija originala tog pisma i, za kraj, video u nekoliko delova sa čuvenim De Profundis, dugačkim pismom koje je Oskar iz zatvora pisao Bouziju.
Danas je Oskarov rođendan.
See also :
I have been haunted by The Picture of Dorian Gray ...
Oscar, the unhappy prince of wit
The Tomb of Keats, by Oscar Wilde
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Loverly :)) Mislim da zaista ne postoji pisac jednak Oskaru.De profundis volim da citam kad sam tuzna, mada ne volim pomisao da je namenjen Bouzija (to saznanje mi nije trebalo, mali je bas bio bitchy. Sebicni dzin, Ernest, Dorijan prava mala blaga :)))
ReplyDeleteJeste :0) nema nikoga ko je baš kao Oskar. Ali, De Profundis ne bi ni postojao da nije bilo malog kretena - to je jedino što je on napisao a na šta ga je Bouzi inspirisao : baš u tom dugačkom pismo Oskar kaže kako, kada su bili zajedno, on uopšte nije mogao da piše od njega. Naravno, ni onda on nije bio sa Bouzijem, nego u zatvoru, ali ga je ipak on inspirisao i njemu se obraća, onako tužan i nesretan, iz Redinga.
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