Beauty Is Not A Selfish Goal

Beauty as self-interest

There’s an egregious source of nausea for all beauty-loving poetry, the editing of an erudite magazine. The place of heavenly pleasures one has been staying for sluggishly develops a feeling no different from the symptoms associated with indigestion. Preceptors and parents will be quick to diagnose gluttony, which is common in children. And while a beauty nut may find it less annoying to be compared to children than to his compatriots, the beauty nut cannot accept this simple result. It’s not a redundant thing that bothers him, it’s a failing. When it isn’t equipped with the aesthetic darkness that allows it to look blindly at its own prejudices and see it as the ultimate verity for itself and others, it can be a destructive feeling that a particular lyric, in which not indeed the fewest feeling. Be a beauty to her, if she were anyone differently. And the good judge thinks he has no right to deny and accept this lyric, not indeed to call a lyric bad, if it doesn’t betray egregious helplessness in the face of language.

Another term also prescribes

Another term also prescribes the prevailing fashion as an absolute norm- better as an absolute disguise of every norm- nothing to offer when judging runes. They suppose that the erudite critic is in the same enviable position as the druggist, who can use a litmus test or some other reagent to unerringly determine the presence or absence of a sought-after quality. Yet there are lines of critics who believe they’re the druggist, not the litmus paper. But no matter how profound their notice, if they see red with aesthetic elevation or blue with annoyance at a lack of creativity, they’ve no other function than the litmus test their analysis or review is a response, disguised well or inadequately.

It’s remarkable how numerous literati have put a mask or a blindfold on their eyes again after Ter Braak’s Remarque of beauty without blinking. They act as if nothing has happened as if beauty is a handy object, which can be objectively judged by the litmus test of their taste. Yet this miracle is as” common” and accessible as the fear of query that drives a disastrous slave of fear to the prophesier again and again. And the vicious circle of his fear prevents him from allowing that a series of twenty visits to twenty different fortune tellers in one night would really set him free. The youthful minstrel, still, sends his verses to different masters of the craft and is told about a lyric, indeed about one line from one, that it’s 100 poetry, while the other swears to him that the same verse and organize the same.

Little luck

Went for poetry, it’s lower easy. When preachers disaccord too important, her fear of instability clings to the great clerk music, beauty, or whatever she wants to be called. It exists and its companions, the critics, owe it only to its majesty. She defended her belief in neutrality as the occasionally veritably faint shadow of a large woman. He can converse still with his peers and indeed with the major critics, against the painful converse assured by this clause Shadow’s miscalculations are safe. Beauty is great and its profits are nearly always unerring. The beauty demasco hangs in her closet.

Terra Brock contended on several fronts with the nut of ultramodern poetry, who didn’t want to get lost in poetry. She portrayed beauty as fornication, nothing further, nothing lower. He replaced the vague notion of beauty with the vague notion of beauty, which, with the exception of the lost capital letter, was extremely vague and only acquired a smooth hardness due to Tar Braak’s razor-sharp speech, which he didn’t really earn. But the beauty of aesthetics is captured for the last time in this book for its generation. Beauty is only important if it liberates us. Behind this formula, the living mind of Marsman and his followers is shaken. It satisfies us only incompletely. After the quiet rise of poetry in the times before the Second World War, we know that beauty isn’t only freedom. And those who follow this marching column have also arranged this beauty with their” little luck”.

Joint positions can always be prosecuted

Common positions can always be fulfilled. Thought, wholly or incompletely liberated from the thrall of passions, possesses an indefinite number of data and an indeed more measureless number of combinations. But as soon as prose also touches the anthology as a focal point of his metaphysical actuality, sets his soul on fire, one hears from him the verdict, which really only applies to poetry there’s no word too important or too little. The psychologically sound speech of a Salvation Army officer can go on indefinitely for the hard listener. But for the one who recognizes his tone- interest in this speech and is thereby driven to the wrongdoer’s settee, the Salvation Army piece of prose has the same rates as a lyric a mass of words girding one compelling feeling., the high voltage of which switches all words around in an unrestricted circle, impenetrable to the uncharged outside world and sprucely distinguishable from it ungovernable. On the other hand, the verses from A Downtime by the Sea can be continued endlessly for numerous, without their lyrical sense of norm incurring the least damage. In this respect, Roland Holst’s poetry is basically original to prose. In order not to wander along side roads, a limitation to only one conclusion is necessary then. The tone- ignition of the soul, which makes a minstrel write lyrical poetry, only leads to an analogous ignition in the anthology. The prose has different or different tendencies. Thus, both have objectively different means, but nonetheless, both can subjectively.

Doomed to be preferred

Doomed to be preferred. Better than supposed or supposed neutrality is the honest acknowledgment that a lyric doesn’t live for me and thus cannot be a hassle. The partial nature of tone-interest is honored as similar, but at the same time- and then tone-interest preference is seen as the only base on which the narrow-inclined tone can live. One is forced to accept oneself as piecework, but one cannot escape the demand to defend this scrap tooth and nail against the strange eschewal of tone-interest. This narrow base is my base, and if I do not defend it, I misdoubt myself. A man can only be himself by maintaining himself. The necessity of tone-interest is militant and actually made the virtue of preference. Dirk Coster and his contemporary plagiarism, on the other hand, pretend it’s not necessary. There’s only virtue from the morning; the virtue, which understands every point of view- from Dostoevsky to Van Genderen Start. He leaves his own position, and takes up every other position with the heavy ordnance of ethics and anticipatory, only to be reminded kindly unkindly by Du Perron that on his return his own position has faded in the mist. Such an extension is deadly subject to the law that as the compass of the conception approaches perpetuity, the content approaches zero. Coster considers this station possible if, as he wrote, the critic is only a really great person. As if a man could come to the manifestation of Hegel’s absolute further Geist, in which all mystifications are included and understood. The hubris of all-consuming pretensions is more present than in the pure culture and thus only serves the purpose of.

Has toiled closer in his sweat.

Has toiled closer in his sweat, like catalysts. They speed up and consolidate this process. That’s their unique meaning and it’s their worthlessness. For if the beauty wills it, it burns white and glows in a hard, angular beggar’s song, devoid of all complication. For numerous who cannot bear to see beauty reign where it pleases, this has always been a cause for kick. That’s the simple explanation of the supposedly miraculous fact that muses of all nations kick against and try to reign beauty, for illustration as a lyrical leaflet. But no minstrel and no critic can help the honey from burning with a white gleam, which simply scorches their aesthetic word separation. Beauty lets them play still with their knockouts incombustible, for false, for soulless; she lets them die still on their street of erudite inventions, to blow up in an exurb without any beauty, to educate the muses again that beauty isn’t her redundant wench, who’s dressed in the fashion of this or that time, has no other task than opening the doors for her doxy.

Beauty gives pleasure, gives sweet peace. All beauty is bittersweet. It only ignites at our mortal excrescence, intensifies or fulfills it for a nipping moment. When a textbook becomes beauty, one gest its lack in its fulfillment, and in the beauty one experiences its stingy tone-interest. However,but only the other, I, If a verse doesn’t concern him. the minstrel, it exists only for him as an erudite complex. As a lyric it’s dead, i.e. it doesn’t live. tone- interest seems then.

Reality

For the living connection between the two, without which a man can not completely live, they fight, indeed if one retreats to his fort and the other continues along the third way, which is longer than mortal life. That connection, realized in the soul and on earth, would be the Beauty. Smiling they remain musketeers,

“For one heart stays at home, and one heart goes on a trip, but neither finds paradise.”

 

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