The eye identifies itself not with the body it belongs to but with the object of its attention.
Snobbery? But it's only a form of despair.
Perhaps art is simply an organism's reaction against its retentive limitations.
The real history of consciousness starts with one's first lie.
If I can get somewhere, I'm all right. If not, I'm miserable.
In America, a metrical poem is likely to conjure up the idea of the sort of poet who wears ties and lunches at the faculty club. In Russia it suggests the moral force of an art practiced against the greatest personal odds, as a discipline, solitary and intense.