I don't consider devotion to the past a form of snobbery. Just one of the more disastrous forms of unrequited love.
Now the new things happening in France don't interest me.
Death is unbearable unless you can get beyond the I.
Can I love someone...and still think/fly? Love is flying, sown, floating. Thought is solitary flight, beating wings.
Interpretation is the revenge of the intellectual upon art.
Any critic is entitled to wrong judgments, of course. But certain lapses of judgment indicate the radical failure of an entire sensibility.