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I love vast libraries; yet there is a doubt, If one be better with them or without, Unless he use them wisely, and, indeed, Knows the high art of what and how to read. ↗

— John Godfrey Saxe

#libraries #reading #art

Here, in Lorrain's poisoned little jewel of a tale (“The Man Who Made Wax Heads”) the consummate achievement of decadent art is caught in miniature. The genius of the artist entangles perpetrators and victims in a sticky web of perverse delights, in which exploitation becomes collusion, the ripples of guilt spread outward, and the real criminal slips away. In the end, responsibility is lodged firmly with the consumer, forced – he must confess – by his own perverse desires, to buy into the values of this particularly black market. ↗

— Jennifer Birkett

#consumer #crime #criminal #decadence #guilt

America, I don't think you can change history." All the same, his expression looked hopeful. "Sure we can. Besides, who'd ever know about it but you and me? ↗

— Kiera Cass

#foreshadowing #maxon #change

Literature is the art of writing something that will be read twice. ↗

— Cyril Connolly

#reading #writing #art

Competition is the death of art. ↗

— Dana Gould

#competition #death #keep-it-crispy #pete-holmes #weird

At issue for Peladan is the potency of the visual image: art's ability to construct images for viewing that can mobilize, concentrate and redirect instinctive responses. He brings out into the open the recognition underlying all decadent art; that is, the political function of the fascinated gaze. ↗

— Jennifer Birkett

#decadent #gaze #image #peladan #art

Just as no monkey is as good-looking as the ugliest of humans, no academic is worthier than the worst of the creators ↗

— Nassim Nicholas Taleb

#academics #art #art-history #artists #arts

If we are always pushing away from feelings that we condemn as wrong, painful, or ugly, we are also pushing away from the very energy that can bring us incredible joy and ecstasy. ↗

— Shaeri Richards

#feeling-bad #feelings #art

A tear rolled down my cheek And more came down Until tears rolled down like a stream. My eyes were blind with tears for you. They washed my eyes till I could see. ↗

— Calvin O'John

#sadness #tears #art

I like to be aware of a book as a piece of writing, and aware of its structure as a product of mind, and yet I want to be able to see the represented world through it. I admire artists who succeed in dividing my attention more or less evenly between the world of their books and the art of their books . . . so that a reader may study the work with pleasure as well as the world that it describes. ↗

— Annie Dillard

#writing #art