Let no one sound his indignant yawp at this. I refer to
the fact that, for an educated gent or lady, to create is first of all to
destroy--that there is and can be no such thing as authentic art until
the _bons trucs_ (whereby we are taught to see and imitate on canvas and
in stone and by words this so-called world) are entirely and thoroughly
and perfectly annihilated by that vast and painful process of Unthinking
which may result in a minute bit of purely personal Feeling. Which minute
bit is Art.
Ah well, the revolution--I refer of course to the intelligent
revolution--is on the way; is perhaps nearer than some think, is possibly
knocking at the front doors of The Great Mister Harold Bell Wright and
The Great Little Miss Pollyanna. In the course of the next ten thousand
years it may be possible to find Delectable Mountains without going to
prison--captivity, I mean, Monsieur le Surveillant--it may be possible, I
daresay, to encounter Delectable Mountains who are not in prison....
The Autumn wore on.
Rain did, from time to time, not fall: from time to time a sort of
unhealthy almost-light leaked from the large uncrisp corpse of the sky,
returning for a moment to our view the ruined landscape.
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