It Is The Custom When

The Happiness Even Of The Naturalist Depends In Some Measure Upon His Ignorance, Which Still Leaves Him New Worlds Of This Kind To Conquer. He May Have Reached The Very Z Of Knowledge In The Books, But He Still Feels Half Ignorant Until He Has Confirmed Each Bright Particular With His Eyes.

Were I A Philosopher, I Should Write A Philosophy Of Toys, Showing That Nothing Else In Life Need To Be Taken Seriously, And That Christmas Day In The Company Of Children Is One Of The Few Occasions On Which Men Become Entirely Alive.

Chekhov Will Seek Out The Key Situation In The Life Of A Cabman Or A Charwoman, And Make Them Glow For A Brief Moment In The Tender Light Of His Sympathy.

W. B. Yeats Has Created, If Not A New World, A New Star. He Is Not A Reporter Of Life As It Is, To The Extent That Shakespeare Or Browning Is. One Is Not Quite Certain That His Kingdom Is Of The Green Earth. He Is Like A Man Who Has Seen The Earth Not Directly But In A Crystal.

On The Whole, However, The Critic Is Far Less Of A Professional Faultfinder Than Is Sometimes Imagined. He Is First Of All A Virtue-finder, A Singer Of Praise. He Is Not Concerned With Getting Rid Of Dross Except In So Far As It Hides The Gold. In Other Words, The Destructive Side Of Criticism Is Purely A Subsidiary Affair. None Of The Best Critics Have Been Men Of Destructive Minds. They Are Like Gardeners Whose Business Is More With The Flowers Than With The Weeds.