Word: reader
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...epic evolution in which representation was first blurred, then distorted, then broken into fragments and finally disappeared altogether in abstraction. The artists arrogated to themselves (as did the poets at the same time) the right to say what art was, with the added inference that if the viewer (or reader) did not understand it, that was his fault. "It was as if suddenly," says Painter Robert Motherwell, "an established church had dissolved. Each artist became his own self-ordained priest, charged with deciding for himself such questions as what is god or what...
Such an old warrior is Malcolm Muggeridge [Jan. 6]. "Compulsive readability" he has indeed, but deeper yet, the reader senses a whole man, responding to the falseness, betrayal and insatiety (to use Philip Wylie's expression) of much of modern life. It will be sad if Muggeridge ever rebounds all the way over to the tight little camp of religious orthodoxy. Understandable, but sad. For then free men might lose a vigorous spokesman, standing in the unaffrightable position of Emerson's thinking man, sending out his shafts wherever merited...
...security, of wellbeing, of summer warmth pervades my memory. That robust reality makes a ghost of the present." It is of no importance that Russian imperialism underwrote that way of life. Nabokov is concerned only with preserving "the beauty of intangible property, unreal estate"-and he transports the reader with a series of unforgettable images that have nothing to do with ideology or geography...
...poems "From 'Still-Life'" give the impression that the poet is not yet completely comfortable with his poetry. In his first two poems he seems to be striving for objectivity in the presentation of almost-forgotten experiences, giving the poems so much distance from the poet and the reader that their communicative aspect is lost. In his last poem he permits himself to appear in the verse, with significantly better results...
...makes the reader pick over acres of some vast garbage dump; yet he leaves him with the belief that the mutilated body of someone of great value lies buried in the stinking trash. In English, there has been no one like him since Swift, and in French, there has been no one like him at all. Mad doctors both-in their different ways. Only moral simpletons who have not understood that pity is the cruel emotion will fail to grasp the root of the rage of either...