art is at least in part a way of collecting information about the universe.
There are acacias, a graceful species amusingly devitalized by sentimentality, this kind drooping its leaves with the grace of a young widow bowed in controllable grief, this one obscuring them with a smooth silver as of placid tears. They please, like the minor French novelists of the eighteenth century, by suggesting a universe in which nothing cuts deep.
A copy of the universe is not what is required of art; one of the damned things is ample.
There is no wider gulf in the universe than yawns between those on the hither and thither side of vital experience.
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