Sublime

Katherine Mansfield on Bliss. I threw down Bliss with the exclamation, ‘She’s done for!’ Indeed I don’t see how much faith in her as woman or writer can survive that sort of story. I shall have to accept the fact, I’m afraid, that her mind is a very thin soil, laid an inch or two deep upon very barren rock. For Bliss is long enough to give her a ch

bathos

She sits as a monument of the hopelessness and helplessness of reason in the face of this romantic and unreasonable world.

he is a poet in this real sense, that he has realised the meaning of every function he has performed.

High spurts the fountain; fierce and foamy the wild jet. The urge has but a single outlet. My love, my baby. No wonder those poor pre-moderns were mad and wicked and miserable.