Sublime
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As to the poetical Character itself (I mean that sort of which, if I am any thing, I am a Member; that sort distinguished from the wordsworthian or egotistical sublime; which is a thing per se and stands alone) it is not itself - it has no self - it is every thing and nothing - It has no character - it enjoys light and shade; it lives in gusto, be
... See moreJohn Keats’s poem “This Living Hand”:
D. T. Max • Every Love Story Is a Ghost Story: A Life of David Foster Wallace
It is a sardonic parody of the eternally fixed desire Keats described in his Ode on a Grecian Urn – Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal – yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Robert Hughes • The Shock of the New
