There is a sacred horror about everything grand. It is easy to admire mediocrity and hills; but whatever is too lofty, a genius as well as a mountain, an assembly as well as a masterpiece, seen too near, is appalling.
She went back down to the garden, feeling like a queen, hearing the birds sing—this was in winter—seeing the sky all golden, the sun in the trees, flowers among the shrubs, bewildered, wild, giddy with inexpressible rapture.
The ode lives upon the ideal, the epic upon the grandiose, the drama upon the real.
The tomb is not a blind alley: it is a thoroughfare. It closes on the twilight. It opens on the dawn.
There are some men apparently born to be the reverse of the coin; their name is a continuation, and is never written except preceded by the conjunction "and." Their existence is not their own.
That is the explanation of war, an outrage by humanity upon humanity in despite of humanity.