If Instead Of A Figure You Put

There Are Two Sorts Of Beauty; One Is The Result Of Instinct, The Other Of Study. A Combination Of The Two, With The Resulting Modifications, Brings With It A Very Complicated Richness, Which The Art Critic Ought To Try To Discover.

Beautiful Colors Exist, Though We Do Not Realize It, And Are Glimpsed Behind The Veil That Modesty Has Drawn Over Them.

It Is The Eye Of Ignorance That Assigns A Fixed And Unchangeable Color To Every Object; Beware Of This Stumbling Block.

The Missionary Is No Longer A Man, A Conscience. He Is A Corpse, In The Hands Of A Confraternity, Without Family, Without Love, Without Any Of The Sentiments That Are Dear To Us. Emasculated, In A Sense, By His Vow Of Chastity, He Offers Us The Distressing Spectacle Of A Man Deformed And Impotent Or Engaged In A Stupid And Useless Struggle With The Sacred Needs Of The Flesh, A Struggle Which, Seven Times Out Of Ten, Leads Him To Sodomy, The Gallows, Or Prison.

Slyly, Banteringly, But Also Overbearingly, The Critic - The One Who Does Not Swallow Anything Whole, Who Waits Until Posterity Has Consecrated It Before... Howling - Is Among Those Who Howl Their Admiration The Way They Howl Their Insults: Don't Be Afraid, Don't Tremble - The Beast Doesn't Have Any Nails Or Teeth, Or Even Brain: It Is Stuffed.