Oscar Wilde’s letter to an Oxford student on the uselessness of art:
My dear Sir
Art is useless because its aim is simply to create a mood. It is not meant to instruct, or to influence action in any way. It is superbly sterile, and the note of its pleasure is sterility. If the contemplation of a work of art is followed by activity of any kind, the work is either of a very second-rate order, or the spectator has failed to realise the complete artistic impression.
A work of art is useless as a flower is useless. A flower blossoms for its own joy. We gain a moment of joy by looking at it. That is all that is to be said about our relations to flowers. Of course man may sell the flower, and so make it useful to him, but this has nothing to do with the flower. It is not part of its essence. It is accidental. It is a misuse. All this is I fear very obscure. But the subject is a long one.
Truly yours,
Oscar Wilde
(Source: alecshao, via shotgun-season)
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All my life I knew I was loved and protected but it did not prepare me for life and what was ahead of me. The tragedies, the disappointments, the challenges and how to live with them were difficult.
“At 85, I think about life differently. I can look at my past life like watching an old silent film. I can’t change anything but I can remember and wonder and think about what if I was more prepared, stronger, wiser, more experienced. Then something inside of me says ‘forget it, try to enjoy the rest of your life.’
“That is what I am trying to do. I don’t want to waste precious days still ahead of me.
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