selected works of appreciation of English classics
Nature and Art
nature contains the elements, in colour and form, of all pictures, As the keyboard contains the notes of all music.
In terms of color and shape, nature contains all painting elements, just as a keyboard contains all musical notes.
But the artist is born to pick, and choose, and group with science, these elements, That the result may be beautiful-as the musical gatherers' notes, and forms his poems, never he bringsforth from chaos glory harmony.
And artists are born with this talent. Choose from these ingredients and combine them skillfully to draw a beautiful picture. This is like a musician choosing notes from disordered sounds, forming his own chords and creating beautiful and harmonious movements.
To say to the painter, that Nature is to be taken as she is, is to say to the player, that he may sit on the piano .., The dignity of the snow-capped mountain is lost in distinctness, but the joy of the tourist is to recognize the traveller on the top. The desire to see, for the sake of seeing, is, with the mass, Alone the one to be grateful, hen the light in detail.
If a painter works in the true nature, then for a performer, he can sit by the piano ... The mountains stand tall and snowy, but they lose their dignity because they are too clear. However, the climbers can enjoy themselves because they can see the elegance of the climber. Climb the mountain with everyone to meet the wish of looking far away, but the fun is only reflected in a glimpse of the details.
And when the evening mist clothes the riverside with poetry, as with a veil, and the poor buildings lose themselves in the dim sky, and the tall chimneys bee campanili, and the warehouses are palaces in the night, and the whole city hangs in the heavens, and fairy-land is before us - then the wayfarer hastens home; the working man and the cultured one, the wise man and the one of pleasure, cease to understand, as they have ceased to see, and Nature, who, for once, has sung in tune, sings her exquisite song to the artist alone, her son and her master - her son in that he loves her, She master in that he knows her.
In the evening, a poetic mist hangs over the stream, dilapidated houses are hidden in the dim night, towering chimneys are like clock towers, storerooms are like palaces at night, the whole city hangs in the sky, and everything is presented to us like a fairyland. At this point, travelers act quickly to return home; Whether it is a laborer, a learned man, a wise man or a hedonist, they have no epiphany because they can't see all this anymore. Nature, which used to sing, only sings a beautiful melody for the artist at the moment. He is both her son and her master-love is her son and knowledge is her master.
To him her secrets are unfolded; to him her lessons have bee gradually clear. He looks at her flower, not with the enlarging lens, that he may gather facts for the botanist, But with the light of the one who sees in her choice selection of brilliant tones and delicate tints, suggestions of future harmony.
As an artist, nature shows her mystery; It is only because of him that its connotation gradually emerges. The artist's observation of flowers is not with a magnifying glass collected by botanists, but with a series of lights, through which we can see the harmonious picture that will be described by brilliant tones and wonderful colors.
He does not confine himself to purposeless copying, without thought, each blade of grass, as mended by the inconsequent, but, in the long curve of the narrow leaf, corrected by the straight tall stem, he learns how grace is wedded to dignity, how strength enhances sweetness, That elegance shall be the result.
He won't copy every leaf without thinking, like those who don't match here. On the contrary, from the curly veins and slender stems, he realized elegance in majesty and sweetness in strength, and finally created elegant and wonderful works.
In the citron wing of the pale butterfly, with its dainty spots of orange, he sees before him the stately halls of fair gold, with their slender saffron pillars, and is taught how the delicate drawing high upon the walls shall be traced in tender tones of orpiment, And repeated by the base in notes of graverhue.
A light-colored butterfly, with delicate orange spots embedded in its pomelo wings, is presented in front of his eyes with slender golden columns standing on the resplendent hall, and he realizes that the exquisite picture scroll hanging on the high wall is painted with soft male yellow and a lighter background.
in all that is dainty and lovable he finds hints for his own binations, and thus is nature ever his resource and always at his service, and to him is naught discarded.
All these exquisite and lovely colors inspired his creation. Nature has become the source of his creation, serving him without any rejection.
The Most Loved Place
beloved place
the most loved place, for me, in this country has been in fact been many places.
In fact, there have always been many places I like best in this country.
It has changed throughout the years, as I and my circumstances have changed. I haven't really lost any of the best places from the past, though. I may no longer inhabit them, but they inhabit me, portions of memory, presences in the mind...My best place at the moment is very different, Although I guess it has some of the attributes of that long-ago place.
Over the years, due to the changes of ourselves and the situation, my favorite place has also changed. Nevertheless, I haven't really lost any of the places I loved in the past. I may no longer live there, but they exist in my heart, become fragments of my memory, and often appear in my mind ... At the moment, my favorite place is quite different, but I think it still has some of the same characteristics as the old place, Ming Lake and Clear Lake.
It is a *** all cedar cabin on the Otonabee river in southern Ontario. I've lived three summers there, writing, birdwatching, riverwatching. I sometimes feel sorry for the people in speedboats who spend their weekends zinging up and down the river at about a million miles an Hour. for all their' re able to see, the river banks may just as well be green concrete and the river it's self floating with molten plastic.
This place is a pine hut by the Otunnabi River in southern Ontario. I lived there for three summers: writing, bird watching and river watching. Sometimes I feel sorry for those people who come here for the weekend, but drive speedboats roaring back and forth on the river at top speed, because the banks they see are just green concrete banks, and the river itself seems to be just a shiny flowing plastic.
The First Snow
the first snow. how beautiful it was, falling so silently all day long, all night long, On the mountains, on the meadows, on the roofs of the living, on the graves of the dead.
The first snow is coming, so quiet and beautiful, day and night, mountains and rivers, vegetation, rafters and graves, all wrapped in white/silver.
All white save the river, that marked its course by a winding black line across the landscape; and the leafless trees, that against the leaden sk