Works
of art feel towards human beings exactly as we do towards ghosts. The
transparency of specters, the diffuseness in space which lets them drift
through doors and walls, and their smell of death, disgust us not more than we
disgust works of art by our meaninglessness, our diffuseness in time which lets
us drift through three score years and ten without a quarter as much
significance as a picture establishes instantaneously.
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