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Poems of Coleridge - Arthur Symons - Bog

- Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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Poems of Coleridge: Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Selected and Arranged with an Introduction and Notes by Arthur Symons. In one of Rossetti's invaluable notes on poetry, he tells us that to him "the leading point about Coleridge's work is its human love." We may remember Coleridge's own words: "To be beloved is all I need, And whom I love, I love indeed." Yet love, though it is the word which he uses of himself, is not really what he himself meant when using it, but rather an affectionate sympathy, in which there seems to have been little element of passion. Writing to his wife, during that first absence in Germany, whose solitude tried him so much, he laments that there is "no one to love." "Love is the vital air of my genius," he tells her, and adds: "I am deeply convinced that if I were to remain a few years among objects for whom I had no affection, I should wholly lose the powers of intellect." To Coleridge there was as much difficulty in belief as in action, for belief is itself an action of the mind. He was always anxious to believe anything that would carry him beyond the limits of time and space, but it was not often that he could give more than a speculative assent to even the most improbable of creeds.

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  • Sprog:
  • Engelsk
  • ISBN:
  • 9781981373499
  • Indbinding:
  • Paperback
  • Sideantal:
  • 158
  • Udgivet:
  • 3. December 2017
  • Størrelse:
  • 216x279x9 mm.
  • Vægt:
  • 381 g.
Leveringstid: 2-3 uger
Forventet levering: 19. Juli 2024

Beskrivelse af Poems of Coleridge

Poems of Coleridge: Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Selected and Arranged with an Introduction and Notes by Arthur Symons. In one of Rossetti's invaluable notes on poetry, he tells us that to him "the leading point about Coleridge's work is its human love." We may remember Coleridge's own words: "To be beloved is all I need, And whom I love, I love indeed." Yet love, though it is the word which he uses of himself, is not really what he himself meant when using it, but rather an affectionate sympathy, in which there seems to have been little element of passion. Writing to his wife, during that first absence in Germany, whose solitude tried him so much, he laments that there is "no one to love." "Love is the vital air of my genius," he tells her, and adds: "I am deeply convinced that if I were to remain a few years among objects for whom I had no affection, I should wholly lose the powers of intellect." To Coleridge there was as much difficulty in belief as in action, for belief is itself an action of the mind. He was always anxious to believe anything that would carry him beyond the limits of time and space, but it was not often that he could give more than a speculative assent to even the most improbable of creeds.

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