Marco Zanoni, Portrait- und Reportagefotograf. Gegründet im Jahr von der Familie Zanoni, mit 6 Hektar Rebfläche, in Quinzano bei Verona. Bestockt mit Corvina und Corvinone. Zanoni legt viel Wert auf. Wasser und Atem sind Grundlagen des Lebens, mein Therapieangebot beinhaltet Atemarbeit und Atemmassagen sowie Watsu und Massagen im Wasser als.
Azienda Agricola ZanoniZanoni & Zanoni. LA GELATERIA ITALIANA DA Glück kann man nicht kaufen. Aber Eiscreme, das ist fast dasselbe. BENVENUTO. ZUR EISKARTE. ZANONI Architekten haben ein Haus an Zürichs repräsentativer Limmatfront saniert und umgebaut. Tomaso Zanoni erklärt, wie die Qualitäten des historischen. Wasser und Atem sind Grundlagen des Lebens, mein Therapieangebot beinhaltet Atemarbeit und Atemmassagen sowie Watsu und Massagen im Wasser als.
Zanoni Ratings and reviews VideoLasagne 💣👨🏻🍳🇮🇹 du chef simone zanoni The Statistik Em 2021 Zanoni is derived from the Chaldean root zanmeaning "sun", and the chief character is endowed with solar attributes. Café Outback Minden other initiate is named Mejnour and he, choosing a different path from Zanoni, may presumably still be living to this day. That same Zanoni, A. Viola, on the other hand, is a simple, provincial Neapolitan girl.
Persons much cultivating an abstract study are often thus; mathematicians proverbially so. Do you know what the illustrious Giardini said when the tyro asked how long it would take to learn to play on the violin?
No, Pisani; often, with the keen susceptibility of childhood, poor Viola had stolen from the room to weep at the thought that thou didst not love her.
And yet, underneath this outward abstraction of the artist, the natural fondness flowed all the same; and as she grew up, the dreamer had understood the dreamer.
The eventful hour is come. Viola is gone to the theatre,—her mother with her. The indignant musician remains at home.
He must lay aside his violin; he must put on his brocade coat and his lace ruffles. Here they are,—quick, quick!
And quick rolls the gilded coach, and majestic sits the driver, and statelily prance the steeds. Poor Pisani is lost in a mist of uncomfortable amaze.
He arrives at the theatre; he descends at the great door; he turns round and round, and looks about him and about: he misses something,—where is the violin?
But then, what bursts upon him! Does he dream? The first act is over they did not send for him till success seemed no longer doubtful ; the first act has decided all.
He feels THAT by the electric sympathy which ever the one heart has at once with a vast audience. He feels it by the breathless stillness of that multitude; he feels it even by the lifted finger of the Cardinal.
He sees his Viola on the stage, radiant in her robes and gems,—he hears her voice thrilling through the single heart of the thousands!
But the scene, the part, the music! It is his other child,—his immortal child; the spirit-infant of his soul; his darling of many years of patient obscurity and pining genius; his masterpiece; his opera of the Siren!
And there she stands, as all souls bow before her,—fairer than the very Siren he had called from the deeps of melody.
Oh, long and sweet recompense of toil! Where is on earth the rapture like that which is known to genius when at last it bursts from its hidden cavern into light and fame!
He did not speak, he did not move; he stood transfixed, breathless, the tears rolling down his cheeks; only from time to time his hands still wandered about,—mechanically they sought for the faithful instrument, why was it not there to share his triumph?
At last the curtain fell; but on such a storm and diapason of applause! Up rose the audience as one man, as with one voice that dear name was shouted.
The good old Cardinal drew him gently forward. Wild musician, thy daughter has given thee back more than the life thou gavest!
Now notwithstanding the triumph both of the singer and the opera, there had been one moment in the first act, and, consequently, BEFORE the arrival of Pisani, when the scale seemed more than doubtful.
It was in a chorus replete with all the peculiarities of the composer. And when the Maelstrom of Capricci whirled and foamed, and tore ear and sense through every variety of sound, the audience simultaneously recognised the hand of Pisani.
A title had been given to the opera which had hitherto prevented all suspicion of its parentage; and the overture and opening, in which the music had been regular and sweet, had led the audience to fancy they detected the genius of their favourite Paisiello.
Long accustomed to ridicule and almost to despise the pretensions of Pisani as a composer, they now felt as if they had been unduly cheated into the applause with which they had hailed the overture and the commencing scenas.
An ominous buzz circulated round the house: the singers, the orchestra,—electrically sensitive to the impression of the audience,—grew, themselves, agitated and dismayed, and failed in the energy and precision which could alone carry off the grotesqueness of the music.
There are always in every theatre many rivals to a new author and a new performer,—a party impotent while all goes well, but a dangerous ambush the instant some accident throws into confusion the march of success.
A hiss arose; it was partial, it is true, but the significant silence of all applause seemed to forebode the coming moment when the displeasure would grow contagious.
It was the breath that stirred the impending avalanche. At that critical moment Viola, the Siren queen, emerged for the first time from her ocean cave.
As she came forward to the lamps, the novelty of her situation, the chilling apathy of the audience,—which even the sight of so singular a beauty did not at the first arouse,—the whispers of the malignant singers on the stage, the glare of the lights, and more—far more than the rest—that recent hiss, which had reached her in her concealment, all froze up her faculties and suspended her voice.
And, instead of the grand invocation into which she ought rapidly to have burst, the regal Siren, retransformed into the trembling girl, stood pale and mute before the stern, cold array of those countless eyes.
At that instant, and when consciousness itself seemed about to fail her, as she turned a timid beseeching glance around the still multitude, she perceived, in a box near the stage, a countenance which at once, and like magic, produced on her mind an effect never to be analysed nor forgotten.
It was one that awakened an indistinct, haunting reminiscence, as if she had seen it in those day-dreams she had been so wont from infancy to indulge.
She could not withdraw her gaze from that face, and as she gazed, the awe and coldness that had before seized her, vanished like a mist from before the sun.
In the dark splendour of the eyes that met her own there was indeed so much of gentle encouragement, of benign and compassionate admiration,—so much that warmed, and animated, and nerved,—that any one, actor or orator, who has ever observed the effect that a single earnest and kindly look in the crowd that is to be addressed and won, will produce upon his mind, may readily account for the sudden and inspiriting influence which the eye and smile of the stranger exercised on the debutante.
And while yet she gazed, and the glow returned to her heart, the stranger half rose, as if to recall the audience to a sense of the courtesy due to one so fair and young; and the instant his voice gave the signal, the audience followed it by a burst of generous applause.
For this stranger himself was a marked personage, and his recent arrival at Naples had divided with the new opera the gossip of the city.
From that time Viola forgot the crowd, the hazard, the whole world,—except the fairy one over with she presided. Only when all was over, and she saw her father and felt his joy, did this wild spell vanish before the sweeter one of the household and filial love.
Why, Viola, strange child, sittest thou apart, thy face leaning on thy fair hands, thine eyes fixed on space? Up, rouse thee! Every dimple on the cheek of home must smile to-night.
And a happy reunion it was round that humble table: a feast Lucullus might have envied in his Hall of Apollo, in the dried grapes, and the dainty sardines, and the luxurious polenta, and the old lacrima a present from the good Cardinal.
The barbiton, placed on a chair—a tall, high-backed chair—beside the musician, seemed to take a part in the festive meal.
Its honest varnished face glowed in the light of the lamp; and there was an impish, sly demureness in its very silence, as its master, between every mouthful, turned to talk to it of something he had forgotten to relate before.
You give me so much joy, child,—I am so proud of thee and myself. But he and I, poor fellow, have been so often unhappy together!
The intoxication of vanity and triumph, the happiness in the happiness she had caused, all this was better than sleep.
But still from all this, again and again her thoughts flew to those haunting eyes, to that smile with which forever the memory of the triumph, of the happiness, was to be united.
Her feelings, like her own character, were strange and peculiar. They were not those of a girl whose heart, for the first time reached through the eye, sighs its natural and native language of first love.
It was not so much admiration, though the face that reflected itself on every wave of her restless fancies was of the rarest order of majesty and beauty; nor a pleased and enamoured recollection that the sight of this stranger had bequeathed: it was a human sentiment of gratitude and delight, mixed with something more mysterious, of fear and awe.
Certainly she had seen before those features; but when and how? Only when her thoughts had sought to shape out her future, and when, in spite of all the attempts to vision forth a fate of flowers and sunshine, a dark and chill foreboding made her recoil back into her deepest self.
It was a something found that had long been sought for by a thousand restless yearnings and vague desires, less of the heart than mind; not as when youth discovers the one to be beloved, but rather as when the student, long wandering after the clew to some truth in science, sees it glimmer dimly before him, to beckon, to recede, to allure, and to wane again.
She fell at last into unquiet slumber, vexed by deformed, fleeting, shapeless phantoms; and, waking, as the sun, through a veil of hazy cloud, glinted with a sickly ray across the casement, she heard her father settled back betimes to his one pursuit, and calling forth from his Familiar a low mournful strain, like a dirge over the dead.
I meant to be merry, and compose an air in honour of thee; but he is an obstinate fellow, this,—and he would have it so. It was the custom of Pisani, except when the duties of his profession made special demand on his time, to devote a certain portion of the mid-day to sleep,—a habit not so much a luxury as a necessity to a man who slept very little during the night.
In fact, whether to compose or to practice, the hours of noon were precisely those in which Pisani could not have been active if he would.
His genius resembled those fountains full at dawn and evening, overflowing at night, and perfectly dry at the meridian.
During this time, consecrated by her husband to repose, the signora generally stole out to make the purchases necessary for the little household, or to enjoy as what woman does not?
And the day following this brilliant triumph, how many congratulations would she have to receive! As she thus sat, rather in reverie than thought, a man coming from the direction of Posilipo, with a slow step and downcast eyes, passed close by the house, and Viola, looking up abruptly, started in a kind of terror as she recognised the stranger.
She uttered an involuntary exclamation, and the cavalier turning, saw, and paused. He stood a moment or two between her and the sunlit ocean, contemplating in a silence too serious and gentle for the boldness of gallantry, the blushing face and the young slight form before him; at length he spoke.
From sixteen to thirty, the music in the breath of applause is sweeter than all the music your voice can utter!
And I feel, too, Excellency, that I have you to thank, though, perhaps, you scarce know why! Perhaps you would rather I should have admired the singer?
And now, since we have thus met, I will pause to counsel you. When next you go to the theatre, you will have at your feet all the young gallants of Naples.
Poor infant! Remember that the only homage that does not sully must be that which these gallants will not give thee. And whatever thy dreams of the future,—and I see, while I speak to thee, how wandering they are, and wild,—may only those be fulfilled which centre round the hearth of home.
And with a burst of natural and innocent emotions, scarcely comprehending, though an Italian, the grave nature of his advice, she exclaimed,—.
And my father,—there would be no home, signor, without him! A deep and melancholy shade settled over the face of the cavalier. He looked up at the quiet house buried amidst the vine-leaves, and turned again to the vivid, animated face of the young actress.
Adieu, fair singer. Look how it grows up, crooked and distorted. Some wind scattered the germ from which it sprang, in the clefts of the rock; choked up and walled round by crags and buildings, by Nature and man, its life has been one struggle for the light,—light which makes to that life the necessity and the principle: you see how it has writhed and twisted; how, meeting the barrier in one spot, it has laboured and worked, stem and branches, towards the clear skies at last.
What has preserved it through each disfavour of birth and circumstances,—why are its leaves as green and fair as those of the vine behind you, which, with all its arms, can embrace the open sunshine?
My child, because of the very instinct that impelled the struggle,—because the labour for the light won to the light at length.
So with a gallant heart, through every adverse accident of sorrow and of fate to turn to the sun, to strive for the heaven; this it is that gives knowledge to the strong and happiness to the weak.
Ere we meet again, you will turn sad and heavy eyes to those quiet boughs, and when you hear the birds sing from them, and see the sunshine come aslant from crag and housetop to be the playfellow of their leaves, learn the lesson that Nature teaches you, and strive through darkness to the light!
As he spoke he moved on slowly, and left Viola wondering, silent, saddened with his dim prophecy of coming evil, and yet, through sadness, charmed.
Involuntarily her eyes followed him,—involuntarily she stretched forth her arms, as if by a gesture to call him back; she would have given worlds to have seen him turn,—to have heard once more his low, calm, silvery voice; to have felt again the light touch of his hand on hers.
As moonlight that softens into beauty every angle on which it falls, seemed his presence,—as moonlight vanishes, and things assume their common aspect of the rugged and the mean, he receded from her eyes, and the outward scene was commonplace once more.
The stranger passed on, through that long and lovely road which reaches at last the palaces that face the public gardens, and conducts to the more populous quarters of the city.
A group of young, dissipated courtiers, loitering by the gateway of a house which was open for the favourite pastime of the day,—the resort of the wealthier and more high-born gamesters,—made way for him, as with a courteous inclination he passed them by.
He has not been many days at Naples, and I cannot yet find any one who knows aught of his birthplace, his parentage, or, what is more important, his estates!
See,—no, you cannot see it here; but it rides yonder in the bay. The bankers he deals with speak with awe of the sums placed in their hands.
My valet learned from some of the sailors on the Mole that he had resided many years in the interior of India. Here comes our prince of gamesters, Cetoxa; be sure that he already must have made acquaintance with so wealthy a cavalier; he has that attraction to gold which the magnet has to steel.
Well, Cetoxa, what fresh news of the ducats of Signor Zanoni? He desired a box at San Carlo; but I need not tell you that the expectation of a new opera ah, how superb it is,—that poor devil, Pisani; who would have thought it?
He accepts it,—I wait on him between the acts; he is most charming; he invites me to supper. Cospetto, what a retinue! We sit late,—I tell him all the news of Naples; we grow bosom friends; he presses on me this diamond before we part,—is a trifle, he tells me: the jewellers value it at pistoles!
And what, after all, do these rumours, when sifted, amount to? They have no origin but this,—a silly old man of eighty-six, quite in his dotage, solemnly avers that he saw this same Zanoni seventy years ago he himself, the narrator, then a mere boy at Milan; when this very Zanoni, as you all see, is at least as young as you or I, Belgioso.
Old Avelli declares that Zanoni does not seem a day older than when they met at Milan. He says that even then at Milan—mark this—where, though under another name, this Zanoni appeared in the same splendour, he was attended also by the same mystery.
I will believe them when I see this diamond turn to a wisp of hay. Cetoxa was a redoubted swordsman, and excelled in a peculiarly awkward manoeuvre, which he himself had added to the variations of the stoccata.
The grave gentleman, however anxious for the spiritual weal of the count, had an equal regard for his own corporeal safety. He contented himself with a look of compassion, and, turning through the gateway, ascended the stairs to the gaming-tables.
Gentlemen, you sup with me to-night. I assure you I never met a more delightful, sociable, entertaining person, than my dear friend the Signor Zanoni.
And now, accompanying this mysterious Zanoni, am I compelled to bid a short farewell to Naples. Mount behind me,—mount on my hippogriff, reader; settle yourself at your ease.
I bought the pillion the other day of a poet who loves his comfort; it has been newly stuffed for your special accommodation.
So, so, we ascend! Look as we ride aloft,—look! Hail to ye, cornfields and vineyards famous for the old Falernian! Hail to ye, golden orange-groves of Mola di Gaeta!
Hail to ye, sweet shrubs and wild flowers, omnis copia narium, that clothe the mountain-skirts of the silent Lautulae!
Shall we rest at the Volscian Anxur,—the modern Terracina,—where the lofty rock stands like the giant that guards the last borders of the southern land of love?
Away, away! Dreary and desolate, their miasma is to the gardens we have passed what the rank commonplace of life is to the heart when it has left love behind.
Mournful Campagna, thou openest on us in majestic sadness. Rome, seven-hilled Rome! Where is the traveller we pursue? Turn the hippogriff loose to graze: he loves the acanthus that wreathes round yon broken columns.
Yes, that is the arch of Titus, the conqueror of Jerusalem,—that the Colosseum! Through one passed the triumph of the deified invader; in one fell the butchered gladiators.
Monuments of murder, how poor the thoughts, how mean the memories ye awaken, compared with those that speak to the heart of man on the heights of Phyle, or by thy lone mound, grey Marathon!
We stand amidst weeds and brambles and long waving herbage. Where we stand reigned Nero,—here were his tessellated floors; here,.
How the lizard watches us with his bright, timorous eye! We disturb his reign. In the midst of this desolation is an old building of the middle ages.
Here dwells a singular recluse. In the season of the malaria the native peasant flies the rank vegetation round; but he, a stranger and a foreigner, no associates, no companions, except books and instruments of science.
He is often seen wandering over the grass-grown hills, or sauntering through the streets of the new city, not with the absent brow and incurious air of students, but with observant piercing eyes that seem to dive into the hearts of the passers-by.
An old man, but not infirm,—erect and stately, as if in his prime. None know whether he be rich or poor. He asks no charity, and he gives none,—he does no evil, and seems to confer no good.
He is a man who appears to have no world beyond himself; but appearances are deceitful, and Science, as well as Benevolence, lives in the Universe.
This abode, for the first time since thus occupied, a visitor enters. It is Zanoni. You observe those two men seated together, conversing earnestly.
Years long and many have flown away since they met last,—at least, bodily, and face to face. But if they are sages, thought can meet thought, and spirit spirit, though oceans divide the forms.
Death itself divides not the wise. Thou meetest Plato when thine eyes moisten over the Phaedo. May Homer live with all men forever!
They converse; they confess to each other; they conjure up the past, and repeople it; but note how differently do such remembrances affect the two.
HE has acted in the past he surveys; but not a trace of the humanity that participates in joy and sorrow can be detected on the passionless visage of his companion; the past, to him, as is now the present, has been but as Nature to the sage, the volume to the student,—a calm and spiritual life, a study, a contemplation.
From the past they turn to the future. Behold the icy and profound disdain on the brow of the old man,—the lofty yet touching sadness that darkens the glorious countenance of Zanoni.
La Gelateria! Kreative Eiskompositionen der Spitzenklasse im Herzen Wiens. Unsere Torten. The Memory of Tiresias. University of California Press.
It is worth noting that Zanoni is endowed with solar attributes Gothic immortals. The manuscript is indebted to Plato's Phaedrus Nelson Bulwer Lytton as Occultist.
Kessinger Publishing. He will be to the last largely before the public. The blood is the life. Popular Press.
History of Gujarati Literature. Worth a read for the number of times things are described as "starry", also worth a read if you're familiar or wish to become familiar with early British occultism.
Sir Bulwer-Lytton always claimed to have been most proud of this book and I have no reason to disagree with him. What Bulwer-Lytton has produced is a turgid gothic romance popular during the period.
Lots and Lots of exposition and little by way of dialogue, so it will not be the sort of book that modern genre readers will, most likely, enjoy.
I'm not going to outline the plot here, visit its Wikipedia page if you wish to see this, but what I will do is tell you the basic plot is that of a romantic Published in and set during the French Terror  this is NOT a Tale of Two Cities.
I'm not going to outline the plot here, visit its Wikipedia page if you wish to see this, but what I will do is tell you the basic plot is that of a romantic tragedy Having said the above, Zanoni is still a good, but not great, book within its tradition.
View 1 comment. This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers. To view it, click here. Below is the brief synopsis of the book with some side notes.
Unfortunately, the novel is written in a very prosaic Victorian English, a style, which modern readers might not have the time or the patience to read.
I would love to see a movie or a screenplay made of this story if it kept the original theme, message and esoteric tradition. Bulwer-Lytton, was a English aristocrat and Earl of Knebsworth.
Knebsworth remained open to the public. He was a pioneer historical novelist, and far Below is the brief synopsis of the book with some side notes.
He was a pioneer historical novelist, and far more meticulous in his research and accurate in his facts than his contemporaries. The author was a member of the English Rosicrucian society, founded in by Robert Wenworth Little.
This explains why he was so very knowledgeable in what we now call the Western Esoteric Tradition, and it is said that the famous French occultist Eliphas Levi came to England to visit him, although the tradition of secrecy that veiled these matters in those day was such that it is difficult to ascertain the cause of their meeting or what may have happened as a consequence.
The introductory chapter to the story of Zanoni recounts how the narrator, in his younger days, had been keen to become acquainted with the true origin and tenets of the Rosicrucian order.
In his search he visited an obscure bookshop in Covent Garden, where he met an old man who hinted that he might well enlighten him should they happen to meet again.
Indeed they do meet very shortly afterwards at the foot of Highgate Hill and the old man invites the young man to his house, in a secluded part of Highgate overlooking London, and instructs him in secret esoteric philosophy.
He tells that the Rosicrucian order still exist, but pursue their profound researches into natural science and occult philosophy in secrecy. Yet however respectable and virtuous they might be, and ardent in the Christian faith, they are but a branch of another more transcendent, powerful and illustrious Order that derives from Plato, Pythagoras and Apollonius of Tyana.
On the death of the old man he bequeaths to the narrator a manuscript in cipher that turns out to be the text of the novel "Zanoni".
It is described by its anonymous author as a romance and yet not a romance. The old man, referring to the works of Plato, has already explained that there are four stages for the soul in its return to its first state of happiness in God.
The first is music, the second mysticism, the third prophecy, and the fourth love. And it is upon this outline plan that the story of Zanoni is constructed.
Zanoni divides into seven parts, which are entitled: 1. The Musician, 2. Art, Love and Wonder, 3. Theurgia, 4. The Dweller of the Threshold, 5.
The Effects of the Elixir, 6. Superstition Deserting Faith, 7. The Reign of Terror. This last section is an evocation of the French Revolution, along with Bulwer-Lytton's close adherence to fact, in which the occult adept Zanoni goes voluntarily to his sacrificial death in an attempt to save the innocent from the guillotine.
He was born a star and fire worshipper in ancient Chaldea, and so is some years old, his occult powers having enabled him to avoid the ravages of time He is one of only two members of a great ancient esoteric Order who survive.
The other initiate is named Mejnour and he, choosing a different path from Zanoni, may presumably still be living to this day.
Whilst all this may sound fantastic, the esoteric status of Zanoni and Mejnour is much akin to that which is accorded by latter day occultists to Masters of the Wisdom, and what Lytton has to say about these Adepts predates by some forty years the celebrated Mahatmas of Madame Blavatsky or the Secret Chiefs of the Golden Dawn.
The heroine of the novel is Viola, a young Neapolitan girl, ignorant and uneducated but a supremely gifted singer. Its hero Zanoni, the master of mystic and prophetic arts, loves her for her youth, innocence and musical gifts, although his co-initiate Mejnour remains wedded to the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake - looking upon human love as a weakness rather than a strength.
Having helped Viola to become a star of the Neapolitan opera, Zanoni, although he loves her, tries to divert her natural love for him by encouraging her courtship by a young Englishman, Glyndon.
His grounds for this are that he, being virtually an immortal, cannot realistically form a lasting loving relationship with a young girl who will grow old wither and die in the natural course of life, whilst he himself remains relatively unaffected by the passage of time.
The young Englishman Glyndon aborts his selfless plans however, an amateur artist of some talent but of solid respectable middle class stock, who cannot come to terms with taking a poor Italian girl for wife.
How would she fit in on the English social scene? How would she be received by his parents or by his business associates?
He yearns instead after the mysterious powers of Mejnour and Zanoni. After some heart searching by all concerned Glyndon is eventually accepted for initiatory instruction under the adept Mejnour at a hidden temple in the mountains.
In the meantime Zanoni marries Viola, hoping that perhaps he may be able to instruct her sufficiently in his secret sciences so that she too may avoid the march of time.
Both these schemes founder in the test of hard reality and human fallibility. Glyndon, although spurred on in his mystic quest by having an alchemist as a distant ancestor, proves himself to be lacking in the qualities required of an initiate.
The Dweller on the Threshold proves too much for him. He cannot resist the lure of idle curiosity or the temptations of the flesh - tests that have been arranged by Mejnour.
He is accordingly rejected and returned to the world, but having evoked the wind he reaps the whirlwind, and undergoes a slow moral degeneration.
This manifests at first as drunken self-indulgence and social ineptitude, and passes in the end to lust and betrayal.
Viola, on the other hand, is a simple, provincial Neapolitan girl. The local priest, who condemns her involvement with a man who practices the occult arts, disastrously influences her.
Despite the exemplary conduct of her husband she begins to fear his knowledge and his background, and refuses all thought of him teaching her any of his esoteric powers.
By force of circumstances she ends up in Paris at the time of the worst excesses of the Revolution. Here, partly through the treacherous act of Glyndon, she is denounced and condemned to the guillotine.
Zanoni arrives and, in a desperate attempt to save her, sacrifices his own life in the process but goes to his death with a new realisation of the meaning of human life, and above all of human death.
Despite his efforts, by a quirk of fate Karma? The books final message seems to be the futility of mundane life but the Universal power of Love.
Throughout all these colourful events the author stresses the theme of the quest of the ideal in the arts, as opposed to the servile imitation of nature, for nature is not to be copied but exalted.
The aim of the arts should be to lift the perceptions of the beholder to the level of the gods, to the highest potential of mankind.
Yet the natural world is not to be rejected. Man's spirit is like a bird and cannot always be on the wing. View all details meals, features.
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