ecomes much lovelier if it reminds us of a
thing in Art, but a thing in Art gains no real beauty through reminding
us of a thing in Nature. The primary aesthetic impression of a work of
art borrows nothing from recognition or resemblance. These belong to a
later and less perfect stage of apprehension.

Properly speaking, they are no part of a real aesthetic impression at
all, and the constant preoccupation with subject-matter that
characterises nearly all our English art-criticism, is what makes our art-
criticisms, especially as regards literature, so sterile, so profitless,
so much beside the mark, and of such curiously little account.--I remain,
Sir, your obedient servant, OSCAR WILDE.

BOULEVARD DES CAPUCINES, PARIS.

II.

(Pall Mall Gazette, December 11, 1891.)

To the Editor of the Pall Mall Gazette.

SIR,--I have just had sent to me from London a copy of the Pall Mall
Gazette, containing a review of my book A House of Pomegranates. {163}
The writer of this review makes a certain suggestion which I beg you will
allow me to correct at once.

He starts by asking an extremely silly question, and that is, whether or
not I have written this book for the purpose of giving pleasure to the
British child. Having expressed grave doubts on this subject, a subject
on which I cannot conceive any fairly educated person having any doubts
at all, he proceeds, apparently quite seriously, to make the extremely
limited vocabulary at the disposal of the British child the standard by
which the prose of an artist is to be judged! Now, in building this
House of Pomegranates, I had about as much intention of pleasing the
British child as I had of pleasing the British public. Mamilius is as
entirely delightful as Caliban is entirely detestable, but neither the
standard of Mamilius nor the standard of Caliban is my standard. No
artist recognises any standard of beauty but that which is suggested by
his own temperament. The artist seeks to realise, in a certain material,
his immaterial idea of beauty, and thus to transform an idea into an
ideal. That is the way an artist makes things. That is why an artist
makes things. The artist has no other object in making things. Does
your reviewer imagine that Mr. Shannon, for instance, whose delicate and
lovely illustrations he confesses himself quite unable to see, draws for
the purpose of giving information to the blind?--I remain, Sir, your
obedient servant,

OSCAR WILDE