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"Symbolism, as it is in today's writers, should be worthless if we did not see it, in one form or another, in every great imaginative writer," wrote Arthur Symons in The Symbolist Movement in Literature. An insightful book that I cannot glorify as I would like because it has been dedicated to me; and the author goes on to show how many profound writers have in recent years sought a philosophy of poetry in the doctrine of symbolism, and how even in countries where it is almost scandalous to inquire into a philosophy of poetry, new writings are following them with their search.

We do not know what the writings of ancient times talked to each other, and bullshit is what remains of the discussions of Shakespeare, who was on the edge of modern times; and the scholar is convinced, it seems, that they were talking about women, but never about his art, or never very seriously about his art. He is convinced that no one who had a philosophy of his art, or a theory of how he should write, has ever made a work of art, that those who do not write without prior and subsequent considerations as he writes his own articles have no imagination. He says this with enthusiasm, because he has heard it in so many comfortable after-hours, where someone in carelessness, or foolish jealousy, mentioned a book whose difficulty defended indolence, or a man who had not forgotten that beauty is an accusation.

Those formulas and generalizations, where a hidden Argentinian has pierced the ideas of the academics, and through them the ideas of everything except the entire modern world, have in turn created an amnesia like that of the loose in atolla, and thus academics and his readers have forgotten, among many similar events, that Wagner spent seven years organizing his ideas before he began his most characteristic music; that opera, and with it modern music, arose from certain talks in the house of a certain Giovani Bordi in Florence; and that the Pleiades laid the foundations of modern French literature with a loaf.

Goethe has said: "a poet needs all philosophy, but he must separate it from his work", although that is not always necessary; and almost certainly no great art, outside of England, where scholars are more powerful and ideas less plethora than elsewhere, has arisen without great criticism, from its herald or its interpreter and protector, and it may be for this reason that great art, now that vulgarity has been armed and multiplied, is possibly in England.

All writings, all artists of any kind, as much as they have had any critical or philosophical power, perhaps only as much as they have been deliberate artists, have had some philosophy, some criticism of their art; and it has been this philosophy, or this criticism, which has evoked its most brilliant inspiration to call the external life part of the divine life, or of the buried reality, which can by itself extinguish in what philosophy or criticism can extinguish in the intellect. They have not looked for new things, it may be, but only to understand and copy the pure inspiration of the first times, but because divine life fights with our outer life, and must change their souls and movements as we change ours, inspiration has become before them in beautiful and dazzling forms. The scientific movement brought with it a literature that always tends to get lost in externalities of all kinds, in opinion, in declamation, in picturesque writing, in painting with words, or in what Mr. Symons has called an attempt "to build with partition and mix between the covers of a book ”; and the new writers have begun to hover in evocation, in suggestion, in what we call symbolism in the great writers.