The falling apart of a man's life should make more noise. It should startle passesrby with its Sturm and Drang. It ought to sound like the Parthenon crashing down. Not this ordinary, everyday kind of quiet. . . He closed his eyes. . . And still it was quiet, this falling apart of his life, as silent as the last beat of an old man's heart. A quiet, echoing thud, and then. . . nothing.
Earth proudly wears the Parthenon As the best gem upon her zone.
The forge looked like a steam-powered locomotive had smashed into the Greek Parthenon and they had fused together.
The walls that fence our fields, as well as modern Rome, and not less the Parthenon itself, are all built of ruins.
The Parthenon without the marbles is like a smile with a tooth missing.
The academic teaching on beauty is false. We have been misled, but so completely misled that we can no longer find so much as a shadow of a truth again. The beauties of the Parthenon, the Venuses, the Nymphs, the Narcisusses, are so may lies. Art is not the application of a canon of beauty, but what the instinct and the brain can conceive independently of that canon.
