THOUGHTS FROM WRITINGS 



back is the National Gallery— that is 

 art; and farther back the British 

 Museum— books. To the right lies 

 the wealth and luxury of the West 

 End; to the left the roar and labour, 

 the craft and gold, of the City. For 

 themselves, they are the only monument 

 in this vast capital worthy of a second 

 visit as a monument. Over the entire 

 area covered by the metropolis there 

 does not exist another work of art in 

 the open air. There are many struc- 

 tures and things, no other art. The 

 outlines of the great animals, the bold 

 curves and firm touches of the master 

 hand, the deep indents, as it were, of 

 his thumb on the plastic metal, all the 

 technique and grasp written there, is 

 legible at a glance. Then comes the 

 pose and expression of the whole, the 

 calm strength in repose, the indifference 

 to little things, the resolute view of 

 great ones. Lastly, the soul of the 



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