Ulysses

It has taken Mr. Joyce seven years to write Ulysses and he has done it in seven hundred and thirty pages which are probably the most completely “writt

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My friend Clive Bell is a fathead and a voluptuary. Bell is a brainy man out of training.

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by Ida M. Tarbell

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The decline of government is inexorably associated with the crisis of the economy. The economy of the Northeast is stagnant. In New York City itself t

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The Critic as Guide

Already I am in a scrape with the critics for having said, a couple of years ago, that a critic was nothing but a sign-post.

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These are the days of commemorations and centenaries, first, second, third and fourth. Columbus so far has had a monopoly of the last digit, but we are in the thick of the threes and it is only natural that 1920—or 1921, in the tardy manner of such ponderous occasions—has been used as tercentennial pretext to summon the Pilgrim from his venerably documented past and to make him live again as symbol for today of his courageous and questing spirit.

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Fantasy could hardly devise a situation less auspicious for nationalization of industries than that of Russia in 1918.

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By John Maynard Keynes.

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The final years were years of apotheosis. In the dazzled imagination of her subjects Victoria soared aloft towards the regions of divinity in a nimbus

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De Gustibus

I do not disbelieve in absolute beauty any more than I disbelieve in absolute truth.

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