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Updated: May 2, 2025
If "Carpe diem" is Pater's motto, the hour is not to be plucked ignobly; if style is his watchword in art, style alone cannot make great Art, though it may make good Art. The distinction, between good Art and great Art depends immediately not on its form but on its matter.
The scenes of the story reach the reader by refraction, as it were, through the medium of Pater's harmonious murmur. But scenes they must be; not even Pater at his dreamiest can tell a story without incident particularized and caught in the act.
The result of these excesses is that my pater's imagination has been fired, and at time of going to press he wants me to imitate Comrade Bickersdyke. However, there's plenty of time. That's one comfort. He's certain to change his mind again. Ready? Then suppose we filter forth into the arena? Out on the field Mike was introduced to the man of hobbies.
It is in the face of Tennyson, with its too self-conscious seership, and in all those vague faces of the imaginative paintings, into which, to use Pater's phrase, "the soul with all its maladies has passed."
Am I taking you out of your way?" "No. I was just trying the car. It's a new one. The pater's just got it." "Do you do much of this?" said Sheen. "Good bit. I'm going in for the motor business when I leave school." "So all this is training?" "That's it." There was a pause. "You seemed to be going at a good pace just now," said Sheen. "About thirty miles an hour. She can move all right."
Walter Pater and Matthew Arnold Mr. Walter Pater's style is, to me, like the face of some old woman who has been to Madame Rachel and had herself enamelled. The bloom is nothing but powder and paint and the odour is cherry-blossom. Mr. Matthew Arnold's odour is as the faint sickliness of hawthorn. My Random Passages
Pater's stamp something of what might be termed the higher Pod-snappery. They put things aside with the wave of a white-gloved hand: this and that do not exist, Mr. Podsnap himself O the irony of it! among them. Like Mr. Podsnap, though on a different plane, they take themselves and their view of life too seriously. When I told Mr.
What is "King Lear" but poor life staggering in the fog? and the slow cadence, modulated with so great precision, sounded natural to my ears. That first night he praised Walter Pater's 'Essays on the Renaissance: 'It is my golden book; I never travel anywhere without it; but it is the very flower of decadence.
"This is the pater's den, and his private property after four o'clock, so you will be quite undisturbed. Just tell me what will refresh you most tea, coffee, wine? I can bring what you like quite quietly." "Tea, please tea, and ten minutes' rest. I shall be better then," Mr Farrell said wearily.
Those who judge of Pater's writing by a few purple passages such as the famous rhapsody on the Mona Lisa, conceiving it as always thus heavy with narcotic perfume, know but one side of him, and miss his gift for conveying freshness, his constant happiness in light and air and particularly running water, "green fields or children's faces."
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