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Chapter One: The Monster Sublime
For the creator himself to be the child new-born he must also be willing to be the mother and endure the mother's pain.
-- FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, 1895
Man owes it to his incongruously developed reason that he is grotesque and ugly. He has broken away from nature. He thinks that he dominates nature. He thinks he is the measure of all things. Engendering in opposition to the laws of nature, man creates monstrosities.
-- HANS ARP, 1948
In the twentieth century, the avant-garde declared a clean break with history, but their hostility to the female subject and the beauty she symbolized had deep roots in the past. It arose from the Enlightenment notion of the sublime and from a disgust toward women and the bourgeoisie that had been building throughout the nineteenth century among increasingly disaffected artists and writers. During the very period, in fact, when the female subject was the predominant symbol of beauty in all the arts, an ideology was taking shape that would displace her entirely, and that ideology became the basis of the twentieth-century avant-garde.
Though few modernist artists were trained in systematic philosophy, like most people they were influenced by "leading ideas," and the Enlightenment had flooded the Western imagination with ideas about art. This was the period when philosophical aesthetics came into being, most notably through the writings of Immanuel Kant. Kant taught that when we judge something beautiful, we do so as beings standing outside the contingencies of flesh-and-blood existence, freed of individual interest, become ideal, pure, almost godlike in our consciousness. The experience of beauty provides a taste of transcendent freedom from the human condition, and the avant-garde were strongly drawn to it in their Promethean striving.
However, women, according to the popular prejudice of the day, were unsuited to such transcendence. As what Madonna would later call "material girls," they were incapable of enjoying it or inspiring it, too frivolous and physical for aesthetic elevation. Though sometimes possessed of beauty, they used it for gain rather than as an end in itself, employing their attractions to acquire the respectability, financial support, and children that came with marriage. In this respect, they were just like the rising bourgeois classes, always turning value into profit. And the product women sold was often as shoddy as the bourgeois's, degenerating into domestic anomie or vampiric parasitism as soon as the deal was struck. The avant-garde conclusion was clear: woman and bourgeois alike were Mammon, enemies of transcendent, liberating art.
The avant-garde portrayed their resistance to philistines -- women, the middle classes -- as a heroic martyrdom, and they were so convincing in this role that it is hard even today not to believe in and respect their self-sacrifice. Like Socratic gadflies or Shakespearean fools, avant-garde artists told a truth that undermined the pious hypocrisies of conventional existence. They suffered (or embraced) ostracism for their pains, but that isolation from everyday life was, after all, what aesthetic experience was in fact all about. The artist lived art in his countercultural alienation. What could be nobler?
If we have trouble finding fault with this stance or imagining any other for the serious artist, we might remind ourselves that in the early nineteenth century, producing art was not yet synonymous with experiencing alienation from the values of one's society. A nineteen-year-old woman of the day took one look at Kantian aesthetics, however, and saw that it would lead in just that direction. Horrified, she registered her concern in a novel that still terrifies us, though for other reasons: Frankenstein or, the Modern Prometheus. Mary Shelley prophesied the modernist trouble with beauty with astonishing percipience. Her misguided scientist is a Kantian artist and the inevitable product of his dehumanizing creativity is a monster disjoined from any possibility of love, beauty, or connection to everyday existence. The scientist's "art" destroys what we value in life.
Mary Shelley had read closely in Madame de Staël's multivolume study, De l'Allemagne, "the importance of which to Frankenstein has not so far been recognized." There she would have found an admiring assessment of Kant as the greatest force in German thought of his own and the following generation. She would have discovered that the philosopher did not venture into the realm of passion, but remained solitary throughout his life, and that his dry, didactic reasoning was meant to oppose the philosophizing of dreamers, with whom he had no patience. His overarching aim, de Staël wrote, was to overcome the effects of materialist philosophy, which had reduced the beautiful to the agreeable, thereby locking it within the realm of sensations where it was subject to the accidents of individual differences. Instead, the beautiful must belong to the ideal, universal sphere.
Madame de Staël also provided an account of the Kantian sublime, an experience of beauty as superhuman chaos and might. In the sublime, "the power of destiny and the immensity of nature are in infinite contrast to the miserable dependence of the earthly creature but a spark of sacred fire in our breast triumphs over the universe....The first sublime effect is to crush man the second, to raise him up again." Mary Shelley seems to have had her doubts as to whether "a creature of the earth" could ever recover from such an overwhelming and inhuman beauty, and indeed, whether beauty that required the transcendence or annihilation of everyday reality was not, instead, monstrous. Her critique of Kantian aesthetics has given us one of the most haunting myths of alienation since Genesis.
Though she was only nineteen when she wrote Frankenstein, Mary Shelley had packed more experience of life and ideas into those years than most people do in a lifetime. Her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, who had written A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, died just days after her birth, leaving a daughter bereft of maternal love, like the monster the girl was to imagine. With only treatises on women's rights to mother her, Mary Shelley grew amid the radical social reformism of her famous father, William Godwin, whose friends were the leading literary and political figures of the day. Coleridge recited "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" in their living room, and Mary met her future husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley, when he was respectfully calling on her father. At seventeen, she ran off to the Continent with the married Percy, where they stayed in Switzerland with Lord Byron. She had lost a baby daughter and given birth to a son by the time the talented young people, bored by the confinement of inclement weather, entered into a competition to write ghost stories. Frankenstein was Mary's entry in their game. Within a few short years, Percy's estranged wife had killed herself, Mary's half-sister had drowned, and two more of her children had died, followed swiftly by Percy himself and then Byron. From this perspective, the monstrous Frankenstein had a staying power rare in Mary Shelley's experience. It would survive as a parable of her life, in which reproduction, creativity, and loss were inextricably mingled.
Frankenstein is as important an investigation of creativity and aesthetic experience in the realm of fiction as Kant's Critique of Judgment was in the realm of philosophy. In the novel, a scientist fabricates a living being out of inert body parts, but is appalled at the ugliness of his creation and judges it a monster. The monster, in turn, becomes a yearning connoisseur, constantly observing people from afar without himself being seen. He watches through windows or from hiding places, or finds sleeping beings to stare at -- human images as unavailable to him as stage characters or statues or portraits. Unlike the scientist, the monster finds the creatures he beholds surpassingly beautiful and is moved by that beauty to love them. He tries to improve himself so as to become worthy of them, but no matter how knowledgeable and refined he becomes, as soon as they see him they flee in terror, and the monster's love turns to hate. Finally, he asks Frankenstein to fabricate a bride as ugly as he is, so that he will at least have a companion in his sad existence. The scientist refuses, fearing to give his creature the power to become a creator himself and overrun the earth with monsters.
This fable of aesthetic creation and judgment is replete with the anxieties of its day. For Mary Shelley, steeped in literature, reformism, and loss, the models of creativity occupying public attention were distressing: the cold, overreaching adventurism of science, the mechanical productivity of industrialism, the greed and oppression of empire. Even art was not immune from this dehumanization. Kant and Burke had bequeathed to the West a taste for the sublime, an aesthetic experience in which beauty is a confrontation with the unknowable, the limitless, the superhuman. The sublime turned the act of aesthetic judgment into a brush with abstraction, alienation, death. Here was no joyous birth, no discovery of the self in an Other, no gratitude for that recognition or striving to attain to the Other's worth. All mutuality is blocked or denied in the sublime as the puny self shivers in the presence of the unknowable immensity of the Other.
Kant had argued that beauty existed both in nature and in art, and that it came, in either case, in two varieties: the beautiful and the sublime.
The beautiful in nature is a question of the form of the object, and this consists in limitation, whereas the sublime is to be found in an object even devoid of form, so far as it immediately involves, or else by its presence provokes, a representation of limitlessness, yet with a super-added thought of its totality.
The experience of the sublime is provoked when nature exceeds human limits. "It is rather in its chaos," Kant wrote, "or in its wildest and most irregular disorder and desolation provided it gives signs of magnitude and power, that nature chiefly excites the ideas of the sublime." The Alps and the polar ice cap were Kant's archetypes of the sublime, and these are precisely the blasted landscapes of Frankenstein and his alienated monster.
Kant believed that the perceiver does not experience this chaos as actually life-threatening. Remember that the judgment of beauty occurs in a state removed from normal needs and desires. If the chaos one encounters makes one fear for one's life, self-interest would destroy the aesthetic purity of the experience, making it "monstrous." A moment is sublime for Kant when the perceiver can take in, securely, the sheer magnitude, limitlessness, and chaos of the scene and see it whole. And thus, the monstrous and the sublime are antithetical. "For in representation of [the sublime] nature contains nothing monstrous...the magnitude apprehended may be increased to any extent provided imagination is able to grasp it all in one whole. An object is monstrous where by its size it defeats the end that forms its concept."
This is the apparent crux of Mary Shelley's opposition to Kantian aesthetics. For in Frankenstein, she presents sublimity as monstrous by definition. It defeats "the end that forms its concept" by turning a person into an abstraction. Thus, Victor Frankenstein disdains home and family to become a scientific titan, a "modern Prometheus." The creature that comes of his art is a sublime monster, and the experience of its sublimity is filled with horror and self-destruction. The sublime eliminates the experience of beauty as a part of normal life or even a pleasurable ideal. Its thrill is a glittery-eyed madness in which the perceiver is released from the constraints of the human condition. In Frankenstein, chaos is never experienced in a state of control, and the rational suspension of interest is nothing but inhumane heedlessness. Transcending human limits for Mary Shelley means losing all that is human the monster is likewise doomed to an existence of loneliness and homelessness. Sublimity, supposedly transcendent in value, is in fact a destruction of the common values and pleasures of human existence.
Mary Shelley signals the inhumanity of the sublime in the terrible dream that overcomes Frankenstein immediately after he creates the monster. His fiance;e Elizabeth appears to him "in the bloom of health....Delighted and surprised, I embraced her but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel." The creation of the monster, a superhuman triumph of scientific inquiry, brings about not sublime uplift but the death of a beautiful loved one, symbolic incest, and contact with physical decomposition.
Dr. Frankenstein's monster is a reflection not only of the Kantian sublime but of industrial production. Mary Shelley traced the genesis of the novel to a discussion with Byron and Percy Shelley about the "nature of the principle of life," in which they considered whether "perhaps the component parts of a creature might be manufactured, brought together and endued with vital warmth." This notion of reproduction through factory assembly recalls ancient fables of composition: Apelles forced to cull one feature here, another there, from the many lovely faces he examined as models for Helen of Troy or Zeuxis selecting from five beautiful maidens of Kroton the perfect limbs of one, the perfect breasts of another for his Aphrodite. The search-and-assembly procedure "reappears in the earliest treatise on painting of the postantique world, Alberti's Della Pittura," writes Sir Kenneth Clark. "Dürer went so far as to say that he had 'searched through two or three hundred.' The argument is repeated again and again for four centuries." In these stories, the artist picks and chooses among body parts like a male-chauvinist graverobber, or like the dark scientist Frankenstein.
This classical recipe for beauty (assemble the parts and add life, electricity, art) was a cause of anxiety by Mary Shelley's day. Industrial manufacture had produced Blake's "dark Satanic mills," and the mechanical metaphor of creativity threatened to disconnect art from nature altogether. Mary Wollstonecraft had insisted on Coleridge's notion that art was an organic whole rather than a mere assemblage: "It was not...the mechanical selection of limbs and features but the ebullition of an heated fancy that burst forth....It was not mechanical, because a whole was produced -- a model of that grand simplicity, of those concurring energies, which arrest our attention and command our reverence." Likewise, Mary Shelley's contemporary, the philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, stated that "The opinion...is absurd,...that the Greeks discovered the established ideal of human beauty empirically, by collecting particular beautiful parts, uncovering and noting here a knee, there an arm." Percy Shelley and Byron's conversation about "the nature of the principle of life" ran counter to romantic aesthetics, and of course the two must have known this, however fascinating the possibility of such "mechanical reproduction" must have seemed. Mary Shelley likewise understood, for she demonstrated the error in her monster, assembled out of beautiful but oversized body parts and electrified by the maniacal scientist, Victor Frankenstein. "I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God!"
If beauty is an idea in the artist's soul made real in the act of creation, there should be a bond of likeness between the creator and his creature. This is specifically what Dr. Frankenstein will not acknowledge: his kinship to his offspring, in effect, his fatherhood. The belief in this subject-object unity -- in perception or in art -- was, according to the historian Peter Gay, the crux of "the quarrel between the heirs of the Enlightenment and the romantics....What the natural scientists in Goethe's, Schelling's, and Coleridge's day were deploring as a liability that investigators must train themselves to overcome, the romantics took to be humanity's greatest asset in the quest for the divine," as they fought for "the re-enchantment of the world." A loving mother and author, Mary Shelley herself accepted the analogy between artwork and child, despite the gothic horror of her monstrous creation. "I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper," she wrote in the introduction to the third edition of Frankenstein or, the Modern Prometheus. "I have an affection for it, for it was the offspring of happy days."
Dr. Frankenstein's lack of sympathy with his creation makes him not only a mechanical artist and a failed father but a perverse lover. In traditional myths of aesthetic creation, such as Pygmalion and Galatea, a male artist produces a female artwork that is warmed into a real woman by his love. But sublimity denies the possibility of empathy between creator and creation. Thus, a sublime Pygmalion would give life to Galatea, but be unable to love her. This is just the case in George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion, though in the musical adaptation of My Fair Lady Professor Higgins grudgingly admits, "I've grown accustomed to her face" and ends up marrying his creation. To create a work of art or a woman in sublime logic, however, is to bring a beauty into the world that one holds at bay, feeling awe toward it, but not connection. For Mary Shelley, this is not beauty at all, but a horror.
The audience of sublime art suffers a similar alienation. In the various scenes where the monster stares at sleeping people or at pictures, he becomes the perceiver of an Other. He happens upon Frankenstein's little brother William, for instance, who is wearing a miniature of his beautiful mother -- the same woman whose worm-eaten corpse appears in Frankenstein's dream. "I saw something glittering on his breast," the monster narrates. "I took it it was a portrait of a most lovely woman. In spite of my malignity, it softened and attracted me. For a few moments I gazed with delight on her dark eyes, fringed by deep lashes, and her lovely lips but presently my rage returned: I remembered that I was for ever deprived of the delights that such beautiful creatures could bestow." Furious, the monster kills the little boy. Here Mary Shelley is echoing a passage in Paradise Lost in which Satan is so struck at the sight of Eve's beauty that he is stopped in his tracks, becoming "stupidly good." However, realizing that such beauty can never be his, he reverts to his destructive ways and brings about the fall of humankind. Female beauty in this tradition has the power almost to transform the King of Darkness into a virtuous being, except that Satan knows this beauty is not for him. Beauty cut off from the spectator's life -- suspended from his interest, his pleasure -- is an outrage rather than a blessing, and "disinterested beauty" looses the same violence as Frankenstein's unloving procreation.
For Mary Shelley, this is the human cost of a sublime aesthetics, as applied -- or no doubt, misapplied -- to gender relations. And people have applied it, however imprecisely, in just this way. Male-female relations have perennially been used to understand those between artist and artwork, and correspondingly, the experience of art has been compared to infatuation, lust, and love. "Be beautiful if you want to be loved" is a perennial message of Western culture to its women. But if being beautiful means evoking a disinterested, dehumanized state of consciousness, the beautiful woman is artifactual, formal, and cut off from warmth and concern. Twentieth-century "glamour" is one version of this untouchable state of beauty, inducing adoration but not connection. The interconnection of human and artistic beauty in Western culture has had far-reaching results for both art and female identity, and the dilemma of the beautiful woman in a culture at war with beauty is a repeated theme in early twentieth-century fiction.
It is worth stopping briefly to review what Kant actually said about beauty, since though his ideas may have reinforced these problems, the Critique of Judgment is not overtly a treatise on gender relations. We have noted his famous concept of disinterested interest in which taste involves the experience of pleasure without interest: "Taste is the faculty of estimating an object or a mode of representation by means of a delight or aversion apart from any interest. The object of such a delight is called beautiful." This judgment of beauty, since it is suspended from particular interests, is universal, "making a rightful claim upon the assent of all men." Further, it is definitionally unconcerned with the actuality of the subjects represented: "One must not be in the least prepossessed in favour of the real existence of the thing, but must preserve complete indifference in this respect, in order to play the part of judge in matters of taste." As a result, for Kant taste is the only experience of pleasure that is free, and hence it is intrinsically human: "beauty has purport and significance only for human beings....Taste in the beautiful may be said to be the one and only disinterested and free delight for, with it, no interest, whether of sense or reason, extorts approval....FAVOUR is the only free liking." Aesthetic judgment thus permits the exercise of the most essentially human of our aspirations, freedom.
Frankenstein, as we have seen, presents this heroic freedom in an opposite light, as cruel and destructive of social relations. It is detrimental to what humans value as human: gratification, love, comfort. Kant had differentiated the pleasure associated with beauty and that associated with charm or the agreeable. "The agreeable is what GRATIFIES a man," Kant wrote, and what is gratified is desire, need, interest. There is nothing universal about gratification, and when the adage, "chacun à son goût," is invoked, it is not taste but gratification that is at issue. For the man of taste, many things may "possess charm and agreeableness -- no one cares about that but when he puts a thing on a pedestal and calls it beautiful, he demands the same delight from others. He judges not merely for himself, but for all men, and then speaks of beauty as if it were a property of things." Note that for Kant, judgment of the beautiful should lead to an objectivity in which beauty becomes "a property of things." This is precisely the opposite of the interactive experience of beauty modeled in the myth of Psyche and Cupid, in which beauty provokes desire and love and a striving for equality. But for Kant, any representation that evokes appetite is outside the realm of the beautiful a notion of beauty as a human interaction rather than a "property of things" risks the introduction of impure interests.
Mary Shelley takes Kantian aesthetics to task for its disqualification of charm from aesthetic experience. Frankenstein may roam the Alps or the polar ice cap, but the natural habitat of his Wordsworthian friend Henry Clerval is the Rhine valley, a romantic setting of gentleness and spiritual soothing. "The mountains of Switzerland," Henry says, "are more majestic and strange, but there is a charm in the banks of this divine river that I never before saw equalled." He goes on: "Oh, surely the spirit that inhabits and guards this place has a soul more in harmony with man than those who pile the glacier or retire to the inaccessible peaks of the mountains of our own country." Frankenstein himself is moved by these surroundings: "Even I, depressed in mind, and my spirits continually agitated by gloomy feelings, even I was pleased." However drawn the scientist was to this charm, however, he renounced it in the pursuit of knowledge, leaving it to his doomed friends and loved ones.
Henry is steeped in chivalry and romance, and Frankenstein's betrothed, Elizabeth, "was the living spirit of love to soften and attract." Like a proper man of taste, Frankenstein disdains charm, softness, love, and attraction in favor of reason. "While my companion contemplated with a serious and satisfied spirit the magnificent appearances of things," he says of Elizabeth, "I delighted in investigating their causes." As a scientist, he revels in the discovery of causes, not remembering that it was specifically the eating of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil that Satan promised would allow Adam and Eve "to discern / Things in thir Causes." Elizabeth, in contrast, is satisfied by appearances, in an anti-Platonic turnabout of values in which Mary Shelley elevates the pleasing surface of experience over the ideal (or tortuous) depths below.
Throughout the novel, the more the scientist separates himself from love and domesticity, the more he undermines the affective basis of his values. He becomes a wanderer in a hostile world, and produces the same fate in his creature and his loved ones. His father, having lost most of his family to the monster's depredations, enters an internal sublime, the chaos of madness and death: "His eyes wandered in vacancy, for they had lost their charm and their delight." If Kant associates the charming and agreeable with meretricious beauty, sentiment, and the allure of surfaces, Mary Shelley redeploys his terminology to explain her belief in "the amiableness of domestic affection, and the excellence of universal virtue." For her, the agreeable and the good coincide in an aesthetics of charm, which for Kant would be a contradiction in terms.
This "soft," "feminine" aesthetics was problematic in Mary Shelley's day, as it is in ours, not only because it contradicts Kant but because it raises the specters of sentimentality, seductiveness, and domesticity associated with the allegedly inferior mentality of women. One cannot imagine a less Kantian view than the suffering monster's reproach to his creator Frankenstein that God, the Arch-Creator, had "made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image." "Alluring" goes further even than "charming" it suggests desire and sexuality, facets of experience that are suppressed in a sublime aesthetics. This impure aesthetics is connected to the spontaneity and ecstasy of Wordsworthian nature. In a direct quotation from "Tintern Abbey," Frankenstein says that nature for his friend Henry was "An appetite, a feeling, and a love."
Henry's death prompts a "gush of sorrow" in the scientist, whose heart is "overflowing with the anguish which his remembrance creates." These words may seem to echo Wordsworth's definition of poetry in the preface to the Lyrical Ballads as "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings" originating in "emotion recollected in tranquillity," but they in fact parody it, revealing how distant Wordsworthian creativity is from the Frankensteinian sublime. The scientist's recollections are never tranquil, and even the word recollection sounds too pacific for the hideous memories that torment him. In fact, the plot of Frankenstein is a demonic parody of the epiphanic "spots of time" in Wordsworth's The Prelude. Every episode in the novel is the same trauma nightmarishly repeated: the loss of a loved one. Frankenstein himself declares that surviving another's death is far worse than dying oneself: The dead "can no longer be a subject for pity we must reserve that for his miserable survivors." But he cannot see the implication of this truth, instead maniacally pursuing the monster rather than defending his loved ones at home. The monster's threat, "I shall be with you on your wedding-night," goes right over Frankenstein's head. No reader is in doubt as to its meaning, however: that the fiend is planning to attack not him, but Elizabeth. The monster, denied love since his engendering, understands that the worst pain is deprivation, bereavement. The demonic torture of Frankenstein's "recollections" is just the opposite of the recuperative warmth and charm of Wordsworth's poetic memory.
Mary Shelley thus pointed out the irony of the sublime: that in providing supposedly the most human of mental states, freedom, it utterly disregards love and family and pleasure, which have at least as much claim as freedom to define "the human." Creativity and aesthetic experience should follow a different model. She presents it by allusion to the scene in Paradise Lost in which Adam awakens after God has used his rib to create Eve. Frankenstein's monster, however, is never permitted to dream his Other into existence. Frankenstein refuses to make him a bride, and so he never experiences the coincidence of wish and reality that is companionate love. Neither does his heartless creator, although Frankenstein's dream of Elizabeth as a corpse certainly comes true!
Keats, writing at the same time as Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein, saw Adam's dream as an allegory of the imagination. He compared the imagination to Adam's "waking dream" in Paradise Lost, in which Adam "awoke and found it truth." He dreamt Eve and woke to find her actually alive. Unlike Kant, the value of the imagination and art for Keats lies in its capacity to "come true." Art is dream realized, and this is why we value it -- as an earnest that our dreams might be realized in life. The experience of art is thus a profoundly "interested" mental state we are not indifferent to the possibility that what it depicts may be real. This is one way to construe Keats's "Beauty is truth, truth beauty": that beauty is this realization of the ideal on earth.
Moreover, Adam's dream creation, made from one of his ribs, is intrinsically connected to him -- an expression of his very being, a companion to him, and an object therefore of his love. To love Eve is to love himself, for she is flesh of his flesh. We recall the monster's reproach to his creator that God had "made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image." Creators and creations echo each other in this model, and are tied in a bond of love that involves self-realization. The engine of this imaginative connection is beauty. But the monster is monstrous -- ugly, bereft of beauty. His creator dreamed him into reality and then despised him, denying him love, a mate, a dream come true.
It is not irrelevant that Adam's dream is a story of the creation of Woman, or that for Mary Shelley the imagination involves a recognition of identity between male and female, subject and object, creator and creation. If Kant wanted to detach aesthetic experience from self-concern, she shows that this detachment leads to a devaluation and indeed a dehumanization of the feminine and the domestic leading to the direst of consequences: war and political oppression. She has her saddened scientist realize in retrospect that "if no man allowed any pursuit whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic affections, Greece had not been enslaved, Caesar would have spared his country, America would have been discovered more gradually, and the empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed."
Of course, Kant did not limit beauty to the sublime. The other variety of a
Library of Congress subject headings for this publication: Women in art, Feminine beauty (Aesthetics)Arts, Modern 20th century Philosophy, Arts, Modern 19th century Philosophy