Nobody stops to think whether other arts despise the help of technique.

The printed book of lyric poems is also machine-made; the marble bust has also "preserved" for two thousand years the beauty of the living woman who was the model for the Greek sculptor.

They tell us that the actor on the stage gives the human beings as they are in reality, but the moving pictures are unreal and therefore of incomparably inferior value.

They do not consider that the roses of the summer which we enjoy in the stanzas of the poet do not exist in reality in the forms of iambic verse and of rhymes; they live in color and odor, but their color and odor fade away, while the roses in the stanzas live on forever.

They fancy that the value of an art depends upon its nearness to the reality of physical nature.
It has been the chief task of our whole discussion to prove the shallowness of such arguments and objections.