The artist is the creator of beautiful things.

To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim.

The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.

The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.

Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty. There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

The nineteenth-century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.

The nineteenth-century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of the subject matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.

From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor’s craft is the type.

All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.

It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.

Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself.

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless.

~Oscar Wilde, Preface to "The Picture of Dorian Gray"

In Summary:

I have delusions of writing stories and novels and interesting characters. Yes, I consider myself too fond of fantasy and make-believe for my own mental health. I am far from publishing; would you see me otherwise here?

I'd like to thank all of my reviewers who make writing that much sweeter, particularly my draining original character projects. Stories are all well and good, but they need to gain life through sharing and telling. From telling and reading and sharing these shadowy forms become monsters or men, with that Faerie glamorie that repulses as well as it attracts. Feel free to personal message me. Until then, I bid you adieu and pull back the curtains of the stage, the window, and the portal to curious worlds and plots.

I now have a LiveJournal archive, where I'll be putting up some things that I'd rather not have here. So if you're the curious sort, come into my parlor and we will see what we will find.

Update (9/7/2010):

Yes, I know that I rarely update this account to begin with but I felt that a change was necessary. "Reyana" represents a part of my life that I feel that I have outgrown, as one outgrows that favorite pair of jeans or sneakers. It's not really a rebirth, but just a shift from one stage to another.

Please feel free to visit my LJ for most of my fics, particularly those that I consider somewhat... inappropriate for the constraints of this site. I don't have a directory but I promise that will be fixed fairly soon.