Critics are like eunuchs in a harem; they know how it's done, they've seen it done every day, but they're unable to do it themselves.
— Brendan Behan
They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,
Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art?"
The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,
While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.
Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art?"
The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,
While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.
— Rudyard Kipling, "The Conundrum of the Workshops"
Raz: "If you can't say something nice, don't say something at all."
Jasper Rolls: "The young boy's protests, though heartfelt, quickly lapsed into simplistic and tedious platitudes. One and a half stars!"
Jasper Rolls: "The young boy's protests, though heartfelt, quickly lapsed into simplistic and tedious platitudes. One and a half stars!"
The slime rose up to criticize the work of art. "There you sit," it said, "serene and content in your ebony gloss—yet utterly useless. You think you are beautiful, but you are only a molded husk. You are glazed, but you are brittle and shallow. Where is there any softness in you? Where is that fine slippery resiliency that is the heritage of the commonest blob of grease? Where the rippling undulations of fluid motion, the flexibility and warmth of dishwater? You lack the variety of size and shape and color that glorifies the contents of every garbage can. You cannot take flight in the soft air in the free manner known to every particle of dust swept from the floor. You cannot appreciate the refractive art of the dirty window-pane in the sunlight. You can never immortalize your substance by leaving a stain on the wall. And never, never will you bring that worthy satisfaction of a job well done that every human being feels from cleaning up rubbish like me. You are not beautiful—you are a monstrosity."
The work of art listened and was ashamed. It fell off the antique table and shattered on the floor. The slime looked on as the housewife swept up the myriad fragments, all shapes and colors and sizes, and dumped them sadly into the waste-basket.
"Now you are beautiful," said the slime, and vanished down the drain.
The work of art listened and was ashamed. It fell off the antique table and shattered on the floor. The slime looked on as the housewife swept up the myriad fragments, all shapes and colors and sizes, and dumped them sadly into the waste-basket.
"Now you are beautiful," said the slime, and vanished down the drain.
A critic is a legless man who teaches running to the fleet of foot.
—Haer'Dalis, Baldur's Gate 2
You can tell a lot about a writer by how they choose to portray critics in their work.
Riggan Thomson: What has to happen in a person's life to become a critic anyway? What are you writing? Another review? Is that any good? Is it? Did you even see it? Let me read it.
Tabitha Dickenson: I will call the police!
Riggan: You won't call the police, let's read your review. "Callow." That's just a label. "Lackluster." That's just a label. "Marginality." You kidding me? Sounds like you need penicillin to clear that up. That's a label. That's all labels. You just label everything. That's so fuckin' lazy...you just...you're a lazy fucker. You know what this is? You even know what that is? You don't, you know why? Because you can't see this thing if you don't have to label it. You mistake all those little noises in your head for true knowledge.
Tabitha: Are you finished?
Riggan: No! I'm not finished! There's nothing here about technique! There's nothing in here about structure! There's nothing in here about intentions! It's just a bunch of crappy opinions, backed up by even crappier comparisons. You write a couple of paragraphs and you know what? None of this cost you fuckin' anything! The fuck! You risk nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Well I'm a fucking actor! This play cost me everything. So I tell you what, you take this fucked malicious, cowardly, shitty written review and you shove that right the fuck up your wrinkly tight ass.
Tabitha Dickenson: I will call the police!
Riggan: You won't call the police, let's read your review. "Callow." That's just a label. "Lackluster." That's just a label. "Marginality." You kidding me? Sounds like you need penicillin to clear that up. That's a label. That's all labels. You just label everything. That's so fuckin' lazy...you just...you're a lazy fucker. You know what this is? You even know what that is? You don't, you know why? Because you can't see this thing if you don't have to label it. You mistake all those little noises in your head for true knowledge.
Tabitha: Are you finished?
Riggan: No! I'm not finished! There's nothing here about technique! There's nothing in here about structure! There's nothing in here about intentions! It's just a bunch of crappy opinions, backed up by even crappier comparisons. You write a couple of paragraphs and you know what? None of this cost you fuckin' anything! The fuck! You risk nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Well I'm a fucking actor! This play cost me everything. So I tell you what, you take this fucked malicious, cowardly, shitty written review and you shove that right the fuck up your wrinkly tight ass.
Critic A: Simon Flituris, you saw that sketch, I assume you were disappointed.
Critic B: Yes, I thought it was predictable, really.
Critic A: You predicted it, did you?
Critic B: Yes, I predicted it. Yes, it was predictable. Uh, I thought the choice of targets was predictable.
Critic A: Yes, estate agents?
Critic B: (alarmed) Where?
Critic A: The target of that last sketch was estate agents.
Critic B: Was it? I didn't really notice.
Critic A: I thought the choice of language was also predictable.
Critic B: Yes, I think English was a sadly predictable language to have chosen.
Critic A: Which is a shame.
Critic B: It is a shame, especially if you don't speak it.
Critic A: A bigger shame if you do.
(both force laughter)
Critic B: Yes, I thought it was predictable, really.
Critic A: You predicted it, did you?
Critic B: Yes, I predicted it. Yes, it was predictable. Uh, I thought the choice of targets was predictable.
Critic A: Yes, estate agents?
Critic B: (alarmed) Where?
Critic A: The target of that last sketch was estate agents.
Critic B: Was it? I didn't really notice.
Critic A: I thought the choice of language was also predictable.
Critic B: Yes, I think English was a sadly predictable language to have chosen.
Critic A: Which is a shame.
Critic B: It is a shame, especially if you don't speak it.
Critic A: A bigger shame if you do.
(both force laughter)
Let those find fault whose wit’s so very small,
They’ve need to show that they can think at all;
(...)
Fops may have leave to level all they can;
As pigmies would be glad to lop a man.
Half-wits are fleas; so little and so light,
We scarce could know they live, but that they bite.
They’ve need to show that they can think at all;
(...)
Fops may have leave to level all they can;
As pigmies would be glad to lop a man.
Half-wits are fleas; so little and so light,
We scarce could know they live, but that they bite.
— "All For Love", by John Dryden
Come now, what's a reviewer? One who reads quickly, arrogantly, but never wisely...
—Timothy Cavendish, trying to console an admittedly terrible author, Cloud Atlas
I'm a critic. I don't make things. I judge them.
— Frederick T. Nitpick, SpongeBob SquarePants, The Googly Artiste
