Arthur Symons (1865-1945) was a central figure in the cultural and social networks of the British fin de siècle. The essays in this volume reflect the breadth of Symons's interests, reassessing this dynamic writer who played a key mediating role between English and European literatures, and between the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

Arthur Symons (1865–1945) was a central figure in the decadent phase of English poetry of the 1890s. His early verse, notably in the major collections Silhouettes (1892; revd 1896) and London Nights (1895; revd 1897), created a sophisticated new kind of urban poetry out of the gas-lit world of London theatre and night-life. Under the French influences of Baudelaire and Verlaine, Symons developed a wistful poetic eroticism new to English readers, leading the way to the modernism of T. S. Eliot and others in the next generation. This selection from Symons’s most fertile period as a poet reproduces the fuller revised editions of Silhouettes and London Nights in their entirety, together with related poems from his other early volumes, Days and Nights (1889), Amoris Victima (1897), Images of Good and Evil (1900), and with early poems collected in Knave of Hearts (1913). p.p1 {margin: 3.0px 0.0px 3.0px 0.0px; text-align: justify; font: 14.0px 'Adobe Garamond Pro'} Fully annotated and supplemented by related critical writings by Symons, Walter Pater, and others, this text offers students of late-Victorian literature a rich resource for the understanding of decadence in the London literary scene of the 1890s. p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 7.9px Calibri}

I could not read until I was nine years old, and I could not read because I resolutely refused to learn. I declared that it was impossible; that I, at all events, never could do it; and I made the most of a slight weakness in my eyes, saying that it hurt them, and drawing tears out of my eyes at the sight of a book. I liked being read to, and I used to sit on the bed while my sister, who often had to lie down to rest, read out stories to me. I had a theory that a boy must never show any emotion, and the pathetic parts of 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' tried me greatly. On one occasion I felt my sobs choking me, and the passion of sorrow, mingled with the certainty that my emotion would betray itself, sent me into a paroxysm of rage, in which I tore the book from my sister's hands, and attacked her with my fists..FROM THE BOOKS.