erything will then depend on his genius, on
his principles, on his passions, -- in a word, on his apperceptive
forms. And the value of history is similar to that of poetry, and
varies with the beauty, power, and adequacy of the form in which
the indeterminate material of human life is presented.

_Further dangers of indeterminateness._

Sec. 35. The fondness of a race or epoch for any kind of effect is a
natural expression of temperament and circumstances, and cannot
be blamed or easily corrected. At the same time we may stop to
consider some of the disadvantages of a taste for the indeterminate.
We shall be registering a truth and at the same time, perhaps,
giving some encouragement to that rebellion which we may
inwardly feel against this too prevalent manner. The indeterminate
is by its nature ambiguous; it is therefore obscure and uncertain in
its effect, and if used, as in many arts it often is, to convey a
meaning, must fail to do so unequivocally. Where a meaning is not
to be conveyed, as in landscape, architecture, or music, the
illusiveness of the form is not so objectionable: although in all
these objects the tendency to observe forms and to demand them is
a sign of increasing appreciation. The ignorant fail to see the forms
of music, architecture, and landscape, and therefore are insensible
to relative rank and technical values in these spheres; they regard
the objects only as so many stimuli to emotion, as soothing or
enlivening influences. But the sensuous and associative values of
these things -- especially of music -- are so great, that even without
an appreciation of form considerable beauty may be found in them.

In literature, however, where the sensuous value of the words is
comparatively small, indeterminateness of form is fatal to beauty,
and, if extreme, even to expressiveness. For meaning is conveyed
by the _form_ and order of words, not by the words themselves,
and no precision of meaning can be reached without precision of
style. Therefore no respectable writer is voluntarily obscure in the
structure of his phrases -- that is an abuse reserved for the clowns
of literary fashion. But a book is a larger sentence, and if it is
formless it fails to mean anything, for the same reason that an
unformed collection of words means nothing. The chapters and
verses may have said something, as loose words may have a
known sense and a tone; but the book will have brought no
message.

In fact, the absenc