e of form in composition has two stages: that in
which, as in the works of Emerson, significant fragments are
collected, and no system, no total thought, constructed out of them;
and secondly, that in which, as in the writings of the Symbolists of
our time, all the significance is kept back in the individual words,
or even in the syllables that compose them. This mosaic of
word-values has, indeed, a possibility of effect, for the absence of form
does not destroy materials, but, as we have observed, rather allows
the attention to remain fixed upon them; and for this reason
absence of sense is a means of accentuating beauty of sound and
verbal suggestion. But this example shows how the tendency to
neglect structure in literature is a tendency to surrender the use of
language as an instrument of thought The descent is easy from
ambiguity to meaninglessness.

The indeterminate in form is also indeterminate in value. It needs
completion by the mind of the observer and as this completion
differs, the value of the result must vary. An indeterminate object
is therefore beautiful to him who can make it so, and ugly to him
who cannot. It appeals to a few and to them diversely. In fact, the
observer's own mind is the storehouse from which the beautiful
form has to be drawn. If the form is not there, it cannot be applied
to the half-finished object; it is like asking a man without skill to
complete another man's composition. The indeterminate object
therefore requires an active and well-equipped mind, and is
otherwise without value.

It is furthermore unprofitable even to the mind which takes it up; it
stimulates that mind to action, but it presents it with no new object.
We can respond only with those forms of apperception which we
already are accustomed to. A formless object cannot _inform_ the
mind, cannot mould it to a new habit. That happens only when the
data, by their clear determination, compel the eye and imagination
to follow new paths and see new relations. Then we are introduced
to a new beauty, and enriched to that extent. But the indeterminate,
like music to the sentimental, is a vague stimulus. It calls forth at
random such ideas and memories as may lie to hand, stirring the
mind, but leaving it undisciplined and unacquainted with any new
object. This stirring, like that of the pool of Bethesda, may indeed
have its virtue. A creative mind, already rich in experience and
observation, may, under the influence of suc