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Rh the service of the critic consists in “clearly stating whether a work be beautiful or ugly.”

In the presence of such thoughts and such a way of thinking, in the presence of a theory which wavers constantly between nonsense and mere common sense, between emptiness and banality, one is forced to ask why it is that Croce’s books have won such fame in Italy. One reason, at least, is this: among the things which Croce repeats so often there is one indubitable truth, namely, that Italians know little or nothing about philosophy. Croce’s advent occurred after twenty or thirty years of positivism had made our young men forget the strong and ancient language of metaphysics; the thirst for greater certainty remained; Croce came and conquered. The average Italian, weary of his positivists—Lombroso, Ardigò, Ferri, Sergi—threw himself upon the books of Croce in the belief that the philosophy dished out in them was the whole of philosophy and nothing but philosophy. Croce’s popularity was increased by the fact that he began his system with a treatment of art, thus winning all the men of letters of his land, who, since they are (or think themselves) capable of art, are persuaded that they are capable also of understanding the theory of art.

But just there lies a serious difficulty. The theorist should understand and feel, deeply and