more enthusiasm than does the aesthete who ransacks the extant documents of fifteenth-century Florence,
Marcel Proust. In Search of Lost Time [volume 1]
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The cards are stacked (quite properly, I imagine) against all professional aesthetes, and no doubt we all deserve the dark, wordy, academic deaths we all sooner or later die.
J.D. Salinger. Franny and Zooey, p.59 (1955)
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Those literary etherial people they are all. Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic. Esthetes they are.