The motives for criticism are even more puzzling than the motives for art. Their expression is only of themselves and never for themselves. Medusa, that terrible image-bearing goddess of Greek mythology, could not be encountered directly by the hero Perseus, for her power was such that she turned all who gazed upon her into stone. Only through indirection, by means of a polished shield, could she be approached in order to be slain. The journalist's or the historian's hope of gathering in all truths is surrendered in the interest of exploring a single truth.
Criticism is, then, the art of reflection upon reflection.
Its impulses are to synthesize, to abbreviate, to exclaim over origins, analogues, hidden meanings. Like gems turned slowly in the hand, diffracting light in new and startling patterns, all serious works of art yield a multiplicity of meanings. It is a conversation between equals, on a subject of acknowledged superiority. Which is why, for many of us, reading it and writing it are such extraordinarily rewarding activities. The artist participates in a sacred rite, the critic in a profane rite.