Abstract
SOMETIMES it seems almost to be an axiom that a great artist is not appreciated in his own generation. Of no one was this more true than of William Blake. For despite his many talents—he was a poet and a philosopher as well as an artist—contemporary critics practically ignored him. This is the greater irony; for whether we personally like his art or no, we recognize him today as by far the most individual English artist of his generation whom one can turn from, but cannot fail to notice.
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