In Elaine Scarry’s On Beauty and Being Just, I came across a Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem, of what happens when a poem (or book), once considered beautiful, ceases to be so:
Is this made plain? What have I come acrossThat here will serve me for comparison?The sceptic disappointment and the lossA boy feels when the poet he pores uponGrows less and less sweet to him, and knows no cause.
What are the books or poems you once loved (in adulthood) and now cannot remember what you found beautiful at the time? Is this memory accompanied by a sense of loss and disappointment?