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"Never have I seen one woman in whom every social grace was so lacking. Did I say she was primitive? I retract that. She's feral!"--Walter Matthau as Henry Graham in Elaine May's A New Leaf
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Monday, April 4, 2005 |
 If poetry were merely a felicity of form, I would enjoy it like chess or food; but I would not forgo any large part of my life for it. If it is not about something that matters, it will never hold me beyond pleasure--however well made. The Greeks divided poets into craftsmen and perceivers. Both are equal, but one is always more equal than the other. If the content establishes its primacy too much at the expense of form, the result is prose. But if form becomes an Orpheus so concerned with the perfection of the song he is making about his journey, Eurydice will always be lost. The amount of important life that is communicated grows smaller and smaller. It is like Louis XIV asking for a hot cup of coffee: by the time it has passed through the marvelous hierarchies of who can pass it to whom, it is always tepid. (Jack Gilbert)
4:21:43 PM 
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