The same people who are murdered slowly in the mechanized slaughterhouses of work are also arguing singing drinking dancing making love holding the streets picking up weapons and inventing a new poetry.
None but a poet can write a tragedy. For tragedy is nothing less than pain transmuted into exaltation by the alchemy of poetry.
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There is probably nothing wrong with art for art's sake if we take the phrase seriously and not take it to mean the kind of poetry written in England forty years ago.
