The beetle is blind
The beetle is blind, etc., etc.
and Kandinsky in his, Ueber das Geistige in der Kunst, sets down the following axioms for the artist:
Every artist has to express himself
Every artist has to express his epoch.
Every artist has to express the pure and eternal qualities of the art of all men.
So we have the fish and the bait, but the last rule holds three hooks at once—not for the fish, however.
I do not overlook De Gourmont’s plea for a meeting of the nations, but I do believe that when they meet Paris will be more than slightly abashed to find parodies of the middle ages, Dante and Langue D’Oc foisted upon it as the best in United States poetry. Even Eliot, who is too fine an artist to allow himself to be exploited by a blockheaded grammaticaster, turns recently toward “one definite false note” in his quatrains, which more nearly approach America than ever La Figlia Que Piange did. Ezra Pound is a Boscan who has met his Navagiero.
One day Ezra and I were walking down a back lane in Wyncote. I contended for bread, he for caviar. I become hot. He, with fine discretion, exclaimed: “Let us drop it. We will never agree, or come to an agreement.” He spoke then like a Frenchman, which is one who discerns.