It is no use pretending
That literature can fight back
And re-establish creative life
At the expense of uncreative death.
It can't! It is vastly outgunned and, besides,
A democratic genre like the novel
Has no right to Eternal Life!
Those who still write literature
Are but the tail-end of
An old, predominantly worldly tradition,
And even their star shines less brightly
Than did that of their predecessors,
Since exposed to the fogs of pseudo-literature,
Which inevitably invade their works from within
As well as from without, smothering them
Beneath a welter of complacent claptrap!
No, literature cannot live for ever,
And although in my less-enlightened youth
I once wrote something akin to it,
I would not now attempt to write a novel, finding
Even the reading of one
An increasingly unattractive proposition!
Nor would I bring myself to
The abyss of an antinovel,
With its superficial encomiums
And satisfaction in ongoing materialism,
Its utter indifference to the inner light,
Its horror of genius
And praise for the common herd!
Leaving the antidemocratic to the left-wing automata
Who purvey and peruse it, I proceed
From literature to poetry,
Where the inner voice can once again be heard,
Only this time much clearer
And more intensely than before,
The sole witness to inner truth.
Not, then, the inner voice
Of philosophical literature,
Still less of philosophy,
But the inner voice of poetry,
A spiritual rather than an intellectual voice.
This higher voice of literary poetry
Speaks from the psyche, not the brain,
And what it says will always ring true!