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!