From Italy, Idaho was too raw to face.
I knew with Whitman that it might not work.
We might end a populous Australia; loving sport,
distraction, and our own hollowness. Not
gambling on that I stayed put. And wanted
the great issues too simple. A taste
that came from odd books loved
pigheadedly and well. Hatred
betrayed me to ape it`s voice. An agony
that ended with the world`s.
Now, my joy is to splash around Venice
in hip boots. Saying little. Old peasant women
call me "maestro" and respect my moods.
After reading to a clique, I cut off
their applause, "Trouble is
it`s not strictly true." And lock
myself in silence. I
who thought we could make everything new
and honest, poets and critics, even
politicians. What cruel vanity causes a man
to cast his whole life in a cool Greek rage
against the immortal,
unchangeable darkness
of stupidity?
Паунд читает это стихотворение.
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