Much Madness is divinest sense—
To a discerning eye—
Much sense—the starkest Madness—
‘Tis the Majority
In this, as All, prevail—
Assent—and you are sane—
Demur—you’re straightaway dangerous—
And handled with a Chain—Emily Dickinson, #435
Bought The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry tonight. I’m not familiar with much past W.B.Yeats, so I figured it was time to catch up. William Carlos Williams wiped the taste of T.S. Eliot out of my mouth. I still don’t know why I hated him so much.
It’s amazing how the right poem always seems to pop up at the right time. Watched Hannibal earlier. I can empathize with the poor cop with the screw-top head at the end. It feels like I’m doing that sort of surgery, self-inflicted, trying to figure out which piece to carve off and fry up next.
