After I composed the twenty-eighth poem, I said “Basta!” I threw that rubbish out like a man on the street who eats nuts and spits the shells here and there; like the Lord of the universe, who shakes suns like ten-aurar coins out of his heavenly jester’s sleeves, absentmindedly and nonchalantly, not even to amuse himself, let alone others; or like a wagon driver who used to be the servant of his donkey and cart, but who now, after both donkey and cart have tumbled off a cliff, stands behind on the ledge, empty-handed, and celebrates his victory. But what do you think this Carrington did? He stole the poems and took them to a printer without my knowledge, and has newspapers and magazines harp on them as masterpieces. Of course they are masterpieces, but God does not lack masterpieces. God needs souls. Mankind does not need masterpieces. Mankind needs panem et circenses.31 Neither I nor others compose masterpieces for God or mankind. Delusion! Poets have never carried the people’s burdens.
What do You think about The Great Weaver From Kashmir?
