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?