So D.B. has a vision, and in that vision he is visited by no less than W.B. Yeats.
"You have been bandying my poetry about," he quarrels.
"Reminding the masses, W.B."
"They have not forgotten."
"Out here in the sticks they have."
"D.B. In the country you are alone with your own violence, your own heaviness, and with the common tragedy of life, and if you have any artistic capacity you desire beautiful emotion; and, certain that the seasons will be the same always, care not how fantastic its expression. In the town, where everybody crowds upon you, it is your neighbour not yourself that you hate and, if you are not to embitter his life and your own life, perhaps even if you are not to murder him in some kind of revolutionary frenzy, somebody must teach reality and justice. You will hate that teacher for a while, calling his books and plays ugly, misdirected, morbid or something of that kind, but you must agree with him in the end."
"W.B. I agree. I agree."
Alter Egos - I Am Done Watching This
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