We wouldn’t have gotten along, Bill and me. A champion of the aristocracy and an ardent nationalist, he was the worst kind of romantic: spoiled, unthinking, and politically confused. Like many other artists of his time, he publicly professed his admiration for Mussolini, the Italian purveyor of fascism for aesthetes. So long as it matches the sofa.
Still, today, I find myself mulling over two dislocated lines, which I exscript from both their original context and intent:
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Somehow, they say everything about my day.