It is hardly surprising that commercialism, the passport to physical prosperity, should be the prevalent idea of an age, when, through the disintegration of class-rule, prosperity is for the first time in history possible for all; nor is it surprising that the masses, stupefied from time immemorial in the cavern of Pain, hereditary and inescapable Pain, should, when released at last a little, drink some madness from the unaccustomed sun, and follow, as they do to-day, Pleasure for Pleasure’s sake, even over the precipice: nor, moreover, is it surprising that the vast majority of the people, educated, though it be but with a smattering, for the first time in history, should not yet to any great extent be partial to poetry, the final flower of the human intellect.
Read more of this lucid madness HERE
This stuff is crazy/beautiful – and Australian ! It is magnificent in its useless verbiage. It is the opening paragraph of a treatise on “Militant Poetry” by Bernard O’Dowd which I discovered recently. I love stumbling upon texts like this. It almost sounds like a parody of itself – it was scribed in 1909 and appears to be quite serious.
But that doesn’t mean we have to read it that way…
Do tell me more about that flower, Brother O’Dowd: