That there was something wrong with all his work Le Maistre well knew. Words and music, as the critics never failed to remind him, "just missed" that nameless "something" which would have made them good - perhaps great. Moreover, he was sane enough to realize that the blame lay not with an uncomprehending public, but simply with himself. The spark of inspiration that was beyond question in all his work never gathered to the flame stage. Thus his productions warmed people, but did not light them.
-Algernon Blackwood, an excerpt from the short story, The Man from the "Gods", in The Lost Valley and Other Stories-
I wonder if Blackwood ever felt this way about his own work?
I can certainly empathize with poor Le Maistre. That haiku in the post below(7/13/02) for instance. I saw a tree, already a beautiful thing, gilded by sunlight and made beatific. It was without doubt a haiku moment but did that moment make it into the words? Perhaps there is a dim glimmer of suchness in those three lines. Perhaps. . .
There are some who would argue that words, being the symbols that they are, could do nothing but fail me in my attempt to transcribe the experience of the illuminated tree.
They might be right, too, but I had to try.