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72 the esthetic fallacy Here I’m madly rummaging around in the hall closet thinking it might be just the right way out in view of this fire at the door And everybody thinks I’m a secret salesman of flashlights with an exceptionally fresh approach Here I can’t find the ladder, and am prone to fall into the fatal hole of all fire escapes And somebody else tells me that he supposes that this is one more ingenious plan to advertise the need for plastic parachutes in the home Oh Coleridge, when you wrote your Dejection ode, were you really sitting there next to your little opium pot covered in chuckles? Baudelaire, did you actually take a series of sight-seeing tours around Paris to “get” new material? Is the patient who lies anesthetized on the operating table in T. S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” really engaging in some new form of combined indoor and outdoor sport? We have lingered too long in the house of many means and now our ends are desperately overdue for condemnation and/or urban renewal. Send out the repair wagon, wrecking crew, and ambulance now; Some flesh is real and ill ...

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