For Poetry Makes Nothing Happen.

Today, I found something that concretes the sense of belonging I have when I read works by Yeats. 


"It is easy to laugh at a man so superstitious that he once cut a piece out of his fur coat, rather than disturb a sleeping cat; so absent-minded that he once started to eat his own flowing hair when he twirled it onto a spaghetti-fork; so peculiar that he once appeared at a public gathering with thick woollen socks on his hands." (Daniel Albright, "W.B Yeats, The Poems")


The thing about this passage though is that I don't read it and laugh at Yeats. I read it and I think, "God, you really were an amazing man weren't you, despite all your crazy." I read it and I think that I completely understand him.