An imperfect metaphor, perhaps, but it is whispering in my mind:
Perhaps the artist can be likened to the soldier in a war zone. Each steps forward unknowing into the limitless darkness of the moment and there weaves webs of shadow and light, sound and fury. Each goes armed as well as possible ... and yet never well enough to assure with certainty that the outcome will not rip him limb from limb.
And on returning from the unknown that now is woven into the known, he may be greeted with applause or indifference for his courage. But it is all for naught. Those who have exercised courage show themselves as fools if they attend to other men's appreciations. They have been and returned ... alone. It may be confounding, but taking the counsel of praise for the courage it took to step forward into the unknown is the pastime of a pauper.
Aren't we all the warriors and artists of our lives?
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