The girls he followed down the street, the heartbreaks
he pretended to suffer, the giddy letters he wrote
to Zola with pages of bad poetry, bad jokes
to conceal his fear of being dull, the self-doubts
he laughed about, the shyness overcome by wine,
this world began to collapse when he undertook
his own inflexible path, his discipline
leading him further into isolation. 'Whoever lacks
a taste for the absolute, meaning perfection,'
he wrote, 'contents himself with mediocrity.'
His misfortune was his own determined study:
'Art is a religion. Its aim is the elevation
of mind.' No jokes, no girls, no wine. The friends
stopped calling. Harsh wind at night, no loving hands.