Wraithly, like as not it is best not to argue with the gods
we invent—until after we have become acquainted that is.
If the invention is accidental, the poet’s glass or, well yes,
four, vin ordinaire—then we can’t be expected to recognize
what we flout. Besides, Dionysos is perhaps the only
self-invented god, accidentally probably, but by one of us,
spirited so to speak, other inventors having died off into
the side shadows, if an amphitheater has shadows outside
the shadows of the Oidipos family, the Erinyes, and poets.
The invention planned and executed—executed gods are
always popular, their dead eyes, so puppet-like in their
re-appearances, their enervating grace—our arguments
against them are arguments against their inventors—
herein residing the core of the maniacal sanity of artists—
the way of the poet, of the prophet, of the scapegoat.
Dangerous work, so have at it! Lunge. Parry. Dance!
