La Fontaine and Chagall were idiots. Imbecile would be a better description.
In a sad state of affairs, they ventured into an imaginary world hostile to social frigidity. They extracted meaning from mental images that though lucid to them, were an affront to the wisdom of the day.
They dared to willingly walk into the shunned asylum of the gifted and bare their souls into anguished screeches of poetic expression.
How I’ve tried to reconcile my humility for the arts with my gut-wrenching befuddlement, distaste and outright jealousy of idiots, no, imbeciles, whose art humbles me…
and leaves me with NOTHING
but meaningless and idiotic rant.