But at least he had grasped one small aspect of poetry then: that it was something extremely personal, almost a gift one wrapped up for oneself alone; that it was foolish to expect everyone to respond to poetry in the same way, or even to respond at all. Not a gift, it was a beautiful burden. It was a melancholy art, and what it served for best was to provide life with a certain aptitude for sadness.
-Renato E. Madrid
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