Pg. 108:

“In the 1980s, I stood in the metropolitan Museum, in one of those rooms full of old statues: that afternoon light on old marble, anonymous statues stretching as far as the room, I no longer remember if they were Greek or Roman; Greek, Roman or Egyptian, just the field of broken, yellowed marble. In that moment I saw clearly that there was no calling higher than this: to be an anonymous worker in the ranks, one of the unknown artists who from time immemorial and for all time to come have been making the beauty that is the leavening in our lives. A laborer in the ranks of artists and artisans (there is no difference here, no need to distinguish9–I saw there was no fame worthier than this.

Simply to have lived and made the work, and offered what beauty, what comfort we could to the world….”

I heard Stanley Kunitz voice a similar sentiment at a reading he gave at Loyola College in Baltimore. “The older I become,” he said, “the more I see the importance of contributing to the tradition of poetry, and how that importance transcends the individual.”

I agree.