The angel who stands guard at the Gates of Happiness spoke unto me, saying:
It is wise, O poet, not to ask the gods for a muse, for they might grant you one.
Then, and only then, shall you know suffering.
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The muse is a kind and a gentle muse; she will at least allow you to live.
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The muse shall devour your burning heart as Beatrice consumed poor Dante's. If it is greatness you seek, you must pay for it dearly.
To most it is not worth the price; this is why there are so few great poets.
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The muse is granted you that you might desire the unattainable and pursue the impossible. Only in this way may you understand the nature of your calling and the purpose of your art.
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The muse holds in her hand the bluebird. It is the bluebird's song that you must ever seek, listening in the darkest depths of night, and it is the bluebird's song that you must ever transcribe into your mortal tongue.
To translate the bluebird's song is the most difficult of earthly tasks, and it shall be your lifelong challenge.
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The bluebird lit briefly before your wondering eyes long ago. Her song was sweet and good and true, and you shall never be allowed to forget it, however much it pains you.
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The bluebird you desired more than life, and you desire her still more than life. You would give up the riches of the world only to hear her song. That is what makes you a poet.
Thus spoke the angel.
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The gods, according to their pleasure, showed me the bluebird, then placed her forever out of my reach. I first hated the gods for their injustice, until I learned that in truth she belongs to no one but her Maker.
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The bluebird was not given to me as a possession, but only as an inspiration.
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In my poverty, I yet possess treasures untold: the wondrous vision of the bluebird, and the divine inspiration of her song.
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The bluebird inspires me far more in her wildness than she would if I kept her in a cage.
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The bluebird is a messenger of grace. Through her song I am continually blessed and purified.
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I never held the bluebird in my own hand, and never shall. This is my emptiness, but in that emptiness, I am granted a strange and wild freedom.
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My freedom is this: I no longer must invest time and strength and soul in the pursuit of happiness, since happiness has been made impossible for me.
I am free, therefore, to become that strangest and wildest of all creatures: a poet.
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