READING DOSTOEVSKY

It is like loyal marriage to a brilliant sage
Who beats you — an unhewn manner, rough and crude;
Globs of politics and gossip, theory, glued
To bloated schemes of character, page after page.
Annulled from happiness on Desdemona’s stage,
Indefinitely cast in mocking attitude,
You gain a transformation in that interlude
Where Art has been divorced, and Grace will not engage.
The world will disapprove, should you decide to quit
This union, stand on bandaged feet, and say, “Enough.”
Scant understanding will you find — for to admit
Would be to hint at ignorance equally as rough.
“Boys will be boys, you sensitive, ungrateful twit,”
The oaf will think, then offer you a powder puff –
Not once the wiser, by your soft receipt of it.

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