- Andy Rooney
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It is a shallow criticism that would define poetry as confined to literary productions in rhyme and meter rhythm. The written poem is only poetry talking, and the statue, the picture, and the musical composition are poetry acting. Milton and Goethe, at their desks, were not more truly poets than Phidias with his chisel, Raphael at his easel, or deaf Beethoven bending over his piano, inventing and producing strains, which he himself could never hope to hear.
I was on my back, looking up at Morelli through cobwebs, and my first thought was that the 7-Eleven victim had exacted revenge on me, and I’d been stun gunned. The cobwebs cleared, and I discounted stun gunning. What happened? I asked Morelli. You fainted. That’s ridiculous. I agree, but if someone sent me a dead woman I might faint, too. He was down on one knee, bending over me. Are you ready to get up? I need a moment. Don’t take too long. People will think I’m proposing.