Life remains a blessing Although you cannot bless. - W. H. Auden

The identification of fantasy is always an attempt to avoid one's own suffering: the identification of art is the sharing in the suffering of another.

Oh dear white children, casual as birds,
Playing among the ruined languages,
So small beside their large confusing words.

Say this city has ten million souls,
Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:
Yet there’s no place for us, my dear, yet there’s no place for us.