They, as a class, believed that they alone maintained civilization. - Jack London

He was disappointed in it all. He had developed into an alien. As the steam beer had tasted raw, so their companionship seemed raw to him. He was too far removed. Too many thousands of opened books yawned between them and him. He had exiled himself. He had travelled in the vast realm of intellect until he could no longer return home. On the other hand, he was human, and his gregarious need for companionship remained unsatisfied. He had found no new home.

hurts you. It is an everlasting pain in you, a wound that does not heal, a knife of flame.

Then one can't make a living out of poetry?"
"Certainly not. What fool expects to? Out of rhyming, yes.