You are constantly underestimated in comparison to Eliot and Pound, probably because everyone thinks you departed from nineteenth-century techniques insufficiently, or because you forgot to fling a lot of untranslated Italian and unnecessary canto divisions into your work.
I never know when someone's on drugs or had plastic surgery, or when a poem is supposed to "really" be about sex even though it's clearly about plants. I never get metaphors. Everything always has to be explained to me, like Ax in the Animorphs series.
