Someone said that I put them in mind of Saint Jerome. Of course, they meant "in the worst possible sense of St. Jerome", and not the best sense; they meant that based upon the evidence of my poem for Easter, I loved Cicero more than Jesus.
Heavy-duty observation and condemnation, what? Doth knock the old scales from the previously closed eye sockets, and makes straight the crooked, and finds the up-until-now obscurely and thoroughly lost to be found like a bright penny.
Well, it is not my job to inspire anyone; that job belongs to them.
Furthermore, I think one would have to have walked a couple of milia passuum in Jerome's sandals before one could jump to an understanding of the meaning of his vision, its relation to his classical scholarship, and just in general all kinds of neuron-and-synapse type things involved.
I could say more, but I would be talking about myself, and I do enough of that as it is.
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