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“Poets, in order to live, must often die, and shed not only the red blood of their hearts, but the white blood of their souls that flows and leaves traces which can be followed.  That is the price of applause.  Poets must give their all in order to obtain the slightest approval…The poet’s work detests and devours him.  There isn’t room for both the poet and his work.  The work profits from the poet.  Only after his death can the poet profit from the work.  And anyway, the public prefer dead poets and they are right.  A poet who isn’t dead is an anachronism.”           — Jean Cocteau