I want to see you. I want to see you smile. I want to see your body. I want to see if you are the same person I first met years ago.

They pay thousands and thousands for the Van Goghs and Modiglianis they'd have spat on at the time they were painted. Guffawed at. Made coarse jokes about.

You had to live—did live, from habit that became instinct—in the assumption that every sound you made was overheard, and, except in darkness, every movement scrutinised.

Spiritual power and spiritual authority notoriously shade over into both politics and poetry.

Written By Harold Bloom

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