Tragedy seems to me a loud noise
louder than is seemly.
Tragedy looks to me like man
in love with his own defeat.
Which is only a sloppy way of being in love with
yourself.
I can’t very much care about the woes and tragedies
of Lear and Macbeth and Hamlet and Timon:
they cared so excessively themselves.
And when I think of the great tragedy of our
material-mechanical
civilisation
crushing out the natural human life
then sometimes I feel defeated; and then again I know
my shabby little defeat would do neither me any good
nor anybody else.