for these boundaries, alas, cannot be detected from the outside, and can hardly even be guessed at. they are like faint ridges, all but invisible to the naked eye. which, once a man has crossed them-or not even actually crossed them but just stumbled over them-suddenly grow into walls. there is no retracing of steps; whatever he does, he finds himself with his back against the wall. and even now, aprés coup, it is difficult to define the cause; our only evidence that the step was taken is supplied by the poetry, and all it tells us is the moment when it happened, when the punishment caught up with him. for the only punishment that a poet can suffer, short of death, is, of course, the sudden loss of what throughout human history has appeared as a divine gift.

hannah arendt
men in dark times