It connotes an equally acute eye toward reality, which is for all of us a social affair, a collaboration between the interior and the external. Into the paradise of euphony, the good poet must introduce hell.
Broken paradises are the only kind worth reading.
The poets Bloom loves brilliantly inhabit this intersection of heaven and hell-earth, that is. It is with them, I think, that his impassioned argument goes thuddingly and misleadingly wrong. And here we join eyes in that sanctity Where brother passes brother without sight, But finally knows conviviality . . . Go then, unto thy turning and thy blame. Seek bliss then, brother, in my moment's shame.