Men are not suffering from the lack of good literature, good art, good theatre, good music, but from that which has made it impossible for these to become manifest. In short, they are suffering from the silent, shameful conspiracy (the more shameful since it is unacknowledged) which has bound them together as enemies of art and artist. They are suffering from the fact that art is not the primary moving force in their lives. They are suffering from the act, repeated daily, of keeping up the pretense that they can go their way, lead their lives, without art.
Jenny said when she was just about five years old,
You know, “My parents are going to be the death of us all.”
“Two TV sets and two Cadillac cars, well you know,
It ain’t going to help me at all (not just a tiny bit).”
Then one fine morning she turns on a New York station,
She doesn’t believe what she hears at all.
She started dancing to that fine, fine music,
You know her life was saved by rock and roll.