Their creators provide no clarity as to the journey they desire me to make. Impossibly dense and impenetrable are the directions they give, leading me to believe that they intend to keep me and others in the dark, to keep us uninformed, to take us nowhere, to give us the appearance of saying something but in reality saying nothing. They chide us for our lack of interest in their art, but can we be blamed for not caring, seeing they deny us access to the path? It seems that such access is for their own kind only, for those who are able to decipher their abstruse ramblings, for those who comprehend the apparent cabalistic mysteries they bury in their morass of opaque verses. The quest to find their meaning is a mere guessing game; there are no signposts along the path to lead us to it. In vain does one hope to find meaning, clarity, simplicity, and directness in their florid expressions.
And in the literary delivery of their expressions, they abide by no rules. Conventions of mechanics are ill-applied or not applied at all, so that their words, uncorralled, roam wildly, going whichever way they will and adding to the confusion of understanding and thought. Historical events or previous literature remain locked up in history, with no allusions made to them, and symbols and figurative devices they send languishing into exile, to atrophy from lack of use. Their expressions, far from being infused with imagination and compressed emotion and passion, appear inane, sterile, and abstract, having the form and sound of elegance and sublimity but remaining inherently turgid, and formless, and without purpose.
[inspired by Thomas Brady's blog]