In the End, These Philosophic Assassins Pull Revolvers and Shoot Each Other: Day Nineteen

I do not want to frighten you too badly with my artistic ability, but it cannot be helped. Here is my rendering of the line, “Ideas are men,” from “Extracts from Addresses to the Academy of Fine Ideas:”

Ideas are men. The mass of meaning and
The mass of men are one. Chaos is not

The mass of meaning. It is three or four
Ideas or, say, five men or, possibly, six.

The fine idea that is making this man reads, “If I were a billionaire, I would have many golden statues made of myself as a soaring winged cow with a man-face and erect them everywhere, even in countries where milk and freedom are against the law, so suck on it, Russia!” As if to add insult to injury, a small winged cow hovers near his shoulder, licking her own udder and taunting, “Ooo, tastes so milky, Russia!” The ways in which this imagined scenario is relevant to Stevens’s life and work are literally innumerable, so I will not bother mentioning any of them.