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An Irish Airman Foresees His Death is a weird, fascinating poem. A “lonely impulse of delight” is a weird reason to kill people ain’t it? And what if he were fighting in a more specifically imperialist war?
And yet. Hopefully we don’t all get our “lonely impulse of delight” from getting shot down in war planes, but then aren’t those moments that reduce years before and years behind to waste of breath by comparison a hugely important part of life?
The fascinating thing about the Romantic tradition (including the modernists, who are just less-confident romantics) is that obviously the solipsism is morally unconscionable, if we’re being serious, right? But the self-centeredness reveals these incredible things...
But then, when you understand colonialism and imperialism and the enormous foundation of blood these privileged moments sit on, it feels disrespectful to still even be able to see the beauty, right?
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