Art, in a sorry age for a long while - from Pale Fire

by Vladimir Nabokov

All artists have bene born in what they call
A sorry age; mine is the worst of all:
An age that thinks spacebombs and spaceships take
A genius with a foreign name to make,
When any jackass can rig up the stuff;
An age in which a pack of rogues can bluff
The selenographer; a comic age
That sees in Dr. Schweitzer a great sage. pp. 270

VN's verses such as this one are very rational hums; they are rhythmic but short of emotions. It makes one think, not feel. :-)