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Updated: May 20, 2025
The Chinese poet saunters along playing a common little tune on his Pan-pipes. Singing robes? None in the world; just what he goes to work in. Grand Manner? 'Sir, says he, 'the contemptible present singer never heard of it; wait for that till the coming of a Superior Man. 'Well, you say, 'at least there is no danger of pombundle'; and indeed there is not.
Where each word has to be drawn, a little picture taking time and care, you are in no danger of overlavishness; you do not spill and squander your words, "intoxicated," as they say, "with the exuberance of your verbosity." Style was forced on the Chinese; ideograms are a grand preventive against pombundle.
What he said was, in effect, as follows: the Western poet, too often, dons his singing robe before he will sing; works himself up; expects to step out of current life into the Grand Manner; and unless the Soul happens to be there and vocal at the time, achieves mostly pombundle.
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