{"id":"01KG8AKSF0V8Y8D21ZWV9Z7A5Y","cid":"bafkreial6p3nuxppp6fxr7l6eusgtkqqibmvireoqaj22dw4epzjat3b74","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":11016,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:09.931Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 8","source_file":"01KG89J1954N2G0NAERBNJXEX9","start_line":10940,"text":"critics; who are more rare than true poets. A great critic is a sultan\r\namong satraps; but pretenders are thick as ants, striving to scale a\r\npalm, after its aerial sweetness. And they fight among themselves.\r\nEssaying to pluck eagles, they themselves are geese, stuck full of\r\nquills, of which they rob each other.\r\n\r\nABRAZZA (_to Media._)—Oro help the victim that falls in Babbalanja’s\r\nhands!\r\n\r\nMEDIA.—Ay, my lord; at times, his every finger is a dagger: every\r\nthought a falling tower that whelms! But resume, philosopher—what of\r\nLombardo now?\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—“For this thing,” said he, “I have agonized over it\r\nenough.—I can wait no more. It has faults—all mine;—its merits all its\r\nown;—but I can toil no longer. The beings knit to me implore; my heart\r\nis full; my brain is sick. Let it go—let it go—and Oro with it.\r\nSomewhere Mardi has a mighty heart—-_that_ struck, all the isles shall\r\nresound!”\r\n\r\nABRAZZA—Poor devil! he took the world too hard.\r\n\r\nMEDIA.-As most of these mortals do, my lord. That’s the load, self-\r\nimposed, under which Babbalanja reels. But now, philosopher, ere Mardi\r\nsaw it, what thought Lombardo of his work, looking at it objectively,\r\nas a thing out of him, I mean.\r\n\r\nABRAZZA—No doubt, he hugged it.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—Hard to answer. Sometimes, when by himself, he thought\r\nhugely of it, as my lord Abrazza says; but when abroad, among men, he\r\nalmost despised it; but when he bethought him of those parts, written\r\nwith full eyes, half blinded; temples throbbing; and pain at the heart—\r\n\r\nABRAZZA—Pooh! pooh!\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—He would say to himself, “Sure, it can not be in vain!” Yet\r\nagain, when he bethought him of the hurry and bustle of Mardi,\r\ndejection stole over him. “Who will heed it,” thought he; “what care\r\nthese fops and brawlers for me? But am I not myself an egregious\r\ncoxcomb? Who will read me? Say one thousand pages—twenty-five lines\r\neach—every line ten words—every word ten letters. That’s two million\r\nfive hundred thousand _a_’s, and _i_’s, and _o_’s to read! How many are\r\nsuperfluous? Am I not mad to saddle Mardi with such a task? Of all men,\r\nam I the wisest, to stand upon a pedestal, and teach the mob? Ah, my\r\nown Kortanza! child of many prayers!—in whose earnest eyes, so\r\nfathomless, I see my own; and recall all past delights and silent\r\nagonies-thou may’st prove, as the child of some fond dotard:— beauteous\r\nto me; hideous to Mardi! And methinks, that while so much slaving\r\nmerits that thou should’st not die; it has not been intense, prolonged\r\nenough, for the high meed of immortality. Yet, things immortal have\r\nbeen written; and by men as me;—men, who slept and waked; and ate; and\r\ntalked with tongues like mine. Ah, Oro! how may we know or not, we are\r\nwhat we would be? Hath genius any stamp and imprint, obvious to\r\npossessors? Has it eyes to see itself; or is it blind? Or do we delude\r\nourselves with being gods, and end in grubs? Genius, genius?—a thousand\r\nyears hence, to be a household-word?—I?— Lombardo? but yesterday cut in\r\nthe market-place by a spangled fool!— Lombardo immortal?—Ha, ha,\r\nLombardo! but thou art an ass, with vast ears brushing the tops of\r\npalms! Ha, ha, ha! Methinks I see thee immortal! ‘Thus great Lombardo\r\nsaith; and thus; and thus; and thus:— thus saith he—illustrious\r\nLombardo!—Lombardo, our great countryman! Lombardo, prince of\r\npoets—Lombardo! great Lombardo!’—Ha, ha, ha!— go, go! dig thy grave,\r\nand bury thyself!”\r\n\r\nABRAZZA—He was very funny, then, at times.\r\n\r\nBABBALANJA—Very funny, your Highness:—amazing jolly! And from my\r\nnethermost soul, would to Oro, thou could’st but feel one touch of that\r\njolly woe! It would appall thee, my Right Worshipful lord Abrazza!\r\n\r\nABRAZZA (_to Media_)—My dear lord, his teeth are marvelously white and\r\nsharp: some she-shark must have been his dam:—does he often grin thus?\r\nIt was infernal!\r\n\r\nMEDIA—Ah! that’s Azzageddi. But, prithee, Babbalanja, proceed.\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 8"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AJW03Z0Q25AN0GF175AXF","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J1954N2G0NAERBNJXEX9","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AKSF033CQAPTKM7PZR707","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"prev"},{"peer":"01KG8AKT5A81XCD8W5W6PX023K","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:15.840Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:28.739Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}