I am so coarse, the things the poets see
Are obstinately invisible to me.
For twenty years I've stared my level best
To see if evening — any evening — would suggest
A patient etherized upon a table;
In vain. I simply wasn't able.
—C. S. Lewis, British writer, A Confession (re: T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"), 1964