I'm in my 'lone wolf' mode, doing research for a new play. I've been reading all kinds of books; lately I've gone from Satre, to Debord, to Godel, to Cocteau, to Wittgenstein. A strange, motely crew. At the moment, surprisingly, of the bunch, Jean Cocteau seems the most intruiging to me. He was a poet, writer, filmmaker, a man who dedicated himself to the imagination, the fantastic; he strived to make the fanstastic 'real.' He was also a man 'out of time,' looking for the timeless, in poetry, in myth. He was intelligent, funny, hopeful. Not so easy to be. He was a prominent figure in difficult times, like when the Nazis were wreaking havoc in Europe. Some thought Cocteau was irrelevant, silly, elitist; in extreme times the Poet and poetry seem to be a luxury. You can't eat a poem!
I think, in a hard world, poetry, music, love, beauty, hope, imagination are absolutely essential. They are the invisible tools we use to transform our lives from the brute, material aspects of our existence. If we have a soul, we must feed it (in a sense earn it) cultivating an appreciation of music, art, humour, poetry, beauty. Cultivate your garden! Open your heart, your head. It is our duty to find our 'soul!' We don't all need to be geniuses (Wittgenstein lived with the absurd thought 'become a genius or die.') but we need to find the genius of our soul. See Ray Charles, see Jean Cocteau, see Bob Dylan, see Bob Marley, see Neil Young, see William Shakespeare, see Pablo Piccaso, see Andy Warhol, see Miles Davis, see Charles Bukowski, see Johnny Rotten, see John Lennon, etc.