Bankers are poets playing possum

Carl Melchior, a frail little Jewboy, and Keynes, a thick lipped Cambridge sodomite; had cast a disturbing shadow over International Finance, over Economics's project of achieving pure ergodicity, over Enlightenment's project of turning its various National Bildungsburgertums into brokerages simply; at a time when, a respectably married, strapping, over six foot tall, Oxford man, Thomas Stearns Eliot- of sound Brahmin stock- was a couple of years into his Banking career.

Thus he wrote this-  (my, purely interpretative ,comments being given in bold)
'FEW critics have even admitted that Hamlet the play is the primary problem, and Hamlet the character only secondary. And Hamlet the character has had an especial temptation for that most dangerous type of critic: the critic with a mind which is naturally of the creative order, but which through some weakness in creative power exercises itself in criticism instead.'

Frail little Jews, who fall off their horse and are invalided out of the Regiment, are barred from Creativity; cogitations raging amongst those rootless Cosmopolitans can at best be 'Criticism'- i.e. such agitation is that of the arbitrageur merely, arbitrarily discounting things of the Blood, the Soil, and that blood Christ on the Cross shed upon the soil of the King-Emperor's new Protectorate in Palestine; thus Ruth is redeemed, Soil freed from Abrahamic bondage, and neither a pituitarily disordered & too heavily bleeding Womb, nor a hydrocephalic Trench War's anonymous for too teeming Tomb, need any longer carry a Pharaisacal and Meretricious burden of resistance to aesthetic univocity such that certain combinations of words can't cash out as wergild thus undermining a privileged Catholicism of moral fungibility.

 These minds often find in Hamlet a vicarious existence for their own artistic realization. Such a mind had Goethe, who made of Hamlet a Werther; and such had Coleridge, who made of Hamlet a Coleridge; and probably neither of these men in writing about Hamlet remembered that his first business was to study a work of art. The kind of criticism that Goethe and Coleridge produced, in writing of Hamlet, is the most misleading kind possible. For they both possessed unquestionable critical insight, and both make their critical aberrations the more plausible by the substitution—of their own Hamlet for Shakespeare’s—which their creative gift effects. We should be thankful that Walter Pater did not fix his attention on this play.
Eliot elegantly, for by elision, pays tribute to, his distinguished compatriot, Santayana's bit of Anti-Boche War Work- the latter's essay on Hamlet- but only so as to contemn Pater's, actually Hemsturhuisian not Cyrenaic, yet nevertheless bestial, for Cantabrigian, Apostles amongst whose number Keynes stood forth most vulgar and unabashed.
Pater, as Harold Bloom points out, did treat of Hamlet as rising above the mere Pharaisaical arbitrage of the Law's virtuously severed head and Libertinage's' more and more madly violated, for for aye maiden bed, to deal with the exceptional- that which defeats Carl Schmitt's lame Hecuba defence of his own traitorous misprision- by reason of incarnating Agrippa's trilemma, the impossible Trinity of Father, Son and an Unholy Ghost.

Fuck.

It occurs to me I'm writing sophomore Eng Clit type shite.

Me!

I'm 52 and got serious drinking to do!

I'd better just cut to the chase-

Your wares to mourn, Saqi, unbind your hair

What Wine, now, can my Vision impair?

Bees in black tho' in red the blossom

Bankers are poets playing possum