He venerates the idea of strength and has disdain for the idea of weakness. The disdain is not for misery, but for surrendering to it. He rates joy superior to melancholy, even in poetry. The reason this type of person is doomed in literature is that the arts are a flea market of frailties—the only sphere of human activity that has special reverence for human weakness, miseries, defeats and fears. Beauty in art is like the sweet gloom in a lullaby. Here, joy is too light, too trivial, and “clever" is not a compliment. Language itself may have risen to mourn the primordial confusion of an exquisite brain that can do a bit too much in a world that has no meaning. As the writer J. M. Coetzee’s character speculates in the novel Disgrace, “…the origins of speech lie in song, and the origins of song in the need to fill out with sound the overlarge and rather empty human soul". Art’s defence of its laments is formidable, but this quality of art does not enslave many intelligent people. For a particular reason. There are people who venerate strength and joy, and those who venerate vulnerabilities and misery. They despise each other.