Theory

I think it must be that a man live,

As it were, a hermit inside himself;
A caricature show to all without;
Of dignity, strength or courteous calm,
And all torments and anger lock within                           
His soul, a purgatorial fury.                               
Only this shall keep his true heart alive.
For none can know, most surely none shall care;           
Of what or who or whence his dreams have come,
Nor will love e’er find him worthy of joy;
And this is why that bloody wars, and drink,
Books, and darkness are his habitation
And that inwardly he bitterly weeps
At the dirty infant haply at play.