22.

You know Suffenus. He's the kind of man
who always says the right thing, some remark
that's funny and intelligent. He's polished.
Did you know he writes poetry? Does he ever -
ten thousand lines at least, and all of it
set down with care and gorgeously produced:
expensive rolls, red ribbons, parchment wrappers,
meticulously ruled, the edges pumiced.
And when you read his work, this same Suffenus,
so charming and so polished, comes across
as one who has discovered his true calling:
milking goats, or maybe digging ditches.
He's utterly transformed. I just don't get it.
This same man who, to say the very least,
is witty and refined, becomes a clod
the instant he attempts to write a poem.
Yet writing poetry's his greatest passion;
he's lost in raptures of self-adoration.
It's the same with everyone, I guess.
You could say each of us is a Suffenus,
self-deceived in one way or another;
we never see the pack that's on our own back.

-- Catullus
(translated from the Latin by Diane Arnson Svarlien)