"Take the serious side of Disney, the Confucian side of Disney. It’s in having taken an ethos, as he does in Perri, that squirrel film..."
Said Ezra Pound in an interview with The Paris Review in 1962.
I found that as a consequence of reading Larry McMurtry's "Walter Benjamin at the Dairy Queen: Reflections on Sixty and Beyond," pp. 30-31:
“THE ART of storytelling is nearing its end because the epic side of truth, wisdom, is dying out,” Benjamin says. Well, maybe—but I did know an old mountain woman in a Virginia village whose storytelling would have pleased the exacting Berliner. She was eighty-six and had lived in the same house her entire life, never traveling more than six miles from home. If ever there was a local who stayed put, it was she. This old woman had surveyed almost the whole of the twentieth century from her front porch. The young men of the village went off to war; some came back and some didn’t. Then another war came and the young men went off again. Washington, D.C., thirty miles away, was as remote to her as Hong Kong. She had no curiosity about it—the affairs of the village were all she had and all she needed. She had lived through the century of the motorcar traveling almost entirely by foot. But the local lore she knew: every house, every man and woman, and what had befallen them. She told many stories and told them well, but I would not be quick to elevate her stories above those of Frank O’Connor. Consider Ezra Pound’s astonishment when he first saw Walt Disney’s Perri.
Consider a world in which this astonishes Ezra Pound:
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