Despite all the efforts of my English literature teachers (and a
number of friends), I refuse to profess any ability to distinguish
good poetry from bad poetry, and indeed good art from bad art.
Because those crazy cubists can draw weird stuff and still be called
masters, I conclude that it is next to impossible for me to
distinguish between an intentionally bad poem (a brilliant satire of
the affectations of lesser writers! a shining example of subtle wit
and humor!) and a simply horrible piece of junk. I suspect that most
art critics make it up, anyway.
You can probably see how this kind of attitude got me two Ds in
freshman English. I have neither patience nor desire to sit around in
a circle discussing the irony in the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
Give me a program instead.