It seems such a long time since you used to think about the 'promesse de bonheur', that phrase which attempted to indicate what it was that gave life to the art you loved. There is no such phenomenon to wonder at now with its reference to a vague beyond, to the hope of recovering some essential satisfaction. There is still art you love, although less of it, but the effect it has is wholly immanent and does not touch the foundations of your world. What you love you love in a more comradely way. If it is a kind of death then you missed the agony. Have you become coarse or finer? It is hard to say. Fewer things insist outside of the core questions and the air seems lighter and sweeter and to be moving towards the centre rather than away. The joys can be fiercer but they are weightless and do not linger.