In fact, many artists’ children turn out just fine, and grow up to edit their parents’ work and live off the royalties. Furthermore, if the artist is someone of Yeats’s calibre, the children, as they develop, will measure themselves against him and come up short. But in the artist’s household the shifts that the children must endure-they can’t make noise (he’s working), they can’t leave on vacation (he hasn’t finished the chapter)-are combined with a mystique that this is all for some exalted cause, which they must honor even though they are too young to understand it. When I think of what it means to be an artist’s child, I remember that story. He turned to her vaguely and said, “Oh, who is it you wish to see?” But when the bus stopped at their gate, she got off with him. Once, his young daughter, Anne, boarded a bus and found him in that condition among the passengers. People would come up to him and ask him if he was all right. He would stare straight ahead and utter a low hum and beat time with his hands. William Butler Yeats, when he was riding the bus, would occasionally go into a compositional trance.
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