It is irritating, but perhaps simultaneously necessary, to make concessions to the practical world in literary creation. It is natural that there is an urge in the intellectual to isolate himself in abstractions as pleasurable as the intrusions of everyday banality into his work are unpleasant. However, these seeming stains constitute a necessary link with the reality that allows literature to play its aggrandizing role. To isolate oneself on the intellectual plane is to blend in with the philosophers whose idle works have never served as advice to anyone.