For intellect is a mansion where waste is without drain.
Death's long anabasis.
In a manner of speaking, the poem is its own knower, neither poet nor reader knowing anything that the poem says apart from the words of the poem.
Genetic theories, I gather, have been cherished academically with detachment.
Experience means conflict, our natures being what they are, and conflict means drama.
Other psychological theories say a good deal about compensation.