Significantly more recently, the poet Issa, whom I quite admire, writing haiku right about the time that the American Revolution was winding down, wrote:
Writing shit about new snow
for the rich
is not art.
Tripping over that poem today made me happy. Not because I worry about selling out any more often than I worry about a whooping crane having a heart attack in mid-air and thus landing on my head with bone-crushing force, but because it's just more proof that people are fundamentally people no matter where and when you go.