I wish the government would put a tax on pianos for the

In an age when wit was both sword and shield, the poet and eccentric visionary h Sitwell once declared with her signature sharpness: “I wish the government would put a tax on pianos for the incompetent.” To some, these words ring merely as a jest — a barbed comment from a woman known for her piercing humor and unapologetic tongue. But beneath their laughter lies a deeper truth: a lament for the misuse of beauty, a defense of art’s sanctity, and a call for reverence toward the creative gifts of the world. Sitwell, born into a family of wealth and artistry yet surrounded by superficiality, saw clearly how easily the instruments of wonder could become toys for the unworthy. Her words, though humorous, are a cry of the artist’s soul — weary of noise where there should be music, and longing for skill where there is only vanity.

The origin of this quote springs from Sitwell’s lifelong devotion to the art of form and sound. A poet of rhythm and tone, she treated language itself as music — her verse a symphony of syllables, her readings an orchestration of emotion. To her, the piano was not merely an instrument, but a sacred vessel of harmony. Thus, when she spoke of “taxing the incompetent,” it was not cruelty but irony — a protest against the careless and the pretentious who handle beauty without understanding it. In her era, as in ours, many sought the prestige of art without paying the price of passion or discipline. Sitwell’s jest stands as both warning and wisdom: that the power of art demands respect, and that to touch it without reverence is to commit a kind of spiritual theft.

This truth is not new. The ancients, too, understood that art — whether in song, sculpture, or speech — was not to be trifled with. The Greeks spoke of hubris, the sin of arrogance before the divine, and in their temples of Apollo and the Muses they taught that creation was sacred work. Consider the tale of Marsyas, the satyr who dared to challenge Apollo himself to a contest of music. Marsyas played with pride, but lacked the god’s purity of purpose. When he failed, he was punished not for his ambition, but for his presumption — for believing that art could be conquered without humility. Sitwell’s “tax” upon the incompetent is a modern echo of that ancient law: that one should not approach the altar of beauty without first bowing in awe.

And yet, her words are not meant to exclude, but to inspire discipline and devotion. The “incompetent” of her jest are not the learners, nor the humble, but those who seek art for status, who treat talent as ornament rather than offering. In a world where the piano could be purchased more easily than mastery, Sitwell saw a danger — that art, divorced from integrity, would become decoration. The tax she imagines is not a literal levy but a moral one: the price of effort, study, and sincerity that must be paid by all who wish to touch greatness. Her jest reminds us that beauty, though generous, demands something in return.

History offers us examples of those who understood this sacred exchange. Ludwig van Beethoven, though deaf and tormented, labored endlessly over his compositions, revising until every note achieved its destined perfection. He was taxed indeed — not by government, but by the fierce demands of his own genius. His suffering was the price of his competence, his devotion the true currency of creation. Sitwell’s irony, seen through this lens, becomes a hymn to such souls — to those who earn the right to shape beauty through dedication and humility. For in their labor lies the redemption of art itself.

In her humor, there is also a critique of society — that it too often rewards the shallow performance of art over the genuine pursuit of it. The incompetent pianist becomes a symbol for every person who wields power without wisdom, wealth without generosity, or influence without conscience. Sitwell’s mock tax is the poet’s way of restoring balance: to make the unworthy pay for what they misuse, and to remind the world that excellence must not be taken lightly. Her laughter is the laughter of justice — the knowing smile of one who sees folly clearly yet loves humanity enough to correct it through wit.

Therefore, O listener, take from this jest a lesson both stern and hopeful. Whatever your instrument may be — whether it is the piano, the pen, the forge, or the heart — do not wield it carelessly. Pay the tax of dedication; offer the tribute of patience, humility, and effort. Do not seek art for applause, but for communion with the higher order of truth and beauty. Let your craft, however small, be an act of reverence, not vanity. For in the temple of creation, every note, every word, every stroke is sacred.

So when you hear Sitwell’s quip — “I wish the government would put a tax on pianos for the incompetent” — smile, but let that smile carry wisdom. Laugh as she laughed, but understand as she understood: that art without sincerity is noise, and that beauty, when rightly approached, demands both love and labor. For only those who serve their craft with heart and humility are free from the tax she names — the tax not of money, but of meaning.