The critic Frank Kermode has argued, persuasively, I believe, that one of art’s greatest attractions is that it offers “the sense of an ending.” The sense of completeness that is projected by the work of art is to be found nowhere else in our lives. We cannot remember our birth, and we shall not know our death; in between is the ramshackle circus of our days and doings. But in a poem, a picture, or a sonata, the curve is completed. This is the triumph of form. It is a deception, but one that we desire, and require.