The anatomy of sour grapes...

...are like the anxiety of influence. Here's the backstory from Aesop's Fables:

ONE hot summer’s day a Fox was strolling through an orchard till he came to a bunch of Grapes just ripening on a vine which had been trained over a lofty branch. “Just the things to quench my thirst,” quoth he. Drawing back a few paces, he took a run and a jump, and just missed the bunch. Turning round again with a One, Two, Three, he jumped up, but with no greater success. Again and again he tried after the tempting morsel, but at last had to give it up, and walked away with his nose in the air, saying: “I am sure they are sour.”
---"It is easy to despise what you cannot get." http://www.bartleby.com/17/1/31.html

The fox gives up on the idea walks away, convincing himself that the grapes are no good anyways without knowing that they aren't.
Luckily for us, the esoteric, we can reach the grapes because, as Bloom says, "Freedom for Epicurus emanates from ataraxia, of kind of sublime indifference that renders you immune from anxieties and irrational fears. Is ataraxia the fruit of swerve?" (142) Yes, let's assume. This ataraxy, similar to some sense of nirvana, very well could be a good starting point for us (the literary people who're always troubled by our inefficient byproducts [i.e. essays, stories, blogs, etc.] that we've come up with for class in order to somehow reveal the next great idea and make it apparent to our fellow literary and non-literary peoples). Swerving away from  ourselves involves some sense of self-recognition as well as self-indifference, built upon the fact that the self can be split through our poetry and, "That was a person-in-a-poet, but the poet proper was fierce, as strong poets have to be in their agon with tradition" (170). When we write poetry in class we're forced to say "Yes, I wrote that." But, really, did you? No, according to the nature of the swerving poet, the poet whose discovered ataraxia, and the person who separate themselves by means of their poetic self. The poet when composing a poem immerses themselves in a state of incantation bringing their reader on a journey which has absolutely nothing (yet absolutely everything philosophically, but that's another poetic debate) to do with the person (the person-first, the poet-second). The poet who hasn't yet broken them self in hasn't left reality, a form of paradise, and the best poets bring us on a journey where "Everything depended upon how you fell, since falling was the human condition" (171). Paradise Lost, although I haven't read it, is nothing without the separation of selves because "Satan is Milton's daimon, his alter ego, perhaps even the Miltonic genius" (119) and in other words from another poet, "For Yeats the daimon was the ultimate self" (187).

Our daimon is who we have to discover and we have to allow our daimon to argue with other demons, which are lesser-ultimate selves. This is what Shakespeare did so well, he separated himself into hundreds of characters who disagreed and helped one another.

The fox jumped but hasn't yet fallen because he hasn't eaten his divine fruit, unalike Eve. The bundle of fruit will onset his animal condition once the fox is overcome with ataraxia, swerves, and then sees those sour grapes in a sweeter light.