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“It was the poet himself who allowed the business of publishing to turn him to stone. He has no one to blame but himself. So afraid of rejection! So afraid he wouldn’t measure up to his models! So afraid he would be misunderstood!”
“He told me once he defined himself as a writer, not a professional writer but an imaginative one.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“Well, he wanted to re-invent everything not simply his pathetic life into stories and such. He wanted to reinvent the world that appeared, at times, ready to implode taking everything with it.”
“He was a spirited and arrogant man in youth.”
“He told me that he felt everything and everyone who touched on the unconscious motion of life forward was complicit in the doom and he wanted no part of it.”
“Oh, a sad illusionist! Ha, I bet he learned his lesson.”
“It was an adventure few experience or appreciate he told me.”
“Poets are crazy, especially in a crazy world that adds several forms of craziness together to make what it calls normal reality.”
“Do you blame them then?”
“They are blameless as long as they come through with the master work. There is no other purpose for that type but to create master work.”
“Even though this is not a receptive world and seems to be a crushing machine to the end of time?”
“Things change much more dramatically than you think. Ask any rock laying around the ground.”
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