Sight, Flight, the luck of the draw ...
Somewhere a man existed who made an attempt to raise the human person to the optimum height of divinity. Of course, he met a bad end, but that should not cause us to discolor his work. Never mind. Religious people annoy me.
Eliot, when you wrote: Between the conception / And the creation / Between the emotion / And the response / Falls the shadow ('The Hollow Men,' V.) ... Where are these hollow men, and the ones who write about them? That is, to me, the most telling critique of your work. [Now keep in mind that the only and BEST way of critiquing Eliot is to talk to him as though he were still existing.] ... But I've no wish to critique Eliot. Instead ...
A day came when I fancied myself a poet ... Not to be! Yet there was an intriguing banter proffered by our Eliot: 'Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season' (Gerontion).
What thoughts! I think I know, my friend ... : When I get sober, I cease to have thoughts worthy of their season. I know no peace. Eliot has failed. Nothing but torment scrapes the dried flesh of our mortal lives. So fuck off, and listen to Mahler.
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