Art, life, the whole shebang…

I've been reading Tropic of Cancer by Henry miller.  In love with the language.  Imagine writing a work of art and all along knowing that it is revolutionary, dangerous even.  I would like to do that one day, to be so radical that I am questioned.  How beautiful.

That's the problem with being a poet in modern America.  No one will protest what no one will read.  Short stories, even, are ignored by the masses.  Oh well, I'll have to find an inner novelist if I want to be great in my own time.

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Filed under literature, Musings, Uncategorized

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