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.

Leave a comment

Filed under literature, Musings, Uncategorized

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s