Michael Gottlieb / Letters to a Middle-Aged Poet / 5


What are we supposed to do now?

Do we try and hop aboard those fast-moving freights? Do we claim that we too are one of them, that we are card carrying members of their movements – we’re with them and just like them – and always have been (even before they were conceived of), or does that make us seem ridiculous? And, if we do not try and sport those ill-fitting skinny jeans and pork pie hats and (for those of us capable of sprouting same) that artfully curated facial hair – what indeed is left for us?

If we can’t be one of them, can’t carry that off, are we obliged to ask ourselves: why bother writing at all anymore?

previous page     contents     next page



Post a Comment

<< Home