Why
write? What’s it for? I mean, writing. A stack of cream cartridge, another Word
screen, those miles of exacting centimetres. I know all the answers, I’ve been
there before. Learned essays could be written. But why write? Is it ambition,
desire, expression, ennui? What does it achieve, disappearing back into time, a
name and some words? So many words, so much unread. Waste of excellence,
neglect of culture. Pages wait but who reads? Take the cream and leave the
rest. If I wrote triple-decker novels set in August, a poem that captured Everything,
would I still ask, why write?
No comments:
Post a Comment