Member-only story
After a long time of producing words, I’d like to write them again. I’d like to become a chef and not a cook; I’d like to taste the food.
I can’t be alone anymore because I can’t be out of constant communication with someone, anyone, anymore — like the rest of us.
I worry that if the only people who read literature are academics, then literature will not only die, but cease to exist except as canon fodder for third-rate minds.
I hate listening to this NYU undergraduate spout cliches about Shakespeare and Chekhov to his date while I write; I hate that she doesn’t call bullshit, that she has no idea how to call bullshit — that seemingly no one does anymore. A stupid culture can only produce opinions; an intelligent culture produces arguments.
This is what critics and philosophers are supposed to do: create and maintain and intelligent culture. Unfortunately, they’re too busy getting tenure.
