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My older self scorns the writing of my younger self, my younger self scorns my older self for not writing at all — not really writing; not writing in the sense of risking, of putting something on the line; for not having the courage to genuinely — and not ironically — try to fashion something to stand up to Joyce or Proust or James or Pynchon or Eliot or Woolf and so on. I denigrate content-making/writing content — but that’s almost certainly what I, myself, have fallen into. Just a few years ago, I woke up every day with a dizzying eagerness to fail at the task of making Literature; Poetry. Now, that eagerness is gone. I’m lucky to read a little bit of a book every day, let alone write one.
