March 26th, 2010



I am not New York; I will never be New York. I will never be Literary, not while I live, at least. (Do I want to be? Only in the sense that at times and in places Literary has been the equivalent of Respected.) I can not tell you what exact gulf there is, as it is more than physical, cultural or spiritual, for migrants of all three strata have made crossing and been accepted in ways I can not imagine applying to myself. It is somehow a way that only could bestow itself on me when I am static, as every breath I take is in naive contradiction of its ineffable essence.

Nothing reminds me of this more than the New York Times, and particularly their Books Update. I know all the words they use; I'm sensitive enough to feel their tone and weight. I can perceive where I am to see import, where pathos, where drama, dilettantism versus dedication to the Arts. "Here so-and-so draws aside the curtain of this mystery; how kind! Baseball, couples' therapy and whales are our selections for the day..." Yet somehow I am uncertain that any real enlightenment is intended, even by the authors thrice removed.

This suspicion is how I guess that even should I see pre-posthumous success it will be of a different and likely more self-defined variety than grace notes in patrician rolls of fame. Too much the mongrel, I, with doggerel described.