They don't do they?
I'm using this line of argument with my wife who is currently trying to get me, at my advanced age, to learn to drive on the miserable basis that, since we live in Misty Valley, Brigadoonshire, it would make the family's life inestimably better if both of us could drive for school, food, help etc. But if I drive, I tell her, it would be an admission that my poetry is bad.
The only exception to this rule that I know is Philip Larkin but Martin Amis (who, incidentally, thinks all good novelists have bad teeth) declares with some authority that Larkin's creativity declined as soon as he got behind a steering wheel.
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