Our lives are good for one telling regardless of how different or outrageous or painful it’s been. What is impossible to drain is what I’m going to call the awe of our existence. What Keats would have called Beauty. But that’s more difficult to create poetry or any art from, and that’s why that work lives longer. Baudelaire comes to mind. His life in Paris is embedded and referred to but isn’t what his poem are about. They are his imagination and thought and the dream of escape and on and on. Today’s literature, imo, is all experiential and political.
My damn dogs are barking! Why do I have three dogs? That is one of those unanswerable questions I’m talking about.
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Threaded Mode
