All I mean is that it seems to me merely another instance of American self-consciousness when confronted by one’s oddness, when the oddness is what makes value.
The great shock is to find himself alone in life—with no contact—not even with that sweet but silly little wretch Ophelia. Horatio a heart-of-oak dumbbell. Laertes a boring soldier. Polonius a blow-fly. The Queen a toad. Then, realizing that he should really turn away from these fakes to his real self, he feels the pressure of society suddenly on him…
The poets you talk of are mere copies of course…
…I had always made my living by writing advertisements. Hated to go back to that but had made up my mind to do it. Then something came up.
Below, Nietzsche pens an energetic—and, perhaps, uncharacteristically mirthful—dispatch to his mother, Franziska Oehler. The letter was, in part, compensatory, as Nietzsche himself was supposed to arrive at his mother’s at roughly this time. Of this incident, Nietzsche’s sister noted: “The … Continued
One of these days I’ll send you one of me and two of my friends but my friends are not very cooperative about having their pictures struck—don’t like to be seen with me or something.
“I’ve shot my wad. Bear up, my dear, and come back to us. Elizabeth is grand, enormous, lovely and sends you her love, and I send mine…”
Below, poet Kenneth Patchen responds to New Directions Press founder James Laughlin’s frenzied, combative, and actually-kind-of-funny dispatch (which we published here on Monday) regarding the poet’s seeming failure to send vast numbers of NDP books to retailer. Patchen’s reply was … Continued
And yet I would so much like the ‘Unknown Lady’ to speak to me…
“Now WHAT IS THE TROUBLE? I can’t dope it out. Are you eating the orders? Are you using them to paper the walls of your private megalomaniacal world? Or what?”