![]() |
|||||
![]() |
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() |
||||
![]() |
|
||||
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() |
Monday May 1/2006 I differentiated the Writing section (poetry, essays, creative process, haikus, doodles etc.) from the Books, Films, and even Music sections, because those sections sometimes help me to pay taxes and buy bananas and so on. Poetry and essays? Not so much. Needless to say Or my favourite part (actually the very first part) of Shelby, a book I recall with great fondness, but barely remember: In 1907, on the day after his twentieth birthday, the poet Rupert Brooke wrote to his mother: “I am now in the depths of despondency because of my age. I’m filled with an hysterical despair to think of fifty dull years more. I hate myself and everyone.” But enough about him. —Pete McCormack, 1993
|
||||
copyright 2006 Pete McCormack |