Don’t know why but was struck with this note in my diary today. It’s from an interview of Alice Munro in the New Yorker:
“Yeats, when he was a young man, a young poet in Dublin, used to go around in this outrageous outfit: a long black cape, a black sombrero, trailing black trousers, and you know just looking purely poetic. And people, even in Dublin, were a bit sick of this. And Trevor says maybe its because the effort to make art leaves the person so exhausted that all that is left for people to find is a disappointing ordinariness.”
The disappointing ordinariness of a writer! What to do with that?