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?
"The world is what it is; men who are nothing, who allow themselves to become nothing, have no place in it." ― V.S. Naipaul, A Bend in the River
2 comments:
Disappointing ordinariness... hmmm... why does that somehow sound so true to life eh? But I can bear living with disappointing ordinariness if there are at least those brief moments of lunatic writing passion.
Writers rarely make interesting company. Unless perhaps when they are in the company of other writers and then the conversation is maybe in the same wave length.
Very rare is a writer who has the abilities of Shaw and Wilde in private as well as public.
An apt observation, that!
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