Nowhere ~ Charles Bukowski. Well, where are they? The Hemingways, the T.S. Eliots, the Pounds, the e.e. cummingses, the Jefferses, the William Carlos Williamses? Where is Thomas Wolfe? William Saroyan? Henry Miller, Celine , Fante, Dos Passos? Where are they? Dead, I know but where are the replacements, where are the new others? To me, the present gang are soft fakes. Where is Carson McCullers? Where is one? Where are any? Where are they? What has occured, what has failed to occur? Where is our Turgenev? Our Gorky? I dont ask for Dostoevshi, theres no replacement for Fedor Mikhailovich. But these now, what are they? Making their tiny splashes, what practiced ineptness, what boredom of language, what a crass bastardly trick against print, against pages, against inhaling and exhaling. There is this loss of a natural and beautiful force. I look around and I look and I say: where are the writers? Well, Mr. Bukowski ... I wish you could have read Patrick Rothfuss, Mark Lawrence, Jeff Suwak or Christian Fennell and you would see the offspring, the new generation of writers who move, provoke and stir the soul.
Posted on: Sat, 08 Feb 2014 00:15:52 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015