Waiting For The Barbarians
There is, in its own way, something remarkable about the compression of sensation produced by life in New York City in the year 2022; the phenomenology is nugatory, winnowing, harsh in an almost sublime way: you feel yourself wearing down, but in the way a canyon is worn down by a river. This way of life—this polyvalent, simultaneous, liquid experience of thing—will produce poets, eventually, if it is not producing them now. For now, it seems to produce only commentators, like myself, who are like the late writers of antiquity—watching the barbarians pass through the gates.
It is not so much that disappointment begins as love, but that love lives under the shadow of disappointment, and must, for that reason, constantly seek the sun.
Poetry is produced by crisis, which is why poets die or burn out early—and why poets are so rarely produced these days at all: the managed, professionalized, institutionalized world is there to forestall and repress crisis.
Addictions, of any kinds, are substitutes which gradually become the real thing.
There is something comforting in becoming friends with ex-lovers who have gotten married and started families; it feels civilized—a bit like the end of an 18th century novel.
So much Internet writing speaks with the kind of fake authority we can only call the ‘grad school voice’.
So much Internet writing seems written to be aggregated and disseminated rather than read.
So much Internet writing—though not all—effaces culture instead of creating it or even appreciating it.
Pure discourse: that which speaks, utters itself, and says nothing.
Without intuitions, all you’re left with is politics.