But Time is a funny bird -- it gives and gives and gives and then stops giving, often for no good reason, or, at least, no good explanation.
Yes, I, who mocked Robert Bly for quoting himself (generously) in Iron John thus quote myself (from an unpublished text -- does this make it better or worse offence? (as long as we're being pretentious let's use the British) (and I Love Iron John -- I just find it funny, worth mocking, that's all). (By the by: all of this mocking takes place in the unpublished text, that I am quoting -- so, if no one reads my mocking, do I mock?)
I've been thinking on Time quite a bit lately, and spending of same. This is not new, an old habit, as some would know. But Time has finally spoken to me, in a loud way. Not as loudly as to G. Stewart Gerald, the theater/movie critic who was murdered at the last performance he would witness (well, technically it was the penultimate, but let's not split hairs), thus the quote above.
The critic, like many (most?), got no warning - Time's up. You are over. You have spent it all. A writer, he was displeased by his final words, and, had he the time to reflect, perhaps he might have felt shame about his overall body of work.
[I have lost interest in this train of thought. What writer is pleased with his output/quality/depth?]
[I have discovered that I do enjoy being quoted, even by myself. I feel much closer to the poet Bly now. P.S., If you have not seen it, Bly has a great interview in the Paris Review archives -- he was part of the Harvard post WWII faction etc., etc., And, he went to great extremes for his craft.]
I will come back to Time again. There is much to discuss. And I have been talked to. But now I have to get ready for a breakfast date with a friend I haven't seen in 89 days.