Black Swan Green

“Beautiful words ruin your poetry. A touch of beauty enhances a dish, but you throw a hill of it into the pot! No, the palate becomes nauseous. You belief a poem must be beautiful, or it can have no excellence. I am right?” “Sort of.” “Your ‘sort of’ is annoying. A yes, or a no, or a qualification, please. ‘Sort of’ is an idle loubard, an ignorant

Listening’s reading if you close your eyes. Music’s a wood you walk through.

Photos’re better than nothing, but things’re better than photos ’cause the things themselves were part of what was there.

“Good. I reply, verse is ‘made.’ But the word ‘make’ is unsufficient for a true poem. ‘Create’ is unsufficient. All words are insufficient. Because of this. The poem exists before it is written.” That, I didn’t get. “Where?” “T. S. Eliot expresses it so—the poem is a raid on the inarticulate. I, Eva van Outryve de Crommelynck, agree with him. Poems

Idiots labor in this misconception. Beauty is not excellence. Beauty is distraction, beauty is cosmetics, beauty is ultimately fatigue.

The destiny of discreet neighbors is to be confused with the noisy ones next door.

“Damn. I’ll post you this collection of essays, Inside the Whale.” “Thanks.” I fluked an 8, a 9, a 10, and acted like it was nothing special.

“This ‘Not Today’ attitude of yours is a cancer. Cancer of the character. It stunts your growth. Other kids sense your Not-Todayness, and despise you for it. ‘Not Today’ is why those plebs in the Black Swan make you nervous. ‘Not-Today’—I would bet—is at the root of that speech defect of yours.” (A shame bomb blew my head off.) “ ‘Not Today’ condem

(Eavesdropping’s sort of thrilling ’cause you learn what people really think, but eavesdropping makes you miserable for exactly the same reason.)