"Nancy Springer - Transendence" - читать интересную книгу автора (Springer Nancy)

Riiiight. In case you haven't noticed, dirty guys with tattoos and nose hair are
in. Drugheads are in. Sneers are in. I don't have enough "attitude," whatever
that means. And as for where I came from, I come from Iowa -- how uncool. Nobody
is interested in me.

I wish I had the talent to be a writer, make something of my life that way. Give
it meaning. Alchemize art out of pain. I admire what you do so much, yet you
seem to think I'm a fool for loving your poetry. You keep telling me to shut up
about it, go read Yeats, your stuff is nothing but a plastic flim-flam, it's a
sham, a cosmetic illusion you've put between you and the world, it's your
labyrinth to hide in. But that's nuts. I can't believe you think your poetry is
something separate from you. I can't believe you think it misrepresents you.
Your poetry came out of you, it's an emanation of you, it's your soul, don't you
see? And it is beautiful. Therefore you are beautiful.

I'll see you next week. Let me pay for dinner this time.
Love,
Jeremy

Dear Jeremy,

God, you signed your letter "love," what do I have to do to make you see I am a
big ugly joke? Listen to me for once. My poetry which you so adore is a
consummate farce. Here is how I write it: I put buzzwords on squares of scrap
paper, throw them all in a margarine tub and pull them out two at a time.
Whatever gets paired up, I just splice it together into a line. It's totally
random. It doesn't mean a thing, understand? It's a party game.

You think you mean something to me? I can fix that. I can write a poem about
you. All I have to do is come up with some Jeremy words, thus:
milk pagan god
hazel eyes Bugle Boys honey
cheekbones wise child
boat shoes shoulders angel

Then I throw them all in the butter cup, mix them up and pour them out and stick
them together with syrup. It's no more challenging than those collages kiddies
make out of magazine clippings for summer-camp arts&crafts. It means nothing.

If you still want to come next week, let me know and I will cook. You can't
afford to feed me. You have no idea how ravenous I can be.

Chavadon

Dear Chavadon,

Whoa, I never knew mere food could be so good! Anybody who can make meringue
like that has the soul of an artist, so stop trying to tell me you're a fake. I
don't care what you say about the way you create your poetry; it's the
manifestation that counts, and the transcendence is there. You ask where did I