Critical undertakers don’t like your tie. It’s too clean for this play. It just doesn’t fall into place. You weren’t born Richie Rich. You should look how you lived, shouldn’t you? Ugh. The amateurs. The new age fancy pants. The half-knowledged unskilled artists. Always making the sophisticated art, of toil, rigour, practice, into something gaudy. Unpalatable pour moi. Learning to paint before they can sketch. Thinking they can make museums before they die penniless in a rented backyard.
Regarding nothing of study and libraries. Of spending days and nights hungry on a floor wondering about meaning, purpose, endings. They call me old and stubborn. Too rigid to change my ways. But I think they are too rigid to change theirs. The idea of “Do It” consumes them. They wander off into the deserts of our civilisation trying to find an oasis to justify that they just “did it”. Everything is superficial. Everything is lacklustre. No details. No footnotes. No incomprehensible scribbling done privately inside dark rooms.
There is no misery. No pain. Only a public display of difficulties that have become too commonplace for attention.
There is no poetry. Only words people think are beautiful, stitched together with as little meaning as that they experience in their lives.