Yet why not that too? With a little ego-building — such as the fait accompli this journal provides — I shall win through to the confidence that I (I) have something to say, that should be said. My “I” is puny, cautious, too sane. Good writers are roaring egotists, even to the point of fatuity. Sane men, critics, correct them — but their sanity is parasitic on the creative fatuity of genius.Well, this is all very bloggish, isn't it? I'm just noticing this long collection of journal entries because it's high on the NYT most-emailed list right now. It was in yesterday's NYT Magazine, which I never got around to opening -- other than to note that the second puzzle was not one of the kind I do. I was terribly busy on Sunday. And I don't mean just blogging about and trying to watch that damned docudrama. I did have the magazine in bed and then next to the bed all night, but I never got to the point of reading it.
Years ago, when I wanted to be an artist, I once expressed that idea "I want to be that persona, [an artist]" to a large mixed group. I said it too emphatically, to the point of... fatuity... and later felt quite ashamed and just wished I hadn't said it. I really felt that the important thing was to be an artist, to live the life of an artist, and then you'd have to do the art, of course, but that was secondary. Later, I thought, what an idiot, how embarrassing.
Too puny, too cautious, too sane.