mardi 18 janvier 2011

Eric Bogosian, PERFORATED HEART, New York, Simon & Schuster, 2009, 271 pages.

You buttered me up. Flattered me. You memorized all my books. Perhpas to imitate me. And perhaps you will succeed with your imitation, perhaps you will be lauded for your imitation. Receive a grant or two. Maybe an award! A critic will marvel at your insightful and slick style. (Because the critics can only recognize the derrière-garde.)
But, Theo, it's not just about being a "good writer." That will get you nowhere. You must go much deeper. You must scapel your flesh, dig out your own bones, sharpen them on the stone of disappointment, strop them on anger until they're keen as quills, then dip them in your own painthickend blood. Then you can go to work. Awkwardly and publicly. With no guarantees. And that's how one makes one's way, "young scholar."
You will have to get angry, stay angry, at society, at the world, at the rich and the poor, the politicians and the academy, and me, for years, to find your way. This is what you need and what your work needs. And still, it may not come. Without anger, you cannot be a great artist.
(p. 270)

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