lundi 17 janvier 2011

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

I've been here before. I built a career on bad reviews. On rejection. Me and Bulowski. Or sombody. They can't kill me. I hope. But they have sent me adrift one more time. What's the alternative? Figure out what "they want" and write the same shit over and over, move those units, make those bucks for the Man? If I was smart I'd do that, right? Stick to the tried and true, the formula. That's what all successful artists do. And in my case, that would be what? What is my formula for success? I knocked 'em dead with a collection of short stories tenty-fice years ago. What was I writing about that was so appealing then? Anger? Ambition? Drugs? Sex with my movie star girlfriend Elizabeth? Maybe I was dumber then, more outspoken and thus easier to read. Doesn't matter, that voice is no longer my voice. I'm not that guy anymore. Can't do it.
I wrtie my novels because I have to. That's all. And Leon publishes them. And now the new one is out there languishing. That's the way the artistic cookie crumbles. Not that anyone gives a shit. Just my own thing. Absurd isn't it? Writing for my own benefit. What's that? If no one's interested in what I have to say, then my writing is nothing more than the inner monologue of a lunatic, right? Might as well be pacing the streets of Manhattan in an old overcoat, flinging my arms about, ranting. What's the diff? Yes, I'm a petty, self-involved egotist. But I've dedicated myself to this thing. What does Ian McEwan call it? This "writing project." It is important. It has to be important or I could never stick with it. What difference does it make what they think? My conviction is what makes the art. (Spoken like a true mediocre artist.)
(p. 25-26)

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