Over the weekend, I picked it up again and started to read. Luckily, I came across the part where the Victorian poets begin to write to each other about their work, and each other, and love begins to blossom.
Amidst the flowery yet poignant prose, I found a nice bit, which I feel compelled to share with you, dear reader, because I thought it could be applied to my thread about online life, writing as performance.
Ash writes to Miss Lamotte...
You know how it is, being yourself a poet - one writes such and such a narrative, and thinks as one goes along - here's a good touch - this concept modifies that - will it not be too obvious to the generality? - too thick an impasto of the Obvious - one almost has disgust at the too-apparent meaning - and then the general public gets hold of it, and pronounces it at the same time too heartily simple and too loftily incomprehensible - and it is clear that whatever one had hoped to convey is lost in the mists of impenetrability - and slowly loses it's life - in one's own mind, as much as in its readers.
How many of you have spotted that i'm actually writing an epic poem here?