Faced with Beethoven it is difficult and perhaps absurd to carry on with one's chosen task understanding full well that anything less than galactic perfection will be a drizzle of urine in the Almighty's whirlwind. Mediocrity creeps in for the likes of half-talents and stays for a spell. Whatever gifts have been bestowed are frittered away by distraction and self-loathing. The insanity that is the 9th Symphony makes one’s body of work seem vulgar and wasteful, as though my life would have been better spent serving the true geniuses coffee and obtaining whores for their pleasure. So why bother at all then? I am not Shakespeare or even Carver. The work I do is on a margin somewhere between slightly entertaining and pretentious. Does anyone need to read another short story about human frailty? Another poem about the rain falling? I do it to keep myself in residence.
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