Charles Simic, a poet himself, tries to explain the method behind the madness for the frustrated folks who just don’t get the place of poets in a capitalist society:
“To write a six-hundred-page novel takes years. You go and work at your desk every day the way a miner goes to his mine and you feel as drained afterwards. Of course, that kind of work should be amply rewarded. A poet stands by the window watching the rain fall, or looks at the lock of hair of his old sweetheart, scribbles something down on a piece of paper and is through for the day.”
He might want to reconsider his audience though; the New York Review of Books blog readership is either moneyed and loves reading or following his same poetic economics plan.
