On the journey you drink beer from cold bottles, and peasant’s wine from the big leather sacks the fisherman gave you. When you arrive in the town square, you stop by a café for a bottle of champagne and a bottle of cheap wine. You hate the man you are with. You order more beer. Soon it will be time for lunch you will be in your underwear on the floor howling at the walls while classical music plays on a cheap radio. In the meantime you write some poetry.
That’s much better than either of my attempts. Well done.
Or more generally, “Look at this wonderful scientific/technological discovery that could change the world forever! Unfortunately the world will never know of it because we need to destroy it all for complicated reasons.”
I love this sort of thing and I know it’s beside the point but the premise…
…I don’t think this is actually true. Though I guess I can’t speak for everyone, I generally hear them praised for either some sort of lasting underlying truth or influence on their art form. I think imagination is pretty far down the list of how a book ends up on your class syllabus.
Haruki Murakami: Average man is thrust into inexplicable circumstances, shows remarkable dispassion and composure throughout while having way more sex than should be humanly possible.
This.
