Milton

In Praise of Futility

Photograph: Old Keys Upclose by Laineys Repertoire via Flickr.com Creative CommonsWhat’s a guy gotta do to get some reaction around here? In last week's post I more or less said Emily Dickinson--had she not found poetry--would have turned out to be a serial poisoner and that Walt Whitman could have been a darn fine used car salesman, and I didn’t hear even a grandmotherly tsk tsk tsk.

Have we really reached the point where any schmo with a keyboard can slag two of the purest of American literature’s saints, and it doesn’t even warrant lukewarm pique?

I, frankly, am outraged.

Not really.

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