…met de literatuurgeschiedenis dan toch, in een brief naar Gregory Corso:
Poetry is ‘Ode to the West Wind’? Wake up. Poetry is Shakespeare and nobody but Shakespeare and don’t Pound me no Tolstoy me broach me no rejoinder! Shakespeare is a vast continent, Shelley is a village. Why do you insist, Gregory, on being DIFFERENT and chosing unlikely Shelley for your hero, why do you be afraid of being like everybody else and admitting the Supreme Greatness of Bard Will Shakespeare? […] Apollinaire is a veritable cow’s turd in a meadow in the continent of Shakespeare. The greatest French poet is Rabelais… The greatest Russian poet is Dostoevsky. The greatest Italian poet is Corso. The greatest German poet is probably Spengler for all I goddamn know. The greatest Spanish poet is of course Cervantes. The greatest American poet is Kerouac. The greatest Israeli poet is Ginsberg. The greatest Eskimo poet is Lord Bleaky Igloogloo. The greatest Burroughsian poet is World.
Al is het maar om de opmerking over Apollinaire en die laatste twist. En dan nog dit, in een biref aan Don Allen:
The act of composition is wiser by far than the act of afterarrangement, ‘changes to help the reader’ is a fallacious idea prejudging the lack of instinctual communication between avid scribbling narrator and avid reading reader, it is also a typically American business idea like removing the vitamins out of rice to make it white (popular).
En zo is het!