At the workshops

photo: from sawi



Sometimes this is what they tell young writers: that man does not live by words alone, he has to make bread too.

I find it very unsettling. The spectre of the starving artist conjured up like a scarecrow by old men who fear only a day without food. So art can't be larger than life? Sure, even a writer has to stand in line at the bread queue, but what does she say before she gets there?

It sounds to me like a paean to mediocrity.