On to Stockholm you will go,
I will write your thank you speech,
You will read it, you will glow,
Such humility! A peach
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I laugh to see back then I included a ref to James Thurber's cartoon I thought I heard a seal bark - it's been a long time, James, and The New Yorker's not the same without you!
The New Yorker is not the same without Thurber but it survived even thrived for another 20 years. REading the New Yorker made me cultured and cultivated, I learned how to think in arguments, to appreciate creativity, to puzzle out sophisticated humor. Thanx much, New Yorker! ! But now, that magazine is just a shroud that haunts the news stand and makes remember what greatness was in cintrast to the thinness of today's remnant. BooHoo.
OUCH! This poem does not take any prisoners. You puncture one of the sacred balloons of the 20th-21st centuries. It's not so much the institution and the choices it makes. It is the corruption of self-serving media hype which infects all media that cheapens the award. But when you read the speeches of recipients you can still see the shining vision behind the award. Faulkner identified as his essential theme THE HUMAN HEART IN CONFLICT WITH ITSELF - that's wonderful. Octavio Paz said in 1990: THE PRESENT IS ALTERNATELY LUMINOUS AND SOMBER, LIKE A SPHERE THAT UNITES THE TWO HALVES OF ACTION AND CONTEMPLATION... THE POETIC EXPERIENCE IS A FOUNDATION FOR A PHILOSOPHY OF THE PRESENT. Excelsior! !