If T.S. Eliot were alive today, the motherfucker would be on Facebook just like the rest of us, checking his notifications, and being disappointed when people didn’t like his Youtube clip of Lucille Bogan’s “Tricks Ain’t Walkin’ No More”. He would loosen his tie late at night, unbutton his stiff celluloid
collar and wearily scroll through the six or seven poetry groups he belongs to, wondering why so few people were commenting on his links to his new work-in-progress, which he is calling “The Waste Land”. Perhaps the title is too off-putting?
“I shall try to squeeze out one more line tonight.” And with great effort he does, and, sighing, he returns to Facebook.
He still has half a joint, which he has been saving for after the night’s creative work is done. Smoking, and drinking that last can of Pabst he checks his notifications again. No one has liked his latest link yet.
“Tom! Are you coming to bed?”
“In a while, sweetheart!”
Oh, wait there’s a new comment:
“I hate it when poets put all these foreign words and phrases in their poems. Okay, you have an ejumacation, we get it! Write in English, douchebag!”
That was certainly rude. He knows he should simply block the fellow. But instead he prepares a reply...
NUGGETS FROM THE VAULT By popular demand: below you will find tables of contents of various of our ongoing features; the most recent installments are listed first. Simply click on a particular item to be whisked magically to a very special place.
"Railroad Train to Heaven", the unexpurgated memoirs of Arnold Schnabel
"Young Marcel" by Francis X. Armstrong (Oxford University Press, 649 pp, $39.99): Teenage Marcel Proust stows away on a freighter to the New World, joins Teddy Roosevelt's Rough Riders, experiences war, malaria, and first love in the arms of the fiery daughter of a Cuban revolutionary.