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"..as though art were all about self-expression rather than artifice."

sat6oct2007—40w279d76%— 05h13m00s—0utc

For my writer friends. From Intelligent Life’s article on On The Road’s anniversary, Fifty years of solitude.

This is why the book has always left a bad taste in my mouth: its most passionate defenders treat it as a sacred text, and seem to think that feeling — depth of feeling, loudness of feeling, existence of feeling — somehow justifies a piece of writing or an opinion, as though art were all about self-expression rather than artifice.

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