"..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.