![]() All that maybe the slightly better ones do is sort of get inside your head and leave something there, but just because they do, just because they know how to leave something, it doesn’t have to be a poem, for heaven’s sake. The ones you’re talking about don’t leave a single, solitary thing beautiful. I mean you’re supposed to leave something beautiful after you get off the page and everything. “If you’re a poet, you do something beautiful. “I was only trying-” “I know this much, is all,” Franny said. I’m feeling very peculiar and funny, and I can’t-” “All right, all right-O.K. It might only have meant that the room was too warm, or that her stomach was upset, or that the Martinis were too potent in any case, Lane didn’t seem to notice it. I really would.” There was a faint glisten of perspiration high on Franny’s forehead. ![]() Just tell me first what a real poet is, if you don’t mind. I’m feeling absolutely lousy, and I’m getting a terrible-” “ I’d be very happy to drop the whole subject- I’d be delighted. I mean do you have to be a goddam bohemian type, or dead, for Chrissake, to be a real poet? What do you want-some bastard with wavy hair?” “No. ![]()
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