I knew it was true; I had faith in my art and my muse. But still it is nice to have it confirmed by someone other than a chap I met in a tavern. It appears that in the dying hours of yesterday, as the special offer on ‘Lambent Dreams’ faded slowly into memory, I have regained fourth place amongst the greats.
Homer, yes I have read his work. If you want to a battle scene described, with all the piercing and slashing and gushing that this entails, then Homer is indeed your man.
Aristotl? Again I will not have a word said against him in my presence. A fine mind; no, a brilliant mind, but a philosopher rather than a poet, surely?
And Beowulf, again a master when it comes to sword play or descriptive passages redolent of the stench of foulness and dark deeds, let his name be held in honour.
And then me, the only one still living, still working, still toiling at the literary forge, bending metaphor to my will and hammering Chiasmus and Synaesthesia together about the volta. That I indeed should be numbered in that august company is no small honour.
But for all their greatness I have one thing still that they lack. For me the day can start as the sun caresses my face as she peers shyly through the porthole. Or the rain can beat down upon me as I make my weary way from patron to patron seeking some small commission that will keep the bailiff from my door.
It is true that unlike those greats, who have ventured unwillingly into the great dark before me, I can take solace in a glass of wine or the taste of new bread smeared with butter and honey.
As the master says, ‘A glass of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou.’
But here we come to the nub. Glasses of fine wine do not pour themselves. It is the same with the fresh bread. Bakers and tavern keepers are dour, often sour individuals. I find them embittered by experience, resentful of youthful charm and wit, surly and unwilling to extend even a trifle more credit.
Note I do not blame them, indeed at times the artist within me can almost feel their pain.
But what to do about it?
The answer is obvious. You merely have to purchase a copy of Lambent Dreams and I shall immediately take the money and let it spread like fairy dust throughout the city. It will bring a sparkle to dull eyes, a spring to the heavy step. It will pass through leaving behind it laughter and merriment, joyous company and good fellowship. Be bold, be decisive, be strong. Set aside your doubts and buy. You know it makes sense.