citycabn wrote: > However, am not sure RMR adjective is correct. Would opt for something more > along the lines of "icy". RMR did not care for either his own child > (wouldn't attend her wedding for fear of missing a poem) or his readers. > Auden's line " the Santa Claus of loneliness" and the young poet letters and > the early mushy poems of Book of Pictures and the mushier Stories of God and > The Cornet have misled the reading public re the true nature of "this > bastard Rilke". Now, this is a position on art I have been thinking about a lot lately, prompted by a book I am reading called `Stravinsky's Lunch' by Drusilla Modjeska. It's an Australian book, about two female artists born around the same time, and whose lives ran parallel until one married and moved overseas, and the other became a recluse. The title derives from an anecdote the author heard about Stravinsky. Apparently, while he was eating lunch with his family, no one was allowed to utter one sound in fear of ruining his train of thought. The anecdote was spoken as an example of the fact that the bruised egos of a couple of squealing kids are well worth a `Rites of Spring' but came to the author to symbolise something completely different: the fact that the Art of the man was something imposed upon the women and children. Now, the idea of not attending my own child's wedding is pretty repugnant to me. Once I wrote a play in four days so I could spend time with a loved one and the play actually came out better as a result. If a story dies, well, the next one will be stronger as a result. I even used to write in twos, letting the stronger project feed off the weaker one until it was abandoned. I figure my deal as a writer is that it should be a 50-50 split between writing and living. Or else, you have nothing to write about! Simple as that, and even simpler to forget sometimes. I wonder in the same `breath' how actors in Hollywood with 90 room houses could ever aspire to playing `real' people in movies, and how a writer who has barely ventured out in 35 years can likewise write about `real' people. Camille verona_beach@hotpop.com