The Writer

"Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more.
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
signifying NOTHING"
- from Macbeth

He is not quite mad
but certainly not quite sane:
he has seen horrible things
(sometimes in history books)
and had the cursed intelligence
to understand them

He is hopelessly addicted to many things
whisky, music, women, praise,
writing being among the worst

Everyday brings head-aches
and terrible pain...
or a milder opiated version
with a terrible subreality;
No, he is not exactly a junkie, yet,
has a documented and severe malady
a good doctor
has never used a needle:
but he knows where that road often goes

He is the knowing sort:
that's half the problem,
rebellious artistic types
should not be so knowing:
their art should be as a performance on a stage
they can enter or leave,
or else should be virtuous and honorable
as Brutus "armed strong with honesty"

Yet he is none of these:
not truly
not exactly

For our Steppenwolfian writer,
the world is a manuscript
and must be precise, exact, dead perfect