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I didn’t start writing songs until I was 58. There are those who feel that’s a good thing, which I could take one of two ways. The less charitable way, of course, deserves a quick stab with the fuck-you engine. The other view is congruent with the learned opinion that one cannot appreciate Dostoevsky until the turmoil of youth has well passed, and fifty is too young.

Hipster culture (‘hipsterism’? puh-leeze..) (or in its more generalized phylum, guided compliant conformist consumerism) is hardly new. I need not point to the failure to sell, in their lifetime, of Melville or Emily Dickinson. Yes, dead white people. Deal with it.

You’re a long time dead. It seems to me, as this inevitability draws nearer, that preparation involves rejecting, as may sometimes be prudent or necessary, the forms and fashions of the day in favor of your own illusions, for illusions they all are, as is the lake in which we swim.

Isley’s - I can’t tell you (who to sock it to)

Townes Van Zandt Where I Lead Me

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