Keats once said in a letter to Alfred Halsey that “Poetry is the art of being interested in nothing.” If that is true, what he said, then I am a true poet. Nothing interests me in particular, aside from what interests everyone; I’m not even interested in poetry itself. It is interested in me.
Huh? Well, that’s the gist of my thoughts here. The climate is so marvelous I just walk around all day and smoke all night. The natives have stopped noticing me, except when I screw up the language and say something incredible, like, “I’d like a boke,” instead of “ ” (fill in). Which reminds me of a letter I got from Burroughs, just before I left Tulsa. I had written to him, asking him for information about rage, such as where and how to get it, prepare it, etc. My letter to him was short and to the point. I really didn’t expect an answer. About 2 days before we left, his letter came. It said something like, “If you are as nice as you say you are, what you’re looking for will be of no use to you, since everybody experiences anger the moment their soppy heads come slurping through the quivering bodies of their mother.” Do you think he could have gotten my letter confused without someone else’s?