The Judgment of Men

by mudrhetoric


The hardest thing to learn is when to stop.
There’s no shame in not finishing.
There are other books.
Other adventures.
Other knowledge.

Why must one find value in everything?
Why must one feign respect?
Because they are old?
Because they are remembered?
Who writes history anyhow?
And that’s considered a measure?

Baldwin and Burroughs.
Who are they?
Why should we care?
The Romantic myth.
Of incomparable genius.
Aesthetic sublimity,
On the tip of a phrenologist’s pen.

And what are the judgments of men?
Life’s too short
To be overly concerned.
Their opinions masked as informed critique.
Founded upon what?
Bloom’ canon?
And what of that?
A library smaller than Derrida’s.

As Steiner pointed out.
Those books aren’t for you.
They’re for someone else.
Let them read it.
Move on.
Dwell not.
Get on living.
It’s no reflection upon your character
To stay continually engaged with those you found bores.

I liken this to conceits of originality and perfectionism.
Make a cup for your brother saith Machado.
So he can drink.
What matters originality now?
Nothing is ever perfect.
At best, it’s good enough.
For you,  others forgive.
Therefore forgive yourself.
And go on.
What is failure anyway?