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Out, Damned Bartlett!Author(s): Robert GoddardSource: The North American Review, Vol. 250, No. 4 (Sep., 1965), p. 5Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25116212 .
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Pot on the Fire
LETTERS NEVER MAILED DEPARTMENT
Arkansaw, Wisconsin
September 1, 1965
Mr. Barney Rosset Publisher and Editor Grove Press, Inc.
64 University Place New York, New York
Dear Mr. Rosset:
The following is quoted from a publicity sheet sent out by Grove Press with an August 25th release date.
"Ten of the most distinctive, individual, and influen tial American writers . . ." the release continues and
then includes among that sacred ten "William Bur
roughs tells here how he uses his famous 'cut up meth od' in which pages of text are cut out and rearranged to form new combinations and his 'fold in method' in
which a page of text?'my own or someone else's'?
is folded down the middle and placed on another page, with the composite text then read across half one text and half the other."
Unless you, Mr. Rosset, are a most sardonic practical joker, this blurb answers the question as to what has
happened to at least part of contemporary American writers. And publishers. They are writing and pub lishing by and for schizoids.
Say that it is only your morbid jest.
Sincerely, Diogenes Jones
?b^
of my ways. Now I am my own man, knowing full well that the art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair and that he
that goes a borrowing goes a sorrowing. Once but a gatherer and disposer of other men's
stuff, I wrapped myself in quotations as a beggar would enfold himself in the purple of emperors. Whatever
gods may be, mine was Bartlett, little knowing at the
time that to observations which ourselves we make, we
grow more partial for the observer's sake. Verily, I
had a tiger by the tail, laughing scornfully at friends
who urged me to avoid all citations from poets, for to
quote them argues feeble industry. As it turns out now, I thank them heartily for their
advice. Although many receive advice, few profit by it.
But not I. I went and sinned no more. A little quoting, in truth, can be a dangerous thing, and enough is equal to a feast.
By necessity, by proclivity, and by delight we all
quote. But a quotation, like a pun, should come un
sought, and then be welcome only for some propriety or felicity justifying the intrusion.
Of course, all wise men will agree that those who
never quote in return are seldom quoted. But I was
making it too much of a good thing?like some who
for renown, on scraps of learning dote, and think they grow immortal as they quote.
Nevermore, nevermore! In writing, as in everything, I have discovered that the best place to find a helping hand is at the end of my arm. There is no easy way
out, for toil is the sire of fame, and who casts to write a living line, must sweat. After all, Rome wasn't built
in a day. Once that sincerest form of flatterer, an imitator, not
ever likely to whiff the sweet smell of success, I say to
all aspiring scribblers here and now: To thine ownself
be true. I hate quotations. Tell me what you know.
And never for a moment believe that there is no
bore we dread being left alone with so much as our own
minds. To the contrary, there are few brains that would
not be better for living on their own fat a little while.
As for Bartlett, for such kind of learning as this, if
it be not bettered by the borrowers, among good au
thors is accounted Plagiare. All bad things, like good things, of necessity coming
to an end, I say to Bartlett: Get thee to a nunnery: with your wits, your bards and your storytellers. Out of
sight, say I, out of mind. I hear their gentle voices
calling, but I shall not look upon their like again. In conclusion, if I may be permitted one small quote,
the foregoing may have been an ill-favored thing, sir, but it was mine own. Actually, I couldn't have said
that better myself. So all's well that ends well.
Robert Goddard
Globe-Democrat
St. Louis, Missouri
OUT, DAMNED BARTLETT!
Frankly, there for a while I was beginning to wonder
if I'd ever make it as a writer at all. The trouble was
that I spoke with many voices. It was not that I loved
my talent less, but I loved old Bartlett more. Ay, there's the rub. Rather than realizing that individuality is the salt of common life, I played the sedulous ape to many masters.
Fortunately, better late than never, I saw the error
September, 1965 5
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