Good writers do not channel in from some higher plain, they are simply human creatures who have a talent for expression and a talent, as Noel Coward would have said, to amuse. Everything they write is an expression of their selfs.
Why do we assume classics are impenetrable and obsolete? Why do we imagine that an ecology that privileges "emerging artists" while all but abandoning mature ones, let alone historical ones, will have resonance in the long run?
Barney Rosset died last week at age 89, and for those who valued his contribution to upholding First Amendment rights in this country, his championing the works of artists, the event truly marks the end of an era.
You'd have thought that someone who seemed to spend most of his time looking for excuses not to paint, and who finished only about 15 paintings in his whole lifetime, might not be all that good at it. But you would, of course, be wrong.
One of the oddities of Beckett scholarship is that while so much attention has been lavished on him, there remain puzzling gaps in the record and a prickly reserve about discussing certain aspects of Beckett's personal life.
In a country ruled by the military for most of its existence, where the ruling elites are better known for corruption and thievery, where is the little guy supposed to find relief? Humor is what keeps Pakistanis sane.