a whistling chill over my feeble flame

in an interview with harper’s arthur krystal restates that he simply cannot enjoy contemporary poetry, prose, or literary criticism because it does not have the ability to make him change the way he views the world. in essence, those art forms have run their course:

one has to be a genius, a veritable genius, these days to write an original and historically significant poem or novel. The same applies to painting and classical music. And by “significant,” I mean something that will not only astonish but will change forever how we regard the form. And as you know, I don’t think this is possible anymore. And this, too, is a function of age, the world’s age. When an art form is just emerging, when an aesthetic movement is still developing, genius isn’t necessary to create memorable works. Talent and knowledge are sufficient. Geniuses arise, of course: Beethoven, Cervantes, Shakespeare, Vermeer, Picasso, Joyce, but you’ll also find a great number of tillers in the field who do interesting work by virtue of the fact that such work hadn’t been done before.

i have not progressed to the muted, sepia-toned world arthur krystal must live in, but only because i am ignorant of many works of genius that, over the years, i have set aside for later consumption. krystal’s problem is a scary one, and his philosophy is depressing for anyone who fancies themselves a writer. does it make sense to try to fly with a four-foot ceiling? i suppose it does, but only if the few people lying on their backs looking up are enough. if you like the crisp air at a thousand feet then you have been doomed, once again, by the concept of time.