In college I had a friend, then known as Frances Harrod, who adored Alexander Pope. She had memorized hours and hours of his work, and would recite at any provocation. I loved it. I particularly loved Pope's Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, where Pope complains about the travails of being a famous poet. Alas. At one point, he mocks folks who try to flatter him by telling him how he resembles the greats, but only in their defects: "Go on, obliging creature, make me see//All that disgraced my betters, met in me." Naturally I found it very possible to take the same approach.
About the Author
Like Proust, I’m not inventive.
Like Henry James, I’m fat.
Like Melville, slow to publish;
Like Eliot, I’ve a cat.
Like Stevens, I do other work;
Like Jarrell, write in prose.
Like Thurber, I don’t see too good;
Like Shakespeare, I wear clothes.
Like Kafka, I remember dreams;
Like Shaw, pontificate.
Love Paris just like Baudelaire;
Like Henry Roth, I’m late.
Like Freud, I must have enemies.
Like Gilbert, I’m not glad.
Like Wilde, I’m snide but tactless.
Like Sylvia Plath, I’m mad.
Like Joyce, exploit allusions;
Like Tolstoy, I’m no fun;
Like William Blake, can’t catch a break;
Like Reverend John, I’m donne.
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