I thought that I was a fan of William Blake. His “Songs of Innocence and Experience” is quintessential stoner lit, and he’s revered as an engraver turned self-taught genius poet – which appeals to me. His public artistic life had the flash in the pan characteristics of modern celebrity, but his art endured, and that’s cool too.
He was a rogue artist whose work was related to the late 18th century Romantics, but kissing cousins at best. His work was better suited for the French Symbolists who were popular half a century after he died. His personal engravings, and those he produced for his own publications are cerebral, symbolic and way out there – again, totally unique an cool.
Turns out, he’s too far out there for me. I just can’t get into him like I used to. His poetry seems simple and a little crazy, and his engravings give me nightmares.
I grow old…I grow old…, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
This is what I'm talking about. Scarry right?
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