I've recently wondered if the mark of a truly great writer is to leave a
huge sea of ambuguity, the depths of which are discoverable by each diver
who plunges into the murky waters, but that there must be some actual
treasure that is there in the deep to be discovered.  Plato, Emerson, and
folks like them are rich, but I'm afraid Pound can't share their company.

I must admit that when it comes to Pound, I wonder if is myth of the man
is more substantial than his actual writing--obscure, erudite, elitist,
psychotic, meglamaniacal.  I wonder where the beauty in his work lies. I
have not studied a lot of Pound but again I must admit, now, after
listening to this group, that only a few people even want to swim through
the thick, electric eel infested waters that he created.  I feel like I've
swam every inch of the ocean bottom, sucked mud into my lungs, and I'm in
need of finding real treasure, not mere mud.  I'm pretty sure that I've
about had my fill of the salty mud and want to fill my glass with clear
spring water, and refresh my tongue with real writing.  I need something
to wash him down and maybe even a labotomy to remove what I do know from
my brain.  I'm not sure that you folks will agree, but I'm not just some
inpatient sophmore sitting in one of your classes listening to words fly
over my head and vaporize like midst exposed to the bright moring sun.

I'm certain you must agree.  Should we not just leave him to rot and decay
at the bottom of the ocean like the iron skeleton of some worthless ship
that sank 100 years ago.  We have surveyed the hull and found nothing,
really, nothing, except maybe a myth of our own making.  The man has been
given far too much credit, I think.  I do, however, have an open mind,
open to pusuasion, finding none so far from any of you folks.

stoner

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