So I’m becoming part of a group, a community of sorts. With all of the ramifications that implies.
The writer is always alone, and yet (and yet) the writer needs society. How much is the question. Am I a Nietzsche, a loner with my thoughts, or am I a Kerouac, alone with my thoughts in a group of like-minded individuals? I am probably neither…and both.
I do look with fondness on the days when Kerouac and his buddies hung out in the City and wrote crazy beautiful prosepoetry about exuberant excesses and rampant blind belief of an America in love with it’s glorfied image of itself. They experienced a creative and expressive freedom that can only be generated by the presence of others who share some common ideas.
And the tradeoff for that freedom will always be authenticity. I think Kerouac felt like a fraud in the end, because he couldn’t bring himself to say whatbhe really wantes to say for fear of hurting his friends For true authenticity, we look to Nietzsche and his solitude. Nietzsche pulled no punches because he did not fear offending any friends. Because he had none.
Somewhere between death by bottle and madness lies writerly bliss. I tread carefully.