Dear Kent the oppressed
From my lang-neb and legged perspective, fish-full and uninterested in prey
(the birdie books calim that the heron is _common_ in Britland, y'know,
which has always struck me as odd, as I've only ever once seen one, poised
like an angler in the East Lynne River, just down the track from Porlock,
when indeed I was accompanied by a Person) it does seem that your notions of
literary politics operating in this list are pure fisherman's tales - you
know - I caught this one - it was _so big_ .
I don't doubt that literary politics happen, but to imagine that they are
being bodied forth in the persons of Candice, Randolph and Alison (for
Christ's sake) seems a projection of paranoias and, most ironically, a
mythologising of self by one who professes a non-allegiance to the ego.
If I wonder about anyone on this list, Kent, at times it is you. How do we
know you are what you claim to be? There's an unholy whiff of the
double-bluff about your tactics, and a spooky air, are you quite sure you're
unacquainted with the CIA?, for one who professes a belief in open spaces
you seem to have an impressive record in closing them down, via wrecking
sprees.
And, surely you'd agree with this, all such plaints about literary
management are brushed aside to their proper irrelevance by such posts as
Martin Pedersen's unforgettable report?
Best
Dave
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