a weird nostalgia for something i have never been part of- an american youth. rebellion and madness overspilling into each other. yet, as the young person in me responded to the story of wild youth, the older person scoffed at the juvenile staging. the overheated 'poetic' seemed at some level childlike and looked like what it perhaps really was- white boys wanting to get their hands dirty by living like the 'other'. and then they pay the price for it by standing alone on the streets of new york, while the one who wrote the 'novel' is in a limo heading to a duke ellington concert.
No comments:
Post a Comment