The Food of Words
Suddenly I was thinking: if I no longer write as frequently as I have always done, it would be because I am no longer the child that I was. All kinds of experiences have taken away the sharp edge of novelty in all things and covered them with the veil of habit, and thus, at once toughened by the circumstances of life, that is, the life of a grown up individual, and nullified by their mediocre nature, my feelings have also become numb and forgetful. If Music be the food of love, says the Bard, and I would reply, Let Youthful Sentimentality be the food of words. I no longer feel as acutely, and even when I feel something, the effects no longer last as long. In short, I no longer write to vent every little thing that I feel in passionate epic poetry. I am no longer that youth in anguish, the Catcher in the Rye. I am growing old. As the Bard says, Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.
And so if I ever were to write in earnest again, it will not be any of those impulsive discharges that are anything but sophisticated, which I did to be sentimental. When I sit down to write, seriously, it will be because I want to create something great.