Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so. After
all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, we
ourselves flash and yearn, and moreover my mother
told me as a boy (repeatingly) ‘Ever to confess
you’re bored means you have no
Inner Resources.’ I conclude now I have no inner
resources, because I am heavy bored. Peoples bore
me, literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes as bad as
achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me. And
the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag and somehow a
dog has taken itself & its tail considerably away into
mountains or sea or sky, leaving behind:
me, wag.
.
Copyright © 1962 by John Berryman.
The Dream Songs, 1990, Farrar Straus Giroux.
Buy this book, dammit.
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