Strange correspondences emerging here. Why have I expended so much energy to conform, to be seen as an OK guy? Why?
Well, leaving psychoanalysis aside, enough is enough. I have visited Jim Morrison’s grave in Père Lachaise but it is only recently that I have come to some understanding of his status.
Rebel. Visionary. Pain in the arse.
And then there’s Rimbaud. Arrived in Paris in his teens, at the invitation of Verlaine. Scandalised the capital. Did his own thing. He just didn’t care what others thought of him. Some stuff pathetic, childish.
These are surface phenomena until they are absorbed and promulgated.