The graveyard of personal literary ambition.
There is only one of me, but I am Legion.
(lazy dot reviewer at gmail)
(Sparked by this Longform piece.)
About fifteen years ago, an acquaintance of mine was graduating from a Canadian university, and was thrilled to learn that Leonard Cohen, accepting some kind of honourary something, would be present at the diploma ceremony.
And, being obsessed with Leonard Cohen, when they called her name she walked up, boring holes into his eyes with hers, attempting to communicate her great love and respect for him.
And then, obviously, when they handed him his honourary something, it was not the guy she had thought was Leonard Cohen, and she had been having a deep spiritual moment with the assistant provost.
Now, what should this remind us of?
The obvious answer is “Anne Shirley thinking the pretty lady with the gorgeous eyes was the famous writer, when it was in fact the plain, drab lady.”
Also, Leonard Cohen is incredible.