2.10

This isn't poetry or prose art. It's not even interesting.

Reading about Siegfried Sassoon, I realize the unbelievable sequence of lucky coincidences that have to all work together in order to end with some writer being published, becoming influential and famous, and having biographies (five, by last count) written by other people about his or her life. I also realize how utterly banal it is that it should happen at all. The poetry of Siegfried Sassoon is not the best poetry I have ever read, but it was published, collected, and anthologized. He is recognized as important.
What is the separation between his work and mine? Skill? Chance? Powerful contacts? Rich family? His participation in the most horrifying warfare yet experienced by mankind? It might be all of them or none of them, since they're all true in varying degrees. I don't know why he should be published at all. Literature makes no sense anymore.