Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

A Certain Plume, by Henri Michaux, felt like reading a posthumously compiled volume of every scrap and crumpled paper from the circular file.

I enjoyed a few of the pieces, and I was thrilled to see the English translation alongside the original French; however, I am a strong believer that most poetry is not worth publishing, and as such and despite the few strong pieces, most of this book is not worth reading.

The good pieces are well-balanced snapshots of existential moments. Conversely, the bad pieces are so saturated with existentialism that all meaning is lost. Most of the pieces are nonsensical silliness devoid of any rational thought or purpose.

“Write drunk, edit sober.� - Ernest Hemingway.

I think Michaux forgot the editing sober part.