Winter 1991 • Vol. XIII No. 1 Poetry |

The Monarch of Meritocracy

"It is no good as a desk chair so I allow office visitors to sit in it—mostly aspirant reviewers and poor poets who come to sell their pathetic wares. Occupying this chair is their little moment of glory. They have no conception how ridiculous they look. It is sitting thus they learn that the Literary Review pays $9 per poem. Rather too much in my opinion."                            AUBERON WAUGH, House& Garden, 1988 I don't know when I discovered I'm not creative—or if I discovered it. Others, usually, whisper to onein no uncertain terms, and if one persists, othersbegin to shout one has no talent. Talent. I think of Ted Mack. I remember believing as a child that, as an adult, I could summon the word "one"and it would seem quite natural. I've been saving pretentiousness for the occasionwhen it would appear as something else. A world of merit determined by me. One seeks to control oneself

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