][<en,
I have been listening to a lecture series on Homer.  Elizabeth Vandiver is the lecturer.  She reads sections of the Iliad in its ancient Greek.  I had never heard that before... Incredible, wonderful.  I just can't believe I missed it until recently.   If you can find someone or a recording, I highly recommend it.  Another great recording is Rudyard Kipling reading If.
I wish you
Would read
The beginning
For me.
Now try it in Greek!

Best,
Leland

-----Original Message-----
From: "Let us not speak foul in folly!" - ][<en Phollit [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On Behalf Of Ken Follett
Sent: Saturday, March 15, 2003 7:07 PM
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: Re: Windham College


John,

I'm not disappointed with either of our outcomes. Though the other night when I woke up suddenly at 2:25 AM with a start dreaming that loading the shotgun in the closet and blowing my head off might be beneficial to the family...  mind you, this is not catastrophic suicidal but a measure of personal engagement with the outcome of not wanting to let my friends or family down... the stress caused me to pause long enough to wonder what the f*ck this is all about! Christ, John, ask Jim Hicks if I am not suffering from am unshakeable belief that I am responsible for the well being of the entire universe.

Always willing to assist in the development of good character. 

Yeah. I sat directly across from Allen at table for a lunch at the Rockland County Community College and had a pleasant chat with his humbleness for close to an hour before he went on to his reading. Meeting him was one of the goals of my youth. He was wearing a suit and tie and he was not what I had expected. Prior to that I had seen him performing at an anti-war rally in Washington. Meeting him was a turning point in my de-mythologizing of the hero. It was also when I found out that young muscular stonemasonry bucks eating lunch with famous old poets would attract ditzy female poets with large gazoongas. Though I enjoy his early work, particularly Howl and Kaddish, his later work I feel got a bit flaccid and he was running on fumes. He wrote a poem about a green terra cotta building in Manhattan that I recall was very moving... Sharpshooter will know the building. Ginsberg remains a character that I am curious about, the full extent of his career and how much of a pure businessman he was about promoting his group, the beats. He was damned sharp about business and promotion. He was still busy promoting the beats when I met him. I was tagging on the heals of a lesser known beat, Charlie Plymell, an old friend of his. Plymell turned out to be a manic-depressive coke head with all sorts of emotional and anger control problems. Charlie's wife Pamela was the daughter of Sylvia Beach, a publisher of James Joyce. Sylvia ran around with a French guy named Claude Peleu (sp) Washburn who was a real whacka-do. I also met and spent some time with Ray Bremser who at that point was totally strung out and near the end of his life. It was not long before we could not stomach Charlie -- particularly after he decided that I was the Ken Follett that had just got a $35,000 advance on my first novel and that I was not sharing -- and we split that scene. The fact that Ginzberg died is more significant to me than the death of Mr. Rogers. Anyone that would piss on the desk of a dean at Columbia, apocryphal or not, has got my interest. Where is our Ginsberg now? The man legitimized the left and most certainly poetisized politics. I regret though that I did not ask him about his meeting with Ezra Pound. And there is one thing that sticks in my mind which is Ginsberg talking about losing ourselves to the point that we not only relenquish our belongings,like a transitorized Marcus Aurelieus, but that we may even approach the consciousness of losing our name. I've been out to look toward that place of silence and losing name and feel that without going there that we will never quite be whole with ourselves. Sort of akin to the strategy that Zen poetics -- snap bang --

My favorite encounter with a famous poet was going to a reading of Robert Creeley in Buffalo. The reading was at a small coffee & new-age donut shop kind of place with mint tea and incense so we all sat on wooden folding chairs and it was real close. Early in the afternoon on a Saturday. I like to sit up front. Creeley was late, real late. We had driven a long long way to see him. He showed up drunk and brought his own six of beer. He proceeded to wobble around in his chair and mumble and curse at us, pop his cans and drink beer. Finally I told him that if he could not give us any poetry at least he could share his f*ckin beer. He was not in a mood to share and we left. As far as I can tell the guy has written one really good poem. He should be happy.

My disappointment was when I did not get to actually see Borges. He was speaking at NYU and I drove into town from Westchester after working all day. DUe to circumstances beyond my ambition we ended up spending too much time in a friggin pizza parlor and by the time our friend got us to the gig we had to stand outside and listen to Borges over an intercom.

Today and yesterday my favorite poet is Vachel Lindsey.

Tell Patrick that if he wants to meet someone famous that he should listen to you about getting an education... and when the time is right you can tell him that all you got to do is have the b*lls to say, Hello, how are you? Nice weather, you know." Problem we got here these days with industrialized celebrity is that the famous people to meet are usually very shallow. Who wants to really meet Donald Trump or Michael Jackson?

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