Things fall apart. The center did not hold. At least you could be forgiven for paraphrasing Yeats’s “The Second Coming” as we slide into the heart of summer at a moment when the best really do seem to lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity.
Of course, people have been feeling like it’s the end of the world since the beginning of written human history–there are some nice end of times poems penned by Romans presaging the fall of the Empire and Anglo-Saxon warriors wandering the stark icy waters of their own perceived last days.
But the Moderns’ melancholic musings seem particularly resonant of late. One of my favorite apocalyptic howls comes on the first page of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer where the narrator starts by telling the reader, “We are all alone here and we are dead.” [Read more…]











