Can he really believe he has something new to say? And does he think he might need me to help him keep track of all his characters, or to fill those empty moments where the metre doesn’t fit the tale? Every impossible journey, every shipwreck, every homecoming: these stories have all been told, and countless times. How much epic poetry does the world really need?Įvery conflict joined, every war fought, every city besieged, every town sacked, every village destroyed. But it is surprising that he hasn’t considered how many other men there are like him, every day, all demanding my unwavering attention and support. Certainly he hasn’t: like all poets, he thinks only of himself. Perhaps he hasn’t thought of what it is like to be me. But I am not in the mood to be a muse today. If I were minded to accede to his wish, I might say that he sharpens his tone on my name, like a warrior drawing his dagger across a whetstone, preparing for the morning’s battle. Sing, Muse, he says, and the edge in his voice makes it clear that this is not a request.
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