The gap between writers in this country is more of a gulf.
On the one hand are writers living not much differently from Francois Villon in Medieval France; the safety net gone, or at least gaping holes in it; life and art a constant struggle.
On the other side in bright sunshine, wearing frilly collars of fashion and empty glamor, parade the clean and the saved. Millionaires, they read, in glowing palaces, their flimsy cute words to the children of the privileged, who beam, gaze, and smile with perkiness; wide-eyed, fresh-faced, and stupid as cattle.
The Aristocrats know that history is on our side. Reactionaries never prevail. Future generations not blinded by the instruments of class and career, or a shimmering phony veneer, will see them for the posers they are, while resurrecting the true original meaningful poets and writers whose words resonate with experience, grittiness, and authenticity-- with soul and anger.