this, I have decided, sums up the entire meaning/organization of life.
"She stood at street corners as if waiting for the light to cahnge, watching businessmen hurry past, sometimes in overcoats of the kind the poets never wear, solid-looking and beige or navy blue but slit provocatively up the back, or in three-piece suits, challengingly done up with hundreds of buttons and zippers, their tight tennis-playing butts concealed under layers of expensive wool blend, their ties waving enticingly under their chins like the loose ends of macrame wall hangings: one pull and the whole thing would unravel. The poets, in their track suits of jeans, seem easier of access, but htey are hedges with paradox and often moody. The businessmen would be simple and unspoiled, primary reds and blues rather than puce and lilac, potatoes rather than, like the poets, slightly over-ripe avocadoes." - Margaret Atwood, "Loulou, or, The Domestic Life of Language"
I've always felt that poets were over-ripe avocadoes (in a good way) and just never been able to express it myself.
