When your success hovers from one person to the other, it will definitely get to someone who will regard it as failure.

The poem is like a monster, against which the critic does battle. There is only one way to conquer the monster: you must eat it, bones, blood, skin, pelt, and gristle. And even then the monster is not dead, for it lives in you, is assimilated into you, and you are different and somewhat monstrous yourself for having eaten it.

In the future? People will realize the opposite of what Andy Warhol – yes, a Pole! – predicted. Instead of everyone getting fifteen minutes of fame, everyone will get fifteen minutes of privacy. Satellites, cameras, the internet, these are tracking us every second. The next generation of young people will crave solitude. The non-stop gaze of mass media ogling us, that’s the new monster.

And suddenly, in the place of the woman-shape made of shadow, there was something else. Something huge, something ugly. Linay flung up both hands. The thing screamed like a hawk and opened to wings: one white as a death cap, one clotted in shadow. The wings came together and the whole pond shuddered.
Something hit Kate’s ear and shoulder and smashed to the deck by her feet. It was a swallow, dead. She could hear them falling all over the pond.

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