Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief
All kill their inspiration
And sing about their grief
—U2, "The Fly"
Deep, so deep
The number-one I hope to reap
Depends upon the tears you weep
So cry, lover, cry
—The Beautiful South, "Song for Whoever"
I'm sorry, mama
I never meant to hurt you
I never meant to make you cry, but tonight
I'm cleaning out my closet
—Eminem, "Cleaning Out My Closet"
How dare Corinne write up Allegra's secret stories and send them off to magazines to be published?
How dare Corinne write them so poorly that no one wished to take them?
As for my take on Shakespeare, I'm basing a lot of it on what I personally find scary about being a storyteller. When something terrible is happening, 99 percent of you is feeling terrible, but 1 percent is standing off to the side - like a little cartoon devil on our shoulder - and saying, "I can use this. Let's see, I'm so upset that I'm actually crying. Are my eyes just tearing, or are they stinging? Yes, they're stinging, and I can feel the tears rolling down my cheeks. How do they feel? Hot. Good, what else?" That's the kind of disconnectedness I wanted to explore.
Lisa: Isn't your book a little hard on Dad?
Marge: (nervous laughter) What do you mean? My book is set in whaling times?
"Captain Mordecai stared at the shop window full of powdered blowholes. 'Mmmm...
blowholes', he drooled." Sounds like Dad to me.
Well, I guess that part is loosely
based on your father.