Reading Coover's treatment of Nixon, fictionalized, giving him a sort of Learish weight (gravity), it comes to mind, to take up the task of sculpting likewise, a treatment of My Nixon, the sweet-souled Gumdrop Prince hisself, O' W.--
[Of course, though, having to note, that we [I] are [am] of the lineage of Coleridge, as it pertains to the mental conjuration of Great Works in embryo, persistently left to miscarry, dissolve, undone, unwritten--]
It seems some sort of necessity, or eternal recurrence, that each age (or Author) will have its specific tyrant, whether Nixon, Nero, Nebuchadnezzar, etc. etc.--
Certainly, in those years, W. inscribed hisself on this soul, mine, littering so many--too many--book margins, his shade invoked to curry the relevance, the resonance--and this is a sort of indignity now, to look at those books, and see the obsessive trackings of W.'s movement, his grace, going to and fro and up and down upon my meager library--
But it would be sort of, what, fun (?)--to perform a bit of tikkunim on that tawdry half-shame, to give that past and presence a bit of polish, to elevate it, remold it into something a bit, eh, deeper than a mere Princely Bumbling, as mystically odd as all of that still is, to think of it (and that, of course, needing to be an element, perhaps revamped and repurposed as some sort of queer dissimulation, for purposes, what, esoteric? --or otherwise hazy, hidden....)--
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