the root of the problem

yellow tulip

As I mentioned in seeing for yourself, I’m dipping into the works of Saki each time I take a coffee break.

This morning I chanced on the story Reginald’s Rubaiyat, which begins:

The other day (confided Reginald), when I was killing time in the bathroom and making bad resolutions for the New Year, it occurred to me that I would like to be a poet. The chief qualification, I understand, is that you must be born. Well, I hunted up my birth certificate, and found that I was all right on that score, and then I got to work on a Hymn to the New Year, which struck me as having possibilities.

Last time I looked for my birth certificate (about a year ago, I think) it was nowhere to be found. I thought at the time that I must have mis-filed it when I renewed my passport three years earlier. Perhaps I am mistaken. Perhaps there is no birth certificate. Perhaps, when it comes to being a poet, I fail at the first post.

(The photo? Well, tulips seem to go so well with any mention of the Rubaiyat.)

Author: don't confuse the narrator

Exploring the boundary between writer and narrator through first person poetry, prose and opinion

One thought on “the root of the problem”

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