“It’s been a while since I read anyone who comes across as sadly contented, stoically angry, and cheerfully fatalistic as I often feel myself. Carrington positively revels in his poverty, his disenfranchisement, his paranoia and nostalgia, but rarely does he come across as any more self-righteous than he has every right to be. The world is fucked. He’s totally right. But that doesn’t mean we can’t share a few rants and laughs about it while the whole thing burns to the ground. I’ve often said that things need to get worse before they can get better, and poets like Carrington seem to understand this as well.”
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