A person could write more books than any sane person could imagine to be possible, like Flaubert, for instance. One could write the most convoluted and intricate works on philosophy, like Emanuel Kant. You could write exhaustive and pointless fiction like James Joyce and wind up being celebrated by poseur, pseudo-intellectuals, for... possibly... hundreds of years but... like the other two... you've been dead a long time now. No telling who you are at present. Did any of it help anyone... at all? Did it? Certainly it accounted, in the tale of Joyce, for the years of pain experienced by his secretary, Samuel Beckett, who insisted on wearing the same size shoes as his hero, even though they were of a smaller size. He should have written, “Waiting for the Podiatrist”, or better yet, “Waiting for the Psychiatrist”, instead of “Waiting for Godot”
Then there are the world reavers, the Khans and Tamerlanes, Attilas and all the rest. There have been high and mightys and low and dull and sometimes drunk and disorderlies. There has been a considerably larger amount of the latter than of the former. The amount of pimps, punters and performers that have come and gone here is staggering. Most of them are repeat business, over and over and over. Most of them haven't learned much and they aren't looking to either. The facts are that people come here for different reasons and if they get a taste for something, they tend to go to the well again and again.
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