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To See Beyond The Eye

It seems today that almost anyone can publish a book. I mean, even Shaquile O'Neal is publishing a book. While he's one of the few players in the NBA to actually graduate with a degree (he went back to school in summer), it seems that the door is open wide for anyone, absolutely anyone to get published. It is no longer literary skill or a keen intellect that drives today's literature. The pen that creates make-believe worlds in vivid detail is not half as mighty as a stained condom or cold hard cash. I do not know if we as human beings have denegrated to this plebian level, or that the mass media no longer targets the intellectual elite, but the general population. Of course, one could always argue that not many members of the population sign hundred million dollar contracts like Mr. O'Neal. Are there anymore Emily Dickinsons, Brontes, Hemingways or Nerudas in the world? Are their whispers no longer audible in the fray of commercial hip hop, rap and the sound of gunshots?
We no longer hear Shylock's tears falling on the sandy ground, or Orpheus' pained song as he pleads for the lords of the underworld to release his wife. We seem to have lost emotion. Emotion is but a beginning, yet it seems to have lost its innocence. As Emily Dickinson once wrote,
"Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those we have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these things."
If you are out there, you who see the old man of the sea, or hear the sound of raindrops on grass, raise your voices and sing, that I may know I sing not alone.
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