Thursday, October 15, 2009
"Cynic," he repeated, incredulously. "Are you kidding? If I was a cynic, then I would have abandoned art and literature years ago. I am the stubborn, wallowing optimist—forever awaiting some great rapture of soulful purity. I am preoccupied with the authentic—with scrounging for obscure cinematic gems and scribbling my thoughts, as if the poetry of mind-ramble mattered. I refuse to settle, loathe the comfort of tradition, and refuse the ease and acceptance of routine. If I was a cynic, then I would have abandoned this lonely, idealistic crusade for truth and meaning years ago to take my place among the suited. But there's no neck tie on this boy and there never will be, because—for whatever reason—I still believe. And if that's not optimistic, then what is?"