Growing up, I'd already decided I wanted to be a beatnik. A Bohemian poet, I thought. Or a musician. Maybe an artist. I'd dress in black turtlenecks and smoke Gitanes. I'd listen to cool jazz in clubs, getting up to read devastating truths from my notebook, leaning against the microphone, cigarette dangling from my hand.

Charles de Lint

Charles de Lint

artist beatnik growing-up poet turtlenecks

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One expected growth, change; without it, the world was less, the well of inspiration dried up, the muses fled.

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