Charles Simic on the site of the NY Review of Books: “When my mother was very old and in a nursing home, she surprised me one day toward the end of her life by asking me if I still wrote poetry. When I blurted out that I still do, she stared at me with incomprehension. I had to repeat what I said, till she sighed and shook her head, probably thinking to herself this son of mine has always been a little nuts. Now that I’m in my seventies, I’m asked that question now and then by people who don’t know me well.”
(Read the complete article here.)
My mother never asks me if I still write novels. But she does insist frequently that I should go on a vacation.