So, last year, as I was researching for another project, my mere chance and accident, I came into the possession of a large and pretty detailed collection of books of and about the great poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
One year later, I decided that, probably because I was bored, or because I was looking for a new topic to burn for, I decided to actually start reading that pile of books, and reading them close.
At this stage, I know little more about “Mr C”, except, you know, his friendship with Wordsworth, his junkie habits, the goddamn albatross, and that he is one of the classic writers everybody like to point you to, but few ever care to read.
So, out of what others would probably characterize as some misplaced sense of adventure, I invite you to accompany me on this little journey.
Where it will lead to? No idea. But do we so badly need purpose? I am not sure.