I left poetry for history in my youth. A terrible turning. I've no excuse. I could have pressed harder. Put the point down upon my paper with more exalted purpose. Perhaps, then, a poem would have written its indented way onto the next page. No, that's inexact. I tried as hard as any archer to have an aim, overhear a calling. I remember the effort, the resolve to be high-minded, the sober choice of models; I remember reading only what would do my genius good, the straining for greatness; and I remember watching every word I wrote unravel like a poorly knitted sleeve. My rhymes clanged predictably, my meters were military, my metaphors fled the mind like frightened mice, assonance set good sense to sleep, and though my alliteration was lively, its lilt always arrived when there was actually nothing to fear, peppering pages which had planned on being bland with a sudden seasoning, mumbling when the night was supposed to be clear.

- William H. Gass, The Tunnel - p. 635