Recebemos o seguinte comentário em uma das nossas postagens. Independente do desconhecimento da fonte (pode ser um mero comentário aleatório, spam), achamos adequado ao tema deste site. Afinal, que sabemos nós do que?
Anônimo disse...
Dear Mr. Eaten, I do not know if you are Mr. Jones, but if you are, I must say your wits are astonishing, unlike your commonplace want-to-be-art. You would be better off as a talk show host. In case you think this is a joke, please let me be clearer. These last pieces (and I mean both the poem and the one in installments) are so embarassingly bad that I felt I shoud tell you how happy I am for not being like you. I am actually even gladder that you have no sense of ridiculous and publish it all, to my sheer delight. Do not take this as constructive criticism, since I am not particularly interested in your improvement. In fact, you disgust me in every way. I shall waste no more time talking to you, so do not expect further communication from me. See you, perhaps.
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Words are silver, silence is gold. I am honoured to see my litte notice published on your weblog, which in fact made me forget both my promising not to write and the litte proverb up here. I must return, however, for truth's sake. This is neither hoax nor spam. And you, Mr. Whoever, are not the one who should think about that piece of writing. By the way, that comment on his wits, or yours, for that matter: never mind. I guess you are dying of happiness. I have heard people like you pseudo-artists enjoy being criticised, it adds to the misery you want to express. I would go on and on, but you know what? It is just not worth it. See you.
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