What would you have me do?
Seek out some wealthy patron and crawl like a clinging 
vine up the lordly tree? Rising by deceit and trickery 
instead of my own strength?
No thank you.
Imitate what others do and dedicate my works to the 
rich in the hope of arousing a smile of recognition 
from some sterile face?
No thank you.
Breakfast everyday on insults, wear our my knees and 
warp my spine with endless bowing and groveling in the 
dust?
No thank you.
Become a master of hypocrisy and opportunism? Never 
letting my right hand know what my left is doing? Burn 
incense for some glorified idol of the day, pull the 
proper strings?
No thank you.
Shall I become the captain of some literary cult by 
writing stupid love songs for wealthy widows and 
navigate to success with their sighs filing out my 
sails? Pay some publisher to print my poems and bribe 
some critic to review them?
No, thank you!
Shall I become the high priest of a petty group of hack 
writers who dine together once a week?
No, I thank you!
Shall I build my reputation on one flawless poem and 
never write another, should I scheme to get my name 
mentioned in the columns of some newspaper and smack my 
lips over little praises written about me?
No, thank you.
Shall I calculate and scheme, live in fear, make visits 
instead of rhymes, meet all the right people, seek 
introductions and favors?
No, thank you.
No I thank you . . .
And again, I thank you!
Oh my friend, I prefer to sing, to laugh, to dream, to 
travel light in my own way to see things as they are, 
and speak out without fear, to cock my hat at any angle 
that I choose, to duel if necessary for a quick “yes” 
or “no.” I prefer to work alone without any thought of 
reward, to scorn fame for a journey to the moon. Never 
write a line that does not ring with sincerity. I shall 
be content with the fruits and flowers that grow in my 
garden, no matter how small, because they belong to me. 
Then if success should come my way, no tribute ever 
need be paid to Caesar, whatever fortune or misfortune 
that happens shall be mine and only mine.
And although I may never reach the stature of a great 
oaken tree, I shall never be a parasitic vine. I will 
climb perhaps to no great height, but I will . . . 
climb . . . alone.