I read this one in my twenties and found it sappy: such a romanticised vision of the artist looked pretty but also very srs business, swollen (by ego) and cumbersome. Reading it now, and I realise I agree with most of it. I don't know if it is wisdom or abdication on my part.
It did a lot for me back in my twenties, and I've been reluctant to revisit it outta fear that I'd find it overly saccharine. Maybe this is my sign to give it another go.
So, how did it go?