One of the surest tests [of the superiority or inferiority of a poet] is the way in which a poet borrows. Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique, utterly different than that from which it is torn; the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion. A good poet will usually borrow from authors remote in time, or alien in language, or diverse in interest.

Today, cultural discovery — how we find that next book to read, that next song to listen to, drink to drink, movie to watch, place to visit — it’s all up for grabs. With two contenders eyeing the spoils. First, the retail machine. People who bought this, also bought that. Culture as a web of SKUs. Next, the social signal. Reviews, ratings and likes. Culture as a web of opinion. In each camp, deep technology and huge user bases. Each pushing toward a kind of sameness. Similar purchases, similar likes, often similar categories — book to book, song to song, movie to movie.

Butter and Guns, love, and I have enough guns for now. So yeah, absolutely, keep the money you work to earn. We’re already a team; putting it on paper just makes it official to the rest of the world. But I already have your back, same as you have mine, we’re equal. I love you more than $90. I love you more than anything $90 buys, or anything $90,000 buys. I love you more than a career, a house, or a car; more than status, celebrity, recognition and praise. I love you more than my computer, the Internet, movies and TV, guns I own, and I even love you more than I love clear plastic boxes, or any box you can can think of. I love you more than sex and more than the Army. I love you more than being right, or thinking I’m right. I love you more than my pride and how loving you reveals flaws in me that give my pride a well-deserved beating every now and then, usually when least expected. I love you more than holding onto those parts of me, even if they made me, me, because you love me, and I might be a fighter, but I’ve done enough of it to know that in a fight between being me and being better, you’d be the winner. I love the things you think and the way you aren’t afraid to tell me when I’m wrong, or when you’re wrong, or when we just see things differently.