Everybody I meet wipes me out. Here are all these people plugging away at their roles. Being producers and policemen and bishops. It knocks me out, and all I can do is get down on my knees. I don’t even think of myself as a writer, singer or whatever. The occupation of being a man is so much more. In spite of all the philosophical encouragement about hanging loose and all that Sunday School stuff, I admit I’m confused. I can’t begin to locate my head. It has a life of its own.
From Unique Interpreters of Pop: Leonard Cohen by Jacoba Atlas (The Beat: March 9, 1968).
I am republishing selected posts from my former Leonard Cohen site, Cohencentric, here on AllanShowalter.com (these posts can be found at Leonard Cohen). This entry was originally posted December 9, 2013 at DrHGuy.com, a predecessor of Cohencentric.