The following blog post was generated using a retrained gpt-2 text generation model. It was trained on several books written for the female audience in the 19th century. It is beautiful. This model was taken at the 200th training step of 1000. My next several blog posts display the more mature model. 

Every one who writes with good humor, and earnestness, and love, and honesty, and love is a poet. You need not, however, be much acquainted with poetry.

It cannot be regarded as writer much as the poetry of one’s own heart. It can be a very small quantity of the very kind of heart you desire to possess for yourself, and to give to others, and to be your own slaves. This kind of theory may be too much given for its own sake. It is not, on the contrary, almost a proof. A simple fact of all this, which every one who has any knowledge of it will find necessary to tell them, is that, in every great matter there is a certain type of poetic energy in the human soul. This type of energy consists in the power of taking up words, words as in all books, and of drawing up pictures, pictures, pictures–that is, words as in all things are composed. How can one speak without writing? What words are not spoken? How are words not drawn? How are the pictures not drawn? There is poetry in every thing. The writer can do a great deal with it, he can think all things and draw all words, and he always will.

But there is no writer who is not a very well chosen and trained one to be a poet. The only poet who can think over his poems is–if you will allow it that name. There is no writer who is not so well trained, so well trained, the same as a man. There is an editor of every kind and every one who can write no better is a writer of no better taste than an editor of every kind and in all manners. One who is wise enough is a writer of no more taste than an artse writer.

The writer must not allow himself to be an artist of his own volition if one is not, on the contrary, a novelist from another epoch, a man of great experience from another epoch. He must consider, in regard to his own characters, that he is drawing from a different type. That he is drawing not from a lower art, but not from higher arts, is a very small part of the attractiveness one has to such an art. We may compare a woman who sings and plays in the choir at Paris with a man who is drawing a book without the permission of the director, and the same man who thinks his music isn’t quite sufficient.

I cannot be impressed with the notion of you, however, that you seek the authority, or even the time, and the knowledge of what you write. There is in truth as well in every one of you, and a great deal of it. You find no invention for yourself, because a great deal of it is. You are a man who is the best and the best sort of the poet you will ever find. Your authority is only your own, so in his own heart you will know that he is the better. There is a poet in every character, and a second best and most famous of men, and one of the best and most esteemed writers of the world. He is a poet whose style and sentiments have never been fond of one another. He cannot write for himself.

If, then, you insist a writer must be the best in his own character–that his talent is unlimited indeed, he must find every thing a blot from the other side of the field. His art is for the artist not for the other artist. And the best part of all this is, that even the best, most gifted in the art of poetry, finds it in the other, the best in the other. You are going, however, to imply–and prove–any kind of perfection. This, in some respects, isn’t so. No novelist has written for himself a novel