Life & Wisdom Quote by Norman MacCaig

A poet admitting he can neither invent nor imitate is a sly kind of brag: it strips away the two skills we most associate with literary virtuosity and dares you to notice what remains. MacCaig’s line works because it sounds like self-deprecation while quietly staking out an aesthetic position. If he can’t “invent,” he won’t be accused of building ornate, artificial worlds. If he can’t “mimicry,” he won’t play the obedient chameleon, trying on other poets’ voices like costumes. The double negation lands as a refusal: no fantasy-work, no ventriloquism, no borrowed authority.

The subtext is about authenticity, but not the Instagram kind. In mid-century British poetry, “invention” could mean clever conceits, formal fireworks, the sort of polish that reads as class-coded assurance. “Mimicry” gestures toward the gravitational pull of major styles (Eliot’s dryness, Auden’s sheen) and toward a Scottish writer’s particular temptation to “pass” inside London’s literary accent. MacCaig turns those pressures into a disciplined limitation. What’s left is attention: the poet as witness, not magician.

The phrasing is crucial. “Powers” has the faintly comic grandeur of a superpower, making the confession lightly sardonic. “Well” is conversational, almost impatient, as if he’s correcting an interviewer’s misconception. The intent isn’t to lower expectations; it’s to redirect them. Don’t come for plot or persona. Come for the exact sentence, the exact look at the world, uncosplayed.