Each soul is a melody which must be picked up again, and the flute or the viola of everyone exist for that.
It seems to me, it is the true condition or the possibility not just of expressing oneself but of modulating oneself as one chooses.
Languages are imperfect in that although there are many, the supreme one is lacking: thinking is to write without accessories, or whispering, but since the immortal word is still tacit, the diversity of tongues on the earth keeps everyone from uttering the word which would be otherwise in one unique rendering, truth itself in its substance… Only, we must realize, poetry would not exist; philosophically, verse makes up for what language lack, completely superior as it is.

The pure work implies the disappearance of the poet as speaker, yielding his initiative to words, which are mobilized by the shock of their differences; they light up with reciprocal reflection like a virtual stream of firework over jewels, restoring perceptible breath to the former lyric impulse, or the enthusiastic personal directing of the sentence.

Bring your comments to SYZYGY, Paintednote.net Thursday night