Poetry Is The Break (or Rather The

I Leave You Free To Imagine Any Dialogue You Please. Choose Whatever May Charm You. Have It, If You Like, That They Hear The Voice Of The Blood, Or That They Fall In Love At First Sight... Conceive The Wildest Improbabilities. Have It That The Depths Of Their Beings Are Thrilled At Accosting Each Other In Slang. Tangle Them Suddenly In A Swift Embrace Or A Brotherly Kiss. Do Whatever You Like.

If We Behave Like Those On The Other Side, Then We Are The Other Side. Instead Of Changing The World, All We'll Achieve Is A Reflection Of The One We Want To Destroy.

Excluded By My Birth And Tastes From The Social Order, I Was Not Aware Of Its Diversity. Nothing In The World Was Irrelevant: The Stars On A General's Sleeve, The Stock-market Quotations, The Olive Harvest, The Style Of The Judiciary, The Wheat Exchange, Flower-beds. Nothing. This Order, Fearful And Feared, Whose Details Were All Inter-related, Had A Meaning: My Exile.

It's The Hour When Night Breaks Away From The Day, My Dove, Let Me Go.

They Remain Dead, The People I Try To Resuscitate By Straining To Hear What They Say. But The Illusion Is Not Pointless, Or Not Quite, Even If The Reader Knows All This Better Than I Do. One Thing A Book Tries To Do, Beneath The Disguise Of Words And Causes And Clothes And Grief, Is Show The Skeleton And The Skeleton Dust To Come. The Author Too, Like Those Of Whom He Speaks, Is Dead.