Reality Is A Staircase Going Neither Up

A Civilization That Denies Death Ends By Denying Life.

A Glass Pitcher, A Wicker Basket, A Tunic Of Coarse Cloth. Their Beauty Is Inseparable From Their Function. Handicrafts Belong To A World Existing Before The Separation Of The Useful And The Beautiful.

I Thought That The World Was A Vast System Of Signs, A Conversation Between Giant Beings. My Actions, The Cricket's Saw, The Star's Blink, Were Nothing But Pauses And Syllables, Scattered Phrases From That Dialogue. What Word Could It Be, Of Which I Was Only A Syllable? Who Speaks The Word? To Whom Is It Spoken?

Eroticism Is First And Foremost A Thirst For Otherness. And The Supernatural Is The Supreme Otherness. This Is Perhaps The Most Noble Aim Of Poetry, To Attach Ourselves To The World Around Us, To Turn Desire Into Love, To Embrace, Finally What Always Evades Us, What Is Beyond, But What Is Always There – The Unspoken, The Spirit, The Soul.

Two Opposing Forces Inhabit The Poem: One Of Elevation Or Up-rooting, Which Pulls The Word From The Language: The Other Of Gravity, Which Makes It Return. The Poem Is An Original And Unique Creation, But It Is Also Reading And Recitation: Participation. The Poet Creates It; The People, By Recitation, Re-create It. Poet And Reader Are Two Moments Of A Single Reality.