Reality Is Not Always Probable, Or Likely.

Poetry Remembers That It Was An Oral Art Before It Was A Written Art.

I Saw A Sunset In Queretaro That Seemed To Reflect The Color Of A Rose In Bengal.

Imprecision Is Tolerable And Verisimilar In Literature, Because We Always Tend Towards It In Life.

The Gods Weave Misfortunes For Men, So That The Generations To Come Will Have Something To Sing About.” Mallarmé Repeats, Less Beautifully, What Homer Said; “tout Aboutit En Un Livre,” Everything Ends Up In A Book. The Greeks Speak Of Generations That Will Sing; Mallarmé Speaks Of An Object, Of A Thing Among Things, A Book. But The Idea Is The Same; The Idea That We Are Made For Art, We Are Made For Memory, We Are Made For Poetry, Or Perhaps We Are Made For Oblivion. But Something Remains, And That Something Is History Or Poetry, Which Are Not Essentially Different.

Time Is The Substance Of Which We Are Made