Till I, High In The Tower Of

I Think There Was A Revolution In Poetry, Associated Chiefly With Eliot And Pound; But Maybe It Is Of The Nature Of Revolutions Or Of The Nature Of History That Their Innovations Should Later Come To Look Trivial Or Indistinguishable From Technical Tricks.

History Is One Of Those Marvelous And Necessary Illusions We Have To Deal With. It's One Of The Ways Of Dealing With Our World With Impossible Generalities Which We Couldn't Live Without.

Both Poet And Painter Want To Reach The Silence Behind The Language, The Silence Within The Language. Both Painter And Poet Want Their Work To Shine Not Only In Daylight But (by Whatever Illusionist Magic) From Within.

Language Is Remarkable, Except Under The Extreme Constraints Of Mathematics And Logic, It Never Can Talk Only About What It's Supposed To Talk About But Is Always Spreading Around.

That So Much Of Our Experience, Or The Stereotype Which Passes For It Should Be Dealt With By Means Of The Short Story Is Perhaps A Symptom Not Unnoticeable Elsewhere In The Public Domain Of An Unlovely Cynicism About Human Character.