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The writer must make himself, in the text, the spiritual actor either of his sufferings, those dragons he has nurtured, or of some happiness. Floor, lamp, clouding of cloths and melting of mirrors, real even down to the exaggerated jerking of our gauzy form around the virile stature stopped upon one foot; a Place comes forth, a stage, the public enhancement of the spectacle of Self; there, through the mediation of light, flesh, and laughter, the sacrifice of personality made by the inspirer is complete; or else in some foreign resurrection, he is finished: his word from then on, reverberating and useless, is exhaled by the orchestral chimera.

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Will new and alive the beautiful today Shatter with a blow of drunken wing This hard lake, forgotten, haunted under rime By the transparent glacier, flights unflown! A swan of long ago remembers now that he, Magnificent but lost to hope, is doomed For having failed to sing the realms of life When the ennui of sterile winter gleamed.

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