The World Is Come Upon Me, I

But One Wants The Idea Of Death, You Know, As Something Large And Unknowable, Something That Allows A Person To Stretch Himself Out. Especially One Wants It If One Is Tired. Or Perhaps What One Wants Is Simply A Release From Sensation, From All Consciousness For Ever.

Nothing Is More Wistful Than The Scent Of Lilac, Nor More Robust Than Its Woody Stalk, For We Must Remember That It Is A Tree As Well As A Flower, We Must Try Not To Forget This.

All Tamed Animals Are Nervous, We Have Given Them Reason To Be, Not Only By Cruelty But By Our Love Too, That Presses Upon Them. They Have Not Been Able To Be Entirely Indifferent To This And Untouched By It.

I Like Food, I Like Stripping Vegetables Of Their Skins, I Like To Have A Slim Young Parsnip Under My Knife.

All Poetry Has To Do Is To Make A Strong Communication. All The Poet Has To Do Is Listen. The Poet Is Not An Important Fellow. There Will Also Be Another Poet.