The forgetfulness induced by vanity, the fear of confessing mental processes that may be divined as dangerously commonplace, the endeavor to maintain, central and intact, an incalculable reserve of obscurity: all watch over the various forms of direct writing.

Translations are partial and precious documentations of the changes the text suffers. Are not the many versions of the Iliad, from Chapman to Mangnien—merely different perspectives on a mutable fact, a long experimental game of chance played with omissions and emphases?

Quizá contaminados por los monótonos, imaginaron que todo hombre es dos hombres y que el verdadero es el otro, el que está en el cielo. También imaginaron que nuestros actos proyectan en reflejo invertido, de suerte que si velamos, el otro duerme; si fornicamos, el otro es casto; si robamos, el otro es generoso. Muertos, nos uniremos a él y seremos él.

I have sometimes suspected that the radical distinction between poetry and prose lies in the very different expectations of readers: poetry presupposes an intensity that is not tolerated in prose.