“But my life, oh, my life, had been a constant search for an
enormous dream in which my fellow creatures and animals, plants, chimeras,
stars, and minerals were in a pre-established harmony, a dream that is forgotten
because it must be forgotten, and is sought desperately, and only sporadically
does one find its tragic fragments in the warmth of a person, in some specific
situation, a glance—in memory too, of course, in some specific pain, some
moment. I loved that harmony with a passion; I loved it in voices, voices. And
then, instead of harmony, there was nothing but scraps and tatters. And perhaps
that alone is what it means to be a poet.”
~ Aleksander Wat, from My Century
(This was originally supposed to be my Easter post. Sorry.)