His work seems to confirm my old axiom: it is useless to try to keep the whole body alive.
“If at Sirmio
My soul, I meet thee, when this life’s outrun,
Will we not find some headland consecrated
By aery apostles of terrene delight,
Will not our cult be founded on the waves,
Clear sapphire, cobalt, cyanine,
On triune azures, the impalpable
Mirrors unstill of the eternal change?”
Ezra Pound | “Blandula, Tennula, Vagula”