All the books I have written have been one book, from the beginning. The first poem I ever wrote, about loss, when I was five years old, expressed the themes of everything I would ever write.
“On barren days,
At hours when I, apart, have
Bent low in thought of the great charm thou hast,
Behold with music’s many-stringed charms
The silence groweth thou. O rare delight!
The melody upon clear strings inflected
Were dull when o’er taut sense thy presence floweth,
With quivering notes’ accord that never palleth.”
Ezra Pound | “Canzon: Of Incense”