Is he happy? By most measurements, yes, he believes he is.However, he
has not forgotten the last chorus of Oedipus: Call no man happy until
he is dead.
His own opinion, which he does not air, is that the origins of speech
lie in song, and the origins of song lie in the need to fill out with
sound the overlarge and rather empty human soul.
He has always been a man of the city, at home amid a flux of bodies
where eros stalks and glances flash like arrows.
But in my experience poetry speaks to you either at first sight or not
at all. A flash of revelation and a flash of response. Like
lightening. Like falling in love.
From fairest creatures we desire increase, he says, that thereby
beauty's rose might never die.
Sent from my iPhone
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