more Duncan

But what one knows is the utter fallibility of one's self, a saving grace: and the wondrous fallibiility of the universe. "So many faces, forms, glances." Contradiction may render false to logic; but poetic dialectic comprehends contradiction. Experience insists upon the reality of contradiction.

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What more central love than the disturbance and trembling awakend by each new song; the calling up of one's own spirit in answer, the still center in the excitement that comes as the poems are comprehended. A challenge. But to the intoxicated mind a more marvellous alcohol--a nourishment. Of my own otherness. My entirely differentness. It's the coming back to the core of speech -- that poetry might be a revelation of the language written by, created by Man -- a closet of speech wherein one speaks with the vastest spirit -- a revelation of language not personality. What more central love than the comradeship in devotion to art?

Then, but it is not central yet, it is still coming in view, another devotion. The wisdom we seek. The counsels of the language. The purpose, the effort -- is part of the wisdom.