Things Are Not What They

An Odd Phrase, "by Heart," He Would Add, As Though Poems Were Stored In The Bloodstream.

There Is A Certain Aesthetic Pleasure In Trying To Imagine The Unimaginable And Failing, If You Are A Reader.

In My Mind's Eye Shakespeare Is A Huge, Hot Sea-beast, With Fire In His Veins And Ice On His Claws And Inscrutable Eyes, Who Looks Like An Inchoate Hump Under The Encrustations Of Live Barnacle-commentaries, Limpets And Trailing Weeds.

Do I Do As False Prophets Do And Puff Air Into Simulacra? Am I A Sorcerer--like Macbeth's Witches--mixing Truth And Lies In Incandescent Shapes? Or Am I A Kind Of Very Minor Scribe Of A Prophetic Book--telling Such Truth As In Me Lies, With Aid Of Such Fiction As I Acknowledge Mine, As Prospero Acknowledged Caliban.

What Literature Can And Should Do Is Change The People Who Teach The People Who Don't Read The Books.