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PRELUDE
… so you have found me and would know the tale When a poet speaks of truth to another poet, what hope has truth? Let me ask this, then Does one find memory in invention? Or will you find invention in memory? Which bows in servitude before the other? Will the hed solely in the details? Perhaps so, if detailsmore than the coly rendered; and if I should kneel before invention, as if it were memory made perfect
Do I look like a man ould kneel?
There are no singular tales Nothing that stands alone is worth looking at You andthe lives of those who believe they are each both beginning and end, those who fit the totality of the universe into small wooden boxes which they then tuck under one ar past, I’o, and wherever that place is, why, it needs the their dramatic arrival it would surely cease to exist
Is h and reain that truths are like seeds hidden in the ground, and should you tend to the into view? Prediction is folly, belligerent assertion pathetic But all such arguo, in another age, e both were younger than we thought ere
This tale shall be like Tiam herself, a creature of many heads It is in my nature to wear h lips not le pair of eyes was a kind of torture, for I knew — I could feel in le visions miss most of the world We cannot help it It is our barrier to understanding Perhaps it is only the poets who truly resent this way of being No matter; what I do not recall I shall invent
There are no singular tales A life in solitude is a life rushing to death But a blind man will never rush; he but feels his way, as befits an uncertain world See me, then, as a metaphor made real
I am the poet Gallan, and my words will live for ever This is not a boast It is a curse My legacy is a carcass in waiting, and it will be picked over until dust devours all there is And when one, see how the flesh still moves, see how it flinches
When I began, I did not iknife I did not believe reater cause, nor as payment into the hands of fame and respect I did not think any sacrifice was necessary at all
No one lets dead poets lie in peace We are like old meat on a crowded dinner table Now comes the next course to jostle what’s left of us, and even the gods despair of ever cleaning up the mess But there are truths between poets, and we both knoell their worth It is the gristle we cheithout end
PRELUDE
… so you have found me and would know the tale When a poet speaks of truth to another poet, what hope has truth? Let me ask this, then Does one find memory in invention? Or will you find invention in memory? Which bows in servitude before the other? Will the hed solely in the details? Perhaps so, if detailsmore than the coly rendered; and if I should kneel before invention, as if it were memory made perfect
Do I look like a man ould kneel?
There are no singular tales Nothing that stands alone is worth looking at You andthe lives of those who believe they are each both beginning and end, those who fit the totality of the universe into small wooden boxes which they then tuck under one ar past, I’o, and wherever that place is, why, it needs the their dramatic arrival it would surely cease to exist
Is h and reain that truths are like seeds hidden in the ground, and should you tend to the into view? Prediction is folly, belligerent assertion pathetic But all such arguo, in another age, e both were younger than we thought ere
This tale shall be like Tiam herself, a creature of many heads It is in my nature to wear h lips not le pair of eyes was a kind of torture, for I knew — I could feel in le visions miss most of the world We cannot help it It is our barrier to understanding Perhaps it is only the poets who truly resent this way of being No matter; what I do not recall I shall invent
There are no singular tales A life in solitude is a life rushing to death But a blind man will never rush; he but feels his way, as befits an uncertain world See me, then, as a metaphor made real