If anything of moment results—so much the better. And so much the more likely that no one will want to see it.
There is a constant barrier between the reader and his consciousness of immediate contact with the world. If there is an ocean it is here.
The reader knows himself as he was twenty years ago and he has also in mind a vision of what he would be, some day. Oh, some day! But the thing he never knows and never dares to know is what he is at the exact moment that he is. And this moment is the only in which I am at all interested.
To whom then am I addressed? To the imagination.
In fact, to return upon my theme for the time nearly all writing, up to the present, if not all art, has been especially designed to keep up the barrier between sense and the vaporous fringe which distracts the attention from its agonized approaches to the moment. It has been always a search for “the beautiful illusion.” Very well. I am not in search of “the beautiful illusion.”
William Carlos Williams slapping Wallace Stevens and his Noble ilk around in the introduction to his chaotic yet masterful dissertation in poetry and poetics, Spring and All.
Poetry rooted in moment. Doing what Holderlin said poets should do, exploring the difference between subject and object—differing.