Lo había olvidado, pero siempre me acompaña, cuando pienso en escribir, en querer hacer algo bello, siempre me acompaña desde que lo descubrí, en realidad solo olvidé su nombre, que en realidad es lo de menos.

The poems to come are for you and for me and are not for mostpeople

-it’s no use trying to pretend that mostpeople and ourselves are alike.

Mostpeople have less in common with ourselves than the squarerootof-

minusone. You and I are human beings;mostpeople are snobs.

Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to most-

people? Catastrophe unmitigated. Socialrevolution. The cultured

aristocrat yanked out of his hyperexclusively ultravoluptuous super-

palazzo,and dumped into an incredibly vulgar detentioncamp swarming

with every conceivable species of undesireable organism. Mostpeople

fancy a garanteed birthproof safetysuit of nondestructible selflessness.

If mostpeople were to be born twice they’d improbably call it dying-

you and i are not snobs. We can never be born enough. We are human

beings;for whom birth is a supremely welcome mystery,the mystery of

growing:the mystery which happens only and whenever we are faithful

to ourselves. you and i wear the dangerous looseness of doom and find it

becoming. Life,for eternal us,is now;and now is much too busy being a

little more than everything to seem anything,catastrophic included.

Life,for mostpeople,simply isn’t. Take the socalled standardofliving.

What do mostpeople mean by “living”? They don’t mean living. They

mean the latest and closest plural approximation to singular prenatal

passivity which science,in its finite but unbounded wisdom,has suc-

ceeded in selling their wives. If science could fail,a mountain’s a mammal.

Mostpeople’s wives can spot a genuine delusion of embryonic omni-

potence immediately and will accept no subsitutes.

-luckily for us,a mountain is a mammal….

E. E. Cummings