I am not, however, seeking a form. I’m not sure that I would enjoy dressing myself up. If I knew of a readymade whole, I wouldn’t even have the courage to make the slightest effort to attain it. The poet must seek, everywhere including within himself, the true poetic substance, and this substance is what imposes on him the only form that is necessary. But, what interests me most about this problem is the similarity between poetic fate and human destiny. The uncertain and precarious march across the void, aspiring to the heights, drawn to the depths, with a barely contained fear of a nameless fall and ┬áthe always poorly secured hope of an end or of an eternal beginning in the dazzling, but indifferent, light.