❞
It is never the thing but the version of the thing:
The fragrance of the woman not her self,
Her self in her manner not the solid block,
The day in its color not perpending time,
Time in its weather, our most sovereign lord,
The weather in words and words in sounds of sound.
❞
Wallace Stevens, “The Pure Good of Theory”
IV: “Dry Birds Are Fluttering in Blue Leaves”,
in The Collected Poems, Vintage Books, Random House, New York, 1990, p. 332
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