History Is The Gradual Instant

Though The Contradictions Of War Seem Sudden And Simultaneous, History Stalks Before It Strikes. Something Tolerated Soon Becomes Something Good.

Reading A Poem In Translation Is Like Kissing A Woman Through A Veil.

Translation Is A Kind Of Transubstantiation; One Poem Becomes Another. You Can Choose Your Philosophy Of Translation Just As You Choose How To Live: The Free Adaptation That Sacrifices Detail To Meaning, The Strict Crib That Sacrifices Meaning To Exactitude. The Poet Moves From Life To Language, The Translator Moves From Language To Life; Both, Like The Immigrant, Try To Identify The Invisible, What's Between The Lines, The Mysterious Implications.

The Spirit In The Body Is Like Wine In A Glass; When It Spills, It Seeps Into Air And Earth And Light….it’s A Mistake To Think It’s The Small Things We Control And Not The Large, It’s The Other Way Around! We Can’t Stop The Small Accident, The Tiny Detail That Conspires Into Fate: The Extra Moment You Run Back For Something Forgotten, A Moment That Saves You From An Accident – Or Causes One. But We Can Assert The Largest Order, The Large Human Values Daily, The Only Order Large Enough To See.

Trees For Example, Carry The Memory Of Rainfal. In Their Rings We Read Ancient Weather - Storms, Sunlight And Temperatures, The Growing Seasons Of Centuries. A Forest Shares A History Which Each Tree Remembers Even After It Has Been Felled.