And there's no sign that coming centuries will produce any changes for the better as far as this goes. No one in my family has ever died of love. What happened, happened, but nothing myth-inspiring. Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice.
Nothing's a gift, it's all on loan.
Poetic talent doesn't operate in a vacuum. There is a spirit of Polish poetry. Each poem marks an effort to answer this statement, but as soon as the final period hits the page, the poet begins to hesitate, starts to realize that this particular answer was pure makeshift that's absolutely inadequate to boot. So the poets keep on trying, and sooner or later the consecutive results of their self-dissatisfaction are clipped together with a giant paperclip by literary historians and called their oeuvre. Poets yearn, of course, to be published, read, and understood, but they do little, if anything, to set themselves above the common herd and the daily grind.