A butterfly

Sometimes I do wonder if the scent of reality in our nostrils consists rather of our succumbing into the imaginary odors of our inner being…

“So why join in the vulgar laughter? Why

Scorn a hereafter none can verify:

The Turk’s delight, the future lyres, the talks

With Socrates and Proust in cypress walks,

The seraph with his six flamingo wings,

And Flemish hells with porcupines and things?

It isn’t that we dream too wild a dream:

The trouble is we do not make it seem

Sufficiently unlikely; for the most

We can think up in a domestic ghost.

How ludicrous these efforts to translate

Into one’s private tongue a public fate!

Instead of poetry divinely terse,

Disjointed notes, Insomnia’s mean verse!”

(Pale Fire, Canto Two)

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