Letter One
Paris
February 17, 1903
Dear Sir,
Your letter arrived just a few days ago.
I want to thank you for the great
confidence you have placed in me.
That is all I can do.
I cannot discuss your
verses; for any attempt at criticism would be foreign to...
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Letter One
Paris
February 17, 1903
Dear Sir,
Your letter arrived just a few days ago.
I want to thank you for the great
confidence you have placed in me.
That is all I can do.
I cannot discuss your
verses; for any attempt at criticism would be foreign to me.
Nothing touches a work
of art so little as words of criticism : they always result in more or less
fortunate misunderstandings.
Things aren t all so tangible and sayable as people
would usually have us believe; most experiences are unsayable, they happen in a
space that no word has ever entered, and more unsayable than all other things are
works of art, those mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our own small,
transitory life.
With this note as a preface, may I just tell you that your verses have no style of
their own, although they do have silent and hidden beginnings of something
personal.
I feel this most clearly in the last poem, "My Soul.
" There, something of
your own is trying to become word and melody.
A
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