|What a deceitful thing Art can be, when you want to apply sincerity. You sit down and write –often speculatively– about emotions, and then, over time, you doubt yourself. I wrote «Candles», «The Souls of Old Men» and «An Old Man» about old age. Advancing towards old (or middle) age, I discovered that this last poem of mine does not contain a correct evaluation. «The Souls of Old Men» I still think them correct; but when I reach seventy years I might find them wanting too. «Candles» I hope they are safe.
Descriptive poetry –historical events, the photographing (what an ugly word!) of nature– is perhaps safe. But it is a small and rather short-lived thing.