“Each soul is a melody which must be picked up again, and the flute or the viola of everyone exists for that. Late in coming, it seems to me, is the true condition or the possibility not just of expressing onseif but of modulating oneself as one chooses. Languages are imperfect in that although there are many, the supreme one is lacking: thinking is to write without accessories, or whispering, but since the immortal word is still tacit, the diversity of tongues on the earth keeps everyone from uttering the word which would be otherwise in one unique rendering, truth itself in its substance . . . Only, we must realize, poetry would not exist; philosophically, verse makes up for what languages lack, completely superior as it is.”
Stéphane Mallarmé
