…of improbable, grand revisions.
Doing it all wrong and not any other way.
“…poetry was random and […] all of a king’s horses and all of a king’s men could storm in a light brigade and storm and storm and keep on stormin’ and it might all amount to much noise but very little sound. John Steinbeck proposed the automatic story in one of his novels, wherein an eyeful of pages open to let in an earful of tales. He understood that the twists of fate made patterns that patterned out to yet more patterns. One line to another, to a moiré, to a curving of space. This was the natural reinforcement of the infinite—Steinbeck’s Law: to let infinity take care of itself. The random perceptions, inflections, twitchings of ideas could neither be forced onto page nor into the air nor across anything resembling cyberspace. They could be wrestled with but once they are body-slammed no poetry results and only words have been yelled by thyroidian dwarves and fullback artistes who ache to be the village blacksmith smashing a metal dream into its hard shape. But smithies were hard to come by these days and such Neanderthal beauty was even more difficult to approximate.”
—the unthinkable Chaper VIII