One of the powers of poetry is to bring us up to the unutterable and then go on speaking. As such it is always defiant excess, inappropriately jubilant even in its grief, flying in its despairs of gravity. The poet is like one of those cartoon characters who has stepped off the cliff only to remain suspended. But while the cartoon character’s realization of his irrational predicament brings about its fall, for the poet the imagination sustains this reckless position over the abyss; it is what extends the view. Sometimes the more impossible it is, the greater the debacle, the greater the poem. We all look into mirrors and see phantoms. Our error is our Eros. What is this voice inside me that isn’t me?
— The Art of Recklessness