The writer of imagination would find himself released from observing things for the purpose of writing them down later. He would be there to enjoy, to taste, to engage the free world, not a world which he carries like a bag of food, always fearful lest he drop something or someone get more than he.
A world detached from the necessity of recording it, sufficient to itself, removed from him (as it most certainly is) with which he has bitter and delicious relations and from which he is independent—moving at will from one thing to another—as he pleases, unbound—complete
and the unique proof of this is the work of the imagination not “like” but transfused with the same forces which transfuse the earth—at least one small part of them.
and the unique proof of this is the work of the imagination not “like” but transfused with the same forces which transfuse the earth—at least one small part of them.
— from Spring and All