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Abstract

A grand chapel or rather a Rococo boudoir? Amalia, dozing off on soft pillows, a shoe showing from under her long dress. She is leaning on her right elbow, with her left hand marking a page (could it be a French romance?) in the book she’s just been reading, which has not yet slipped and fallen down on to the marble bedclothes. I am sure some poems are born unexpectedly, as if from a flash of the first spring lightning. Others – I have a right to think so – take years to make up a mosaic picture and also come into being suddenly: in about a dozen hours, though the poem got its ultimate shape in nine years. If those events, the objects of my delight striking me with reflexes of associations, the instances scattered in time, evked in me a fascination growing in passion in order to finally explode into a poem, I can assume that summa was an inspiration. Or perhaps everything starts with ecstasy? What is beautiful is that in art everything is possible. The same as with God.