while poems by Ekelöf, Björling, Pound, Mallarmé, Rilke, Trakl, Ashberry, Mandelstam, Lunden, Thomsen and Hauge floated around, on which I never spent more than a few minutes, I read them as prose, like a book by MacLean or Bagley, and learned nothing, understood nothing, but just having contact with them, having their books in the bookcase, led to a shifting of consciousness, just knowing they existed was an enrichment, and if they didn’t furnish me with insights I became all the richer for intuitions and feelings.
