He himself preferred to listen in the small apartments as a man would check his camera at the museum, to express his commitment through silence: there is no other exile. The rest is egotism; in the bloody street, the I, the impostor— He was there, obsessed with revolution, in his own city, daily climbing the wooden stairs that were not a path but necessary repetitions and for twenty years making no poetry of what he saw: nor did he forfeit great achievement. In his mind, there could be no outcry that did not equate
