Only today do I understand the lonely heroism with which he, all by himself, waged war on the boundless element of boredom stupefying our city. Deprived of all support, without recognition on our part, that most peculiar man defended the lost cause of poetry. He was a wonderful mill into whose hoppers the bran of empty hours poured that it might bloom within its cogwheels with all the colors and fragrances of the spices of the East. But, accustomed to the splendid juggling of that metaphysical prestidigitator, we were inclined simply to accept the value of his sovereign magic, which saved us
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