We have lived like civilized people. O ruins, traditions!

And we have seen the barbarians, breakers of sculpture and glass.

And now we talk of ‘the inner life’, and I ask myself, where is it?

Not here, in these streets and houses, so I think it must be found

in indolence, pure indolence, an ocean of darkness,

in silence, an arm of the moon, a hand that enters slowly.

*  *  * I am reminded of a story Camus tells, of a man in prison camp.

He had carved a piano keyboard with a nail on a piece of wood.

And sat there playing the piano. This music was made entirely of silence.