I have this sense of duality, of things being ‘at once nothing and everything’, in many regards, not only that of imagination. The details of our lives, by which I mean the tender, joyous, beloved details, are ‘at once nothing and everything’. Our personal, quiet dreams and aspirations also. Does it matter if I manage to commit poems to heart? Or learn to build a table? Or plant a corner of the garden with wild flowers? No, it doesn’t matter in the slightest. And yet it does.

‘If your next birthday will be your eightieth, and you have read the greatest poetry all your life, then you begin to know that in the face of dying and death, the imagination is at once nothing and everything.’

Source: Harold Bloom, Till I End My Song: A gathering of last poems (New York: HarperCollins, 2010), p. xxiv

Photo credit: Dawid Zawila, unsplash.com


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