Where do all the lost poems go? Where are those verses ripped in two, of which three of the lines were perfection itself, only that the fourth line was impossible to form, so the whole thing was scrapped? I would so like to see them all, not merely the three, but that line of the last attempt: would I see it, too, nod yes, yes, I understand just why you had to get rid of it? We artists are immature brats, who for no effort at all wish to bring the angels to tears — and when that does not happen, however noble our efforts, we cannot accept that which is less than divine. I would beseech God, please, understand: we did not mean to throw them into the flames, papers written in the blood of our souls. They still cry to us, now and again, those stick figures we burned. We have learned our lesson, some of us: let it be you still remember what words we used when we first decided to tackle some immortal question, and found ourselves thrown so easily.