This pleat of somber lace which retains the infinite woven by a thousand, each according to the thread or the prolongation, its secret unknown, assembles distant interlacings where there sleeps some luxury to take account of--a ghoul, a knot, some foliage--and to present.
. . .
I do not know if the Host circumscribes perspicaciously his domain: it will please me to mark it out, and also certain conditions. The right to accomplish nothing exceptional, or lacking in vulgar bustle: anyone must pay for it by being omitted and, you might say, by death as a person. His exploits are committed while dreaming, so as to bother no one; but still their program is displayed for those who care nothing about it.
Mallarme, _As for the Book_, trans. Mary Ann Caws
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And, then, finding a copy of "Crise du Vers" in front of me, from which I had to make English idiom in less than hour. . . No dice.
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