One might have thought of sight, but who could thinkOf what it sees, for all the ill it sees?Speech found the ear, for all the evil sound,But the dark italics it could not propound.And out of what sees and hears and outOf what one feels, who could have thought to makeSo many selves, so many sensuous worlds,As if the air, the mid-day air, was swarmingWith the metaphysical changes that occur,Merely in living as and where we live.

Wallace Stevens: Collected Poetry and ProsePages 286-287